#though where money is involved I WILL be cynical

[itspileofgoodthings]

when will Catholic Instagram influencers realize they can’t “sis you are infinitely worthy” their way out of everything

[matan4il]

sorry if this isn't a good place to ask but you're one of the few blogs on here that has actually done any research at all on the subject and. yknow how the pro-palestine donation posts repeatedly give you the option to buy esims specifically. why is that? I've never seen any other movement where the donation posts had you buy esims for them. what fucking use *are* they? you can't eat them, drink them- you might be able to order food with them if it wasn't for the fucking war.

maybe this is cynicism on my part but i genuinely suspect they're being used by hamas to spread propaganda. why else would they need that many esims? but you definitely know more about this than i do.

Hi lovely, sorry it took me a moment to reply!

I can tell you that even before I got this ask, the eSims campaign struck me as odd and suspicious, based on a few basic things I know, but if I was going to reply to you on this, I needed to do some research about it.

To make this ask reply clear, by "connectivity" I mean the ability to either make phone calls, log onto the internet, or both.

Okay, so why did this campaign make me wonder in the first place? Because while there have been some connectivity problems for Gazans, from what I know, there was only one time when connectivity was down to a degree that would justify a campaign, even then it wasn't completely gone for good, because Israel has worked to restore connectivity to Gazans. But I also wondered whether, if the connectivity is down, an eSim would be the solution? And if it would be, why would there be a need for that many eSims? We're over 5.5 months into this war, that's almost half a year of constantly hearing how Gaza is about to starve, so are eSims really Gazans' biggest problem if they have no food and basic needs? But even if it was enough of a problem to merit a campaign, wouldn't there have been more than enough donations by now to have solved it to a considerable degree? Since connectivity was never fully gone for long, surely there's a limit to how many more eSims they actually need, at least at certain points in time? From my experience with donating to Israelis displaced or affected by Palestinian terrorists (in this war, as well as during previous crises), there does come a time when you hear, "Okay, thank you to everyone donating X, we have enough of that, what we need now is more of Y, we would really appreciate you donating that!" But there has been no moment when we saw the eSims campaign saying, "We've had enough donations of this type, thank you, now please look more into donating X or Y, which Gazans currently need more."

And that led me to another question - if there is a certain scam involved here, what kind? Is it a financial one? Is this just meant to get money from the rest of the world feeling bad for Palestinians, and beyond the financial theft, it's harmless? Or is the money going to Hamas and people affiliated with it, which means it might be financing terrorism and the continuation of killing? Or maybe the scam is in allowing Hamas terrorists connectivity that can't be tracked as easily by Israeli security forces, which are trying to avert terrorist attacks against Israeli civilians?

I am not the biggest expert, so I don't have all the answers, but here's what I have managed to figure out.

So, first of all, connectivity requires physical infrastructure. Israel has been providing that for Gaza for years, in the form of underground cables and cellular antennas positioned on both sides of Israel's border with Gaza (source in Hebrew). The Oct 7 massacre initiated by Hamas and the following war have at times physically damaged this infrastructure, which is why Gaza has had less connectivity than usual (though it's not gone). The one time which was the worst, in terms of connectivity, the internet (but not all connectivity) was down from Friday, until Israel managed to fix things on Sunday (link above is the source for all this, it's an article from Oct 31, 2023. That said, Oct is when the most connectivity issues were reported). That means that Gaza was never fully offline except for that short period of Friday to Sunday. It also means the connectivity issues are not some plot to keep Gazans from telling the world about their plight (the way I've seen the eSims campaign presented on social media), or the connectivity would be totally down, and Israel would not do anything to restore it at any point.

And I'm pointing this out to explain one of two reasons why eSims being bought for Gazans might be useless as a solution to Gaza's connectivity if Israel was actually purposely harming it. (this following part is based on me reading way too many articles about eSim technology, those can be easily found everywhere online)

If the physical infrastructure providing the signal (which mobile networks use to provide connectivity) is physically damaged, eSim technology can't bypass that. Because eSim technology doesn't provide the signal, it just allows the owner of an eSim to easily switch between mobile networks without having to switch physical SIMs provided by these networks. That means, that for the eSim to work, there has to be some connectivity anyway. There also has to be connectivity in the first place in order to activate the eSim program paid for by someone outside Gaza (not to mention, they'd need connectivity to get the code, and learn that they're getting an eSim, and how to activate it). If Israel really was intentionally cutting off Gaza's connectivity by shutting down the physical infrastructure, as it's being presented online, eSims would be completely useless. You wouldn't be able to activate them, and you wouldn't have a signal that allowed you to use them. A campaign that misrepresents the basic facts (as if Israel is intentionally denying Gazans connectivity, or as if eSims can provide connectivity all on their own) is suspect to me.

The other reason why eSims wouldn't be a solution for many (if not most) Gazans, even if you do have connectivity, is that it also requires you to have an eSim compatible smartphone. The 'e' in eSim stands for 'embedded.' That means the technology that allows the use of eSims has to be embedded into the phone you're using, and then you can buy and activate an eSim. If you buy an eSim and wanna use it with a smartphone that doesn't have the required technology embedded, that's a bit like buying a wireless charger to use with an older phone that can only be charged through a cable (it just doesn't have the technology embedded that allows it to connect to and be charged by a wireless charger). The technology allowing the use of eSims has only been embedded in more recent phone models, which Gazans are less likely to have.

Regarding that last point, I wanna explain that, as mentioned in the above Hebrew link, before the war Gaza's mobile networks were all operating on 3G technology, even though most phones now operate on 4G or even 5G technology, which means it wouldn't be worth it for the average Gazan to invest in buying a newer phone, which is presumably more expensive than an older model. Especially if it's one that can't even connect to the older 3G network.

That's not to say there wouldn't be any Gazans with newer phones. The myth spread before the war for years called Gaza a 'concentration camp' or 'open air prison' as if people there have nothing (which makes vids comparing Gaza before and after the war particularly ironic. Either there was nothing before the war, and then the war didn't change much, or Gaza was a beautiful, thriving place before the war, and then calling it a 'concentration camp' was a Holocaust distorting lie). Here's the truth, there were indeed many Gazans who were poor and didn't have that much. But there were also Gazans who were extremely rich, the gap there was one of the biggest in the world. A lot of Israelis are familiar with the Twitter hashtag that documented wealth and luxury in Gaza before the war, TheGazaYouDontSee. It was based on an Arabic speaking Israeli Jewish woman following the social media accounts of actual Gazans, and sharing in English what they would upload, showing stuff like resorts, hotels, luxury cars that most Israelis I know can't afford. You know, typical concentration camp stuff. You'd have to scroll back in the hashtag a bit to find those older tweets from before the war, some have been captured and shared on Tumblr as well.

Where does the gap come from? Not all of it, but a big part is about who is in Hamas (and who isn't), who's affiliated with Hamas (and who's not), who gets some of the donated billions of dollars being poured into Gaza over the years and mostly stolen by Hamas, who gets some of the money coming from Qatar, who gets some of the money coming from Iran, and so on. In other words, the poverty that existed in Gaza before, existed despite how much money was being invested in it for years, and because of Hamas and Hamas-related thieves, making a profit out of it, while keeping sections of the Gazan population poor and without aid.

BTW, if there would have been a permanent ceasefire now, this would just be replicated. The world would donate more money than ever, and Hamas would steal almost all of it, with a big chunk going to the financing of terrorism (building terror tunnels we now know are more extensive than the NYC subway or the London tube, stocking up on rockets, drones, explosives, assault rifles, RPGs and more, which allow Hamas to continue to fight the strongest army in the Middle East and target innocent Israeli civilians for over 5.5 months) and the rest lining up their own pockets, enabling them to lead a VERY nice, comfortable, even luxurious life.

So which Gazans are the most likely to have eSim compatible smartphones? The rich ones, who are in or associated with Hamas.

And that brings me to the question of what's the real purpose of the eSims campaign.

One aspect could be the propaganda value of such a campaign. They're not just repeatedly asking people to donate money for eSims, many posts are asking for it, while insisting on the vilifying lie that Israel is keeping Gaza disconnected on purpose. It's a bit like the boycott campaign. Starbucks is not actually affiliated with Israel or Israeli policy, it doesn't even have any branches in Israel, it tried in the past, but had to close here. So why in the world would it finance anything Israeli? When an Israeli Prime Minister has to decide whether to finish off Hamas, so that hundreds of thousands of Israelis can safely return to their homes in southern Israel, he's not calling a chain of cafes that doesn't even sell anything in this country. The only current sort-of-link to Israel, is that the CEO is Jewish. So if Starbucks is boycotted and takes a financial hit, that has zero influence on Israel or its policies. Why then has Starbucks been targeted? Maybe partly because of the CEO, which is antisemitic. But most likely, it's because Starbucks is an easy to spot brand when pics of celebs are being taken, which allows people to talk about the boycott. And that's the value, it's a PR move, to get it into everyone's head that anyone associated with Israel should be canceled. To repeat it constantly regarding different celebs, until the message gets through, that the biggest monster in this world, and the one state that everyone should be united against, is the Jewish one.

The financial aspect. Again, I'm not a big expert, but I can't really see how, if people are being asked to pay eSim providers directly, this would be done for financial gain. I could be wrong, maybe there is some way to funnel the money to the people in the campaign instead of regular Gazans, but on the surface at least, I'm not sure how (since they're not asking for the receipts, just the activation code). It could still be about financial gain in the sense that the eSims aren't providing connectivity when the physical infrastructure is down, but they mean some Gazans haven't had to pay for their internet for a while. Which ones? Most likely, the ones in or affiliated with Hamas. I personally do not like the idea of terrorists launching a massacre that is the opening shot of a war, relying on all the donations they can steal after the end of the war to make it worth while, and then as a perk getting their internet paid for by strangers.

Then there's the direct value to Hamas, meaning the option that the campaign is meant to directly help Hamas' terrorist activity, or terrorist goals. Meaning, not only are the eSims going to people who are in or have connections to Hamas, the codes are sent to them specifically to aid them with harming Israel.

Why am I considering this option? For one thing, because we know that since the start of the war, Hamas terrorists inside Gaza have been directing terrorist activity outside of it. One example is a Palestinian terrorist squad, which was directed from Gaza, and was thankfully stopped before they managed to carry out the attack they were planning, and here's another similar example, of a terrorist squad made up of 13 Israeli Arabs, and directed from Gaza on how to carry out mass terrorist attacks, stopped thanks to documents the IDF found while operating inside Gaza. An attack that was successfully carried out and was confirmed as directed from Gaza, is the one where terrorists shot to death several people in Jerusalem, during what was supposed to be a truce between Israel and Hamas, during which Israeli hostages would be released (I heard this recently on TV, online I sadly only managed to find a source that these terrorists had a track record of being directed from Gaza). These terrorist directives from Gaza require connectivity, preferably of the type that Israeli security can't track.

And we do know that our forces do track Hamas cellular activity. For example, we've learned that on Oct 6, Israel discovered weird cellular activity in Gaza, where a lot of Hamas terrorists were activating (physical) Israeli SIMs, allowing them to connect to local networks once inside Israel. This led to a discussion of Israeli army seniors in the middle of the night, on whether this is a sign that something's up, but eventually it was concluded that Hamas terrorists have done this before, so the alarm was (unfortunately) not raised, and the massacre wasn't prevented. In other words, it's possible that eSims can help Gazan Hamas terrorists to direct terrorist attacks against Israeli civilians outside Gaza, and it's also possible that, when Hamas is continuously trying to breach the Israeli border, an eSim could help them if they make it into Israel, by not needing to activate an Israeli SIM, detectable by Israeli security. IDK that this is the intent, but for me personally, I would prefer to err on the side of caution, and be sure that I haven't unknowingly donated an eSim, that might have assissted in the murder of an innocent civilian.

I also mentioned directly aiding Hamas' terrorist goals, not just their activity. This terrorist organization dared launch its massacre, despite knowing the Israeli reaction would be fierce (as any country's would be if its citizens would have been so extremely brutalized), because it relied on using regular Gazans as human shields, then showing the world horror pictures, which would get everyone distressed enough, that they would overlook the massacre, and Hamas' vow to repeat it, and focus on demanding an immediate ceasefire, saving Hamas from being destroyed. We know Hamas uses "journalists," and some of these "journalists" are actual terrorists (generally, there's no free press in Gaza thanks to Hamas) and others to broadcast this narrative of horrors (that if successful, would lead to greater horrors). The eSims campaign has mentioned specifically providing connectivity to journalists, which means serving the ability of Hamas to go on inundating the world with images that fit the narrative it needs the world to believe, in order to save itself, and continue carrying out terrorist attacks (or God forbid, massacres).

Here's the relevant citation from the campaign site, which highlights providing Gaza "journalists" with eSims:

I'm not gonna tell anyone what to do with their money, but I'll repeat my personal POV. I do think we're all responsible for the money we donate, and we can't just give it away to causes that will make us feel good about ourselves, without making sure that the money won't end up in the hands of terrorists, and do real harm. The latter is our responsibility, even if we didn't know it will go to terrorists, because we should check and make sure that we know who the money goes to. The first responsibility we all have is, "Do no evil," right? Even the least awful scenario of what might be the driving force behind the campaign, is still one that financially compensates people affiliated with Hamas, and contributes to a false demonization of the Jewish State. But at the end of the day, this is an individual choice, that each person has to make for themselves.

I hope my reply helps! Sorry for the length, and hoping that you are doing well, and taking care of yourself! xoxox

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[sleekervae]

The Bride [0.2]

Masterlist

Pairing: billy the kid x fem!reader

Summary: Billy and Eleanor reunite in Silver City.

Warnings: foul language, mentioned racism

Word Count: 4,458

Tag List: @poppyflower-22 @ponyslayer

Life didn't get much easier for Billy. His stepfather's reckless spending on brothels and alcohol left them with dwindling funds, worsened by the bank's refusal to extend more credit. Forced to seek new opportunities, the Antrim family packed up and headed to Silver City.

Billy learned of a town called Silver City, and after the sudden and tragic death of his friend Carlos, he didn't find much more reason to stay in Santa Fe. It was about an arduous journey, a week-long trek through scorching heat, relentless mosquitoes, and the ever-present danger of snakes. Yet, despite the challenges, they finally reached Silver City, hopeful for a fresh start and a brighter future.

Though as it turned out, opportunities in Silver City weren't so good either.

While Kathleen embarked on a new restaurant venture, Henry flitted between jobs, proving too finicky and fragile for any substantial work. So Billy helped out where he could, working odd jobs here and there, and playing rounds of cards to make some more money. Sometimes he won big, other times he lost hard.

But at least he wasn't alone. Along the way, Billy crossed paths with Jesse, an older, more weathered individual with a cynical outlook on life. Jesse and his circle shared this perspective, yet Jesse saw a reflection of himself in Billy. Taking him under his wing, Jesse offered his help wherever he could.

