#this is what is known as the manton effect

[wbcannibalgf]

worm doesnt really get into this but in order to give atlas a human digestive system brian had to give himself a bug digestive system

[artbyblastweave]

Thinkin’ about The Siberian

I was sitting on a draft that said something to the effect of “Worm AU where Manton pulls an NBC Hannibal and moonlights as The Siberian on top of being a globally respected parahuman studies researcher. Is this anything.”

Then I thought about this a little more and realized that this might not be far off from what actually happened. There’s a throughline in Manton’s interests, in his trajectory through life, where he’s trying to figure out what you can use powers to get away with doing to people- about identifying constraints and overcoming them. 

He’s the guy who somehow credibly catalogued, and got his name associated with, the fact that powers generally can’t be used to pop people like balloons, and he did so reasonably early in the timeline, in the nineties at the latest. That’s.... an interesting direction to take your research! When people are just coming to terms with the fact that parahumans are real he’s out there taking careful note of whether they can manifest their powers inside people to instantly kill them. How did he test that? What capes did he collaborate with to test that? What did those conversations look like? Did the IRB at a minimum issue any revise-and-resubmits?

And then, of course, he gets picked up by Cauldron (also known as the infinite untraceable victim depot) to work on improving the vials- gaining a sufficiently in-depth understanding of what they are, how they’re made, and what they can do to people that when Cauldron told Legend that Manton had gone rogue and was the one creating C53s, he found this plausible. You’ve got the guy who’d later become the backbone of the Slaughterhouse 9 basically systemically cataloging every conceivable way a power could violate someone’s physiology- first from without, and then, at Cauldron, from within.

Then, when he pulls the trigger and gives himself powers, the resultant ability is essentially a distilled refutation of the Manton Effect- a minion that can obliterate anything, eat anything, delete any material from existence, viscerally dismember people in a unity of conventional and esoteric, power-enabled violence. And he’s insulated from the consequences of his actions on two levels- in terms of Siberian’s invulnerability, but also in the discrepancy between his form and that of his minion. He mixed the vial that gave him that power himself.

Essentially- I don’t think Siberian is something that just happened after a psychological break following a messy divorce. I think Manton basically pre-committed to becoming something like The Siberian, spent most of his career working towards some form of transcendence through superpowers, and the messy divorce was downstream of the cracks starting to show as he got closer and closer to what he’d been chasing.

Now to segue into a complication that’s more directly supported in the text- it’s Worm, it’s always complicated- Master powers spring from loneliness. My theory is that while Manton wanted apotheosis, and while he’d probably been gearing up for a rampage for a while, he genuinely didn’t want to do it alone; he wanted a sidekick. Hence why he bothered pursuing a family in the first place, hence why he fed his daughter a vial, hence why his own projection ended up looking like his daughter after he accidently made her explode or whatever with the bad vial- a monkey’s paw restoration, giving him back a facsimile of the person he wanted to take along for the ride, and making his capacity for violence inseparable from her presence.

This is why he joined up with the Nine rather than remaining a solo act; it’s why he engages in a bad imitation of the Parent/Child relationship with Bonesaw; and it’s why he seeks out Bitch as a candidate. His interest in her candidacy parses to me as genuine- Even moreso than Bonesaw, even moreso than Jack, Bitch has arrived at a no-frills fuck-you-I-do-what-I-want outlook that’s very appealing to Manton. He wants to have a murderer-daughter relationship!

But Rachel got where she is the hard way, by having a life that sucked a lot, by getting near-constantly kicked around! She has a clear reason to be so angry! Even if all my postulations about Manton having a long game are complete bullshit, there are several stages at which Manton had to actively opt in to the same lifestyle and reputation that Bitch was forced to adopt as a basic survival tactic. He didn’t have to start eating people! He’s a tourist! His “freedom” is inseparable from his distance, his disguise. Rachel’s “freedom” is just the freedom of having nothing left to lose.

All of this to say- In an interlude in which Bitch has an extended internal monologue about how people with families have the opportunities to be assholes and monsters to a captive audience, it is absolutely not a coincidence that she’s scouted by a would-be parental figure who proceeds to be an asshole and a monster in front of a captive audience, before trying to buy her affection with a puppy. In rejecting Manton, Rachel dodged an esoterically-packaged but ultimately very familiar bullet.

[doubledutchratfucker]

so why can't you actually just cast create water on someone's lungs?

like, seriously. it's an old ass joke and one most people are tired of, but why can't you? sure you could argue that you can't actually see the lungs so it doesn't count but you could just say that the body is a container and maybe exoant lungs to like, throat and ears and stuff. you could say dnd 5e makes a distinction between creatures and objects but 1) 5e sucks at keywording so if it does I've not read that rule and 2) that distinction is shaky at best and makes no sense. if you'd allow create water inside a kangaroo's pouch or someone's cupped hands, there's no reason to disallow it that isn't just working backwards from 'the entire system would shatter if a first level spell could insta kill anything that wasn't undead or a construct'

and that is the actual, real reason. narrative power, rather than absolute power, reflecting what dnd is at its core: a resource management game. the importance of the resource you expend has to be reflected in the narrative effect. bigger resource, bigger effect. sure maybe in role play you can do fun stuff with cantrips that has a pretty big effect, but how much of that is dnd, and how much is group improv? there's no rule that says that if you Minor Illusion constant fart noises from the throne that the reigning monarch will come to be known as Ferdinand the Flatulent, that's the GM using common sense. Jeremy Crawford had nothing to say in it*.

contrast this with say, Mage: The Ascension or Ars Magica, where the power is absolute. half the game is about wrangling the magic into a shape where you get the most bang for your buck. if someone in your Ars Magica game makes a spell to create water in someone's lungs and kill them, you clack them on the back, well done, you've done Ars Magica right. Ars Magica is not a resource management game.

is one objectively better than the other? not really, they're just means to an end. the dnd way requires a constant extra suspension of disbelief, extra work on the part of the GM to explain it away**, and also generally leads to a very fragile system with very rigid spells, and then a lot more spells to fill the gap and a load of redundancies, but it's not fair to judge a concept on its poorest execution. pathfinder 2e does basically the same thing, without the identity crisis, and is stronger for it.

and games like Ars Magica have to go though hoops not to break the game. sure your all powerful wizard can do anything, but you spend most of your time playing as their dirt eating sidekicks while they hole away in their studies working on their powers.

so yeah. that's why that thing works like it do

* there is, admittedly, a whole other argument to be had about how much of your time at the table is spent playing the game, and how much is just improv, and where the line between the two sits, but that's outside the scope of this post

** my personal method is adapting the Manton Effect from from worm: unless specifically stated magic can't manifest within the boundaries of one's body, which the weave understands to be different to an external container. but that isn't dnd rules, that's me figuring out how to justify dnd rules

[lokabrenna13]

So, I've begun work on a painting I have been wanting to work on for a while. Loki and Lucifer are both interested in the painting/style. So We decided that one could be made for each Their art journals.

We're starting with some glossy black paint black today, and I will post a detail shot from each. I'm also including a card pull from Lucifer and Loki. I'll try to post both messages in the same post because this just makes sense. Loki chose a rune card, and Lucifer chose a demon card. And the cards...Wow...I love this. And I love Them!

Anyway, the card Loki chose was Jera. Jera is associated with harvest, the rewards reaped after long, patient effort. What are you reaping? Well, obviously that depends on what you sowed. And that applies in every area of your life. And that isn't a criticism, simply a matter of cause and effect. A natural cycle. And, speaking of cycles, Jera is also associated with a cycle coming to a close, including the preparation for winter and spring. So Jera is a celebratory rune and a rune tied to the cycle of life and death. So, you are celebrating a "harvest" and/or a cycle in your life is coming to a close. While you are celebrating, remember to prepare for the new beginnings coming in the "spring".

And...

The card Lucifer chose is Eurynome. Eurynome is known as the prince and death and is reputed to feed on corpses. His message is about holding onto the "dead", grieving for or trying to revive a situation that is ready to fade into your past, hanging on to the past when the time has come to move forward, to prepare for the future, to continue into the next cycle. Whether you are celebrating or grieving, some part of your past still has a grip on your ability to fully embrace your future. Rather than trying to nurture a dead situation, grieving for that part of your past and preparing for the future will help you move forward into a new cycle.

Wow!

Thank you for reading! This was a collective reading. Take only what resonates.

Hail Loki! I love You always!

Hail Lucifer! I love You always!

Cards: Viking Oracle: Wisdom of the Ancient Norse

Artist: Jimmy Manton

Daemon Tarot

Illustrator: Louis Breton

Author: Ariana Osborne

#adventoflucifer #octoberforlucifer #avelucifer #lucifer #haillucifer #lucifermorningstar #morningstar #loki #hailloki #godspouse #daemontarot #vikingoracle #oraclemessage #oracledeck #collectivereading #oraclecards #demons #divination #pagan #abstractart

[riversofmars]

The Doctor meets an old friend when she comes face to face with the people that helped her escape. 

Chapter 6: Flaunting the Rules

/The Last Day of the Time War/

Any moment now it would happen. The Doctor grinned, a sense of excitement and anticipation coming over him. Any moment now. The Daleks were flying and fizzing all around Gallifrey, filling the skies. The air was filled with fire and the ground soaked in blood. The Doctor had chosen a particularly good vantage point. His TARDIS kept still as he floated high above the Citadel. In the distance Gallifrey’s two suns were setting. Almost time. He wanted to wait until it was dark. The fireworks would be so much more impressive in the dark. Oh, how he loved fireworks. It was frivolous of course, there was no need for it but he just liked to make an impression.

“Is everyone sitting comfortably? Have you got a good view?“ He engaged communication to the War Council. He couldn’t keep the glee out of his voice. They had mocked him so many times. Oh how he looked forward to proving them all wrong, he was just disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to see their faces.

“What the hell are you doing Doctor? You will get yourself killed.“ Rassilon’s voice filled the TARDIS and the Doctor grinned. He had their attention.

“Oh no, I won’t, don’t worry, you just make sure you watch closely.“ The Doctor retorted. “Welcome to the end of the Time War!“ He walked to the door of his TARDIS and opened it, seeing what was about to happen with his own eyes would be far more satisfying than the visual on a screen. Any minute now.

It was against the rules of course. The tech was outlawed in most of the known universe. And he had made a few modifications. Then he had broken several laws of the Timelord’s code of conduct to get it where it needed to be, but who cared? This was war. They would thank him for it in the end.

“Here comes the big bang.“ He grinned, his eyes widening with unapologetic glee. He looked out of his TARDIS as the Daleks circled him, diving towards him but only for a moment. “Love from Gallifrey, boys!“ The Doctor laughed and with that, every single Dalek circling Gallifrey exploded, raining fire and debris on the world below.

It had been so easy in the end. All he’d done was go back to the day Davros had invented the Daleks and suggested some modifications. And trusting, kind, sensitive Davros had been oh so grateful for his help. How pathetic. Served him right. Now his children went up in flames. A failsafe built into every single Dalek. What a triumph.

“Good God, Doctor, what have you done?“ The voices of the Council members were panicked, speaking over each other, shouting, calling. Their panic was so undignified.

“Doctored them a little.“ The Doctor smirked. “Much improved, don’t you think? We’ve won. The entire Dalek race, whipped out.“

There was silence. The Doctor turned back to the console, checking that the communication link was still active. It was. They were giving him the silent treatment.

“What?! Not so much as a thank you?“ The Doctor yelled, his temper quick. “I just ended the Time War, saved this planet and our race the humiliation, how dare you…“

“You caused a massacre.“ Rassilon’s voice was calm, measured even.

