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kadeu · 3 years ago

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Accepted — Wainwright Rook

♣ Rook Wainwright aka Hyena looks like Colson Baker (musician/actor) ♣ He was born October 13th, 1966; making him 58 years old, but he appears 26 ♣ This Concubus is Bisexual and a King of Clubs ♣ He is a Tavern Owner and Resistance Informant

Biography

tw: child abandonment

“I’ll keep a razor in my wraps to slit your throat at the gates.”

Rook Wainwright was doomed to be a menace from the start. Memories not eroded by drugs or head trauma of his childhood are few and far between, but what he remembers in fleeting moments is the cold, the ache in his stomach as he struggled to keep himself fed, both on meager scraps of bread and small amounts of water, and the emotional stimuli of the world around him, drawn to anger and misery like a moth to a brilliant flame for his own survival. An orphan with no awareness of his true lineage, Rook knew only that one of his parents had been a concubus- and that if they had once lived in the slums of Club, they had long since left it, and him, behind. Little more than a child, Rook had no awareness of the concepts he’d fallen victim to, homelessness, abandonment- He knew only that he wanted to- no, needed to survive, and so, he fought tooth and nail to do just that.

Club was unkind to him, brutal and lawless, but he found his comfort in a few kinder hands and hearts, a warm meal here and there, a mend on his dirty sweater or a hand me down coat to fight off the biting cold of the winter, and as he grew, he came to understand his position better- he was a one. Lowest of the lows, sooner to be spat on than offered a helping hand, but there were others, people who certainly looked just like him living lives a thousand times better. What made them different? Made them greater than Rook himself? What had they done to deserve their comfortable homes and three square meals? What had they done to sit in the warm glow of the taverns while Rook wasted away in the streets? He learned soon enough that they’d fought for those positions, tore their comfort from the teeth of their opposition, of their ‘greaters’- and had reaped the benefits. Now a teenager with a lithe, muscular frame, the young concubus was no whelp, and with nothing but a miserable excuse of a life to lose, he threw his hat into the ring of Club’s constant power struggles, practically gorging himself on anger and fear before each fight to grasp his single edge over those he faced: Head games.

“The cuts won’t kill you, but hesitation just might. Don’t let him get in your head.”

Oh, how Rook loved watching his opponents squirm, every little emotion, their trepidation, their concern, their fear of losing their status to some young upstart made him bloodthirsty. From the first unlucky two he’d challenged to a fight, his method rarely changed: shake them to their core, break their focus. He’d taunt them, infuriate them into making a foolish mistake- the only mistake he needed to put them down. Weaponless and unable to afford one, he chose instead to hone his fists, torn fabric wrapped around shards of glass and rusted nails to make each swing a more deadly hazard, cutting his own hands to pieces in every clash, wrists slick with blood each time he placed a foot on the neck of his fallen opponent. Each promotion was that one step closer to no longer living with the shameful gaze of those who thought he was nothing, something he had now come to loathe. By 18, Rook was a three of clubs, and had garnered the respect of those beneath him, somewhat renowned for his uncharacteristic kindness to his fellow lowrankers, it was his own bread that he broke now for the Ones struggling to get by, he held no ill will toward those he’d stepped on to climb up- it was the way life worked, after all, and those he left alive always had Rook’s respect. At least, most of them.

“...A Scavenger, you know that’s what you are, right? Scrappy little fucker picking fights you can’t finish?”

Rook’s promotion to a seven was unintentional, at least, as unintentional as the boy could manage. Now in his early twenties, Rook had comfortably settled at his position as a five, a dagger strapped to his hip and several tattoos marking his arms denoting his history and previous wins, the closest thing to a journal that the illiterate concubus could maintain to remember his experiences over the years. He’d liked the position, respected by the lowrankers and rarely bothered by the face cards, and most importantly, able to feed his newfound thirst for the emotion of lust, he likely would have held his position for the rest of his life, no hunger to climb higher than somewhere he felt comfortable, if not for the fact he had gotten brave and made a move on a pretty Seven at the tavern, satisfied to simply be rejected for acting out of his position, to feed on the disgust and shock at his mere implication he might be worthy- what he got instead: was stabbed.

The young man’s lover had seen the exchange, and not particularly pleased at the implication he could be replaced by a five of all things, had drawn his weapon and immediately challenged Rook. With no opportunity to prepare, and largely untrained with his own dagger, Rook was staggered, forced into fighting with a wound and a much more capable foe, his saving grace was liquor, their fight moving into the street before his competitor staggered on the steps, falling back just enough that he could close the distance. It was the same young man he’d flirted with who’d pulled him off, and it was the barmaid who tended to his wound that he celebrated with that night. He was a highranker now, and once more, that voice in the back of his head reminded him that he was still, in the eyes of some, unworthy- a fly to swat, a waste of air and turin. The drive that he had been able to abandon for so long had roared back to life, he would be antagonized no longer, made to look weak by those around him never again. And so, he trained.