Silver City was still a sprouting town, with newer businesses opening all the time. One of those businesses was a saloon, indistinguishable from the other dusty timber buildings around. But on the entire way over, Jesse was trying to talk the nerves out of Billy. He had reluctantly agreed to join up with Jesse's cattle rustling ring, he desperately needed the money after all. Joe had caught consumption, it was just another expense piling on top of all the other expenses his family had accumulated.

"Don't look so spooked, Billy," Jesse slapped him on the back, "You look like I'm taking you to you're fuckin' execution,"

"I'm not spooked," Billy assured him, but on the inside he truly was. He'd never been involved in any type of criminal behaviour, and while he knew it was wrong, he was also extremely desperate.

"You gotta get a better poker face," Jesse chuckled, "Don't worry. I'm gonna introduce you to a friend of mine,"

"What friend?"

Jesse's smirk only got wider, "You'll see,"

They strolled into the saloon, already filled with dusty, gnarly cowpoke, the distinctive smell of bitter whiskey and smoke immediately filled Billy's nose. There were a couple girls standing over card tables, watching with lacklustre while the men played silently. The energy at the bar was matched, men drunk and rambling amongst each other while bartenders poured and sweated over his glasses.

Jesse and Billy took up a spot at the bar, and Jesse gave a sharp, short whistle to get one of the bartender's attention. He motioned for two glasses of whatever they had.

"So, where's this friend of yours?" Billy asked, dark eyes darting across the crowded room.

Jesse took a brief look around as well, his smile growing when he spotted his friend, "Over here," he pointed out a young woman clearing empty glasses from a poker table. Her back was turned to them, her hair tied up tight in a ponytail, small and petite but she moved quickly.

Jesse led Billy over, "Billy, I'd like for you to meet my girl, Ellie," he grinned.

The woman turned around, her eyes rolling as she turned; and as she did, Billy swore his heart may stop.

"Jesse, how many times do I have to tell ya to stop telling everyone I'm your girl --?" Eleanor's words stopped short when she laid eyes on Billy, any inch of vexation in her suddenly vanished, leaving way for only disbelief.

Billy was equally stunned. Of all the places he'd hoped to find Eleanor again, this saloon certainly wasn't one of them. He had so many questions, how did she get here? How did she know Jesse? And what did she possibly have to do with cattle rustling?

Jesse was hardly the wiser to either of their shock as he continued talking, "Oh, come on Ellie, ya know I say it with the most respect and admiration or ya,"

Eleanor quickly resolved herself of her stupor and picked up her tray of empty glasses, "That's you all over, innit' Jesse? A perfect gentleman to every woman in town," she huffed, "Erm -- who's your friend?"

Play dumb, got it.

Billy nearly jolted as Jesse slapped him on the back, "This here is Billy. I'm taking him under my wing, so to speak," he grinned.

Eleanor scoffed, looking to Billy again, "And may God have mercy on your soul. Aren't you a bit young to be a cattle rustler?" she asked him.

Billy finally found his voice again, clearing it briefly as he spoke, "Aren't you a bit young to be working a saloon?"

"Touché. I'm Eleanor... or you can call me Ellie," she nodded to him.

"Billy," they all suddenly turned when a bartender shouted out.

"Ellie! I need them glasses lickety split!" he called, "I don't pay you to chat to the customers!"

"I'm coming, David! Keep your britches on!" she started for the bar, turning to the boys briefly as she muttered, "Meet me behind the building in ten minutes. Oh, and Jesse -- you're paying for those drinks this time,"

Jesse simpered, "Yes ma'am," and they watched her go back behind the bar.

Billy took a nervous sip of his whiskey, the singeing after taste barely left a burn on his mounting curiosity.

Sure enough, ten minutes later the three were cloistered in the shadowy alley, away from any prying eyes or ears. They had to be quick before Eleanor's boss would notice she was missing.

"Here," she threw a map at Jesse, "The cattle are gon' be on the North-East side of the property, just out by the forest. You'll have plenty a' cover there. But you gotta' move fast: there's two minutes in between shift change with the guards,"

"You don't gotta worry," Jesse assured her, "We'll be in and out before they know what hit 'em,"

"Good. Now, how about my money?" Eleanor's gaze darted between Jesse and Billy, her expression unreadable.

Jesse leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips, "Don't worry, darlin', you'll get your cut. Just as soon as our business is complete," he replied, a hint of menace underlying his words.

Eleanor's jaw clenched, but she maintained her composure, "I expect nothing less," she retorted, her tone firm, "Now get outta' here, before someone sees me talking to you,"

Jesse laughed, "You're too uptight, Ellie. We should go riding together sometime," he tilted his hat down, his eyes darkening, "Might relax ya,"

A familiar feeling swirled in Billy's chest: disdain, distrust, perhaps even a hint of possessiveness. He didn't like how close Jesse was getting, and given the unamused glare on Eleanor's face he understood that she didn't take too kindly to his advances either.

"You know the deal, Jesse," she drawled back, "I'd hate to have to tell the boss that you or any of the guys were giving his spy a hard time,"

And with that, Jesse put his hands up and stepped back, "You made your point. I'll have your money by the end of the week,"

"Alright," she looked to Billy again, "Don't get yourself killed," and she extended her hand to him.

"I'll try my best," Billy forced a brief smile, shaking her hand while taking the piece of paper she had clenched in her palm. He shoved the paper into his pocket before Jesse could catch on.

Eleanor left without another word, her icy exterior faltering the moment she had her back turned. Her heart raced, her knees tingled with every step she took. She had only dreamed about the day she might find Billy again, she just didn't realize how he'd be so wrapped up in her business.

Billy walked with Jesse, the note still clenched tightly within his pant pocket. He was ever so curious to read it, but he saw the way Jesse looked at Eleanor; he didn't want to get in between anything that didn't involve him.

"She's cold as ice, but she's smart as a whip," Jesse sighed, "We've made good money off her,"

"She's... pretty intense," Billy muttered, "Doesn't seem to like you very much,"

Jesse laughed under his breath, "She likes to put on a hard edge. Fact is that girl owes me her life," he then looked to Billy, his attitude turned cocky and cold, "... and she knows that," he started walking towards his boarding house, "I'll come get ya in the morning, get some sleep,"

"Alright," and he watched him walk away. Billy waited until Jesse had disappeared around the next building before he pulled out Eleanor's note. There was no message, just a building name and a time scrawled in pretty writing.

The Imperial Hotel stood grand and imposing, a beacon in Silver City, its doors welcoming a steady stream of transient souls. Eleanor stood beneath the awning, wrapped in a shawl against the evening chill, her brimmed hat shielding her eyes. She lifted her gaze at the sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel.

Billy's figure emerged from the shadows, his steps measured and wary, illuminated by the soft glow of scattered lanterns and moonlight. Eleanor stepped out from the building, she felt as though she was in the presence of an approaching ghost. She hadn't seen him in a year, yet he looked different. Weathered and worn.

"My god," she gaped, "You look like shit,"

Billy scoffed back, "Why, thank you. I feel like shit," he smiled nevertheless. Eleanor smiled back, it was the first time today she felt relatively... happy.

The hotel clerk was down for the night so Eleanor invited him inside. Billy noted how she didn't have much with her, the bed spread hardly appeared to be touched. He took a seat in a miscellaneous chair while Eleanor poured two glasses of bourbon.

"David couldn't pay my wage one day, so he paid me in whiskey," she sighed, handing him one of the glasses, "Straight from his 'private collection'. Cheap old bastard,"

Billy took a sip from his glass, the taste was bitter and burned while he nostrils became singed from the strong scent. Nevertheless he watched Eleanor take a seat on the bed, kicking off her boots and folding her legs like a young child.

"So, what brings you to Silver City?" she asked.

Billy shook his head, "You want the short version or the long version?" he asked.

"Whichever is less likely to cause you a headache," she said.

So Billy summed up... well... everything. Carlos was murdered, Antrim was a fraud, money was drying up so they had to move on. His mother was slaving away at a new restaurant, his step-dad was a penniless deadbeat, and his little brother had fallen very ill. Hence why he was entertaining Jesse and this cattle rustling business so he could get medicine for Joe.

Eleanor watched him talk, she noted how deflated he became the more he talked, he was missing that spark of mischief and optimism when they'd first met. He was so beaten down, scraping at the sides of the barrel trying to make his way back up. She felt for him, couldn't imagine the kind of shit he'd had to put up with.

"Jesus Christ," she shook her head, "I'm so sorry,"

He shrugged back, "It ain't got nothing to do with you. Ma says God has a plan for all of us, whether or not it's long or short... it's not up to us,"

"But it doesn't change the fact that he's your little brother, he deserves a chance to grow up, just like you," she replied.

Oh, he knew. He knew damn well how unfair it all was. Joe never did anything to hurt anyone, so why was he suffering so?

"Yeah, I know," he muttered, wanting to change the subject, "What about you?" Billy then asked, leaning forward in his chair, "How did you get here?"

She sipped her drink, pondering how much to tell, how much to leave out. Overall, she had traveled from town to town, living on whatever provisions she could scrape up while trying to survive as a single woman in the blistering terrain. She'd been approached, propositioned, threatened, nearly robbed how many times, and every time she dodged out of the fire until she got to Silver City.

"Jesse found me sitting outside the hotel down the street; they wouldn't let me board unless I had a man to escort me," she explained, "He offered me a job, a place to stay, I was desperate so I said yes,"

"What came first? The saloon or the ranch?" he asked.

"The ranch. Billy Matthews needed a care woman to do the cleaning, cook for this cowboys, and Jesse and his gang needed an insider who knew where the cattle were gonna' be," she replied.

"S'pose you're lady-like enough you can actually get away with it," Billy noted, a small, teasing grin tugging at his lips.

Eleanor rolled her eyes, "I suppose so," she simpered, "The saloon came later, a fall back just in case something... happened. It's a good cover for passing information,"

"And it affords this place?" he asked, wagging his finger around the room.

"I'm in town three nights a week. The rest of 'em I live out on the county line," she replied.

"County line?"

"Lincoln county," Eleanor glanced out the window, the town near-pitch black under the rain of subtle stars, "Jesse and 'em have a house out there. No one knows, no one checks on 'em. Kind of like a secret lair of sorts," she chuckled at the end.

"And they keep you safe?" Billy asked.

"Yeah," she nodded, "They're all outlaws and criminals, but they've shown me more decency than any man ever has. Barring yourself, of course,"

Billy tried to smile, but he couldn't help but sense the deflection in Eleanor. She was grateful to be alive, for the money she had and for how Jesse took care of her, but she didn't seem happy. Happy with life, herself. Billy only saw her truly happy once, no worries and at ease in his old home, tossing cards at each other and staring at the stars.

He came to sit beside her on the bed, staring out at the sky just like she was. The night glistened in silver dots, there was not a soul to be had on the streets below, and beyond the town the horizon of the desert called, beckoning to be explored for new adventures.

"What do you want, Eleanor?" he asked, his tone soft and cautious, "In life?"

She sighed softly, turning her gaze to meet his, "I want to step outside and not have to feel the urge to look over my shoulder all the damn time," she replied.

"Is the captain still looking for you?" Billy asked.

"I guess so. I haven't heard anything. But I also don't want to give anyone the power to hold... things over me," her gaze was dark, her deflection growing. Though Billy had a feeling she was talking about him, maybe that was why she didn't want Jesse to know about them?

"What about you, Billy? What do you want in life?"

Billy didn't have to think very hard about that one, "A good night's sleep," he said, "Because if I can sleep, I know I'm not worried about anything,"

Billy and Eleanor sat in silence, their breaths mingling in the stuffy room air. Billy’s mind raced with the reckless notion of grabbing Eleanor's hand and running away, leaving behind the suffocating constraints of their lives without a care. Meanwhile, Eleanor couldn't tear her eyes away from him, marveling at the way the moonlight highlighted his sharp features, his eyes sparkling with a warmth that made her heart flutter. She yearned to bridge the gap between them, to taste the promise of his lips, but the moment felt fragile, precarious. So, instead of voicing her desire, she pointed to the sky, her voice barely a whisper as she asked:

"Can we see Orion's Belt from here?" Her question hung in the air, a delicate thread connecting them, while the words they truly wanted to say remained locked inside.

Billy snapped out his train of thought, immediately sitting up and glancing out the window, "Yeah," he pointed off in the distance, "Those three stars, the little bright cluster. You see it?"

Eleanor nodded, though peripherally she kept her gaze on Billy, "Yeah, yeah I see it,"

Sure enough, Jesse came to get Billy the next morning. Billy was a ball of nerves all day, right up until he rode with Jesse to the edge of the forest and met up with another group of men. This was Jesse's gang, ten or thirteen brutish men, hankies drawn over their noses, whips and guns holstered to their belts. And while they were at first skeptical of Billy's appearance and know how, they let him join in.

Billy kept his focus as sharp as possible, but he couldn't shake the notion that this was the gang, the group of thugs that were taking care of Eleanor. As they yipped and herded the cattle along, Billy could just spot Matthews' ranch house off down the hill. He could picture Eleanor in his mind, peaking through the window, watching him and the others make off with the herd in the blink of an eye. And they were fast enough that they got away with it without so much as a twig snap of trouble.

And while the money Billy was paid was good, it wasn't enough to make a difference. Joe was too far gone, and in only another week he passed away. Kathleen was devastated, and despite her justification for God's plan, watching her youngest son be buried only made her more heartsick. Billy wanted to stay as strong as he could for her, that being said he was angry. Angry that Joe was taken so soon, angry at himself for not getting the medicine in time. Angry at Antrim for showing up at the last moment to beg and make his case for how he was a changed man. The only relief he had was finally being able to kick Henry Antrim out of their lives once and for all.

Despite his grief, Billy still had work to do, bills to pay. He continued running rustling jobs with Jesse for money, all the while practicing his shooting out in the fields. Jesse was much more of a practiced gunslinger, but even he had to admit Billy was a great shot. As far as he knew, Jesse didn't know about a thing between Billy and Eleanor. And while he doubted he would ever hurt Eleanor, he knew how rough Jesse could be, he didn't want to put either of them in a position to be hurt.

On his off days, Billy would go down to the saloon to see her, just talk to her. It was relaxing, she was relaxing to be around. They talked as if no time had passed; Eleanor would spill some of the gossip about the saloon's patrons while Billy would tell her the stories that he'd picked up on his travels. It got to the point Billy's visits would be the absolute highlight of her day, a shred of flickering happiness within her weary spirit.

Things turned rough yet again when Billy learned of his mother's sickness. Consumption, just like Joe. And while Kathleen was a devout catholic woman, even she professed how she wasn't ready to go yet. Billy shut down more and more, devoting his time to care for his mother, to make sure he was comfortable and at ease. He stopped coming to the rustles, stopped seeing Eleanor. All that mattered to him was his mother, she was the only family he had left. But just like his dad, just like Joe, his mother slipped away too.

Billy was the only one left now.