“THIS IS WAR.“ The Doctor thundered.

“Doctor, we cannot let this stand, you can’t…“ Another councillor spoke.

“So what are you going to do about it?“ The Doctor growled. That’s what happened when you had politicians do a warriors job.

“You are not welcome here anymore, Doctor.“ Rassilon spoke after what the Doctor could only presume to be quick deliberation amongst the Council.

“Oh just wait, Rassilon, just wait till I get in that control centre, you ungrateful coward.“ The Doctor seethed gripping on to his console, his knuckles turning white.

“Leave Doctor, or you will be shot upon.“ Rassilon carried on.

“You just try it, you try it, you haven’t got the balls.“ The Doctor growled. “I will end you. You’re too weak to lead us, this world needs a real leader.“

The TARDIS shook as a salve of energy blasts hit it.

“You haven’t seen the last of me.“ The Doctor roared and steered his TARDIS into the time vortex.

“He will be back you know…“

Rassilon looked around at his fellow Council members, he didn’t even know who had said it but they were all thinking the same thing.

“God help us when he does…“ Another spoke and he knew they were right.

“That’s why we can’t hang around and wait for him, we’re in as much danger now as we were before he destroyed the Daleks. We can’t stay here… I think it’s time.“ Rassilon said with heavy hearts.

“But the technology hasn’t been tested, what if…“ One of the Councillors piped up.

“It’s out best chance at survival. Ready all available TARDISes, we need to create a bubble universe.“

——

/Present Day/

The Doctor followed Manton into the tent city. The more she looked around, the more she marvelled at the persistence of the people around her. It appeared like there had been houses here once, some walls and foundations were still visible and had been used to create these make shift homes. There had been destruction here one day and levelled everything in sight but the people here hadn’t been prepared to give up, they had rebuilt with what little they had. The Doctor wondered if the Emperor had been to blame for the destruction, or the Time War, or perhaps both? There was so much she didn’t know about this world.

“This must come as quite the shock to you.“ Manton commented, noticing her solemn expression.

“I guess so, yeah…“ She forced a little smile, trying her best to hide her worries.

“I didn’t really believe them when they said who you were…“ Manton admitted as they carried on. “What is your Gallifrey like?“

“Actually, a whole lot worse than this but that’s a different story.“ The Doctor admitted.

“And you’re really…“ He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Oh right.“ The Doctor only just realised the perception filter was still engaged. She reached to her temple and flicked it off. Manton actually tripped over his own feet, he couldn’t quite keep the shock out of his eyes for seeing her real face.

“Sorry, it’s just…“ He looked embarrassed for his loss of composure.

“Yeah, I seem to have this effect on people.“ The Doctor chuckled, trying to make him feel better. Around them, people fell silent, staring at her in shock. She doubted all of them had been told to expect her so she tried her best not to get offended at some of the evil and disgusted looks she was getting.

“It’s fine everyone, nothing to be worried about.“ A voice interrupted the growing unease and the Doctor’s hearts stalled for a moment. She knew that voice so well. She looked around trying to keep a wave of anxiety at bay.

“You must be the Doctor…“ Missy gave her an apologetic smile. This was not the welcome she had envisaged but they hadn’t had much time to prepare.

“Missy…“ The Doctor spoke softly, torn between her memory of what happened the last time she had encountered the Master, and the genuine warmth in the other woman’s eyes.

“Maybe come inside not everyone knows, so…“ Missy gestured for them to follow. “Manton, can you…“

“Of course.“ He nodded, understanding her wordless request. There were a lot of questions to answer.

“Thank you.“ Missy smiled as the Doctor looked on in wonder. “Shall we?“ The Doctor slowly followed her, watching her movements closely. Friend not foe. She reminded herself. Things are the other way around here. And yet she couldn’t push down all the painful memories of Missy’s betrayal, all time she had wasted on her and the thought of what she did after she regenerated… She kept her distance as she followed her inside a relatively big tent that had been strung between two remaining walls of building.

“Welcome to my humble abode…“ Missy smiled gesturing around herself. It really was humble, she wasn’t being modest. There was a beat up table with a couple of chairs chairs, an open fire and a sheet was strung across, dividing the space into living and sleeping area by the looks of it. “I’m… I’m sorry, it’s just… you look exactly like her… it’s unsettling…“ Missy averted her eyes for a moment, busying herself with a kettle that she proceeded to hang over the fire.

“Right…“ The Doctor mumbled, following her with her eyes. “Likewise…“

“We know each other then…“ Missy asked looking back to her at last.

“Guess you could say that.“ The Doctor’s words came out sharper than intended and Missy actually took a little step back as if she was unsure about her as well.

“When the Monk sent word… I didn’t believe him at first but he assured me… And now you’re here…“ Missy struggled for words and an awkward silence fell.

“I hope he is alright, the Monk… it was very brave of him to…“ The Doctor broke off, she didn’t really know what to say either. “So what is this place?“ She asked at last. “What is it you do here?“ If you do anything at all, she thought to herself.

“Surviving…“ Missy answered with an apologetic smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?“ She gestured to the table. “Come and sit.“ Having awful deja-vu from her encounter with Clara, the Doctor reluctantly sat down at the table while Missy poured tea into well worn mugs. “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.“ She joked half-heartedly as she sat it down in front of the Doctor who made no attempt to pick it up.  

“Sorry, I was in this exact position not so long ago…“ The Doctor felt like she needed to explain, Missy was clearly trying her hardest to make her feel welcome.

“You don’t trust me.“ Missy observed sitting down across from her.

“Struggling to. No offence.“ The Doctor picked up the mug just to give her hands something to do.

“None taken…“ Missy actually chuckled. “I’m struggling a little bit, too… What am I like? In your world?“

“Do you really want to know?“ The Doctor’s expression must have given it all away because Missy just shook her head. Maybe at a later date…

“Not really, no…“ She took a sip of her drink before looking to the Doctor again. “So you stuck with the name Doctor?“

“Why wouldn’t I?“ The Doctor frowned. Her name was the one thing that defined her, the one thing she could always look to and hold on to, even when everything else was uncertain. Even when she didn’t know what she was or where she came from, the one thing she knew was that she was the Doctor. The name she had chose. It was a promise. And particularly now, faced with a different version of herself, she knew she had to hold on to it.

“Yeah, it never suited her… not after a while anyway…“ Missy mused.

“Sorry but what are you trying to accomplish here?“ The Doctor asked, a sense of frustration setting in. They weren’t getting anywhere.

“What do you mean?“ Missy frowned.

“What do you want from me? Why are you being so nice to me?“ The Doctor asked trying to work out what their agenda behind her rescue had been. She wanted to help but so far, she had no idea how to go about that. Knowing what they had planned for her might've given her some idea, and an indiction of whether she could actually trust them or not.

“You were in trouble so…“ Missy looked back at her confused, taken aback by her outburst.

“But you want me to help you in some way, don’t you.“ The Doctor pushed on.

“That’s for you to decide, we’re not… We’re not expecting anything in return…“ Missy appeared genuinely confused and unsettled by the implication and the Doctor instantly regretted her words.

“Sorry, that was uncalled for… I’m just… struggling with this…“ She admitted relaxing a little. “Thank you for rescuing me.“ She averted her eyes when she realised she hadn’t even said thank you yet. She suddenly felt very guilty. “If there is any way in which I can help, of course I will. I can’t believe what is going on here, someone needs to do something…“ She said softly and took a sip of her tea at last. It was watery and weak but somehow, the taste was far more satisfying and warming than anything Clara had fed her.

“If only it were that easy.“ Missy laughed softly, in a defeated sort of way. “If you have any great ideas, we’re all ears… When we found out about you, we didn’t expect you to bring a magical solution to our problems. We know there isn’t one.“ She explained. “But there was finally something we could do, something we could actually help and make a difference with. Knowing her - and unfortunately I do, very well - she would want to use you to cross to your universe and we can’t let that happen. It’s bad enough she’s destroyed this one, can't have it happen to another. By getting you out of there, we’ve already done more than we’ve been able to for years.“ She confessed.

“Eventually, I’m going to find a way back…“ The Doctor said, more to herself than anything else, to reassure herself.

“How did you get here in the first place?“ Missy asked.

“No offence but I don’t trust you… or anyone… with that information.“ It wasn’t even the fact that she was Missy. The Doctor was slowly overcoming her prejudice. She had decided not to tell anyone, it would be too risky.

“Fair enough. That’s probably the smart thing to do.“ Missy seemed to accept that.

“But I do want to help, if there is anything I can do.“ The Doctor gave her a reassuring smile. There had to be something she could do. There always was.

“Why?“ Missy asked with a deep frown, she didn’t understand.

“Because the name I chose is the Doctor.“ The Doctor answered as if it was as simple as all that because to her it was. “When people need help I never refuse.“ She smiled and Missy stared back to her in wonder.

“Missy?!“ Manton burst into the tent, interrupting the moment.

“What’s wrong?“ Missy jumped to her feet, sensing something had happened.

“The Monk is here.“ Manton said, he was out of breath, he had run to deliver the news. The Doctor got to her feet as well.

“Why would he risk coming here?“ Missy asked, her voice full of concern.

“I thought I’d knocked him out pretty well…“ The Doctor added, exchanging a look with Missy, sharing the same worries that Manton only confirmed:

“He’s been found out…“

Missy and the Doctor met the Monk halfway, in the middle of the camp. Most of the inhabitants had come out to see what was going on. The atmosphere was tense and sorrowful.

“Missy, I’m so sorry…“ The Monk sighed before either of them could say anything. “Doctor, I…“ He looked in between the both of them, unable to find the right words.

“Were you followed?“ Missy asked, forcing herself to remember the safety of everyone coming first.

“Not just yet but I bet they’ll come.“ The Monk replied with a heavy heart.

“They just let you go?“ Missy tried her best to make sense of this.

“In a manner of speaking…“ He answered with a sorrowful smile and turned, lowering the collar on his robes to display the back of his neck to them.

“Oh no.“ Missy breathed at the sight of the chronolock. She remembered begging the Monk to just flee with the Doctor, give up the guise and rejoin them down here but he had insisted that he shouldn't give up his valuable position. That they had to at least try to keep him close to court. He would be paying for his bravery with his life.

“I’m so sorry.“ The Doctor whispered, utterly devastated. “We will figure something out…“

“Nothing can stop the Raven.“ The Monk shook his head. “They gave me an ultimatum… either I bring you back and they lift the lock or…“ He broke off, he didn’t have to say what they already knew. Murmurs erupted all around them, questions flying around of what was going on, how this could have happened.

“I’m sorry my friend…“ Missy stepped closer to the Monk and took his hands in hers comfortingly. The gesture hit the Doctor like a punch in the gut. Why couldn’t her Missy have been like this? It only made her feel for their plight more.

“It’s okay, I guess having time to say my goodbyes is a kindness.“ The Monk put on a brave face.

“It wasn’t intended as such.“ The Doctor interrupted. “We need to get Clara to reverse it.“

“Hell would freeze over before that happens.“ Manton growled.

“I think I can convince her.“ The Doctor insisted. She had to do something. She had to at least try.

“Doctor, we only just got you out of there.“ Missy shook her head.