“Fights like a man possessed, I tell you. Doesn’t even use a weapon half the time.”

His further climbing of ranks was slow going, but brutal. Unlike those he fought to ascend to Seven, he left none he fought for his next position alive, ten bodies of his fellows falling at his feet. He’d known what they thought of him, his promotion a fluke, that his rank never would have changed, if he hadn’t been aided by the mead coursing through the other Club. he proved them wrong over and over again, and as his rank ticked to eight, then nine, then ten, each one hard fought and won with fists more often than his weapons, his body became a network of ink and scars, each mark a new chapter in the story he’d committed to his flesh. By the time he challenged the position of King, Rook had come to be known as “Hyena,” a scavenger with a taste for blood and a brutality not to be underestimated. Now in his late thirties, Rook had stopped aging, and reached his full potential as a concubus, he fed like a king on lust and desire, low ranks and high alike charmed into his bed, honeyed words and drugs shared on wicked tongues in the dark, anger and fear fueling him in the ring. He had long played smart, his position of Jack taken from the hands of the foolish, the Queen rank choked out of a human who simply couldn’t withstand the physical onslaught- But his opponent for the position of King would offer him no such ease, a Strongarm with a history as bloodied as Rook’s own standing between him and his goals.

“Concede. Concede and we both walk out of here Kings. It’s a fair trade, Rook.”

Rook eventually stood over the bloodied body of the other King, planting his foot on the back of his neck with a primal howl, bones sore and broken, armor chipped and busted, but alive, alive and victorious. He was a King, standing now in the upper echelon of face cards with wounds that would eventually heal to show for it. He had proven with no uncertainty that he was no whelp, no refuse of the streets, and for the twenty years that followed- he would hold that position with a brutal efficiency. Rarely challenged for his title, Rook eventually ‘retired’ from his desperate climb for the top- and from his mercenary for hire work for extra coin. He settled on opening a tavern and working on learning how to read, the time not spent cleaning the bar spent reading and writing, practicing skills he never gave himself the peace to embrace as he was growing up. Still addicted to anything he could chew, smoke or drink, Rook’s tavern soon became a well known hideaway for those less… upstanding than most, an uncomfortable kind of peace formed in the awareness that the King running the place would sooner kill a troublemaker than huck them out on their ass. It was through the Tavern he became privy to, and eventually joined the Resistance, an ear to the ground in High Rank circles and many low ones given his position and occupation, Rook is an information broker, collecting and trading information to those who know how to stay on his good side. His hatred of being looked down upon eventually becoming a lust for true anarchy, no loyalty to Club or anyone but himself, for that matter. In Rook’s mind, there are two kinds of people, those worthy of and willing to work for their survival, and those who are better off crushed beneath the cogs of change.

In Recent Years

Rook has maintained his position as the owner of the Thronebreaker Tavern, so called for one of his early nicknames. He continues to pass information between members of the resistance and operates within High Rank circles only to gather intel, otherwise preferring to be left to his life of excess. Infrequently called to defend his position as a King, Rook has no interest in becoming the Ace of Clubs, and is satisfied to hold his place under a fellow member of the resistance, but he maintains his training regime, and is well known for his brutal removal of those who break the peace of his tavern for anything other than a fight for rank. His addiction to Chrono when he was younger has caused damage to his mind, making him quick to anger and difficult to predict in recent years, and while no longer using it specifically, he still partakes in most other drugs, usually while running the Tavern itself. His taste for anarchy continues to grow, and he’s reveled in the recent attacks performed by those in the resistance, the fear and uncertainty more than enough to sustain him and the general promise of more to come exciting to the concubus.

Personality

Rook has never had any love for the rank system, he climbed it simply because he had to, used it to get where he wanted to be, and treats those around him with that thought process in mind, the gangs and ranks mean nothing to him, a Spade One is as respected as a Heart Ace in his eyes, so long as they respect him in return. Those who are unfamiliar with his past find him generally polite and jovial, a bartender with hundreds of stories and a proclivity for offering drinks on the house if the patron’s got a story to share in return, an imposing man with a heart of gold, at least on the surface. Those with a familiarity with Rook know that his kindness is as much of a play for power as his climb toward King was, that he’s a cunning, calculated sort who never acts without thinking twelve steps ahead, and that telling him too much could get you in the sights of someone you don’t want looking in on you. While often calm and measured, Rook is not above his anger, and often allows it to overtake him with little warning, though if this is because of his drug addictions or his history is up for debate.

A horrendous flirt with a winning smile and a silver tongue, Rook’s truest vice is in the sins of the flesh, willing to trade more than a few things for a rendezvous in his bedroom, he isn’t picky about who he throws his chips in with, a behavior that’s gotten him in trouble before, and earned him an even more distasteful gaze than even his species has. Despite this, he’s warm and inviting, and keeps his friends close, loyal to the death to those willing to risk a friendship with the Hyena.