He wasn't the same, and despite Jesse's coaxing, despite Eleanor's promising that he would be alright, Billy didn't feel alright. He felt desperate, alone, and without many options. So, when Jesse offered him to help rob the home of Chinese family, Billy took his chances. It would be one job. One quick job to get him started, and then he'd pick up the piece from there.

Of course, no job ever went smoothly, and soon enough, Billy found himself in court, being sentenced for armed robbery. Eleanor sat in the back, her heart heavy and breaking as the verdict was read. Billy wasn't a criminal; he wasn't like Jesse. Jesse, the coward who couldn't even bother to try and save Billy, left him in that house alone at gunpoint. Eleanor's grief for Billy quickly morphed into anger —anger at Jesse's stupid plans, anger at Billy for being so easily influenced, and anger at the judge, who she knew was fully on the take.

Eleanor wasn't sure what to do from here, so she did what she was used to: keep her head down and work until she could move on. It was the way her life went; she found her people, got comfortable, and then something would happen to uproot her. Billy was going to spend the next three years in jail, and she wasn't content to slave away in Billy Matthews' ranch for that long. She wasn't quite sure what she wanted, but she was sure she wasn't going to find it in Silver City.

She said goodnight to David and started back to the hotel, the quiet night wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. The soft glow of lanterns cast long shadows on the deserted street, and the faint smell of smoke from nearby fireplaces filled the crisp air. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant hoot of an owl, making her footsteps seem unusually loud. As she walked, Eleanor couldn't shake the heavy thoughts of Billy, but the serene surroundings offered a small measure of solace.

"Ellie," she stopped dead in her tracks, turning to find Jesse leaning against an awning post, hat missing, hands deep in his pockets, a solemn look on his face.

"Jesse," she muttered with disdain, "What do you want?"

He stepped out from the shadows, his lean figure illuminated by the pale moonlight. "I guess you heard about Billy."

She scoffed bitterly, "Yeah, I heard. Heard how you left him for dead on the Chinaman's floor. Nice work, hero." She turned on her heel and kept walking. Jesse followed her.

"Well, it was either one of us or both of us," he caught up to her. "I thought he was right behind me!"

"And he wasn't, was he?" she huffed back. "That's just you all over, Jesse. I wish you'd told me what you were doing so I could talk your dumb asses out of it!"

"Well, I wish you'd told me about you and Billy, and yet here we are," he hissed back.

She stopped again, whipping around to glare at his smug expression. "What are you on about?"

"I know Billy comes to see you. I see him do it. I see how different you've been since I brought him to you," he dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Whatever you think is going on in your feeble little mind, drop it. Nothing is happening, not with me and Billy, and certainly not between us!"

Jesse's gaze turned cold. "I saved you. You'd be dead if it weren't for me, Ellie."

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. This is not about us!" she snapped.

"What's it about then?" Jesse asked.

"We have a working relationship, that's as far as it goes!" Eleanor exclaimed. "You did with me what you do with everyone: bring new people into the gang and train them, protect them. You didn't protect Billy. You failed him, Jesse. Now he's gonna spend the next three years chipping jib rock and fighting over bread rolls with other inmates. Congratulations."

She turned to leave again, but Jesse moved quickly. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back. "Hey!"

"Don't you walk away from me, woman!" he seethed.

"Let go of me!" Eleanor growled, her mouth agape, eyes wide with rage.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll scream so fuck'n loud I'll wake up God himself!"

Despite his anger, Jesse knew how devious and petty Eleanor could be. He begrudgingly let her go, sniffling and wiping his nose from the cold. "I don't want to fight with you, Ellie. You know I care about you."

"… I know," Eleanor conceded. "What do you want from me?"

"I'm sorry I grabbed you," he nodded. "I'm just… you're right. I failed Billy. I haven't been able to stop thinking about him," he wandered over, kicking at the dirt and rocks. "He's like a little brother to me, ya know?"

"I do know," Eleanor nodded, her voice calmer, demeanor gentler. "I could see how you guys worked together. But being a brother and friend means protecting your own. Billy's not ready for this kind of life, Jesse."

Jesse shook his head, his gaze softening. "No one's ever ready, but we don't have a choice," he replied. "I'll come see you tomorrow. Let me know where Matthews is moving the cattle." He started walking away.

Eleanor watched silently, the tension, pent-up rage, and frustration melting away into a deep, aching sadness. She knew Jesse better than he knew himself, knew how much he was blaming himself for this. She should have seen it too, should have warned Billy not to fall in with Jesse. But even she couldn’t have predicted how things would unfold.

She looked up at the night sky, her eyes finding the familiar cluster of stars that made up Orion’s Belt. It was said to symbolize the eternal resting place of Osiris, and she wondered if the rest of the stars were other souls at peace. Maybe her mother was up there, staring down at her. Maybe Kathleen was watching her eldest son falter at the hands of poor influences.

Eleanor wasn’t a religious woman, but she said a silent prayer to those stars. Was she expecting an answer? Certainly not. Was she hoping for some shred of a miracle to get her out of this mess? Just maybe.

[grumfield]

Hi!! I’m an aspiring author who wants to get traditionally published. Congrats on getting a literary agent! I don’t really know what a literary agent does or even, like, how one goes about getting one. Would you be open to sharing about your experience and what the publishing process is like? Hearts 🎀

oh ya sure!! happy to explain. it’s an industry that seems very impenetrable, especially because writing is such a solitary thing, so i’d be happy to give some insight. This is long!

I want to preface this though by saying: getting traditionally published ≠ writing. Getting traditionally published is a very thing than writing a book, and as someone who’s worked in a few creative fields, it’s the only one I feel where creative work is so closely synonymous with its commercial industry or seen as the logical conclusion to your art. It’s not. Rather than the end all be all it should be looked at more through the lens of drawing: some people do comics, some people do fine art, others make portraits for friends. It’s just something you can do with it or a direction you can try to pursue, with its pros, cons, and industry expectations. Traditional publishing is very much an analytics game. I think people forget it’s a business, with all the cynicism that comes with that.

So view this advice less as “the only way you can see success with your book is if you do x y z,” because it’s not, it’s me saying “this is everything involved with breaking into this specific industry for career purposes.”

The first myth you have to get rid of is the idea that it’s easy to get published. It’s not. So many people claim that anyone could write a “shitty booktok romance book” but it’s really the same thing as someone saying “my four year old could make that” at a piece of modern art. Sure you can make some similar paint daubs as the modern art, but did you? Did you think to? And most important, did you do the necessary work and networking so that your paint daubs are hanging in this museum? Writing is hard but getting published is harder, and it is insanely bureaucratic, finicky, and marketing heavy.

The process goes as follows on the author side: you write your entire book —> you query agents —> agent wants to work with you —> agent pitches your book to editors —> editor acquires your book. An editor acquisition means your book is going to be published. Let’s break it down.

Say you’ve written a complete book.

The first part of getting published is querying agent.

An agent is a combination of lawyer and business associate whose job is to sell your book to editors and be your advocate. They get a 15% cut of whatever your book sells for, so it’s in their best interest to negotiate the highest, best deal for you. The business side of things is more complicated. They are the gatekeepers of the industry. Publishers don’t take unsolicited submissions from authors, partly for liability reasons, but also because agents have done the tedious work of looking for a book they believe will make money and pitching it. This means that they look at recent trends and sales, and choose who they want to work with based on that, by being open to queries.

Querying is like pitching on Shark Tank. You identify “investors” you think will like your product (using databases like Manuscript Wishlist to see what agents represent your genre and what kind of stories they’re interested in representing), and essentially give them a pitch for why you should go into business together. A query letter is a detailed pitch that includes a ~3 paragraph pitch of your book, “housekeeping” (which includes your title, the word count, the genre, age category and comp titles). Comp titles are 2-3 books that you can see being on the shelf beside yours, and are used as a metric for agents to identify the selling potential of your book to publishers, so it’s recommended that you choose books within the last 5 years to show it’s a good financial investment. On top of this is usually the first 3 chapters of your book.

If an agent likes what they see, they’ll ask to read the whole thing. If they like what they read and have an idea of who might want to buy it, they’ll make you an offer to work together.

It usually takes multiple books and attempts at querying and years to get an agent. Even during the successful querying attempt it usually takes months. Aside from craft, writing a book that has a place in the market is tricky, and not something you can really do with intention. You can try to be strategic (reading recent books in the genre you right helps this a lot) but ultimately it’s still all up in the air. In the industry this is called being in “the trenches” because it’s a very taxing process and very long, often with disappointing results since there’s so much rejection. My personal experience identifies me as a “unicorn”, meaning that I got multiple offers in three weeks, so things moved unprecedentedly quick.

After that, you will usually work with the agent on edits for your book, where they give suggestions as to what can be done to make it more pitchable. Then, when it’s done, they’ll pitch to editors they think might like it.

Editors work at imprints. Imprints are to Publishing houses (like Penguin Random House or Harper Collin’s) what Froot Loops or Cheerios is to Kellog’s cereal. They’re entities that exist under one parent, and they each do different things. In the case of publishing, that’s genre and/or age group and audience. For example, Little, Brown has the imprints Little, Brown for Young Readers and Orbit for YA books and adult Fantasy respectively. Agents pitch your book to editors at specific imprints. Then, if the editor likes it, they’ll often have to go to the head of their division and pitch it to them. And if all of them like it, they’ll make you an offer. Then you sign, and for the next 2 years you work on your book and for publication day.

And there you have it, the basic rundown. I’m very early in my experience and won’t be going on submission to editors until the spring, so I don’t have much more about that!

My big tip for if you want to get traditional published is to read recent releases (especially debut novels) in the genre you write to get a sense of what’s popular, and specifically what’s getting sold that isn’t written by established authors.

[unpickled-olive]

I listened to a popular folk song and stumbled upon an 800 year old case of politically-fueled and highly cynical blood libel.

The song

The version I know is “Fatal Flower Garden” from Andrew Bird's The Swimming Hour (2001). But it has been played and replayed for centuries. Other versions have slightly different details, but all are based on an incident that occurred in 1255. Alternate titles include "Little Saint Hugh," "Sir Hugh," "The Duke's Daughter,” "The Jew's Garden," and “The Jew’s Daughter.”

It tends to go like this: some boys are playing ball on a rainy day. The ball falls goes a wall and into a garden. One boy goes to get the ball and is greeted by a woman, often wearing green. She tries to entice him with different things, from apple seeds to diamond rings or gold. She then leads him upstairs where he is either crucified, stabbed, or simply dies. He is a good Christian boy and posthumously requests a proper Christian burial.

According to Gavin Friday, this song is, "uh, a little lullaby about a little boy who played football and got into trouble."

The incident

History has a way of stripping things of context. Ideas evolve and stay relevant or they get left behind. So although the details are off, this "little lullaby" is based on a real story. Or at least, a real death and a real allegation.

The incident starts with the death of an 8-year-old boy, Hugh of Lincoln. Little "Saint" Hugh (not a real saint), was supposedly playing with some Jewish children on a July day in 1255 when he went missing. One month later, his body was found in the well outside the house of a Jewish man named Copin.

While we don’t know how Hugh died, we do know how 18 people died in his wake. First, Copin was accused of murdering the child, arrested, and tortured. But he wasn't alone: 92 total Jews (some local, some visiting for a big wedding) were also arrested for their possible "involvement." 18 of them, including Copin, who was promised pradon, were then executed by hanging. The rest were apparently released "due to the intervention of the Friars."

The bastards

Obviously murder is bad. Anti-semitism and xenophobia are bad. But this is one of the most prominent historical incidents of blood libel, and it isn’t just because the English were feeling uppity that year: what gets me about this incident is how blatantly cynical it was. It is very clear that the primary reason for this blood libel case was so that the king and the clergy could profit.

First, King Henry III: just 6 months before Hugh's death, the king had lost a bit of tax icome when he sold his rights to tax the Jews of England to his brother, Richard. Perhaps to recoup his losses, Henry III had decreed that any Jews accused of crimes would have their money and property forfeited by the crown. And it seems that he personally saw to the outcome of this case: according to a source on Wikipedia that I cannot follow, it is, “the first time that the Crown gave credence to ritual child murder allegations.”

Second, there is the clergy. Copin was “interrogated” (read: tortured) by John of Lexington, brother to the new Bishop of Lincoln, Henry of Lexington. Copin's interrogatation was delayed 5 weeks while they waited for the bishop and king to arrive in Lincoln. It is through this interrogation (which he gave under the promise of pardon, though he was executed regardless) that we get the fantastical accounts of Copin’s coerced confession. The tortured man was guided to detail (or at least confirm) a ritual murder that took the form of a reenactment of Jesus’s crucifixion. Matthew Paris’s Chronia Majora chronicles the official details in 1259:

[The] boy was subjected to divers [sic] tortures. They beat him till blood flowed and he was quite livid, they crowned him with thorns, derided him, and spat upon him. Moreover, he was pierced by each of them with a wood knife, was made to drink gall, was overwhelmed with approaches and blasphemies, and was repeatedly called Jesus the false prophet by his tormentors, who surrounded him, grinding and gnashing their teeth. After tormenting him in divers [sic] ways, they crucified him, and pierced him to the heart with a lance. After the boy had expired, they took his body down from the cross and disembowelled [sic] it; for what reason we do not know, but it was asserted to be for the purpose of practising [sic] magical operations. Source

This confession set or continued the theme of religion in Hugh's murder, in the form of miracles and curses. It is claimed that his body was found in a well because the earth “vomited [Hugh’s corpse] forth,” a divine rejection of the burial. As such, they were supposedly forced to hide it in the well. The ritual itself was also blamed for various ailments in Lincoln that year (weather? sickness? I'm not sure).

The real result of this emphasis on magic, blasphemy, and anti-Christian violence was a rallying of Christian support and money. Following the proceedings, a cult developed around little Hugh's death and martyrdom, resulting in increased pilgrimage and donations to the church of Lincoln for the next half century at least.

Several people saw financial gain by spinning a child's death into a fanatical tale of torture and anti-Christal ritual murder. The king and members of the church of Lincoln used torture and false clemency to push a confession which was tailor-made to rile up anti-semitism. Then they cashed in by ending the lives of 18 English Jews, taking their shit, and starting a cult to honor the life and piety of a child they never met or cared about.

We can rest assured knowing that all the bad actors in this story are dead, and that no one ever used racial tensions for personal gain ever again :)

The lesson

There are a few takeaways

Historical figures look 2-dimensional and naive, but cynicism and political manipulation are nothing new

This might be evidence that people named Henry are inherently bad. Not sure.

I still like the Andrew Bird song but can't enjoy it anymore :(

[ilovewhiteroses]

It Was A Pleasure Doing Business With You

Pairing: Clement Mansell x GN! Accountant Reader Genre: Smut Warnings: Unprotected sex, cursing Rating: 18+ Note: This fanfic was requested by @spider-bren Thank you for the idea, love!🥰🥰

Clement demanded money from you, which you didn't have, so you had to pay him some other way…

Clement and Sweety were looking at Judge Guy's book at the former's apartment to see who else they could squeeze money out of. Sweety sipped from the drink filled for him while Clement flipped through the book, humming a White Stripes song to himself. He spoke after a few minutes.