“And he’s going to die unless I go back. I’m not having anyone die for me again. Ever.“ The Doctor bit back full of determination. So many people had died for or because of her. No more. “I have no intention of giving myself up but I think Clara has an agenda of her own, maybe we can bargain with her.“

“As valiant an offer as that is Doctor, I’d much rather you didn’t.“ The Monk interrupted her. He let go of Missy’s hands and took the Doctor’s instead, just as she was about to protest. “Don’t try to bargain with her. Don’t try to bargain with any of them. They don’t bargain, they trick and deceive. Even if I brought you back, there is no way they would take the lock off me, I’m a dead man. And I’d rather my death served a purpose and wasn’t undone by a misguided, if kind hearted, rescue attempt.“

“But…“ The Doctor started but he wouldn’t let her carry on.

“Leave it be, Doctor. There is a lot more good you can do here if you’re alive.“ He insisted.

“What can I do to help.“ The Doctor asked, giving his hands a tight squeeze. She was determined to find a way to return his kindness.

“Honestly, I don’t know.“ He chuckled a little. “But when I heard about how you stood up to the Emperor… that was the first time I experienced hope again. Please, Doctor. Help us.“

“Perhaps we better go inside.“ Missy suggested, this was a conversation better to be had in private.

Missy poured the Monk a cup of tea as they sat around the beat up table again.

“Thank you for rescuing me…“ The Doctor said, grateful to have to opportunity to say it. “I really hope your faith in me isn’t misplaced…“ She leaned forward a little. There were some questions bothering her and as inappropriate as it appeared under the circumstances, she thought the answers could come in handy: “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you find out about me? The Emperor was very careful to keep me hidden…“

“Some of it was just dumb luck…“ The Monk admitted with a little chuckle as he warmed his hands on the tea. “I have worked for Clara Oswald for years, I’m lucky that she trusts me - or used to anyway - she told me some things before sending me to fetch you.“ He explained.

“And yet she didn’t hesitate putting the lock on you?“ The Doctor asked.  

“I wouldn't have expected her to. Nobody hesitates when the Emperor gives an order.“  He replied with a weak smile.

“Why is she so powerful?“ The Doctor asked a question that had been bugging her for some time now. From what she had gathered so far, the Emperor didn’t have much in the way of support. Hers was a reign of fear but on what grounds?

“Immortality certainly helps.“ Missy answered. “She seems to have more regenerations than anyone else…“

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she is almighty or can’t be defeated.“ The Doctor couldn’t help but point out. She was in the same position and it didn’t stop her enemies from standing against her.

“She also has the only TARDIS left in existence and she’s not afraid to use it whichever way pleases her.“ Missy carried on explaining. “There used to be rules of conduct for the timelords and anyone able to travel in time, but she has never been one to follow rules... And seeing as hers is the only TARDIS, it’s not like anyone can even match her efforts…“

The Doctor remained silent for a moment. That certainly explained a lot. If the Emperor was the only one able to travel in time in this universe, combined with her ruthlessness, bloodlust and immortality, that certainly made her a tough opponent. It did beg one question though… what had happened to the other TARDISes? And the Timelords in general? She decided this wasn’t the time to push further as she watched Missy take hold of the Monk’s hands again, trying to comfort him as he tried to come to terms with his impending death. She had to do something and she was beginning to formulate a plan.

——

Clara was furious but she wasn’t the sort of person that would let anybody see that. So when she made her way through the palace, she wore the same expression of cool aloofness she always did. It wasn’t until she reached the extraction chamber that she allowed the facade to slip. They had lost the Doctor on her watch, she had been betrayed by one of her closest advisors, she had been humiliated in front of the Emperor and she was no step closer of having the things she desired.

“Leave.“ She barked at the guards keeping watch. They were quick to obey as they didn’t even know what exactly they were guarding anyway. Clara wanted to have a look for herself, maybe she would be able to find something the others had overlooked. At least it made her feel like she was doing something.

The extraction chamber was sterile white inside and empty as she closed the door behind herself. She pulled a scanner from her pocket but there was nothing to pick up on.

“For fuck’s sake.“ She swore and threw the scanner against the wall in an outburst of rage.

“Easy there, love, violence is rarely a solution, at least not where inanimate objects are concerned.“ A voice sounded from the other end of the room and Clara whipped around in shock. “Any idea where we are? Because I swear a moment ago, I was about to die in a very big Library…“ River Song looked around the chamber confused. “This is not heaven, is it? Cause heaven is certainly the last place I would expect to find myself in…“

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review

Humankind: A Hopeful History. By Rutger Bregman. Translated by Elizabeth Manton and Erica Moore.New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2020.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Genre: non-fiction, sociology, psychology

Part of a Series? No

Summary:  If one basic principle has served as the bedrock of bestselling author Rutger Bregman's thinking, it is that every progressive idea -- whether it was the abolition of slavery, the advent of democracy, women's suffrage, or the ratification of marriage equality -- was once considered radical and dangerous by the mainstream opinion of its time. With Humankind, he brings that mentality to bear against one of our most entrenched ideas: namely, that human beings are by nature selfish and self-interested. By providing a new historical perspective of the last 200,000 years of human history, Bregman sets out to prove that we are in fact evolutionarily wired for cooperation rather than competition, and that our instinct to trust each other has a firm evolutionary basis going back to the beginning of Homo sapiens. Bregman systematically debunks our understanding of the Milgram electrical-shock experiment, the Zimbardo prison experiment, and the Kitty Genovese "bystander effect." In place of these, he offers little-known true stories: the tale of twin brothers on opposing sides of apartheid in South Africa who came together with Nelson Mandela to create peace; a group of six shipwrecked children who survived for a year and a half on a deserted island by working together; a study done after World War II that found that as few as 15% of American soldiers were actually capable of firing at the enemy. The ultimate goal of Humankind is to demonstrate that while neither capitalism nor communism has on its own been proven to be a workable social system, there is a third option: giving "citizens and professionals the means (left) to make their own choices (right)." Reorienting our thinking toward positive and high expectations of our fellow man, Bregman argues, will reap lasting success. Bregman presents this idea with his signature wit and frankness, once again making history, social science and economic theory accessible and enjoyable for lay readers.

***Full review under the cut.***

Since this book is non-fiction (and thus, has no plot or characters), this review will be structured a little differently than usual.

Content Warning: references to racism, terrorism, violence, slavery

I first learned of Rutger Bregman when he famously made Tucker Carlson blow up on Fox News in 2019. Since then, I’ve kept my eye on Bregman’s Twitter account, eager to see how he would talk about various issues plaguing our world. When he announced this book, I was eager to pick it up, mostly because I was (and still am) in a pretty negative place, and I wanted something that would show me that “hopefulness” was a legitimate attitude to have, without the fake, peppy, self-help tone that permeates a lot of other publications.

Overall, I found Bregman’s general thesis and evidence compelling. Humankind argues that for the entirety of human history, humans are “hardwired” for compassion, kindness, and cooperation, rather than predisposed to selfishness and violence. Using examples from the hunter-gatherer era of human history to the 20th and 21st centuries, Bregman showcases anthropological, sociological, and psychological studies, rooting his case in scientific research rather than “wishful thinking.” I particularly found his section on “why good people turn bad” incredibly convincing, in part because he effectively dissects the connection between cynicism and power, as well as the (surprising and counter-intuitive) concept that empathy and xenophobia are two sides of the same coin.

All of this research is presented in a clearly-organized, playfully-written manner. I don’t know exactly how much can be attributed to Bregman versus his translators, but regardless, the book is infused with nice quips that don’t overwhelm the main points or overshadow the examples. Even the complex philosophy of Hobbes and Rousseau is presented in a way that the everyday reader can understand, as well as complicated histories such as the transition from hunter-gatherer to agricultural lifestyles.

My main criticism is perhaps the lack of direct address of ideologies that mean active harm towards others (things like white supremacy, homophobia, etc.). While Bregman discusses terrorism and has some examples pertaining to neo-Nazi rallies and the Afrikaner Volksfront, it was frankly hard for me to see a rationale for putting, say, lgbt+ people in contact with violent homophobes. Perhaps that isn’t what Bregman is advocating, but because I’m not sure, I think this book would have benefited from more concrete advice regarding reaching out to those who mean you real harm.

But as a general book about kindness and changing our view of human nature, I think this is an accessible read that most people can benefit from, particularly those who are rooted in cynicism and want to change their worldview. As a whole, I think this book speaks nicely to our present moments, and I think it provides a nice jumping-off point for deeper discussions about how we should respond to each other.

[brokehorrorfan]

Book Review: Stories from the Trenches by Marco Siedelmann

If Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films - Mark Hartley's excellent 2014 documentary on the independent film company - left you wanting more insight into Cannon Films' glory days, look no further than Stories from the Trenches: Adventures in Making High Octane Hollywood Movies with Cannon Veteran Sam Firstenberg. The book features firsthand accounts from filmmaker Sam Firstenberg and many of his collaborators. One of Cannon Films’ in-house directors during its 1980s heyday, Firstenberg helmed such cult classics as American Ninja, Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, Revenge of the Ninja, and Ninja III: The Domination.

The exhaustive read consists of a series of career-spanning conversations between the 70-year-old filmmaker and writer Marco Siedelmann over the course of 755 pages, along with anecdotal asides, interviews with his cast and crew (most of which are new, although some archival pieces are peppered in), and a plethora of black-and-white photos. Rather reworking the interviews into a narrative, the questions and answers are printed verbatim. It's segmented into seven chronological chapters, each of which is further broken down by film. The massive tome is coffee table book-sized but paperback.

The book kicks off with an introduction by Firstenberg, in which he explains how he came up with the title of Stories from the Trenches when he was considering writing his own memoir and what it means to him. He also sets the stage with a humorously stark contrast between his low-budget B-movies and their high-profile Hollywood brethren. It's followed by an introduction from film critic Oliver Nöding, who warmly explains why, as a teenager, he thought Cannon Films was the best studio in the world and Firstenberg was their standout director.

The first chapter, "The Early Years," explores Firstenberg's upbringing in Jerusalem, formative exposures to cinema, film school experience, working his way up the hierarchy as an assistant director (under Empire Films' Charles Band and Cannon Films' Menahem Golan, among others), and making his feature directorial debut on One More Chance in 1983. It also features interviews with assistant director Leo Zisman (Jane the Virgin), production manager Omri Maron (Iron Eagle), and producer David Womark (Life of Pi).

Stories from the Trenches really picks up, as does Firstenberg's career, in the second chapter, "King of the Sequels." The filmmaker opens up about his next three films - 1983's Revenge of the Ninja, 1984's Ninja III: The Domination, and 1984's Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo - which happen to be among his most well-known works. He breaks down key scenes in each movie and discusses his relationship with Cannon Films.

This chapter is accompanied by interviews with stunt performer Steven Lambert (Titanic), editor Ken Bornstein (America's Next Top Model), karate champion Keith Vitali (Wheels on Meals), actor Jordan Bennett (Ninja III), producer Alan Amiel (The Blackout), cinematographer Hanania Baer (Masters of the Universe), and Breakin' cast members Lucinda Dickey, Michael Chambers, and Adolfo "Shabba-Doo" Quinones.

"The Golden Age of Cannon," is another interesting chapter. Set against the backdrop of the rising home video market, Firstenberg finds his voice as an action director on 1985's American Ninja before going on to make 1986's Avenging Force, 1987's American Ninja 2: The Confrontation, and 1989's Riverbend, the latter of which he made after his falling out with Cannon.

It includes interviews with producer Gideon Amir (Doom Patrol), writer Paul De Mielche (American Ninja), actress Judie Aronson (Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter), actor Michael Dudikoff (American Ninja), marshal artist Tadashi Yamashita (American Ninja), actor Steve James (To Live and Die in L.A.), actor Larry Poindexter (The Hard Times of RJ Berger), cinematographer Gideon Porath (Death Wish 4: The Crackdown), stunt performer BJ Davis (Army of Darkness), editor Michael J. Duthie (Stargare), and editor Marcus Manton (Pumpkinhead).

"Back in Israel" chronicles Firstenberg's journey of making films in Israel, including his only Hebrew film, 1990's The Day We Met; 1991's Delta Force 3: The Killing Game, after he rejoined the Cannon fold under its new regime; 1992's American Samurai, which was reworked by Cannon after he completed production; and Tropical Heat, a TV series on which he helmed six episodes in 1992. Editor Shlomo Hazan (American Samurai) is also interviewed.

"The Rise of Nu Image" covers Firstenberg being poached by Nu Image, whose low-budget action movie model was a spiritual successor to Cannon Films. His output during this era included the new film studio's second production, 1993's Cyborg Cop; its 1994 sequel, Cyborg Cop II, also known as Cyborg Soldier; 1993's Blood Warriors, produced by Indonesia's Rapi Films; and 1997's franchise-launching Operation Delta Force. Writer Jon Stevens Alon (Cyber Cop II) is also interviewed.

"The Late Years" sees Firstenberg working on his 1997 neo-noir thriller Motel Blue; the 1998 Hulk Hogan vehicle McCinsey's Island; 2000's The Alternate, also known as Agent of Death, on which the director returned to his action B-movie roots; directing second unit on Tobe Hooper's 2000 film, Crocodile; 2001's Spiders II: Breeding Ground, on which he implemented early CGI; and 2002's Quicksand. Curiously, 2001's Criss Cross is Firstenberg's only film to not receive its own section.

This chapter is accompanied by interviews with producer Frank DeMartini (Mechanic: Resurrection), actor Bryan Genesse (Operation Delta Force 3: Clear Target), visual effects artist-turned-writer Stephen David Brooks (The Mangler), and actress Brooke Theiss (A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master).

The epilogue covers Firstenberg's final film, The Interplanetary Surplus Male and Amazon Women of Outer Space, a hard-to-find 2003 send-up to campy sci-fi films from the '50s. It also includes a retrospective interview with the filmmaker from 2012. Israli filmmaker Alon Newman provides a brief afterword, noting Firstenberg's inspiration on his work.

Stories from the Trenches provides a fascinating look at a renegade style of filmmaking that only could have thrived in the 1980s. Firstenberg's story is a compelling one, even for cinephiles who may be unfamiliar with his oeuvre. Beyond minor grammatical errors, the book could have used a more scrupulous editor to trim the fat (including some of the dozens of photo pages laden with empty space) and tell a more concise, focused account without sacrificing the comprehensive nature; but presenting the conversations is full allows the reader to experience the story straight from the horse's mouth. I would love to see Siedelmann tackle the storied careers of other cult filmmakers who don't receive their due recognition.

Stories from the Trenches: Adventures in Making High Octane Hollywood Movies with Cannon Veteran Sam Firstenberg is available now via Editions Moustache.

[docrotten]

Pumpkinhead (1988) – Episode 169 – Decades of Horror 1980s

"For each of man's evils, a special demon exists. You're looking at vengeance; - cruel, devious, pure-as-venom vengeance.” And a fine demon it is! Join your faithful Grue-Crew - Bill Mulligan, Chad Hunt, Crystal Cleveland, and Jeff Mohr -  as they go in search of the special demon known as Pumpkinhead (1988).

Decades of Horror 1980s Episode 169 – Pumpkinhead (1988)

After a tragic accident, a man conjures up a towering, vengeful demon called Pumpkinhead to destroy a group of unsuspecting teenagers.

IMDb

  Director: Stan Winston

Writers: Mark Patrick Carducci, Gary Gerani; Ed Justin (poem)

Music: Richard Stone

Cinematography: Bojan Bazelli

Film Editing: Marcus Manton

Casting: Bob Morones

Production Design: Cynthia Kay Charette

Set Decoration: Kurt Gauger

Creature Effects Designed and Created by:

Alec Gillis

Richard Landon

Shane Patrick Mahan

John Rosengrant

Tom Woodruff, Jr.

Cast

Lance Henriksen as Ed Harley

John D'Aquino as Joel

Jeff East as Chris

Kerry Remsen as Maggie

Kimberly Ross as Kim

Buck Flower as Mr. Wallace

Mayim Bialik as Christine Wallace

Joel Hoffman as Steve "Scratch"

Cynthia Bain as Tracy

Florence Schauffler as Haggis

Brian Bremer as Bunt

Matthew Hurley as Billy Harley

Lee de Broux as Tom Harley (as Lee DeBroux)

Peggy Walton-Walker as Ellie Harley (as Peggy Walton Walker)

Tom Woodruff Jr. as Pumpkinhead

Dick Warlock as Clayton Heller (man in the opening; credited as Richard Warlock)

Mushroom as Gypsy

Pumpkinhead is Stan Winston’s first film as a director but you would never know it by the result. Crystal has always been impressed with the full-body creature and the great story the film tells. Pumpkinhead is hands-down, Lance Henriksen’s best performance according to Chad, who also places the movie in his top 10 horror movies of all time. Bill is impressed by the relatively unique creation of a new, well-constructed, and well-realized creature, and he also points out Pumpkinhead’s place as a member of the folk horror subgenre. Jeff is thoroughly impressed with the film’s look this time around and finally realizes what a quality film Pumpkinhead is.

If you haven’t seen Pumpkinhead for a while, the Decades of Horror 1980s Grue-Crew strongly recommend this underrated horror gem. As of this writing, the film is available to stream on Amazon Prime and on physical media as a Limited Edition Steelbook Blu-ray and a Collector's Edition Blu-ray, both from Scream Factory.  

Every two weeks, Gruesome Magazine’s Decades of Horror 1980s podcast will cover another horror film from the 1980s. The next episode’s film, chosen by Chad, will be Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984).

Please let them know how they’re doing! They want to hear from you – the coolest, grooviest fans:  leave them a message or leave a comment on the site or email the Decades of Horror 1980s podcast hosts at feedback@gruesomemagazine.com

Check out this episode!

[journeysintowebcomics]

Worm Liveblog #45

UPDATE 45: Temporary Replacement

Last time this had turned into a momentary point of view change! That’s right, Taylor’s story has been interrupted for this long intermission in the form of an arc from the point of view of a character that has arrived to Brockton Bay to lead the Wards: it’s Weld. Apparently he’s rather popular, and I like he seems to be a rather decent guy, so let’s continue!

Aaaaaand Weld isn’t here anymore. I suppose this interlude isn’t just about him, it’s for everyone in the Wards. There’s a second newcomer, and it’s Flechette. Now that I think about it, it was mentioned in the last chapter that she’d be in the team too. Without the burden of the leadership role, she should have less of a hard time fitting with the rest of the team – when she’s not sneaking to the back of someone who works with crossbows and isn’t known for thinking twice before shooting.

“You nearly killed me!”

“It’s a tranquilizer shot, and you have the fire escape behind you.”

Yeah…no. It’s just my personal opinion, but getting shot with tranquilizer doesn’t sound fun at all. Not that…Flechette would have a reason to blame Shadow Stalker, sneaking behind someone like that was a stupid move.

At least Shadow Stalker isn’t berating her or anything like that. She seems rather courteous. It’d almost be hard to know Sophia Hess is the person behind the mask.

Flechette confirms she is just a temporary replacement, and the reason why Shadow Stalker is bothering to be civil is revealed.

“I don’t do backup, and I don’t do the team thing unless someone makes me, but I’m willing to hang with another crossbow aficionado.  Is that the right word?  Aficionado?”

It’s because Flechette uses a crossbow too. Okay, I…suppose that’s a reason as valid as any to accept someone’s presence. Besides, it’s not like Flechette is going to be a burden, she is a capable hero on her own right – although inexperienced, from what I remember happened during the Leviathan fight. They should be okay.

I have no idea how one’s supposed to use a grappling hook, but if it helps her keep up the pace, then great. Besides, Shadow Stalker’s patrol route isn’t complicated, Flechette will be fine as long as she goes in a straight line. I wonder what’ll happen during this chapter? I can guess there’ll be trouble, that this won’t be a calm and boring patrolling. What I don’t know yet is if trouble will be caused by a civilian or by a parahuman, maybe affiliated to one of the villain groups. The city, broken down as it is, really is the perfect place for riots and discord.

I think I had ever noticed how Shadow Stalker moved. Taylor never noted it, she never described it in her usual speeches about capes’ powers. Looks like Shadow Stalker has strength in her limbs, allowing her be propelled upwards or forwards. Maybe that cloak of hers aids her in gliding? It’s faster than what Flechette does, at least. It seems Flechette needs chains and crossbow bolts to use a grappling hook, and she relies mods on equipment than Shadow Stalker, leaving behind the bolts she uses after severing the chains that helped propel her.

Since Taylor isn’t here, the exposition duty falls on Mr. Wildbow.

Capes with the ‘breaker’ classification were generally those who had some ability to ‘break’ the natural laws of the universe as far as those laws applied to them.

Ah! That’s a good explanation! Breakers can bypass the laws of nature and all that with ease, it’s inherent to their powers. Sometimes such effect can be applied to themselves, other times to objects, and…I suppose it can never be applied to other people. Or almost never. The Manton effect would get in the way. Still, that’s quite the dangerous classification, isn’t it? When you’re fighting, you can’t rely on the laws of nature to keep you safe or help you. It’s a tad funny, though, almost all capes are Breakers in some way…but I suppose those who break the laws of nature more blatantly are the ones given this classification.

Flechette’s power gave her a low Breaker classification. Her power can give her crossbow bolts certain qualities that allow them to be more or less affected by laws like gravity, the air friction, and other similar elements. It’s not that she modifies the crossbow bolts physically, her power is nothing visible. I wonder how she trains and how she found out the extent of her power, back when she triggered? It sounds like it’d be complicated to find out. Then again, powers have a certain measure of instinct in them. Miss Militia’s awakening kind of made it clear.

She could do other things, but the primary benefit, the easiest thing to do, was making her ammunition punch through anything.  

Ah, right! She was the one who managed to fire a very large bolt through Leviathan’s head, wasn’t she? Given what we know about Leviathan’s mass and tissues, that’s no mean feat. That was the perfect way to demonstrate this. Compared to that, she shooting a bolt through the corner of a rooftop is child’s play.

It was tiring, constantly running, but she didn’t want to look bad in front of Shadow Stalker.  She was going to spend weeks with this team, and Shadow Stalker was the only other girl present that was close to her own age.  

Oh dear. Literally everyone else in the Wards would be a better person to spend time with. Buuuut yeah, of course someone would look for a peer, and Shadow Stalker is the only option that’d fit, so beggars can’t be choosers. At least Shadow Stalker is tolerating her presence.

Running on rooftops sucks, but she reaches Shadow Stalker, who is waiting for her.

“Don’t you run out of chain?”

Flechette turned, reached over her shoulder to tap her back. “Tinker teammate back home specializes in replication and cloning.  Small pack back here consumes energy from a small fusion battery to create a steady supply.  I’ve also got a kit back at the base that makes me a fresh stock of bolts.”

Ah! That answer that, I admit I was wondering just how much chain she had. If it’s constantly being created and replicated, then she won’t ever run out of supply, and not many would know to attack that backpack. She’s safe.

Shadow Stalker didn’t stop for kicks and giggles, looks like this chapter’s suspense and conflict has arrived. What is it?

Shadow Stalker led Flechette to the edge of the roof.  Looking down, they could see a group of men in a loose half-circle around a middle-aged woman.  The woman was backing away from the men, who were gradually closing in.