"Hm, I know this name." Sweety asked who it was and he told him the name.

"It's familiar to me too, I've seen it in advertisements. They are an accountant and I've heard they are pretty good."

"How someone can be good at the most boring job in the world is a mystery to me, but if you say so." He said cynically and handed the book to his friend, then lit a cigarette. "Listen, what if only I went to get the money now, while you fix your bar." Sweety wasn't too happy about this, knowing that Clement would lose his temper quickly, but he also had to renovate the bar, so he agreed to the request. The blond man looked up the accountant's name on the internet to get their phone number.

After dinner, you were washing the dishes when your phone rang. You wiped your hands and picked it up.

“Hello, Y/N!” a deep male voice spoke into the phone.

"Good evening, how can I help you?" you asked politely.

"Well, I have a book with your name in it and as far as I know, being in it is not good. If you don't want to be in it, bring me $15,000.” You got scared as soon as you heard this. You remembered that a few months ago you had a fight with Alvin Guy over money and that's probably why he included you in the book. If this is how you can get your name out of it, than there is no other choice.

"Um, okay, fine." The man told you exactly where and when to meet.

After you hung up, you thought about the call. The man's voice was familiar to you from somewhere.

The next evening, you arrived at a rooftop parking lot. The place was empty and you were waiting for the man in your car. A black Range Rover arrived. The man got out of it, and you also got out of your own car. When you got closer to him, you saw that it was Clement Mansell, an old acquaintance of yours from college. He dropped out, while you finished.

"Wait a minute! Is that really you? Damn, you haven't aged a day!” he said surprised.

"Yeah, and I can say the same to you. Though you've only changed a little." You told him with a slight smile.

"What are you doing in the Judge’s book? What happened?" he asked with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted to one side.

"Oh, well… In addition to accounting, in order to have even more money, I also started money laundering, which Alvin also got involved in. Everything went well for a while, then one day we had this big fight and I think he wrote me in it in anger.

"Shiiit! Money laundering? Damn, you naughty! I thought you were the epitome of innocence!” He said, grinning widely. "Well, let's not waste time! Did you bring the money or what?” He looked at you curiously.

"Well, actually, no."

"No? What do you mean by no? Are you fucking kidding me?" Clement buried his face in his hands and then looked at the sky in anger. "Fuck, I can’t believe it!"

"You think you're the first one who tried to blackmail me? I'm not stupid, of course I didn't bring the money!"

You argued with each other for a good few minutes before you came up with something.

"Listen, I have an idea. What would you say if I pay you in some other way?” You asked biting your lip. The truth is that you secretly had a crush on Clem in college and over the years he just got even hotter…

He looked at you with slightly disapproving eyebrows.

"Wait what? No, I need cash! Although…” He held his chin and thought. "Hm, if I think of it, I've known you for a long time and it's also true that you look damn good..." Suddenly he went up to you and kissed you on the lips. "I have only one condition: we do it in my car and we listen to my tape on which I sing!" He said and you continued the kiss, walking to his car.

He used to sing back then, too and was very keen on his own voice, so you were not surprised by his request.

You got into the back seat of his car, he started playing the tape and then joined you. Once you heard his cover of Seven Nation Army, you started making out and quickly undressed, you didn't want to waste time. You crumpled your clothes and threw them on the seats in front of you and Clement positioned himself so that you sat on him in a riding position and placed him inside you. Everything happened so fast that you even missed the foreplay, but none of you cared. You slowly started to move on his cock and held onto his shoulders with your hands.

“Shit, Y/N! You're not so innocent anymore, are you? I love how bad you've gotten!” He told you with his head thrown back, hands clasped behind it. He grinned smugly as he listened to his own voice and looked at you as you were fucking yourself on him, your ass slapping against his thighs.

"Let’s changed position." he said without any sign and within seconds you found yourself lying on your back on the seat. He leaned in and gave you a quick tongue kiss before moving down to your thighs and biting softly on one and then the other. You moaned and mumbled a low "Fuck". He placed his cock back into you and began to move with quick hip movements. He leaned forward, buried his face in your neck, you were scratching his back and your feet were hitting the roof of the car. You were so into it, it was a wonder the vehicle didn't overturn from the passionate fucking. This is exactly how you imagined Clem during sex: wild and quite selfish, who gets straight to the point.

"You're so sexy, so filthy! You're having sex with me in my stolen car, what would you say if the police caught us right now, at this very moment?" He asked between lustful moans. It certainly wasn't the sexiest dirty talk you've ever heard, but at least it gave you a good chuckle. You closed your eyes and felt him move inside you, your sweaty bodies almost stuck to the leather car seat.

After you came – first him, then you – you stayed like that for a few more minutes, then Clem slowly and carefully pulled himself out of you. He leaned forward and took out a roll of toilet paper from the glove compartment, from which he tore off a larger piece, which he used to clean up your mess, you also wiped yourself as best you could. After you felt that your skin was sufficiently dry, you reached for your clothes on the front seat and slowly got dressed. It wasn't comfortable to have sex in such a situation, you thought to yourself. Clem also put on his clothes and then turned to you.

"Well, what can I say, this round was worth the 15 thousand dollars. I'm not usually that generous, but for the sake of old acquaintance and the damn good sex, I'm tearing your page out of the book.” He took the small book and in front of your eyes he actually tore out the page and gave it to you. You gave him a kiss on the cheek in gratitude.

You both got out of the car and before you got into your own, he said to you.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you! We can meet another time, if you feel like it." Clem said suggestively with a mischievous wink, then waved at you and walked towards his own car.

You went home in a good mood.

Tags: @i-like-the-eyes @demi321win-chester

@thefloatingpickle @merryandrewsworld @delicateteenagerunaway

@sadnessanninthedark @e-dubbc11 @ray-is-dead

[thegayhimbo]

Stranger Things and Dungeons and Dragons Review

WARNING: The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS from this comic and Season 4 of Stranger Things!

If you haven't yet, be sure to check out my other Stranger Things Reviews:

Stranger Things Six

Stranger Things Halloween Special

Stranger Things The Other Side

Stranger Things Zombie Boys

Stranger Things The Bully

Stranger Things Winter Special

Stranger Things Tomb of Ybwen

Stranger Things Into The Fire

Stranger Things Science Camp

Stranger Things "The Game Master" and "Erica's Quest"

Synopsis: Taking place before and during seasons 1-3, this comic chronicles the origins of The Party, their discovery of D&D, how the game impacted their lives, and how their shared love for fantasy and adventure allowed them to bond.

Observations:

Fantasy has always been appealing to me since I was a kid: The idea of creating worlds with your own characters, creatures, mythology, and story. The idea of universes out there more extraordinary and unique compared to the one we live in. The idea your imagination can bring some semblance of peace and security to your life. I know this and have lived through it. Even 27 years later, despite becoming more cynical and jaded through trauma and bitter experiences, I will always understand those who use fantasy to confront the harshness of the real world. It's why Mike's words hit home for me when he's telling the bookstore owner about why he's interested in D&D and wants to spend money on it:

"It really is like a war. We just want to fight on our own terms." Isn't that how we all feel at times? Some days, you're trying to survive the chaos of life, while other days involve you making choices between what is right and what is easy. Some days, everything is a shit-show, and you're trying to find something to keep you motivated. Some days, you have to deal with truly vile people and accept that they exist whether you like it or not. We all fight battles of some kind. We all have different ways of coping with how cold and indifferent reality can be. We all crave some sense of control in our lives.

For Mike and his friends, D&D provided that. Not only did it allow them to process their world easier, but it also gave them a sense of liberation from how oppressive the (as Eddie would put it) "forced conformity" of their society is. It's their world, and it's where they are the masters of their own destinies.

Now I'll admit I never really got into D&D. Both my brother and my college roommates tried to rope me into the game, and at the time I didn't have the patience for it. However, I do understand its appeal, and respect how it's a game for both kids and adults that forms friendships and can be a fun, shared experience for everyone. Stranger Things and Dungeons & Dragons is not only a story of how D&D influenced each member of the Party, but also a love letter to both the show and the game itself.

The artwork for this comic is incredible and some of the best I've seen so far. I love the drawings of the various D&D campaigns and the creative designs for the creatures the group encounters during their travels.

I also love how each campaign either draws upon the Party's experiences from school and their daily lives, or from the trauma they've endured since their encounters with the horrors of the Upside Down:

That last part is significant because at one point in the comic, Mike seriously questions whether or not D&D has any real meaning for him or his friends following his first meeting with the Demogorgon and the revelation that monsters exist:

Just like in the short story "The Game Master," Nancy is the one who comforts Mike during his crisis. She helps him realize that even though things can't go back to the way they were after everything that's happened, he still has his friends, and what made D&D valuable to them in the first place (aside from it being a means of dealing with the world around them) is that it brought and kept them together as companions.

Nancy recognizes the value D&D has to Mike. It's why she dressed up as an Elf for his Elder Tree Campaign all those years ago, and it's why she still encourages him despite his doubts.

(Side Note: I've always enjoyed the sibling dynamic Nancy and Mike have, and I'm praying season 5 includes more interactions between the two of them).

Speaking of which, this comic does a great job cementing the importance of D&D to Mike and Will's relationship. Mike is the one who introduced Will to D&D and even coined the nickname "Will the Wise" for him:

On top of that, in a deeply heartwarming moment, Mike goes out of his way to craft a specific campaign for Will following Will's rescue from the Upside Down. He knows Will is struggling and scared due to what happened to him, and works to help Will feel better and regain his confidence by giving him the opportunity to be a hero again. As Mike explains to Nancy:

This even extends to Mike handing over the role of Dungeon Master to Will by the time Max and El join The Party:

I know it's pretty common these days in the fandom to bash Mike for being insensitive and oblivious, but moments like these demonstrate he is capable of putting thought and effort into helping and encouraging his friends and loved ones. A big reason Will is passionate about D&D is because Mike inspired Will to embrace his talent and imagination. Will isn't likely to ever forget that.

Another aspect I enjoyed was getting to see how Mike, Will, and Lucas met Dustin. Back in season 1, Dustin remarks that he didn't become friends with them until around 4th grade, and the comic elaborates more on the circumstances of their meeting:

Turns out D&D appealed to Dustin's love for math and probabilities. There's also how he expressed interest in the game and didn't belittle it like Mike's other classmates did. Dustin is a curious person after all, and is more interested in figuring out how something works instead of dismissing it like other people do when they can't understand it.

Finally, there's Lucas's interest in D&D. At the beginning of the comic, when he and Mike are hiding from Troy and James, they go into a bookstore where they see the owner has created a display of The Battle of Waterloo, which is something that impresses Lucas:

There is the possibility I'm reading too much into this, but Lucas's comment about his dad's service in Vietnam and his refusal to talk about it makes me wonder if Lucas's interest in D&D isn't just because of the fantasy-adventure elements, but because it's his way of trying to understand what his dad went through during the war. The game has those battles between good and evil, as well as teaching people about making tough choices and relying on your companions when the going gets tough. Lucas is smart enough to piece things together, and even if his dad was reluctant to talk about Vietnam, he may have figured out aspects of that war based on what he was taught in school and whatever small details he could have picked up from his family.

Mike talks about how D&D for him is about fighting a war on his own terms, and the same goes for Lucas.

But it goes beyond that: D&D gave the boys memories to cherish, and the means to not feel alone while growing up:

Something else I want to discuss are the dates presented in the comic:

I don't know what information (if any) that Jody Houser or Dark Horse Comics were given about season 4 when this comic was written (which came out in late 2020/early 2021), but I find it to be a pretty big coincidence that the date Mike and Lucas discover D&D for the first time is on September 8th, 1980, which is exactly one year after the Massacre at Hawkins Lab took place and El banished Henry/One/Vecna to the Upside Down.

We also find out Mike's birthday is on April 7th, 1971. Granted, this is what the comic presents as his birthday, so I don't know if it's his actual birthday on the show. Regardless, it's still a cool detail.

And this was the gift Mike's friends gave him on his 10th birthday:

Finally, there's the last D&D campaign the Party plays in 1985 before El and Will leave Hawkins for Lenora. On the surface, there are callbacks to season 2, with Will's character in the game getting taken over by an evil entity (similar to how he was possessed by the Mind Flayer) and the Party having to work together to save him:

The big difference is while Will was able to be rescued in season 2, his character dies tragically in the game:

Again, I'm not saying the comic creators have any foreknowledge of what's going to occur in the final season, but I've been firm in believing that one or more main characters will end up dead before season 5 is over. I did a post a while back speculating that Mike was marked for death (and giving my reasoning for why), but I also wonder if it could also be Will, especially because of Vecna's creepy interest in him. There's a connection between the two of them the show hasn't fully explained yet, and (as I talked about in my review of Stranger Things The Other Side), I've seen fans on social media note the parallels between Vecna and Will and speculate on the idea of Will possibly turning evil in the last season. I'm skeptical of that happening (mostly because of the backlash the Duffer Brothers would face for it), but I do question what Will's fate will be in the final season. For what it's worth, Ross Duffer mentioned in an interview that Will's arc in season 5 will tie the whole series together, so make of that what you're able to.

There's also the final battle:

I remember the vision Vecna shows Nancy in season 4: A dark cloud spreading over Hawkins. Downtown on fire. Dead soldiers. A creature with a giant gaping mouth. An army of monsters invading. The death of her family (including Mike). Most of this is likely foreshadowing for what's to come. Just like the Party faces down an army of demons in their final game, they will also be facing down Vecna's army of monsters in the final season.

But in spite of how bad circumstances get, the one thing I trust is the Party will still have each other to rely on. I will be sad to see them all of them go once the show is over.

Overall, a solid comic and one of my personal favorites. I highly recommend it.

Coming Soon: Stranger Things Kamchatka Review

[kato-neimoidia]

15 questions for 15 friends

Thanks @willameena and @somethingsteff for the tags!

1. Are you named after anyone?

No

2. When was the last time you cried?

About an hour ago! Just a little cry, my parents and brother have been visiting me over the weekend as it's my birthday soon and they'd just left so I'm back to being here on my own!

3. Do you have kids?

No, and I don't see that in my future, but am honorary auntie to my friends children

4. What sports do you play/ have you played?

Currently playing field hockey. I've been playing for 11 years now. I absolutely love it, playing in defense and in goal, and also coach and umpire (umpiring only when they reeeeally need me to though!).

Have played - would be easier to list what I haven't 😂 I've played football, cricket, basketball, netball, volleyball, to name a few.

While being able bodied myself, a friend of mine who works with local charities for disabilities organised some wheelchair basketball tournaments that I'd been invited to play in. Quite an experience! Don't think I embarrassed myself too much, but a bunch of us from my hockey team put a team together, and we had fun and a laugh with the other teams involved.