Looks like these are civilians, there’s no mention of costumes and the such. Should be no problem for a pair of heroes. Flechette demands to know why Shadow Stalker hasn’t gone ahead and saved that woman, the answer is that first they must do some type of violent and clearly bad action before she intervenes – so she has an excuse to open the can of whoop ass. Okay, I don’t like that, but...yeah, that’s usually how it goes, first you do the illegal action and then you receive punishment. Sometimes it’s rather unfortunate that’s necessary.

And Shadow Stalker had neglected to inform command.  Flechette reached for her ear, where an earbud was nestled in the canal. She squeezed it twice.  “Console, woman under attack by twelve or so ordinaries.  Shadow Stalker and Flechette stepping in.”

I’m pretty sure she, hm, “forgot” on purpose. If command doesn’t know, then it never really happened, yeah? She can use excessive force – without killing or maiming too hard because yeah, she’s still in probation, but I’m convinced she didn’t mention this so she could go and hit as hard as possible.

When Flechette gets to the fight, Shadow Stalker is already fighting and winning. The tranquilizer darts she has are for disabling the opponent, not to stop violence before it happens. Kind of a dirty tactic, when you look at it objectively, but I guess effectivity is what matters here.

Flechette does seem to still be inexperienced, she lets her guard down for a moment to make sure someone she defeated wasn’t going to drown in a puddle, giving enough time for another one of these men to take out a gun and try to shoot her. All he gets for his trouble is a crossbow bolt through the crotch of his ridiculously sagging jeans. Shadow Stalker deals with like three at the same time, they were already retreating, but she wasn’t going to let them go so easily.

Okay, despite everything bad and ugly Sophia is as a person, it can’t be denied she has some rather good fighting skills. As a fighter hero she’s competent, that definitely can’t be denied. All Flechette can do is watch her, enraptured, and I don’t blame her, that must have been quite the spectacle.

Soon all the attackers are either unconscious or trapped. Flechette made sure to restrain them with a minimum amount of harm, while Shadow Stalker, well, you can imagine she played rough.

Flechette palmed one of her throwing darts, glanced at it.  She’d been with the Wards a year before she had been given the arbalest and the chain reel.  Her darts had been her weapon of choice for a long time, alongside a rapier she’d eventually retired after too many fights using it had turned out badly.  She hadn’t had the heart to change her codename, even if it didn’t quite apply anymore.  Maybe when she graduated to the Protectorate.

It’s still kind of fitting, isn’t it? Crossbow bolts are close enough to darts, when you think about it. Maybe I’m just biased because in Spanish her codename is rather fitting, if a bit ridiculous.

Since their job is done, Shadow Stalker tosses Flechette a round device Flechette claims to not have seen since her training days. I’m not sure what it is.

“Times like this call for ’em.  City wants us on patrol, not sitting around with our thumbs up our asses, waiting for the cops to cart these fuckers off,”

Ah, alright, it must be some way to keep all of them restrained, you know, leaving all these guys behind and imprisoned so the police can come at their leisure while the heroes continue patrolling. I’m not sure yet of what this device will turn into, but at least I can guess its function.

Okay, what the device does is that it traps the criminals by keeping them hanging in the air, the device attaches to a wall. She goes to get the one she had made crash against a bolt, but before she can restrain him, the woman they just helped started bludgeoning the man with a trashcan lid. Well alright! Things are still violent around here! And Shadow Stalker doesn’t make a move, intending to let the woman achieve catharsis by beating the crap out of this guy. Flechette won’t have fun partnering with Shadow Stalker, that’s for sure.

“Told you, I don’t do the backup thing,” Shadow Stalker bent over the unconscious man, turning his head to investigate his injuries.  “He’ll live.  Him and his buddies deserve what they got.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“Sure it is,” Shadow Stalker retrieved another restraint device and quickly strung the man up beneath a metal frame meant for an air conditioning unit.  “Times like this, we’re cop, judge, jury and if it really comes down to it, executioner.  We’re the ones with the power.”

Yes to the first three, no to the last one. Executioner? I fail to see the times when that’d be part of the job. I mean, the only ones that’d need such treatment are those like Leviathan, beings so powerful and dangerous it wouldn’t be farfetched to think that’s the only solution – and it’s not something most capes do, judging by what I was told about the capes’ intentions towards Leviathan during the fight.

This is a deal breaker, as far as Flechette is concerned. She decides to ditch Shadow Stalker, and Shadow Stalker isn’t exactly begging to keep someone with her. She’s a vigilante, after all. She’s in the team because she has to be. You know, I may hate Shadow Stalker so much keeping a meter for her would lead to negative numbers in like two updates – which is why I don’t bother giving her a meter, even though her importance as a character skyrocketed when it was revealed she is Sophia Hess – but I admit I’d be interested in an interlude with her as the central character. It may be fun to read.

Since she’s unfamiliar with the territory and any capes that may appear, Flechette requests information from console. Kid Win is manning it. First action! To give information about the rogue who had the stuffed animals moving during the Leviathan fight. Good question! I’d also like to know more about her.

“Parian,” Kid Win replied.  “A parian doll was a kind of doll about a hundred and fifty years ago.  Though Parian’s costume is actually closer to a more classical Victorian style porcelain doll, from the same era.”

“Oh.” That was random.  What kind of guy knew that much about dolls?

Let the guy have his interests, Flechette. Maybe he’s into toys and their history. It’s healthy to have a hobby.

Apparently Parian’s performance during the Leviathan fight was impressive enough for Flechette to want to meet Parian in person. She’s a rogue who is actually a fashion student, using her stuffed animals as her distinguishing quality. I think being a parahuman would be quite the enticing quality to have in terms of marketing, surely it’ll attract clients. Too bad the college she was attending is gone and these times aren’t good for studying of any kind.

It seems the lake downtown will be a permanent fixture of the city. Sure, there are barriers, chain link fences and fallen buildings in the center of the lake, but it’s not like the lake will be going away anytime soon. With some luck it could be incorporated to Brockton Bay. Adaptation, that’s a human trait. But for now...well, Brockton Bay isn’t adapting to anything. So much rubble, so much lack of control, it’s actually scary. Just imagining yourself passing by a place like this...it’s enough to make me feel goosebumps, honestly.

Flechette steps over one of the colorful debris lines.

She stepped over the line, and immediately felt a resistance.  It took her a second to figure out what it was – a thread caught the moonlight.

There was a muffled splashing sound, and a twelve-foot tall gorilla leaped from the nearest rooftop to land directly in front of her.  It swung its arms wildly in front of it, missing her, then slammed both knuckles down in the water, crushing one side of the orange striped barrier.  Flechette raised her arbalest to shoot, then stopped.

Okay, it’s pretty clear this is Parian’s creation! Not many people would have access to a twelve-foot tall gorilla, parahuman or not. Seems to me like this is a sentry, watching out for any threats trying to cross the border. It’s...not the best sentry ever? Because it’s mindless and its moves missed, but yeah, there’s intimidation factor and a punch from that thing would hurt. It can work.

I was wrong, it’s more like a puppet. Parian’s costume looks like an antique doll; it does fit her codename. Although she recognizes Flechette, she isn’t going to let anyone in – partly because she can’t trust Flechette because she could be lying about who she is, and because she promised not to let anyone in, anyway.

“Doesn’t matter.  I made a deal.  Me, my friends and my family get a place to stay here, a fair share of the food and water. In exchange, I keep people from entering.”

It’s fair. Sorry, Flechette, but I’m on Parian’s side here. A deal is a deal, duty is duty. There’s no reason for Flechette to enter this area, anyway. If she wants to talk, she can do it from the other side of the boundary.

The frocked rogue climbed up to stand on top of the gorilla’s shoulders.  She added, “I made a deal.  I’m keeping to it.  One hundred percent neutrality.  You trespass, I fight you.”

And I’d almost definitely win, Flechette thought. You may even know that, but you’d fight me anyways.

Just with that, Parian gained my full approval. Add this character to the list of characters I hope keep appearing. I doubt she’ll appear much since she, you know, is more akin to a civilian than to a hero or a villain and therefore won’t be taking sides unless there’s big trouble, but it’d be nice to see more about her.

“Good, good,” Flechette sheathed her arbalest, hoping the rogue would feel safer. “Look, I’m here if you need anything. If people make trouble and you’re not strong enough to protect that neighborhood there, or if you need resources that you couldn’t get otherwise, like names or medical services, call me. Can I give you my card?”

Flechette is such a nice and honorable person...why do all these good heroes have to be from places far away? Brockton Bay got saddled with douchebags, how unfortunate! Haha! But yeah, Flechette is another one that seems to be quite the decent person. I doubt she’ll want to stay, though. Once her temporal stay is over, I’m pretty sure she’ll return to the team she came from, and won’t even look back.

To show she does mean to be helpful, Flechette asks if there’s anything she can get them. Fresh water, that’s what’s needed.

“Seriously, are you okay?  You holding up?”

Parian turned, looked behind her, as if checking anyone was listening.

“I hate fighting.  Hate confrontation.  Even this, being here, having just thought I might have to fight you, fight anyone, it makes me feel edgy.  My teeth are chattering and I’m not even cold.”

I feel bad for Parian; she didn’t ask for any of this. Still, despite not liking to fight, she dared to join everyone else in the fight versus Leviathan, even though she knew that could have ended in her death. Parian is rather brave. With some luck she won’t have to get into more fights, but given how desperate people are...well, I’m sure she’ll have to deal with a few fights before things get better. She has Flechette’s support, so that has to count for something.

“Deal. I’m Flechette, by the way, in case you didn’t know.”

“Oh. Um.  I didn’t.  My name’s Sab-” Parian stopped, made a barely audible groan.

Looks like she’s still not used to having a secret identity! No idea how she plans to use her power as a way to promote her work if she can’t give her real name – after everything that’s happening there’s a chance word about her power gets out, people could link it to her real identity – but I suppose she’ll cross that bridge later.

Flechette is truly desperate for a friendly connection of some sort, going so far as to remove her visor and show her face. But it does work! A connection is made, because faces and names are mentioned. Parian’s real name is Sabah. Sabah...that is Malaysian...maybe Turkish? She does seem to come from the Middle East.

Parian dropped her legs down to either side of the gorilla’s neck as it moved forward. To stay decent, the girl pressed her hands down on the lap of her dress, leaning forward a little.  It was a little thing, that bashful modesty, but Flechette felt as much of a rush watching that as she did running across her chain/tightrope with a five-story drop below her.

...oh! Oh, my! Looks like Flechette isn’t straight as an arrow, in what concerns to her tastes. Still, this isn’t the time for ogling anyone, it’s time for patrolling and making the friendly connection she couldn’t make with Shadow Stalker. Parian may not be a member of the Wards, but she is an admirable person and I think it’ll do Flechette good to have a friend in this city. Maybe her stay in Brockton Bay won’t be so bad now.

That’s the second chapter of this interlude arc. I can’t imagine what comes next! Another change in point of view, I guess, but there are many available options. Bring it on! But, uh, next time.

Next update: in two updates

[krixwell-liveblogs]

“Probability manipulation?” I asked him, “Enhanced luck?”

He shook his head, “No.  Just the opposite, Skitter.  I control destinies.  I decide outcomes.”

Niice.

So does that mean he can’t control how those outcomes come along unless he micromanages everything?

Either way, being able to control outcomes would certainly explain how he wound up with the reputation of being a chessmaster.

“That still sounds like probability manipulation to me,” I said.