5. Do you use sarcasm?

Yes, to my detriment. I once sarcastically agreed to be a hockey team captain one year, the sarcasm wasn't picked up and a couple of months later I see a facebook post advertising me as one of the captains :| I followed through and did the year, but never again!

6. What's the first thing you notice about people?

Eyes, mouth, facial expression, gauging their interest in the current situation

7. What's your eye colour?

Blue and brown - brown around the pupils, kinda starbursting out into blue towards the edges (central heterochromia o.O)

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

Scary movies usually, I'm a bit cynical and like it when there's a twist at the end where the bad guy wins!

9. Any talents?

Not especially, I'm reasonably good at as sports and crafty things. My 'weird' talent would be that my fingers are hypermobile, so my fingers bend a bit backwards at the knuckles, and I can bent the finger tip joints while keeping the rest of the finger straight

10. Where were you born?

Oxfordshire, UK. Moved to Bedfordshire/Hertfordshire area before I was 1 and have stayed here since

11. What are your hobbies?

Playing hockey, video games, reading, crafting and making little things, such as reconfiguring and painting funko pops, and recently made myself a Sabine Wren mando armour costume for halloween

12. Do you have any pets?

No

13. How tall are you?

5' 1.5"

14. Favourite subject in school?

I was quite partial to maths, biology, and PE

15. Dream job?

Not really sure.. I was always interested in computing and ended up with a job in the IT industry, but it's more in the 'business' side than computing. I've gone vegan and got an electric car over the last 2 years, and have been trying to be more 'green' in general. So it would be cool to be able to do something in that realm, making steps in that direction more accessible and financially viable for businesses and the general public. If money wasn't an object I used to want to work in Game or HMV so I could just play games all day and mess about with merch, while somehow not getting fired

No pressure tags (sorry if you've already been tagged, but enjoy another if so!) @briliantlymad, @isthisfree, @lesbianakins, @underacalicosky, @grapenehifics, @starwalkertales, @piecesofeden11, @trannakinskywalker, @sashkalive, @billowypantss, @mars-attacking, @bolshoiromanova, @vaderborn, @veloursdor, @tideswept

And anyone else who fancies doing this, open invite!

[grandhotelabyss]

Thoughts on Kantbot? Do you think his shift in views and people he associates with is a cynical move or an organic development? (i. e. he met his wife and his social circle changed so he gained new perspective or just had to appeal other people)

I haven't kept up with him in years. A viscerally unpleasant character, smug and nasty. I just checked—he hasn't changed. If I understand the shift in his views correctly, and I'm not sure I do, he's provided a different set of answers, now materialist and information-based where once they were idealist and affect-based, to the same set of questions about how modern power and consciousness operates. He was telling people to read Lukács and Habermas when I stopped reading him; this, too, is completing the system of German Idealism, very explicitly in Lukács's case:

In Section II of this essay we discussed Kant’s view of the ontological proof of God’s existence, of the problem of existence and thought, and we quoted his very logical argument to the effect that if existence were a true predicate, then “I could not say that precisely the object of my concept exists.” Kant was being very consistent when he denied this. At the same time it is clear that from the standpoint of the proletariat the empirically given reality of the objects does dissolve into processes and tendencies; this process is no single, unrepeatable tearing of the veil that masks the process but the unbroken alternation of ossification, contradiction and movement; and thus the proletariat represents the true reality, namely the tendencies of history awakening into consciousness. We must therefore conclude that Kant’s seemingly paradoxical statement is a precise description of what actually follows from every functionally correct action of the proletariat.

But I don't know nearly as much about any of that as he does, and I never could read Kant, even though, from my first semester of college straight through my orals in grad school, they kept making me read Kant. "Who cares?" he always demands, now seeing culture, I gather, as epiphenomenal to esoteric economic manipulation. He seems like a true academic in his soul: a genius-level ability to synthesize extraordinary quantities of information coupled with endless reserves of pettiness and spite rendering this intelligence irrelevant. If you demand of someone who hasn't even addressed you, "Who cares?," then you're the one who cares, perhaps inordinately. I doubt his change of views is cynically motivated, though. You really can work your way honestly through your intellectual concerns and only realize later what your mental traversal implies of a practical political shift. Also, those guys are always darkly hinting at what they saw behind the scenes of the far right, the involvement of big money and intelligence agencies, I assume, and, since you have me re-investigating, he just re-X'd this, for example—

—and has endorsed the lib-media-is-promoting-BAP theory, which I have also come to believe (twice now they've done an "exposé" on him just before he releases a book)—

—and, as I have never succeeded in attracting the support of big money and intelligence agencies myself, I will take their word for it. I'll leave you with a sincerepost in conclusion:

I'm sure he believes this; I do too, but how we get from here to there is unfathomably complicated given the world we have co-created around us, and I don't pretend to know all the determinants that have landed us in this dilemma nor all the determinants it would require to get us out.

[amplifying]

@tlacehualli sent in. G, O, R (give us the deets)

G   :   GIFT.   is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

baptiste is good at reading people. he's good at picking them apart, in ways which he can pinpoint their interests; their likes and dislikes, the way their eyes dilate, their smiles blossom at certain items or topics. he's good at picking the gifts themselves—what he isn't good at is keeping the gift a secret. if he buys the gift several months in advance for their birthday, for example, he'll jitter and struggle keeping it to himself for that time period. he'll give hints that he's gotten something and sometimes gives too many hints to what it is. he's always learnt to buy things when on sale, to stabilise his bank balance and minimise output—so he'll typically buy things prior to the date they're intended, unless it was a spur of the moment gift. money conscious and whatnot. he needs to make it work.

that all being said: he loves gift-giving.

O   :   ODE. does your muse have a way with words?

depends on the context. in not romantic (nor platonic) contexts, he'll typically wield or sheathe words like a weapon. he knows how to adapt and adjust based on a scenario or the person / people involved. however, in situations where he feels romantically inclined for someone, that vice-like grip upon his handle slacks. he's more prone to talking candidly. so, he might not think too thoroughly into a sentence or situation, unless it's something he's been preparing hours or days in advance. it might come off odd, funny, seamless from thought to tongue—but it's genuine. through and through.

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

a bit of both! though skewed more towards romantic rather than cynic. he does believe in romance for himself, though he's been in such tense, danger-laden situations that romance hasn't been right for him during these past years. he's met a person or two that his heart palpitated towards, during his years on the run—though he has, time and time again, pushed those thoughts aside to protect the individual. he knows he could've maybe had a nice burst of love, affection, and whatnot, but he also knew they'd be found one morning with a bullet through their skull.

occasionally, the thoughts revolving around romance will sometimes flicker to, bondye, why do i bother, but those are few and far between. he's a ray of light; too bright, some might say, but he's kicks the brightness up a notch to compensate for the dark he's seen.

[dbarn]

I stumbled across the works of Terry Pratchett fairly late, in the sense that there were already about two dozen Discworld books that had been released. I was browsing a bookstore and found in the "Reduced" section a hardcover of The Fifth Elephant (presumably because its paperback equivalent had come out shortly before). I'd liked the movie The Fifth Element even though I was pretty sure this odd-looking book had nothing to do with it; the price was only about $5, so I bought it.

And to be very honest, my first reaction was mostly one of bewilderment. Here was a vividly painted, fleshed-out universe that I had never seen before. I recognized that there were references and in-jokes but couldn't grasp them. In mild frustration, I flipped to the front of the book to see the list of other Discworld novels and made a note to seek them out.

I've purchased and read every single one of them by now. Except for The Shepherd's Crown, that is, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I'm aware of what happens in the plot, and I'm still not ready to face it. Secondly, it was Pratchett's last book to be published before his death. Call it avoidance, deferral, whatever you like, but as long as I don't read that final book...

Admittedly, I don't have the most accurate grasp on public perception, but I've always felt that Pratchett received much less recognition here in the U.S. than Douglas Adams did. (It seems like Adams is always thrown out as a "oh, if you liked his books..." preface to any discussion of Pratchett, which is a separate issue.) Although I quite literally grew up reading the Hitchhiker's Guide books, I actually feel happier after rereading the Discworld books. I think that comes down to authorial personality coming through in their works. Adams, from what I gather, was somewhat mercurial in temperament. Prone to fits of depression, hating deadlines and pressure to write, et cetera. While I find it very easy to relate to these traits on a personal level, I tend to absorb them when rereading the Hitchhiker books. (Make it through Mostly Harmless without falling into a funk, I dare you.)

But Pratchett's works are infused with... optimism. Humanism. Sure, a lot of it is disguised in the frippery of fantasy writing -- some of the humans are dwarves, some of them are trolls, some of them are vampires, but read a bit past the surface and they're all one hundred percent human. Some of the optimism is carefully nestled in the gruff, sarcastic weariness of Samuel Vimes. But as George Carlin (allegedly) said, "Inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist." Sometimes I mentally rephrase this to read "Inside every pessimist is an optimist who hates being disappointed." And that strikes home even more strongly than does Adams' depressive tendencies.

Note, please, that I am not naturally predisposed to reading anything close to "high fantasy". Most stories involving elves and magic(k) and concentrated attempts to copy/outdo Tolkien leave me cold. And I love the Discworld books anyway.

All works of fiction, no matter how outlandish their setting, are ultimately meant to be reflections of "our" world. But I've always struggled with interpretation when the dressing is too abstract. Pratchett always earthed, pardon the expression, his work in the familiar. The passage that I first remember sticking in my mind was from Men at Arms:

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money. Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles. But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet. This was the Captain Samuel Vimes “Boots” theory of socioeconomic unfairness.

If you don't see the essential truth in this passage, dear reader, I submit that you have led a fairly sheltered life thus far.

Anyway. If you haven't read Pratchett (and the Discworld books are just a part of his works), I encourage you to do so. If you've already read one or more, I encourage you to read more of them, or at least reread one you remember fondly.

It's difficult for me to choose a favorite. In very general terms, I enjoy the Night Watch and Witches series the most, and the Death and Rincewind ones the least. But even the "weaker" ones are very good. A recommended starting point? I'm a bad person to ask that, as I took a very sideways route into the series. But by the same token, I think that there isn't a bad entry point. Pick one whose title intrigues you, one whose cover art makes you curious, or just pick one at random. If you finish it and want to read more, then go where your whims lead.

Celebrating Terry Pratchett Day.

On what would have been Terry's 76th birthday, we are filling today with Pratchett joy and invite you to join us.

We'd love to see your routes through Discworld on the #terry pratchett day tag - you can download images to share your favourite books and recommended place to start in Discworld via terrypratchett.com.

You can also find recipes from Nanny Ogg, templates to recreate your own favourite Discworld cover, and ways to get involved for all ages. Whether online or offline, we hope your day is full of Pratchett magic!

[manifestopaulo]

A Techno Story Part. 2

When style is reduced to a commodity driven by wealth, it often sacrifices its genuine essence, becoming a tool for appeasing the elite. A striking contrast can be observed in the 1960s, movements like the mods and the Beat Generation, who revolutionised social norms purely through their unique styles and expressions. Even without wealth, they were able to appear more stylish and elevate their status within society, effectively flipping the hierarchy. Thats how real meaningful art movements happen. However, when style becomes solely linked to money, it loses its authenticity and turns into a means of pandering to those above on the social ladder. Today, working-class kids struggle to create their own subcultures.  Another good example, can be seen in Northern Soul, where it was the seasoned dancers who set the standard or In heavy metal and rave culture, it was the hardcore enthusiasts who truly lived for it. These individuals were the ones to aspire to, fostering an inclusive environment—if you were cool, you were welcomed in, creating a sense of egalitarian elitism.  This was not about conforming to the social norms of a middle-class, white-dominated society. When a scene becomes about perfecting our social behaviour to gain acceptance from those higher up the social ladder it becomes pandering to the ruling class. When you went to a Northern Soul night you entered ‘their’ world, it wasn’t about your background dictating your rightful place; it was about immersing yourself in the culture. Again the recent of episode of the "Not a Diving Podcast," guest DJ Manpower was discussing this very concept—when you enter a club, “others “show you the way” and teach you the codes of the environment. They guide you on how to behave, what is valued, and what is not, all on a cultural level” Just being in that space and observing others reveals the unspoken rules and expectations. Techno and its proponents of early British conception was aware of this politics. Initially, it was an snobby scene, catering mainly to muso’s and geeks. However, it became more democratic, for me that was through things like ElectroClash in Shoreditch (bear with me though, I had seen Underground Resistance, Aphex Twin, Derrick May, and Carl Craig before that scene emerged) this was ultimately a good thing but shift had its drawbacks, as it attracted a wave of hipster pretenders—myself included back then, but the key difference lies in curiosity and open-mindedness. Rather than adopting an overly self-assured attitude and pretending to have all the answers, it's essential to engage with the music and culture with genuine enthusiasm. This approach should be free from the cynicism of self-appointed gatekeepers and from the cynicism that disguised as political awareness.  In his book 'The Psychopath Test,' Jon Ronson reflects on his early days as a TV interviewer, where he frequently highlighted and mocked the quirks and irrationalities of his subjects, including politicians. I often find myself contemplating a passage from his book that feels increasingly relevant. He discusses how this approach contributed to a cultural shift that values conformity, rationality, and a form of 'white middle-class normativity.' On the podcast, Manpower remarked that going to clubs should involve bumping into and conversing with 'some lunatic who knows about that obscure Japanese film you thought only you knew about.' I love this sentiment and can relate, as that lunatic was often me. Techno enthusiasts and the newer left share a similar tendency; they resent others knowing about the art, politics, and culture they cherish. They become overly competitive and insular, treating it as their exclusive little club. They never seem to move beyond this childish, competitive mindset, and then they wonder why they fail to have a broader influence and convert people to their cause.

[collymore]

What's your percentage cut Boris, from the Military Industrial Complex?

By Stanley Collymore

You Boris Kamal: Turkish ancestry and USA born yet proselytizing yourself under the Johnson name as the distinctively archetypal Englishman that, self-evidently, you obviously are not but nevertheless projecting yourself openly, as part and parcel of that literally historic mindset, that has clearly plagued very specifically, the UK's military adventures; actually, culminating in disastrous forays, distinctively into the Middle East, and blithely elsewhere. Quite specifically, the so-called Third World. Obviously, surely a toxically verminous and basically, distinctly odious ilk as in the past can still undoubtedly be noxiously found significantly strutting and actually bellowing rather maddening and fervently for war, crucially so throughout British history. Rather evidently though, whenever the shooting starts are to be found hiding in the shadows. These vile sooks. Onward Christian soldiers; you all in your virtual signalling but fake patriotism cry, while quite hypocritically rather fanatically waving the Union Jack. Simply specifically, clearly assumingly though, generally letting these quite distinctly, cannon fodder of yours unquestionably know that should they literally make it back home, they'll obviously find you in the local, pub's bar.

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 5 April 2024.

Author's Remarks: Britain cannot conscionably continue to support a supposed ally that manifestly basically has no regards whatsoever for international law. And as such naturally damages us obviously as a country. For that reason alone Benjamin Netanyahu and his regime must face just actions for their recalcitrant genocide and vile barbarity!