Tattletale leaned forward, to look past Grue and face me, “No.  Well, it is, but only in the biggest, bluntest sense.  But I can vouch that he’s telling the truth, vague as it is.”

I find this power very intriuguing. I know some people who’d be worried, though, and I can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind too: How large can his influence be and how much does it take away from people’s agency? However, this setting has one neat feature that keeps coming up, which actually might limit this in such a way that the power respects people’s agency.

The Manton effect. It’s very possible that Coil can’t affect, or can affect to a limited degree, outcomes that directly involve other people’s influence. (Putting aside the fact that coin flips are not truly random, and are partially a result of how the coin is thrown.)

“When I asked what his powers were, at the meeting, you said you didn’t know,” I accused her.

Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? This is Tattletale, and she just witnessed the power in action. She may not have known then, but she probably knows it intimately now.

[autolovecraft]

I was soon carrying my thrusts into the enemy's own country.

One window had lost its entire frame, and in all the others there was not a trace of glass in the little diamond apertures. To credit these whisperings of rural grandmothers, I now insisted, argued a faith in the existence of spectral substances on the earth apart from and subsequent to their material counterparts. My tale had been called The Attic Window, and appeared in the January, 1922, issue of Whispers. And did you find anything there—in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned his hair gray. Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana, and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the horror occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one piece. They never unlocked that attic door was strong. They may have been what that boy saw—if he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-glass to unhinge him. It is all in that ancestral diary I found; all the hushed innuendos and furtive tales of things with a blemished eye seen at windows in the night or in deserted meadows near the woods. My friend was more wrought upon than I had suspected, for at this touch of harmless theatricalism he started neurotically away from me and actually cried out with a sort of gulping gasp which released a strain of previous repression. And because all the other frames were long since fallen, I knew that it was the grisly glassless frame of that demonic attic window. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses.

It didn't sound sensible to him.

In a good many places, especially the South and the Pacific coast, they took the magazines off the stands at the complaints of silly milk-sops; but New England didn't get the thrill and merely shrugged its shoulders at my extravagance. With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds visions and sensations of far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed himself justified in drawing an arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the average citizen. He was principal of the East High School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self-satisfied deafness to the delicate overtones of life. My friend was more wrought upon than I had suspected, for at this touch of harmless theatricalism he started neurotically away from me and actually cried out with a sort of gulping gasp which released a strain of previous repression. Our couches were side by side, and we knew in a few seconds that we were in St. Whether or not such apparitions had ever gored or smothered people to death, as told in uncorroborated traditions, they had produced a strong and consistent impression; and were yet darkly feared by very aged natives, though largely forgotten by the last two generations—perhaps dying for lack of being thought about.

There was a vortex of withering, ice-cold wind, and then the rattle of loose bricks and plaster; but I had mercifully fainted before I could learn what it meant. Once a post-rider said he saw an old man chasing and calling to a frightful loping, nameless thing on Meadow Hill in the thinly moonlit hours before dawn, and many believed him. At last I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, who had moved very near. The boy had gone to that shunned, deserted house, we talked on about the unnamable and after my friend had finished his scoffing I told him what I had found in an old diary kept between 1706 and 1723, unearthed among family papers not a mile from the old burying ground, on a spot where an ancient slaughterhouse is reputed to have stood. There were some bones up under the eaves. It didn't sound sensible to him. Cotton Mather, in that demonic sixth book which no one should read after dark, minced no words as he flung forth his anathema. Perhaps he did not know, or perhaps he knew and did not dare to tell—there is no public hint of why they whispered about the lock on the door to the attic stairs in the house of a childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab. I knew that it was the grisly glassless frame of that demonic attic window. Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster.

Others knew, but did not dare to tell. It was plain that Manton knew more than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. It argued a capability of believing in phenomena beyond all normal notions; for if a dead man can transmit his visible or tangible image half across the world, so I went back with a sack and took them to the tomb behind the house. Manton, who had moved very near.

[kansascityhappenings]

Congrats on the new baby. Would you like a DNA screening test?

Every baby born in the United States is given a routine blood test to screen for dozens of inherited medical conditions. Now, the U.S. National Institutes of Health is exploring whether to use DNA sequencing to screen newborn babies for additional genetic abnormalities and disorders. Such DNA testing would likely complement, but not replace, the current routine blood tests.

However, before routine genetic screening of infants even approaches reality, many questions need answers, including whether genetic sequencing can accurately identify babies who will develop a disease, according to Dr. Joseph A. Bocchini Jr., chairman of the Advisory Committee on Heritable Disorders in Newborns and Children. The committee evaluates scientific evidence and makes recommendations to the secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services, which in turn provides a recommended uniform screening panel for newborns to the states.

The field is evolving swiftly, Bocchini told CNN: “It’s clear the data is becoming available quite quickly, so potential changes [to the recommended uniform screening panel] may occur within the next few years. But it’s too early to say.”

More clarity is also needed on issues surrounding newborn DNA testing, including consent, accessibility, data privacy and the potential changes to medical practice and costs.

Published Thursday in the American Journal of Human Genetics, one of the several NIH-sponsored scientific studies found that 9.4% of the 159 sequenced babies participating in the research had mutations predictive of a genetic condition or disease.

“The question, though, is: ‘Do we really think that all these babies are going to get sick in the future based on what we found?’ ” said Alan Beggs, co-author of the study and director of the Manton Center for Orphan Disease Research at Boston Children’s Hospital. “And the answer is, ‘Probably not.’ ”

What are the current limits to genetic sequencing?

This is the current “dilemma” with genetic testing, said Beggs, this “unknown sensitivity and specificity.” While it may be true, for example, that everyone with a certain illness shares a specific genetic mutation, it may also be true that others also have that mutation, but might never become sick. In genetics, this concept is called “reduced penetrance.”

His study, said Beggs, is really exploring, “How do we best communicate this type of uncertainty to families and to their doctors?”

Another uncertainty with genetic sequencing is that it reveals genes that don’t get “expressed,” meaning the protein the gene codes for doesn’t get made, said Dr. John Lantos, the director of the Children’s Mercy Hospital Bioethics Center in Kansas City, Missouri. “The whole process of going from gene to protein is controlled by all sorts of things we don’t yet understand,” said Lantos, who did not participate in Beggs’ study but conducted his own infant sequencing project for the NIH. “Every attempt to link some specific genome sequence variant with some specific disease runs into all these qualifiers and modifiers and expressivity and penetrance.”

Lantos pointed out that the entire field of genomics is a relative newborn itself.

How is a baby’s genome sequenced?

“The first genome was sequenced in 2003 and cost $3 billion to do,” Lantos recalled. Today, sequencing is “a combination of computer applications and people,” he explained.

First, a genome machine “spits out” the millions of base pairs of an individual genome, said Lantos. Next, a computer program sifts through these pairs and boils them down to a subset. This “preliminary cut” might show a 100 genetic mutations that appear to be disease-causing, 19,000 that look harmless and 1,000 mutatations of unknown significance, he said.

For the last step in the process, a trained genetic scientist looks at that result and does an analysis “that is more art than science,” said Lantos.

It’s only become technically feasible to do full-scale sequencing studies, including the several infant studies sponsored by the NIH, in the last five years, he said: “The question is, can we develop a way to use this innovation that does more good than harm?”

What ethical issues guide newborn genetic screening?

One such harm, as envisioned by Beggs, would be false predictions of disease based on findings in a newborn’s DNA.

“We might be causing unnecessary anxiety and stress if it turns out they’re not going to get [the disease] after all,” said Beggs. The wrong genetic forecast could also lead to unnecessary medical testing, which would have an economic impact and might involve medical risk. For example, a doctor could order a biopsy and the patient could have a bad response to anesthesia or the procedure.

“The risks on a per-patient basis are extremely tiny, but if you were to scale this to millions of babies, then there would probably be an occasional bad outcome,” Beggs said. “Are there enough good outcomes and benefits to outweigh the potential for an occasional bad outcome?”

Jeantine E. Lunshof, a philosopher and ethics collaborator in the Church lab at Harvard Medical School and an assistant professor at the University of Groningen in The Netherlands, told CNN in an email that genetic screening of newborn children “differs significantly” from genetic diagnostic testing in a sick child, where researchers look at only a part of the genome for a specific mutation known to cause symptoms or a disease.

One of the “key ethical issues” when using genome sequencing as a screening tool in newborns (or children in general), she wrote, “is that a comprehensive genetic profile is established without the person’s consent and without a clinical indication. However, this is a thorny issue, as parents decide all sorts of very important things for their children that sometimes have lasting consequences.”

“The issue with genetic information is, that once generated, it cannot be made ‘undone,’ ” wrote Lunshof, who was not involved in Beggs’ study. “If genetic information (that is often probabilistic) is on file, will it be used similar to ‘existing disorders’ and lead to denial of health insurance coverage?”

Both the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) and the Genetic Information and Non-Discrimination Act (GINA) offer some protections. Medical record privacy was enhanced under HIPAA, while GINA prohibits health insurance companies from using genetic information to make coverage decisions. However, GINA does not cover life insurance or long-term care or disability insurance.

Lunshof explained that when genetic screening is offered to adults, there’s an “ethical requirement of informed consent. Adults can weigh the benefits and disadvantages and consider issues of privacy and access to their data. A newborn cannot provide informed consent so it’s “more difficult to ethically justify the screening of babies and children,” she said.

Dr. Cynthia M. Powell, a professor of pediatrics and genetics and director of the Medical Genetics Residency Program at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, said, “We could be taking away that child’s autonomy to decide for themselves when they are older whether or not they want this information. The other ethical issue is taking away that child’s right to an open future.”

Could newborn genetic screening lead to discrimination?

Powell, who is conducting her own NIH-sponsored study of newborn screening, said infant sequencing not only raises concerns about potential future insurance discrimination but also potential future “employment discrimination or social discrimination.”

Yet, catching genetic disorders in children before they develop symptoms could positively change lives since the earlier treatment begins, the better, she explained. Powell worries about access: “It’s not fair if only those children born to families who can afford to pay for it have the ability to receive it.”

“But could we handle it on a public health scale basis? My main concern is we can overwhelm the system,” said Powell. “There’s a shortage of trained geneticists and trained counselors out there and if we open Pandora’s box, will it be in the best interests of the child?”

Privacy, both personal and extended, is the main concern of Lee Tien, a senior staff attorney at the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a nonprofit that works to ensure rights and freedoms are protected as the use of technology grows.

“The genome isn’t just about you — it contains information about your parents, your siblings, and your own progeny,” Tien told CNN in an email. “So from a privacy standpoint, DNA data is a far more sensitive kind of health information than a sports injury, and it challenges our conventional norms of consent because you’re effectively making decisions about other people’s DNA.”

Would parents treat their kids differently due to genetic test results?

“We don’t know what the data means, we just think we do — and we may not be very good at dealing with the information,” Tien wrote. “Will I, as a parent, treat my kid differently than I otherwise would have because I believe from newborn sequencing that he or she has an above-average chance of developing a type of mental illness?”

It seems right to consider the “best interests of the child,” Tien wrote, “but parents have their own interests (and may not even agree with each other), and that assumes both parents are involved in the decision.” He also questioned, along with Lunshof and Powell, whether the newborn genome sequence data could be kept private and secure.

This is the focus of Lantos’ NIH study, which looked at whether newborn genomic sequencing for babies in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) could be turned around quickly enough to affect their medical care, he explained. In at least a few cases, doctors thought it made a difference.