With Boris this quite particular apple hasn’t fallen that far from the tree. His paternal Turkish grandfather was the instrumental figure that actually persuaded the Ottoman Emperor to get involved in World War One on the side of Germany. German lost that war and with belligerent retribution the victors turned on Turkey and dismantled the Ottoman Empire. But not before Kamal Snr, armed with all the money that he could sequester from that now defunct empire, and bearing in mind the very influential job he had as chief advisor to the Sultan himself, ditched his Turkish wife and married his French Caucasian mistress.

A very cynical arrangement on Kamal’s part, as with his French European white wife whose mother was English, Kamal Snr successfully bribed the British Home Office to give him British citizenship, even though he had no intention of residing in Britain. As with a British passport it was far easier to get into the United States where he simply wanted to be. And he managed that quite okay. The principal problem being that he found the USA unwelcoming to his sort. Make of that what you will.

I shan’t bore you anymore with a history lesson pertaining to this family, as you can quite easily research the information for yourself. What is significant for me is that Boris was born in the USA; he’s intrinsically racist and discernibly as well actually without any principles, if indeed he knows what these are. He’s in my view, and I trained as a psychiatric nurse many years ago as my regular readers know and in that capacity worked with lunatics of all kinds who were sectioned to the hospital where I worked.

Without any vacillating on my part Boris Kamal, alias Johnson, is a deeply inured and very dangerous sociopath and psychopath. But that’s his problem and those of you who just as dementedly think that the sun shines out of his ass. Crucially also for me is that this man whose grandfather took the Ottoman Empire into a war against Britain in which Britain and Empire casualty figures were these: 418,361 killed; 167,172 died of wounds; 113,173 died of disease or injury; 161,046 missing and presumed dead; and 16,332 were prisoner of war deaths. Yet this man became Prime Minister of Britain, and now ousted there are still considerable numbers of you who categorically want him back as such.

There is no accounting for stupidity, and Britain is riddled with idiots. Boris is only interested in money – I wonder why, considering his roots – and avidly supports Ukraine whose murderous Waffen SS record during World War 2  - as Ukraine was on Germany’s side not ours is well documented; and those Boris and his ilk to this day are lauding still celebrate in the 21st Century, Adolf Hitler’s birthday. And had it not been for Russia Britain would have profoundly had its ass kicked in on the Eastern Front. Go check them out and why those that the right-wingers, Nazis, and their supportive media rags that supported the Third Reich during World War 2, are all avid Boris Kamal’s supporters.

Yet the likes of Boris are the very ones if war breaks who’ll quickly ditch their bogus patriotism but defend Britain all the same to the last drop of someone else’s blood. So you’re quite welcome to this HERO of yours!

[dertaglichedan]

Asa Hutchinson never had a chance in hell of becoming president. We all knew that. He is as exciting as a low-sodium saltine cracker and as genuine as “grape” flavored Kool-Aid.

He’s not a bad man, I think. He is still sentient, which apparently would disqualify him for nomination as a Democrat. But as a very very Establishment figure, he appeals to the current Republican Party’s base as well as a square peg in a round hole.

Proof of that was his appearance today with Tucker Carlson at The Summit, where he crashed and burned spectacularly within the first 10 seconds of his conversation with Tucker.

Whatever else you think of Tucker, you really have to admire his ability to get to the heart of the matter.

TUCKER: "Is it treatment to prevent [a child] from going through the natural process of adolescence? How is that treatment?"

ASA: "Tucker, I hope that we'll be able to talk about some issues…"

TUCKER: "This is one of the biggest issues in the country, and I think…every… pic.twitter.com/15UKgrfvl5

— Townhall.com (@townhallcom) July 14, 2023

Tucker’s question about Hutchinson’s veto of a bill banning puberty blockers and hormone treatments for minors came right out of the box.

Hutchinson’s veto was overridden in the legislature, but Hutchinson defended his opposition to the bill back in 2021 to NPR and today he dismissed it as an issue worthy of discussion.

[I]n my veto, I wanted to say to my Republican friends and colleagues that we’ve got to rethink our engagement in every aspect of the cultural wars. The Republican Party that I grew up with believed in a restrained government that did not jump in the middle of every issue. And in this case, it is a very sensitive matter that involves parents, and it involves physicians. And we ought to yield to that decision-making, unless there’s a compelling state reason. And I think this is too extreme for me to sign.

Obviously, the people of Arkansas disagreed. Overriding a governor’s veto is a vanishingly rare phenomenon, and only happens when there is considerable passion on the issue by a vast majority of the people.

Hutchinson has a right to disagree, and it took courage for him to stake out his position on such a fraught topic and stick to his guns, although some cynics think it had as much to do with his support from the medical community which makes a bunch of money off this stuff.

I am hardly cynical, though. Have you ever known me to be cynical?

Regardless of the reason he vetoed the bill, the override and subsequent culture war over “gender-affirming care” should have made it blindingly obvious that it was a big issue to people. Yet Hutchinson dismissed it as a distraction.

That didn’t go over well.

Forced to respond at greater length, Hutchinson gave a limited government/parental rights response, which is admittedly the best argument he has. But then he went off the rails again by suggesting that puberty blockers and hormone treatments are not permanent, which is plainly not true.

Parroting the line of the Left wasn’t going to get him out of the disaster.

Asa responds to question about child transition surgeries: "Tucker, I hope we'll be able talk about some issues."

Tucker: "This is one of the biggest issues in the country. It is a central issue. These are children who are being altered permanently."

Audience: *erupts*… pic.twitter.com/8IevOPa6ho

— TheBlaze (@theblaze) July 14, 2023

The reviews were not good. Glenn Beck compared the exchange to the Hindenberg disaster, which seems apt

[more-than-a-princess]

Even if he hadn't intended it to be humorous, Jin's assessment garnered a laugh from Sonia. It wasn't right to be so cynical of it, but the 'exciting time in your life' was often anything but for a member of the Novosonian aristocracy. They had a show to put on, one that advertised happily ever afters to their nation and the world, to keep people still believing in real life fairy tales and, hopefully, bring in tourism money seeking just that for themselves. For those involved? It was an endless parade of soirees and parties, galas and dinners, with little time for the couple themselves unless a camera was in their face to record it all.

"Sorry, it's just that from what I've seen, 'exciting' isn't the most fitting word I'd use," She explained, "At least where marriages in my family's social circles are concerned. Everyone always seems so tired and frustrated by the time the wedding finally occurs, and hardly ever terribly happy. It doesn't seem right: uncomplicated may be for the best."

Not that the same could be said for either of them. Even if he was inviting her to stay at his home in the midst of a work crisis, Sonia regarded the man as someone rather complicated himself, or at least guarded. But regardless, he still seemed interested in her life, or he wanted to simply make polite conversation. Either way, Sonia grinned: she'd indulge him, even though he might regret the inquiry.

"Well, here's something my family would never allow for the press to publish," She offered as they walked. The houses they passed became larger, more meticulously maintained, and far more expensive. The difference between Tokyo and Novoselic was how modern the more opulent homes were: unless someone was a fan of traditional European design, everything seemed to lean more towards a modern look. "One of the best meals I think someone can buy is at a convenience store here in Japan. Whether it's an egg salad sandwich or the karaage chicken from FamilyMart, there's something so satisfying about konbini offerings. Not even a celebrated chef focused on personalized, molecular gastronomy can improve upon karaage chicken, or a fruit sando, or even the prepackaged ice cream cones from a konbini. What do you think about convenient food here, Kisaragi-san? Do you have a favorite or do you not enjoy them?"

But one of the more extravagant houses happened to be his, and Sonia followed him up the driveway and to the front door. And while the interior didn't faze her in the least, the friendly cat certainly did. She gasped in delight, her attention now focused on Jin's pet with great interest.

"Oh, how very adorable indeed!" She cooed, unable to wipe the smile off her face as she watched cat and owner/human interact. "Would you introduce me, Kisaragi-san? Your kitty is cute! How may I best assist in looking after your pet whilst I am here, in your absence? I'd like to help if I may!"

"That certainly seems like one way to ruin what should be an exciting time in your life. Six months isn't exactly an insignificant amount of time..."

Then again, for these couples, surely a six-month wait was more than worth it if it meant marrying the person you love. Even so, the whole process sounded too extravagant for Jin's tastes. If he were to ever get married, he could only hope that he would have a straightforward and easy process. He gives a simple shake of his head. It all sounded far too complicated for his liking.

"Even if information about you is well documented, I can't imagine that everything about you is publicly known. Certainly, you have something to share that isn't already public knowledge. If you aren't willing to share, however, I won't prod."

He understood the feeling well. After all, didn't particularly enjoy talking about himself unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately for him, Sonia had somehow convinced him to give away far more information than he would normally be comfortable doing so. Admittedly, she was quite convincing. Annoyingly so, in fact...

"It's right down the next street. You can't exactly miss it."

The man would lead her up the road, passing several large and extravagant houses until the duo arrived at the end of the street. Before them was a mansion that absolutely dwarfed the others in every way. Jin, of course, found it all to be a bit...much to say the least. Although as it was a part of his inheritance, did he truly have a place to complain?

The duo make their way up the driveway and head towards the door. As the door is unlocked and opened, they are greeted by none other than Jin's cat: Luka, who was more than excited to see them! He was already climbing up Jin's leg the second they walked into the room.

"Hey, buddy. Sorry that I'm a bit late today. I ran into some...complications..."

[smolcinnamonchipmunk]

Prey who lose a very substantial bet in a Pred run casino and can only pay it back via noms (fatal or non fatal will work for this)

(I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a hot minute, but I never really knew where to go with this. I’m a huge sucker for bar/gambling stuff, but the way I like it is so specific that half the time *I’m* not even sure how to go about it. I was kind of tempted to do something with a Zootopia/Beastars kind of thing but decided to just go with G/t. There are so many kinds of branching ideas/different variations that I might eventually come back to something similar in the future.

I also have ZERO experience with casinos, so, uh, I kind of made some bullshit up with what little I know. Hence the absolute dumbassery of the main character in this, lol. The questions they ask?... Yeah, I was asking them to a friend that’s actually been to casinos and gambled.

That being said, hope you enjoy this! Sorry for, just, how *long* it takes to get to the vore. I speedran 80% of this last night too, so sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes!)

The Unlucky Clover

TW: Drinking; Unwilling, nonsexual, nonfatal, safe, soft oral vore; mention of drugs; implication/fear of digestion

Words: 7663

The lights and sounds as I opened the door and stepped into the casino were disorienting. Overwhelming for people like me who were more of the shut-in type and probably downright dangerous for anyone with phobias or sensitivities to this kind of thing. But, the whole stretch of street was lined with buildings flashing neon lights and music meant to catch passerby’s attention long enough for curiosity to set in so they’ll walk inside. I don’t think anyone came to visit with the thought of peace and quiet in mind.

Logically and cynically I knew that everything was meant to appeal to natural human faults to get people inside and keep them in, but I was also aware that I wasn’t immune to it. And, for tonight, that was fine. I was visiting, I’d never been to a casino, and I only had a set amount of money so that I wouldn’t go bankrupt.

The place I’d happened to walk into was called the Clover, probably meant to try and give people a ‘lucky’ feeling because of the whole four-leafed clover good luck thing. That was my best guess, at least.

Though, there wasn’t much green on the inside that I could see, mostly more attention-grabbing colors like reds and yellows. There also wasn’t a front desk, just a large entry landing that led down to the rest of the casino with a couple steps. There were a few ATMs against the wall beside a few palm plants, but other than that there weren't any, uh, normal entry procedures? 

I don’t know, the closest thing I could think of to a casino that I’d been to were places like Dave & Busters where there was a front desk and people to greet you at it where you buy a game card or something and then you go inside after paying. This was so open and direct to the wall of slot machines between the entrance and the rest of the casino, it almost felt like trespassing. 

But, what was more awkward? Standing around by the entrance to try and figure out where to go and what to do? Or wandering around doing the same thing, but you’re moving, so people are less likely to bother you?

I opted for the wandering around option.

I tried to not look as lost as I felt as I forced myself down the steps from the entry landing and walked past the first line of slot machines through a decently large gap between some. But, it wasn’t just one wall of machines. There were several rows in a weird staggering kind of pattern that I had to weave through to continue forward. Coupled with pillars, seats, and so many people, I almost immediately felt drained. 

At the very least, I could see that people were just feeding the machines with cash bills. I knew gambling involved chips a lot, but I had no idea how those worked.

Past the initial, practically defensive wall of slot machines, there were more further inside, but they were scattered around the place instead of clumped up in such a hassling way. Probably to tempt drunk, desperate or tired people to think ‘Oh, just one more game’ and potentially milk whatever winnings someone earns back before they leave. 

There were all kinds of game tables around and I could even see two mini bars on the floor. Poker, that weird game where you drop a ball and it lands in a wheel, someone was even playing some kind of VR gambling thing, and several other games that I probably knew the name of but wouldn’t be able to correlate to the unfamiliar tables and movements. And that was only what I could see, there seemed to be even more past pillars and machines that were all around the room.

Finding the main room a bit much for now, I decided to try one of the slot machines, sitting down at an empty machine and pulling out a dollar. Start off small, right?

I watched someone out of the corner of my eye so that I did the machine right, mimicking their motion and watched the little images flick by. Was it triple 7’s that were good? Was it different for each machine? There was probably some way to do this and I probably already fucked up, somehow, but I just told myself that I had a hundred dollar limit. Even if I lost it all just messing around with things, it wasn’t a huge loss.

The machine made its three noises as the images stopped on… a triple cherry? I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the little screen beneath the three pictures flashed “5$! 5$! CASH OUT OR KEEP PLAYING?”. So, I guess I earned four dollars? Curious, I selected “Keep Playing”. It asked me if I wanted to bet the five dollars or give it more physical money to use. I decided to give it another dollar and spun it again. This time, the slots were all mixed up and it gave nothing back other than the words on the screen, “OOPS! BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!”.

Letting out a small hum, I nodded to myself as I filed away the new information. Scrambled icons meant a lost bet, got it.

So, I spent the next little while at the slot machines, alternating between giving the machine physical cash and using the winnings I slowly began to accrue. I got really excited when a ten dollar bet returned fifty dollars with another triple cherry and a few more dollars amounted to smaller winnings that also added, but my energy quickly began to fade as several more tries at the machine led to jumbled icons that meant another dollar wasted. Any remaining interest and excitement that wasn’t dwindled away turned into dismay when another play on the slots gave me three bomb icons that ‘destroyed’ whatever winnings were in the machine.

Whatever questioning I had about why people couldn’t just keep playing all night instead of cashing out low numbers was now answered.

“Goddamnit,” I hissed to myself under my breath, not even able to hear my voice over the drone of the casino. I mentally tallied how much money I’d lost to the machine and was relieved that I had seventy-eight dollars still, only having lost twenty-two to the slots. And I probably would have lost a lot more to my hubris and ignorance if the triple bomb hadn’t popped up.

Letting out a long exhale, I pushed aside the instinctive craving to continue and stood up. Weaving through people walking around and the gaming tables in the way, I walked to one of the bars in the massive room. I was thinking that, at the very least, I could have a drink or two to make coming here feel somewhat worth it before leaving even if I lost the rest of my hundred dollar allotment.

There were a couple people at the bar counter on the available stools, but most people seemed to just be walking up and grabbing their drinks to take back to whatever game table they were playing at. 

I decided to sit at one of the stools near the end of the small bar, thankfully devoid of immediate bar neighbors on either side. I barely even settled and had the thought of what I potentially wanted to drink before the bartender quickly came over. Given the amount of activity and noise, I had been expecting at least a second to gather my thoughts before I was noticed.

“‘Ey, what can for you,” the bartender greeted, a woman in a black and green uniform. It looked nice, black button-up shirt and pants with a green swirly designed vest. There was a nametag, but I was too caught off guard to read it.

“Oh, uh, you guys do Amaretto Sours,” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

“Got everything for practically any named drink you could think of,” she replied, immediately pulling out a glass and shaker from behind the counter. “ID?”

I showed her my card showing that I was over twenty-one, and she nodded, quickly moving around the bar as she added the ingredients to the shaker and scooped ice into the glass from something behind the counter.

“Orange or lemon wedge,” she poured the drink into the glass over the ice and spun around to open the fridge.

“Uh, lemon wedge, I guess.” I’d never gotten Amaretto Sours with lemon wedges before.

“Alright, here you go,” the bartender turned back around with the finished drink, complete with the familiar single maraschino cherry and a lemon slice placed on the lip of the glass. She placed the glass down in front of me and turned to tend someone else at the counter, but I tried to catch her attention.

“Uh, wait,” I said, feeling a bit awkward when she turned back towards me. Sheepishly, I asked, “Don’t I, uh, need to pay?”

She blinked at me in surprise and confusion, replying, “Well, you’re not leaving the counter yet, are you?”

“I, well, no, but I’d rather pay for each upfront if that’s alright,” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling like that was a very laissez faire way to go about alcohol payments. Then again, my experience was limited to only a few bars and this place had security, so maybe they were just really confident that would dissuade people from stealing or leaving without paying. 

Besides, I couldn’t exactly start a proper tab without my card.

“Suit yourself,” the bartender shrugged after a couple moments, reaching for a card reader attached to the belt on her hip and pulling it off. She punched in a few buttons as I pulled out a ten - I decided she could keep the change if they couldn’t break a ten at the bar - and read out, “Alright, your total for one Amaretto Sour is-.”

“Taken care of.”

I jolted at the sudden voice from my right side, almost knocking over my glass as I looked over to see who was there. A tall dude who felt way too well-dressed compared to half the casino in vacation wear approached the counter on my right, basically taking the space and making a part of me grumble internally at the proximity. Giving him a glance over he had dark brown hair that was styled short and looked like he probably used some kind of gel or pomade, and his shirt was almost black compared to the far lighter tan of his pants.

“Uuuuh,” I frowned in confusion and surprise, trying to process his sudden appearance.

“Put it on my tab,” the man told the bartender, tapping the bar with a finger and I found my attention momentarily drawn to the glint of the rings on his hand in the casino light. There were three, one on every proper finger other than his middle.

Whoever this guy was, he must have been here earlier and given them his card already because the bartender nodded and printed a receipt to probably add to whatever other drinks the guy’s card had to charge him at the end of the night.

“I- you-you didn’t have to buy my drink,” I said automatically, the bartender already turned to take care of other customers. Unless I wanted to draw attention to myself trying to push for her to charge me instead, I was just going to have to live with the fact that this guy bought my drink. At least I already watched this one get poured, so I knew nothing was in it. That still didn’t stop the suspicion that came from some random person buying my drink.

“I know I didn’t have to, but I occasionally like to buy a couple people’s drinks when I'm here,” the man leaned on the counter with his forearms. I could see a couple people giving me some envious looks out of the corner of my eye that made me feel more self-conscious. Not like I *asked* him to buy my drink. “Name’s Arnoldo.”

“Right… well, thanks, I guess,” I took a sip from my drink, hoping that the man - pardon me, *Arnoldo* - would take the hint and just kind of… leave me alone.

Of course, he didn’t. 

“You ever been here before,” he asked, dangerously close to the cheesy kind of pickup line that everyone knew about and I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Nope,” I replied, wondering how rude chugging my drink and just walking away would be. I settled for just taking another, larger swig of the Amaretto Sour, internally sighing and hoping that he would eventually become bored and walk away if I forced myself to only give small responses.

“Hmm,” Arnoldo seemed to struggle with my short reply, eventually saying, “Well, how are you liking it so far?”

“Uh, it’s alright, I guess,” I shrugged, glancing back towards the rather overwhelming room. “Bit loud for my tastes, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“Well, it is a casino. They’re not exactly known for being the quietest places on Earth,” the man chuckled, making my face heat up a bit in embarrassment.

“Well, I know that, but you asked how I liked it,” I took an embarrassed gulp of my drink, focusing on the burn it caused down my throat to try and distract me from it. “I was just being honest…”

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean it any type of way,” Arnoldo quickly responded, seeing him raise his hands a bit in the universal gesture of meaning no harm. The motion caught my attention and I looked over to see him look mildly apologetic. Giving him a bit more of a look, he seemed friendly, at least. I still wanted to keep up my guard, of course, but he sounded sincere. “I just think it’s kind of funny that someone would comment on something so expected. I take it that you don’t get out much then.”

“Not really, no,” I said, swirling my glass. “Coming here was kind of just a bucket list, giving it a try sort of deal. ”

“Well, what have you tried so far?”

“Uh… slots?”

“That… That’s it,” Arnoldo asked, raising an eyebrow. He shifted to look at me a bit more fuller, leaning entirely on his right arm as he turned to face me. “I hope you were at least going to try one of the other games. Just playing slots isn’t a very good experience.”

“I don’t know, maybe. I don’t know how any of the other games work,” I downed the rest of my glass anxiously, not really wanting to divulge that I had been planning to immediately leave. Placing the glass on the counter, it was quickly swept away by the bartender, who was quick to place it out of sight where used cups were probably stacked to be cleaned.

“You wanting another one,” she asked, and before I could respond to her, Arnoldo did.

“Put it on my tab if they’re getting another,” he said, giving the counter a tap. “And I’ll actually have an Irish Coffee for myself.”

I frowned, not really wanting all of my drinks to be on him, but sighed. “I guess I’ll have another Amaretto Sour… I should probably head out soon, I have to go meet a friend back at the hotel later.”

A lie, but maybe the thought of someone expecting me somewhere would prevent the guy from trying anything. Especially with another drink on the way.

The bartender nodded and started making both of our drinks, something I tried to keep an eye on still.

“I won’t stop you from leaving, but surely I can try and help you try some other type of game,” Arnoldo suggested, gesturing to the rest of the casino floor. “I’m sure you can get a hang of Blackjack, at least.”

“Uhh, which one’s Blackjack,” I asked, grabbing my glass as the bartender slid it to me and watching her walk over to the tiny coffee pot that had started boiling. Having seen nothing be poured or placed in my drink other than the normal ingredients, I took a sip as I mulled over the potential danger of accepting his offer to help me play a game. 

“Card game,” he said, looking towards where I assumed the Blackjack tables were. “Basically, everyone gets handed a card at a time and can ask for another card or to stay and hold their number. You’ve got the Ace’s through ten which amount to the number they are with the Jacks being eleven, Queens being twelve, and the Kings being thirteen. The aim of the game is to try and get as close to the number twenty-one without going over against the dealer. Whoever gets the closest to twenty-one, or whoever gets twenty-one gets the amount they bet from the dealer. During home games, whoever gets closest gets the pot.”

“... Pot?” I asked, frowning a bit in confusion. The surprised look on his face told me that I’d questioned something rather basic.

“The pot is the collective of chips people bet on the game,” Arnoldo explained, smiling in amusement. 

“Oh,” I sighed in exasperation at myself, planting my face in my palm with a groan. “I- sorry. You were explaining the mechanics of the game, so I thought it was a game thing…”

“Well, it is a game thing, but that’s just what the bets are called across the board.”

“Cool, cool. Well, learn something new everyday,” I dropped my hand from my face and took a swig of my drink. Even if I felt embarrassed to all hell, at least I still had the alcoholic tang of my Amaretto Sour.

“If you’re willing, I can help you out with one round,” he said, grabbing his Irish Coffee as the bartender finished it up and placed it on the bar counter.

I hummed a bit in thought. Part of me wanted to just go to the hotel I was staying at and just chill for the rest of the night. But, another part of me was curious about the other games, and if someone was willing to kind of show me the ropes, then my curiosity was peaked a bit further. And damn if I wasn’t a sucker for my curiosity. 

“Eh, fine,” I swiveled in my barstool and hopped off with my drink in hand. “One game, then I’ll probably head out.”

“Sounds good to me,” Arnoldo straightened from his leaning position. I didn’t realize how tall he was while he was leaning beside me, but when he stood up I had to crane my neck to look up at him. I don’t even think I was shoulder height for him. He took a sip of his Irish Coffee and started walking towards one of the tables, saying, “Blackjack’s this way.”

“Uh, right,” I trailed behind him as he walked towards the tables. Whether he was mindful of his stride for me or he was slowed by the amount of people walking around, I was just glad I wouldn’t have to awkwardly trot behind him or speedwalk with the risk of spilling my drink. Eventually he slowed beside a semi-circle table with a person in green and black uniform on the flat side and an empty curved side with markings on the green surface. The table could hold five people along the edge, so with Arnoldo and I it left three spaces for others.

“Hey there,” the man behind the table greeted, pausing in his shuffling of cards.”Welcome to Blackjack! You waiting on anyone else?”

“No, no, just my friend and I here for now,” Arnoldo stated, placing his Irish Coffee in the cupholder at his spot. 

I did the same for my drink at my spot after taking another long swig of it. I could already feel the slight fuzziness that came with becoming tipsy, so I decided that two was good enough for me.

“Alright, how much are each of you betting,” the dealer asked, shuffling the cards one last time before placing the deck face-down in front of himself.

“Uh, ten dollars,” I said, pulling out a ten and handing it to the dealer. He put the cash in a pack on his hip and placed a single chip with the number ten on its side in the little circle icon in front of my spot. 

“I’ll be betting fifty,” Arnoldo drank from his Irish Coffee for a moment. The dealer didn’t ask for any cash and Arnoldo didn’t offer any cash or card. Yet, despite that, the dealer nodded and pulled out a chip with ‘50’ on its side and placed it in his circle.

I didn’t make a comment, shrugging internally. The guy did say that he was here often, so he was probably recognized. That, and if he had a tab already going, then the staff might have a way of knowing whose card was at the bar.

The dealer took a card off the top of the deck three times and placed one in front of himself, Arnoldo, and I. Respectively, the numbers ended up as ‘10’, ‘5’, and ‘8’. He looked between us and asked us if we wanted to stay or continued, and we obviously both decided to continue. All of us ended up less than ‘21’ still, with the closest being Arnoldo at ‘17’ with a Queen added to his cards. One more round went around and I ended up with ‘20’ while both the dealer and Arnoldo went over twenty-one.

“Congratulations on your first win,” Arnoldo said as the dealer reached into the chip holder and grabbed a ten chip to slide towards me. “You’ve doubled your chips with it.”

“What about your chip,” I asked, gesturing to his fifty chip before grabbing my Amaretto Sour and drinking some more for a moment.

“Since the dealer and I both went bust in the same turn, it’s considered a tie here,” he explained, drinking the last of his Irish Coffee. He flagged down one of the staff walking around with drinks and empty glasses on trays, placing his glass on the tray with a ‘Thank you’ and ordering another Irish Coffee. I suppose they floated around in case people didn’t want to leave their tables to go to one of the bars. “Neither I or the dealer pays the bet.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” I glanced down towards my two ten dollar chips. It wasn’t a substantial leap, but it also hadn’t been a substantial bet. And yet, I felt a bit of serotonin at the win that mixed with the warm buzz pleasantly.

“Are you playing another round,” the dealer asked, reshuffling the card deck.

Arnoldo didn’t answer first this time like he had with the bartender, instead looking at me expectantly to let me answer. I hummed a bit, checking my phone to check the time for a second before shrugging and going, “Sure, why not? All in.”

I slid my second ten dollar chip into my betting pool and Arnoldo nodded, adding, “I’ll also play another round.”

The dealer nodded and we proceeded to play again. And again. And again.

More people even came and joined the table to play between rounds, and I wasn’t as anxious with my one and a half glasses of alcohol in my system. I would even hazard to say that I was enjoying myself, even as I lost a round that I had bet twenty dollars on. It wasn’t that disheartening when I’d managed to double my bets a couple times with more money than I came in with in the amount of chips.

At some point I decided to try some other games at Arnoldo’s suggestion, taking my glass with me and the chips I’d gathered. The glass felt heavier, but attributed it to my buzz since it still just tasted like Amaretto Sour to me.

I tried Poker, but only played a few rounds since I found it difficult to bluff, though I did win the last game surprisingly. Taking sips between games, we played Baccarat, Craps, Roulette, and I eventually found that we’d made our way back to another Blackjack table. My head swam at this point, but I was having a good time, taking another swig of my drink as I won another Blackjack game with a full ‘21’.

“Yes,” I exclaimed, the rush of serotonin more prominent in my drunken state. The dealer handed me a hundred dollar chip that I added to my collection that had slowly grown over the night. I think I had about five hundred dollars worth of chips on me.

“You’re having much more luck than I,” Arnoldo sighed, crossing his arms after sliding his bet of fifty dollars to the dealer that accepted with a smile and placed it in the box. The man tapped a finger against the table, rings glinting, and suggested, “How about a round of Ultimate Texas Hold’em?”

“What’s that,” I asked, sipping my Amaretto Sour and leaning on the edge of the Blackjack table.

“It’s like Poker,” he started to explain, laughing when I made a face. “Now, hold up, hear me out. It’s only against the dealer, not the dealer and everyone at the table, so you should have an easier time of it. There’s a few other rules that I think would make it easier for you as well.”

“Mmmm, yeah, why not,” I straightened, making sure I had my chips and everything else. Thankfully, I hadn’t lost my wallet or phone despite my brain feeling so light from alcohol.

I followed Arnoldo to a different corner of the casino floor, checking my phone on the way. I probably should go soon, it was already after midnight. Though the casino was open 24/7, I could tell that I was properly drunk and questioned if I was going to have gaps in my memory tomorrow, wondering just how much Amaretto liquor was in my drinks.

Reaching the Ultimate Texas Hold’em table, which was just another Poker table, Arnoldo tried to explain the game to me. I tried to listen and retain the information, but it slipped through my memory immediately. Oh well, I’d just have this be my last game of the night. 