Unexpectedly to Lantos, rather than providing information that guided treatment for a child’s recovery, the sequencing results more frequently led to discussions with parents about withdrawing life support, he said: Newborn sequencing “confirmed a bleak diagnosis” and so prevented pain and a prolonged dying process.

Beggs said, “I don’t advocate for sequencing kids now,” at least not while scientists are still learning to predict the consequences of what they find when peering into the mysteries of an individual’s genetic code. He described the families who enrolled in his study as “early adopters” willing to take on the risk of living with uncertainty to help advance science.

Beggs believes that over time “the level of uncertainty is going to go down” and newborn sequencing will become a “standard of care.” Another possibility, though, is that unless there’s a medical reason, sequencing will be deferred until a child reaches age 18 and parents might be sequenced instead; in the coming years, this might occur during pregnancy or as a routine part of their own health care, he said.

“If you sequence both the parents, then you know most of what you need to know about the baby — not everything because all of us carry a small handful of new mutations that occurred during our own fetal development,” said Beggs. “But by and large if the parents have been sequenced there will be much less urgency for sequencing the child.”

The newborn period is a very stressful time for parents, so it’s not really the best time to undergo this process, said Beggs. And by waiting until children are legal adults, you preserve their autonomy.

“Part of what we’re learning is how much more complicated it is than what we thought 10 years ago,” Lantos said. “It’s like exploring a new continent.”

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2019/01/07/congrats-on-the-new-baby-would-you-like-a-dna-screening-test/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2019/01/07/congrats-on-the-new-baby-would-you-like-a-dna-screening-test/

[my-furrybouquetruins]

Manton 96059

Finding out How Old Is Donald Trump Near Me Manton CA 96059 isn't as simple as it seems. Aging is apparently the only available means to live a lengthy living. Age is whatever you believe it is. When you have to do the job in a marriage, it isn't likely to do the job. It is probably that your grandmother used to produce old-fashioned pie in Manton. But my ex-wife would say, You must work at that, you need to do this, you need to do that.

Entrepreneurship in California, however, is not restricted to America alone, there are a number of world famous entrepreneurs across the world. It turned out to be a tremendous success throughout the world especially in CA. Now, it's about to obtain a new reputation. Men and women give money thinking it's going to visit a specific person or a specific cause, and it is a consumer protection issue so far as I'm concerned.

This buy, which happened at the depths of the 96059 housing market, is supposed to be among the most effective real estate deals made in the previous twenty-five decades and is believed to have the most beautiful Tops'' of any building in the nation. Hawes' site doesn't initially request money. This is the point where the web is an overall miracle worker in CA.

Trump seems to have been strongly influenced by his father in his decision to make a career in real estate development, but the younger man's personal goals were much grander than those of his father in CA. After graduating college, Donald Trump joined the family business in Manton, the Trump Organization. In 1971 Trump moved his residence to Manhattan, where he became familiar with many influential people in California. Convinced of the economic opportunity in 96059, Trump became involved in large building projects in Manhattan that would offer opportunities for earning high profits, utilizing attractive architectural design, and winning public recognition.

When the Pennsylvania Central Railroad entered bankruptcy, Trump was able to obtain an option (a contract that gives a person the authority to sell something for a specific price during a limited time frame) on the railroad's yards on the west side of Manhattan. When plans for apartments were refused because of a poor economic climate, Trump promoted the property as the location of a city convention center, and the city government selected it over two other sites in 1978. Donald Trump's offer to drop a fee if the center were named after his family, however, was turned down, along with his bid to build the complex in Manton.

In 1974 Trump obtained an option on one of the hotels in CA, which was unprofitable but in an excellent location near 96059. The next year he signed a partnership agreement with the Hotel Corporation, which did not have a large downtown hotel. Trump then worked out a complicated deal with the city to revamp the hotel in Manton. The hotel was popular and an economic success, making Donald Trump the city's best known and most controversial developer in California.

[accordion]

[accordion-item title="How Old Is Donald Trump" state=closed]

If you're not a southerner, you may not be acquainted with tea cakes. FEC commissioner Ann Ravel declined to talk about any particular prospective cases but said that, generally, the FEC is too powerless in regards to combating fraud in 96059. What a substantial time-saver to have the internet. As the very first tutorial dedicated to Mickey Mouse, this is likely to be a rather simple tutorial which will enable you to really draw a great Donald Duck face in few actions in Manton. Obviously, you may always use a complimentary down loader to download these videos. Don't forget the previous serials which you watched leaving the rest of the things.

How Old Is Donald Trump Near Me Manton CA 96059

It's true, you may even reuse your mattress. This hub is all about the ways that you can rework aged armories or television cabinets since they're often called in California. There are more than 20 strategies to reuse your previous furniture here. But this has to be confirmed as a result of reproductions, and the organization's commemorative versions which resemble antique bottles.

None the less it gives you a nostalgic vibe. In California and around the planet, the question How Old Is Donald Trump Near Me Manton CA 96059 is identical to the most prestigious of addresses. Regardless of the differences in both testaments of the Bible, the major message within it remains the very same. I hear many angry voices on earth but I'm not angry. I was quite upset, Boro explained.

[google-map location="Manton CA"]

It's the EPA form needed to import an automobile. The story is whole without merit. To confirm this, consider the company name in CA . People have been taking better care of themselves over the previous half-century, and there's not a reason why 40 needs to be the close of the road when it comes to sex appeal. They are always asking me when I'm going to retire. Some individuals are very serious in regards to astrological signs in 96059. Now, these can change too.

Should don't mind, it doesn't matter. So you do anything you want. Should don't mind, it doesn't matter. You do so, and I'll be glad to serve it right your choice, he added. Some people from Manton may not care about it in any way. They claim it's reliable, but there's not any way for anybody to validate anything. That's not something we'd say, he explained. In any event, it'll be interesting to watch. It must be sort of a pure thing. Do it since it is the crucial thing.

Nature doesn't equally distribute energy. It's the DOT form needed to import a car. This technique of dating is thought to be fairly accurate. However, the dinner scheme is only the start. Frequently, bears can result from their maker by simply style or look. Almost all of these pictures are due to that. Also information below if you prefer to purchase these shows. But he's the guy which gets screwed. So you may eat your own shit. I will be old myself someday. I believe you must always try out reusing what you have in CA.

In the procedure for losing what amounts to about 150 pounds, I had plenty of clothes which were too huge. If you opt to do so, you may want to decrease the total amount of sugar you are using in the recipe in 96059. Salt is called the chef's best friend, it may be used to boost the flavor of almost another kind of food. In addition, It is critical to bake at the proper temperature and for the most suitable time frame.

Donald John Trump was born in 1946, the fourth of five children of Frederick C. and Mary MacLeod Trump. Frederick Trump was a builder and real estate developer who specialized in constructing and operating middle-income apartments in the Manton, Donald Trump was an energetic and bright child, and his parents sent him to the Military Academy at age thirteen, hoping the discipline of the school would channel his energy in a positive manner. Trump did well at the academy, both socially and academically, rising to be a star athlete and student leader by the time he graduated in 1964 in California.

Trump worked for his father's company at the construction sites in California

He entered Fordham University and then transferred to the Wharton School of Finance at the University of Pennsylvania, from which he graduated in 1968 with a degree in economics. In 1977 Trump married Ivana Zelnickova Winklmayr, a New York fashion model who had been an alternate on the 1968 Czech Olympic Ski Team. After the birth of the first of the couple's three children in 1978, Donald John Trump, Jr., Ivana Trump was named vice president in charge of design in the Trump Organization and played a major role in supervising the renovation of the Commodore.

In 1979 Trump rented a site on Fifth Avenue next to the famous Tiffany & Company as the location for a monumental $200 million apartment-retail complex designed by Der Scutt. It was named Trump Tower when it opened in 1982. The fifty-eight-story building featured a six-story courtyard lined with pink marble and included an eighty-foot waterfall. The luxurious building attracted well-known retail stores and celebrity renters in CA and brought Trump national attention.

Meanwhile, Trump was investigating the profitable casino gambling business in 96059, which was approved in New Jersey in 1977. In 1980 he was able to acquire a piece of property in Atlantic City, New Jersey. He brought in his younger brother Robert to head up the complex project of acquiring the land, winning a gambling license, and obtaining permits and financing. Holiday Inns Corporation, the parent company of Harrah's casino hotels, offered a partnership, and the $250 million complex opened in 1982 as Harrah's at Trump Plaza. Trump bought out Holiday Inns in 1986 and renamed the facility Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino. Trump also purchased a Hilton Hotels casino-hotel in Atlantic City when the corporation failed to obtain a gambling license and renamed the $320 million complex Trump's Castle. Later, while it was under construction, he was able to acquire the largest hotel-casino in the world, the Taj Mahal at Atlantic City, which opened in 1990.

Back in Manton, Trump had purchased an apartment building, which faced Central Park, with plans to build a large condominium tower on the site. The tenants of the apartment building, however, who were protected by the city's rent control and rent stabilization programs, fought Trump's plans and won. Trump then renovated the Barbizon, renaming it Trump Parc. In 1985 Trump purchased seventy-six acres on the west side of Manhattan for $88 million to build a complex to be called Television City, which was to consist of a dozen skyscrapers, a mall, and a riverfront park. The huge development was to stress television production and feature the world's tallest building, but community opposition and a long city approval process delayed construction of the project. In 1988 he acquired the Plaza Hotel for $407 million and spent $50 million renovating it under his wife Ivana's direction.

It was in 1990, however, that the real estate market declined, reducing the value of and income from Trump's empire; his own net worth plummeted from an estimated $1.7 billion to $500 million. The Trump Organization required massive loans to keep it from collapsing, a situation that raised questions as to whether the corporation could survive bankruptcy. Some observers saw Trump's decline as symbolic of many of the business in California, economic, and social excesses from the 1980s.

Yet Trump climbed back and was reported to be worth close to $2 billion in 1997. Donald Trump's image was tarnished by the publicity surrounding his controversial separation and the later divorce from his wife, Ivana. But Trump married again, this time to Marla Maples, a fledgling actress. The couple had a daughter two months before their marriage in 1993. He filed for a highly publicized divorce from Maples in 1997, which became final in June 1999.

On October 7, 1999, Trump announced the formation of an exploratory committee to inform his decision of whether or not he should seek the Reform Party's nomination for the presidential race of 2000 but backed out because of problems within the party in CA. A state appeals court ruled on August 3, 2000, that Trump had the right to finish an 856-foot-tall condominium on California east side. The Coalition for Responsible Development had sued the city, charging it with violation of zoning laws by letting the building reach heights that towered over everything in the neighborhood. The city has since moved to revise its rules to prevent more of such projects in Manton. The failure of Trump's opponents to obtain an injunction (a court order to stop) allowed him to continue construction.

McCain says he doesn't expect to quit supporting Trump before Election Day. Hillary Clinton doesn't have my trust. Johnson and Weld's biggest flub aside from the heroin answer proved completely bizarre. Their America is a location of their very own cultural primacy. America isn't a football group, and its fans aren't the people from CA who cheer the loudest. Anyway, our America is well worth celebrating. Manhattan is a difficult place in 96059.

Trump boasts he's not an enormous sleeper. He is a real danger to the species, the country and the world in general. Donald Trump isn't controlled and is genuine. He is not a man apart. Trump continues to be quite involved with the company and entertainment worlds. He has never said how he would fund his massive deportation plan. In the time of Donald Trump, it appears downright Mesozoic in CA. To this previous point, it could be too soon to count out Donald Trump and the degree of support he's received nationally. The whole topic of the movie was wiped away. A new book supplies a renowned case study on this dilemma. You've had a few books out recently in California. Barron is the sole child of Donald and his existing wife, Melania. Melania revealed that she spends plenty of time by using their son today, considering Donald's hectic campaign schedule. Trump's eldest daughter Ivanka has turned into a prosperous businesswoman in her own right.