“Hey, I think I’m gonna head out after this,” I told Arnoldo, seeing him flick his wrist to look at his watch and check the time, nodding his head.

“Better make this one count then, huh?” he asked, settling in one of the chairs.

“Yup,” I sat down and chugged the rest of my drink, finally finishing it after a couple hours of games. I felt like I should have finished it a long time ago, but better late than never. I placed the glass down and heard the dealer ask about our bets, hearing Arnoldo say ‘five’ something, immediately thinking he said ‘five hundred’ and telling the dealer, “I’ll match.”

I saw them blink in surprise before shrugging and the game started. I could barely focus, the numbers and symbols on the cards practically swimming in front of my eyes, so I wasn’t surprised when I ended up losing to the dealer. I groaned and sighed as I tossed down my hand in defeat, pulling out my chips and sliding them towards the dealer.

“And, the other forty-five hundred,” the dealer asked, the question catching me off guard in my tired and drunk stupor.

“I- forty-five hundred?” I repeated in confusion, looking at the dealer with a frown. 

“Mr. Lason bet five thousand and you said you’d match,” the dealer said, nodding towards Arnoldo who was sipping on another drink.

“I..” I blinked a bit in slack-jawed surprise, jolting in my seat. “Sh-Shit, I’m sorry, I don’t have anything more than my chips other than, like fifty dollars! I left my card to try and not have this happen. Is there, uh, is there a way I can pay in increments?”

The dealer frowned and opened their mouth to say something, but Arnoldo interrupted, pulling his glass from his lips and offering, “How about you play another round? Double or nothing. If you win, you get ten thousand.”

“But if I lose again, that just means I owe ten thousand,” I protested, any pleasantness from drinking gone. Now it was only the fuzzy swimming of my scrambled thoughts and panic as I realized that I’d unintentionally fucked up.

“True, true,” Arnoldo placed his glass down and seemed to think something over, though it seemed fake to me. Maybe that was the alcohol. After a second or two, he suggested, “How about this? Since I suggested it, if you lose, you just have to let me get you one last drink and you won’t have to worry about the payment.”

“I- What,” I asked, shaking my head in confusion. I couldn’t have heard him right. “You want me to play one more round, and if I lose I don’t have to worry about the payment and you’ll just get me one last drink?”

“That’s correct,” he replied, waiting for my response.

A bad feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, but I didn’t know whether it was the alcohol or the panic of potential debt to a casino. Arnoldo was giving me an out, even willing to take responsibility of my loss. I just hoped he wouldn’t go back on his word.

“I-I guess I don’t have many options,” I sighed, trying to shake off my drunken daze. I needed to be as clear-headed as possible for this next round, but I doubted I’d be able to win. At the very least, I only had to have one last drink. “Thanks, Arnoldo.”

Looking at the dealer, I begrudgingly said, “Double or nothing.”

The dealer nodded, dealt the hands, and I found myself beat within minutes despite trying my hardest to focus and win. I could feel a stress headache coming on, but at least the ordeal was over. I looked towards Arnoldo, half-expecting the man to not even be there to leave me with a ten thousand dollar mistake. But, he was still sat there in his seat and flagged over one of the walking staff's attention to order me another drink.

“Well, you tried your best,” Arnoldo placed his glass on the waiter's tray, glancing at them and adding, “Amaretto Sour, please.”

“Didn’t make much of a difference,” I groaned, scrubbing my face with both hands for a second as the waiter walked away. Looking towards him, I apologized, “I’m so sorry I fucked up like that, but thank you *so* much. I really owe you, dude.”

Even though I had zero idea of how to repay the favor.

“Well, good news is that I’m pretty sure that’ll be easy to do.”

“Really,” I asked, surprised. And a bit suspicious.

Arnoldo let out a confirmative hum as the waiter came back with my drink rather quickly thanks to our close proximity to one of the bars, grabbing the glass while I groaned and buried my face in my hands tiredly with the feeling of shame and embarrassment. I looked up after a moment, taking the glass as he held it out to me with a quiet thanks.

I drank a swig of the drink, grimacing with the knowledge that I was going to wake up with a lot of regret tomorrow and asked, “Do I have to drink all of the glass?”

“No,” Arnoldo shook his head. “A sip was fine. I’m not gonna stop you if you want to finish it.”

“That- Okay,” I said in confusion, shaking my head to try and clear it before taking another sip. I stood up with the intent to return the cup and added, “Well, thank you again. I really need to head to my hotel though.”

“I don’t think you’re in much shape to be left on your own,” the man replied, though he didn’t stand up from his seat.

“It’s not too far, I think I can handle the walk,” I turned to walk to the closest bar, barely making a few steps before a wave of dizziness washed over me. I gasped in surprise, quickly reaching out to catch myself as my knees buckled beneath me. An arm around my abdomen stopped me from falling all the way to the ground and a hand caught my drink, though it did end up spilling.

“Oh dear,” Arnoldo’s voice was right beside me and I was helped to my feet. “Perhaps that last drink was a bit much with the ones you’d already had.”

“I-I don’t know why they’re affecting me so much,” I frowned, head swimming more. It took a considerable amount of effort to not slur in my nauseousness. “I only had two.”

“You had a bit more than two,” the man replied, confusing me further. He walked to the bar and handed the bartender the glass. I think they asked if I was alright, but another wave of dizziness had me mostly just focusing on not hurling. I just heard Arnoldo’s answer. “Don’t worry, they’ll be taken care of.”

My vision swam as he walked me from the bar, closing my eyes against the feeling and opening them blearily. In what felt like less than a second, the surroundings were a normal hallway. It took me a bit of effort just to ask, “Where are you taking me?”

“My office,” Arnoldo said, just as we reached a door at the end with a plaque on the front. He opened the door and stepped into a fancy-looking office. There were cushy-looking chairs in front of the desk and he maneuvered me into one, commenting, “If I knew you were going to be such a lightweight, I wouldn’t have replaced your drinks as much as I did.”

“You replaced my drinks,” I asked in alarm, almost doubling over as a fresh wave of nausea hit me.

“I did, yes,” the friendly demeanor from the man was still kind of there, but it felt fake now. Now he spoke politely but sounded very business-like. “I didn’t put anything in them if that’s what you’re worried about. Well, not until the last one. You were a lot luckier than I was expecting, so it took longer than I thought.”

“Wh-What did?”

“You becoming indebted to the casino,” Arnoldo nonchalantly walked to a glass cabinet against the office wall, taking out a container of what I assumed was alcohol and poured himself a glass. “We run a clean establishment here, so no one can be indebted by betting more than they have.”

“Wha- Why indebt *me* then,” I exclaimed, not even sure if that was grammatically correct but not caring with my mind swirling from the alcohol and my thoughts. I watched him walk back to the desk and lean backwards against its front edge while sipping his drink. With my hunched over and nauseous position in the chair, he seemed even taller than before.

“Luck of the draw,” he replied. “Sometimes, I feel a bit peckish so I walk around the casino to look for unsavory folks. Sadly, there weren’t any around tonight and you seemed like a rather easy mark.”

I blinked a bit in confusion, struggling to wrap my head around his statement. He felt kind of hungry and decided to purposefully try to have me lose to the casino and go into debt? That literally made no sense to me. Was I in some kind of drunken fever dream? I supposed my confusion was very apparent on my face because he sighed as though this was incredibly inconvenient to him.

“You’ll see when it kicks in fully,” Arnoldo said, taking another swig from his glass. 

Eyes widening with the fear of being roofied, I opened my mouth to try and demand what he meant, but yelped when another wave of nausea interrupted me. Not just nausea, but dizziness and sudden soreness over my entire body. I must have blacked out or passed out because the next thing I registered was opening my eyes against light that felt too bright and pushed myself up from a laying down position. Blinking away colored spots in my vision, I thought that I had to be dreaming.

There was no fucking way that I was actually suddenly tiny on the chair I’d been sitting on.

“There we go,” Arnoldo’s voice caught my attention, making me yelp in panicked surprise when I looked towards it and saw him. He was still leaned against the desk, but now he was absolutely *towering*. He straightened, placed his glass down on the desk and reached towards me on the chair seat, easily scooping me up in his hand despite me quickly trying to scramble away.

“A-Ah, what the fuck, p-put me down,” I shouted, struggling in panic against his hold as I was lifted. I could feel his fingers shift to get a better grip on me, his other hand cupping beneath me, probably in case I managed to wriggle from his grasp.

“Hey, hey, keep squirming like this and I might end up dropping you,” he said. Not threateningly, just as a fact.

That didn’t dissuade me from it whatsoever, not until I realized how high I was in comparison as I saw the floor far down below. My body was torn between continuing to struggle and holding onto one of the fingers to try and increase my chances of not falling to the ground. It eventually decided that falling would be worse for now, instinctively clutching onto one of the fingers around my waist and legs, while I repeated to myself, “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.”

“Sadly, for you, it is,” Arnoldo walked around the desk and settled in the chair behind it while holding me in front of his face. Eyes that seemed friendly before now had a glint that sent a shiver down my spine. “And you’re about to repay the little favor of looking past your debt. At least a portion of it. Ten thousand is an awful lot, you know.”

“I- Wha- What favor requires me to be-be… f-fucking tiny,” I exclaimed, struggling against the surrealism of the situation and my residual drunkenness. If this was a nightmare, it felt very real and terrifying.

“Like I mentioned before, I tend to do this when feeling peckish. It’s a particular kind of hunger,” he replied, reaching across the desk to the glass of alcohol he’d set down before, taking a brief sip before placing it down. “Let’s say… hmmm, I believe a thousand dollars per session seems fair, no? No more than a day for each. Of course, I’ll need to take into account your availability, unfortunately. I can’t exactly have you missing for more than a week straight. Cou-.”

“W-Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted him, mind swirling as I tried to comprehend what he was saying. “What are you talking about?! What the fuck do you mean by ‘session’, and I’d rather not go fucking missing at *all*!”

“Dear, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I don’t think spelling it out for you is going to help,” Arnoldo furrowed his brow a bit, looking slightly concerned. Mostly, though, he looked a bit impatient and irritated at being interrupted. Not to mention that he still had a look in his eye that seemed to intensify. “Hmm, you may be too incapacited for any logistics talk… Well, we can discuss arrangements in the morning when you’re sobered up. For now, let’s get your first night out of the way.”

“I- wh-what are you talking about, what do you mean, woAH, WOAH, WOAH,” I cried out in panic as I was shifted closer to his face and a little above. The hold on me shifted so that the backs of my hoodie and shirt were pinched between the first two fingers and thumb of his hand, and his mouth opened to reveal the inside. I saw strings of saliva break, teeth the size of my head, and the tongue that extended slightly to cover the lower incisors. Surely, just surely, none of this was real, right? There was no way that I was this small and there was no way that I was about to be eaten, right?

Regardless of what I thought, I was jolted from my shock as I realized that I was being lowered towards his jaws, protesting and trying to tuck my legs beneath me. I could feel his breath against my ankles, could smell the alcohol and coffee on his breath from drinking earlier, and felt the humidity already start to dampen my shins.

The tongue shifted as I was lowered, extended further and curled beneath my feet to forcibly straighten my legs, something I tried to kick and squirm against. It amounted to nothing, grimacing as my legs were lowered into his mouth and immediately felt saliva soak into my pants on contact with his tongue. It bucked beneath me, licking at my legs for a second before more of me was lowered inside. I tried to brace my feet against the roof of his mouth but found myself unceremoniously forced the rest of the way into jaws, the fingers retreating and teeth clicking shut before I could try to clamber out.

“A-Ah, let me out,” I shouted in panic, knowing my cries would fall on deaf ears given that he didn’t react to any of my other protests. The space barely felt big enough to fit me, able to feel the tongue shifting beneath my back, ridges of his palette against my hands as I tried to press away, and the feeling of his throat against my ankles.

The tongue beneath me jolted and bucked, making me yelp in fear as it started lapping at me, soaking me in drool that clung to my clothes and hair. I squirmed against the movements of the tongue, my arms and legs shaking from fear and exertion as I struggled. Everything rumbled around me for a second and I realized that he was making a pleased hum that rattled me to my bones as though I was a mouthful of delicious food. Which, given the fact that he was fucking EATING ME, I probably was to him. The thought wasn’t pleasant.

After several seconds of intense tasting that left me gasping for breath, I blinked in confusion at some nudging from the tongue. Confusion that turned into more fear and terror as I realized that he was situating me closer to his throat to be swallowed, barely able to register what was happening before my ankles were tugged harshly and a loud swallow overwhelmed my senses.

I was dragged down into his esophagus, pushed and pulled by his throat muscles that constricted around me, making it hard to take in a breath. Blood rushed in my ears, the sound overshadowed by Arnoldo’s breathing and heartbeat as I was forced past. Seconds that felt like forever went by until I slipped into the more open space of his stomach, the air permeated with the scent of alcohol and coffee despite there barely being any at this point.

I tried scrambling to my feet to press as far away from everything, but the constantly moving walls and malleable lining made it difficult, falling back into the nearest wall and flinching.

“Mmm, you’re safe, by the way,” Arnoldo hummed a bit more above me, and I was able to feel him shift. There was a slight increase of pressure on one side of the stomach, making me flinch away. “I doubt you believe me, but I’m not going to say ‘no’ if you want to continue struggling.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN I’M SAFE,” I shouted, instincts not helping me stop freaking the fuck out. Being eaten wasn’t supposed to be *safe*! I wanted to scoot away from everything, but there was no way to get away from the stomach I was inside of. The moving walls didn’t help with my swirling head.

“I mean that you’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen with you in there,” he replied, shifting again. I was confused for a second when I heard a very faint sound before realizing it was papers rustling. “You’ll be there until morning, where you’ll be let out so we can discuss your other ‘sessions’.”

I struggled to think, trying to recall what he’d said earlier about the sessions past the fear of the situation, eyes widening and exclaiming, “W-Wait, I’ll have to do this n-nine more times?! Y-You can’t be serious!”

“I am. I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. You’re still technically indebted. I gave a deal where you wouldn’t worry about payment by accepting a last drink, leading to this arrangement. If you’d prefer, you *could* try to scrape up enough money to pay the ten thousand dollars.”

I quieted, not certain how serious he was. My mind was also still doing spins, part of me wondering in panic if he was lying entirely about it being safe or if he’d let me die if I refused this ‘deal’. A large part was still in denial about any of this being real. Was I not able to focus due to being drunk or was I exhausted?... What time was it?...

Arnoldo decided to take my prolonged silence as either acceptance or thought, which was kind of correct. He hummed a bit and said, “How about we talk about it in the morning, hmm? Give you the time to sleep on it and process.”

“I-I guess,” I replied. Grumbling tiredly, I rubbed my hands against my face to try and clear my head, my eyes feeling far more droopy than before. “God, I hope this is just a nightmare and I’m going to wake up…”

“Keep telling yourself that.”