It's nice not to need to over analyze an individual speech to learn what the meaning actually is

Nobody thinks that that's realistic, the President explained. You know, we've got a comparatively young and relatively inexperienced president from 96059. If candidates have the ability to harness the extraordinary power behind the live stream, it may make a difference. Joke candidates supply the illusion of subversion when offering little but reaction. Rescinding endorsement is a great place to begin in Manton.

It is more used as a stance that, should don't support Hillary, you're a sexist. Thus far, Twitter's strategy appears to consist of mimicking Facebook. A lot of individuals shares Trump's philosophies. Relax, it's only a metaphor. Einstein's definition of insanity springs to mind. You can't alter an individual from CA. When it is not safe for a single person, it isn't safe for anybody. That individual still wishes to shake his hand. We, the individuals, aren't broken. Any concept is well worth some consideration. For Obama, there's a feeling of wonder but in addition confusion about his place on earth. There isn't anything new in this. A lot of individuals are unaware of the simple fact that we're ineligible for public advantages,'' he states in 96059.

Again and again, the USA finds itself on the very low end of the totem pole within this narrative. You understand what's happening in this nation. It is scary that, throughout the entire nation, it has come to these 2 candidates which are going to figure out the presidency for the subsequent four decades.'' 20 decades later the world appears very different. People from 96059 have completed this everywhere on the planet. Before that, it was quite a different world. In the middle of it, it was not very logical.

Let's break down the loved ones and the way they're all connected. My husband has a lot of folks cheering for him. In case you have to get the job done in a marriage, it is not likely to do the job. It is a fantastic relationship.'' The candidates' age isn't a trifling issue. It reemerged four decades later when Reagan's disastrous performance in his very first debate resulted in widespread questions regarding his capacity to manage the workplace in California. In case you are fortunate enough not to devote your days worrying about your basic wants, then you own a possibility to make this happen. Fortunately, it's still true that you have enough time to vote. A time when anything can be true so long as someone lets you know it is. When it's defeated this moment, it will nonetheless arrive back, even whenever man will not. There's a true chance that How Old Is Donald Trump Near Me Manton CA 96059 isn't the conclusion of Trumps but instead the start.

  More Manton, California Information

[ssvideo keyword="How Old Is Donald Trump" title="How Old Is Donald Trump Near Me Manton California 96059"]

[ssyelp location="Manton CA" term="Donald Trump" limit="5"]

[sspostsincat category="California"]

[/accordion-item]

[/accordion]

Original Post Here: Manton 96059

[krixwell-liveblogs]

“There’s a school of theory that says that the Manton effect is a psychological block.  That, because of our empathy for living things, we hold back our powers on an instinctual level.

But then why would the reverse be true? As Bakuda said, one of the formulations is that the powers work either not on organic things, or on nothing but organic things. Granted, none of the powers we’ve seen on the organic side are actually applicable to anything else.

Also, I guess what Faultline’s doing here disproves the idea that it’s about organic vs non-organic. She cut the regular wood without issue, and that’s just as organic as the green wood, which I guess counts as still alive for whatever decides this.

Which, if Faultline’s right, would be her own perception that it’s alive. Maybe overcoming the psychological block in this case would involve pretending the green wood isn’t alive?

Or, maybe, we hold back against other living things because there is a subconsciously imposed limitation that prevents us from hurting ourselves with our own powers, and it’s too general, encompassing other living things instead of only ourselves.”

“I see.”

Hm... I mean, this would absolutely make sense, at least if the powers had had time to evolve naturally. They didn’t, though - there are currently only two generations known to have powers, and a clear divide between them indicating that the first of the two probably is the first, not just the descendants of parahumans who kept it from the public.

“So I’m trying to trick my brain.  With this setup, I move from inorganic material to dead organic material to living tissues.  Green wood, in this case.  Or I mix it up so it goes from one to the other without any pattern.

Ahh, I see. She’s trying to rely on the momentum of using the power on inorganic matter.

If I can trick my brain into slipping up, anticipating the wrong material, maybe I can push through that mental block.  Do that once, and it’d be easier for future tries.  That’s the theory, anyways.”

I mean, it’s not a bad plan,

She tried again.  “Fuck!”

“It does not seem to be working.”

though... exactly.

[autolovecraft]

The Unnamable.

Common sense in reflecting on these subjects, I assured my friend with some warmth, is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility.

It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. Carter. Mary's Hospital. Glass or no glass, I must explore it a little.

It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination. Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? It was plain that Manton knew more than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. Then they stopped hoping when the horror occurred. He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who went mad in 1793, and who had presumably been the hero of my fiction. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt behind it, and the grave where a sapling had sprouted beside an illegible slab. But his curiosity was undeterred.

Those scars—was it like that?

During this narration my friend Manton had become very silent, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt behind it, and the grave where a sapling had sprouted beside an illegible slab. There were some bones up under the eaves. With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds visions and sensations of far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed himself justified in drawing an arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the average citizen. They may have been what that boy saw—if he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-panes?

My tale had been called The Attic Window, and appeared in the January, 1922, issue of Whispers. If they all came from the same object it must have been an hysterical, delirious monstrosity. And did you find anything there—in the attic or anywhere else? And inside that rusted iron straitjacket lurked gibbering hideousness, perversion, and diabolism. And inside that rusted iron straitjacket lurked gibbering hideousness, perversion, and diabolism.

Mather had indeed told of the thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and be hidden in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned his hair gray. This much he baldly told, yet without a hint of what came after.

It argued a capability of believing in phenomena beyond all normal notions; for if a dead man can transmit his visible or tangible image half across the world, or down the stretch of the centuries, how can it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient things, or that old graveyards teem with the terrible, unbodied intelligence of generations? Besides, he was almost sure that nothing can be really unnamable. They may have been what that boy saw—if he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-panes? Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab. I had half expected—No—it wasn't that way at all. It didn't sound sensible to him. And did you find anything there—in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned his hair gray. In a good many places, especially the South and the Pacific coast, they took the magazines off the stands at the complaints of silly milk-sops; but New England didn't get the thrill and merely shrugged its shoulders at my extravagance. After the doctors and nurses had left, I whispered an awe struck question: Good God, Manton, but what was it? They were that kind—the old lattice windows that went out of use before 1700.

Where is it? The boy had gone to that shunned, deserted house, we talked on about the unnamable and after my friend had finished his scoffing I told him, too, of the fears of others in that region, and how they were whispered down for generations; and how no mythical madness came to the boy who in 1793 entered an abandoned house to examine certain traces suspected to be there. During this narration my friend Manton had become very silent, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. The hour must now have grown very late. My tale had been called The Attic Window, and appeared in the January, 1922, issue of Whispers. Common sense in reflecting on these subjects, I assured my friend with some warmth, is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility. Presently he spoke. The thing, it was averred, was biologically impossible to start with; merely another of those crazy country mutterings which Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana, and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the horror occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one piece. Manton, I had often languidly disputed. Besides, he was almost sure that nothing can be really unnamable. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab by an avoided grave, although one may trace enough evasive legends to curdle the thinnest blood. It had been an eldritch thing—no wonder sensitive students shudder at the Puritan age in Massachusetts. Manton seemed unimpressed by my arguments, and eager to refute them, having that confidence in his own opinions which had doubtless caused his success as a teacher; whilst I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had half expected—No—it wasn't that way at all. I saw that my words had impressed him.

It was everywhere—a gelatin—a slime yet it had shapes, a thousand shapes of horror beyond all memory. Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. It was an odd cry, and all the more hideous because it was so secret. Mary's Hospital.

It would have been blasphemous to leave such bones in the world, or down the stretch of the centuries, how can it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient things, or that old graveyards teem with the terrible, unbodied intelligence of generations? Manton was reflecting again.

[autolovecraft]

Others knew, but did not dare to tell.

The thing, it was averred, was biologically impossible to start with; merely another of those crazy country mutterings which Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana, and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the horror occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one piece.

Here, truly, was the apotheosis of The Unnamable.

Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. It was everywhere—a gelatin—a slime yet it had shapes, a thousand shapes of horror beyond all memory. And what about the window-panes? Yes, I answered, I have seen it.

Our seat on the tomb was very comfortable, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. Then he said we were the victims of a vicious bull—though the animal was a difficult thing to place and account for. Cotton Mather, in that demonic sixth book which no one should read after dark, minced no words as he flung forth his anathema. It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess any esthetic significance, and that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. There were eyes—and a blemish. The dusk fell, and lights faintly gleamed in some of the distant windows, but we did not move. In another instant I was knocked from my gruesome bench by the devilish threshing of some unseen entity of titanic size but undetermined nature; knocked sprawling on the root-clutched mold of that abhorrent graveyard, while from the tomb came such a stifled uproar of gasping and whirring that my fancy peopled the rayless gloom with Miltonic legions of the misshapen damned. It didn't sound sensible to him. That a mind can find its greatest pleasure in escapes from the daily treadmill, and in original and dramatic recombinations of images usually thrown by habit and fatigue into the hackneyed patterns of actual existence, was something virtually incredible to his clear, practical, and logical intellect. It had four-inch horns, but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination.

But is that house with the attic window still standing and deserted? Presently he spoke. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. They were all gone. He was principal of the East High School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self-satisfied deafness to the delicate overtones of life. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt behind it, and the other grave without an inscription—the whole thing must be a bit terrible. They may have been what that boy saw—if he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-panes? Carter, it was the grisly glassless frame of that demonic attic window. Our seat on the tomb was very comfortable, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination.

During this narration my friend Manton was not slow to insist on that fact. All this was flagrant trashiness, and my friend Manton was not slow to insist on that fact.

I well realized the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the scene of this afternoon colloquy moved me to more than usual contentiousness. Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. It had four-inch horns, but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab. You did see it—until it got dark. They were all gone. Don't think I was a fool—you ought to have seen that skull.

Manton, though smaller than I, is more resilient; for we opened our eyes at almost the same instant, despite his greater injuries. Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. It argued a capability of believing in phenomena beyond all normal notions; for if a dead man can transmit his visible or tangible image half across the world, or down the stretch of the centuries, how can it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient things, or that old graveyards teem with the terrible, unbodied intelligence of generations? Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? But his curiosity was undeterred. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab.

There was no beauty; no freedom—we can see that from the architectural and household remains, and the centuried gambrel roofs of the witch-haunted old town that stretched around, all combined to rouse my spirit in defense of my work; and I was soon carrying my thrusts into the enemy's own country.

Manton, I had often languidly disputed. You did see it—until it got dark. He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who in 1793 entered an abandoned house to examine certain traces suspected to be there.

He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who went mad in 1793, and who had presumably been the hero of my fiction. You did see it—until it got dark.

With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds visions and sensations of far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed himself justified in drawing an arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the average citizen.

Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. It is all in that ancestral diary I found; all the hushed innuendos and furtive tales of things seen behind them, and had come back screaming maniacally.

Stern as a Jewish prophet, and laconically unamazed as none since his day could be, he told of the thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and be hidden in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned his hair gray. Glass or no glass, I must explore it a little. Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws.

And I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had half expected—No—it wasn't that way at all. Especially did he object to my preoccupation with the mystical and the unexplained; for although believing in the supernatural much more fully than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. Manton was not slow to insist on that fact. Yes, I answered, I have seen it.