Congratulations Ring your app has been accepted and your invitation to the discord will be sent to you soon.

Please follow and welcome @crookxdrook to Kadeu!

#accepted;#follow;#colson baker

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bluedraggy · 6 years ago

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Darvan Argyn - A new kind of Paladin

We had another D&D game and Darvan was in it. So another Darvan sorta-story. Sorry, I don’t go into much detail here about what happened in the game. More about what happened in her head. Darvan is a 1st level lizard-girl Paladin. Technically, she leveled up at the end of this session so she goes into the next as a Level 2 Paladin - though what her kind of Paladin means, I guess we’ll have to find out!

She sat dejected in the tavern. The last few weeks had been absolutely awful, and she knew she was here primarily to drink those days out of her memory.

It had started out so promising too. When she met up with the Myconid, Shitaki, things were going so well as a Level 1 Paladin. Of course, at that point she had only the most limited set of skills, but her aspirations knew no bounds. Justice and order she would sow everywhere she could. She would hear her name, 'Darvan', whispered in the corners of the land where lawlessness and anarchy ruled, by the little people who dreamed of order and law.

But she would have to pay her dues first. To become the bastion of hope would require years of relentless training, experience and dedication. Still, if there was one thing she had, it was determination. Whatever might come, she would not deviate from her course.

And then it had all gone horribly wrong.

She opened her eyes, talons still grasping the large mug of ale and peered up over it's suds-covered rim. Cleetus. It was going so well till HE came through that weird sink-hole. When she'd acquired the gun and he'd shown her how to use it, she thought meeting him was the start of her rise to fame as she used its 40-caliber justice throughout the land. Instead, she hadn't fired it once since her training. Most times, she considered using it against him. He was chaos. Ultimate Chaos.

Since that day, their little band had grown. The gnome was every bit as bad. The horse seemed to have at least some sense of morality, even though she'd just shat on the floor of the tavern. Massive shit too! Still, at least she was embarrassed about it. Cleetus wouldn't have been.

She eyed the reptilian man that was in the middle of some argument with an elf of some sort. Not a member of her party, but he was a nice looking guy to her own reptilian eyes. She wondered idly if he would be turned off by her boobs. Most reptiles were. And that turned her on all the more.

She knew she was fucked up in the head in matters of love. That's why she'd become a Paladin in the first place. Her uniquely self-defeating libido drove her nuts if she thought about it too much. She was as lusty as any woman in existence, and yet, the minute the object of her affection might actually show some interest in her too, her lust turned to disgust. She couldn't help it. She knew it was fucked up, but she wanted only men who didn't want her.

She'd tried other females, but that didn't work either. She just didn't have the passion for her own sex. In the end the frustration had become so great that she just decided to enter religious life where the inner conflict at least would be suppressed by lack of opportunity. But they had sent her out into the world as a Paladin of justice. She'd taken the position with pride, finally seeing some point to her self-conflicted life. A goal she could strive towards that didn't require sex, even if it started out doing little odd jobs and looking for loot. Every great Paladin started that way, didn't they?

Then came Cleetus. What a fuckup he was. Addicted drughead that was always looking for the next chance at mayhem. But the gun was worth it, she'd thought at first. A ‘Glock’ he called it. 40 caliber justice. And now she was running around with a band of misfits, thieves and worse. And a big horse. Centaur technically. She liked the Centaur well enough, but then, compared to the other crazies, how could she not?

She looked at Shitaki. It - 'he' as she'd come to think of him despite a lack of qualifications - had become just as bad. He wielded his Hammer at the slightest provocation now. "Meteor Mallet" she called it. She'd liked him too. As a Myconid, he'd shown not the slightest interest in her sexually. She loved that about him. Too bad he was unequipped for anything else. But now he swung his Hammer around like Cleetus swung his bat at any provocation.

And then the fighting started. Of course. She knew that it would. She just sat nursing her ale, every minute feeling worse as she got drunker and felt what little remained of her self-worth oozing away as she - the supposed fighter for the common man - watched like a spectator as innocent patrons were rousted and beaten by her own 'friends'. When they set fire to the barman, she'd had enough. As she downed the last of her ale, she watched the reptilian slide out the door and followed.

She saw him round the corner and she gave chase. Maybe... this time maybe...

As she turned the corner herself, she saw a trap door close in the ground. Curious!

Nearby was a man watching. She was about to ask him if she knew the guy when some of her 'friends' came around the corner following her. Yup, there was Cleetus.

"Tired of murdering innocent people?" she thought to herself.

As expected, they began to pick a fight with the poor guy. When Cleetus raised his bat, something in her snapped.

"ENOUGH!" she screamed at him, and she levelled the Glock straight at the meth addict.

"Drop the bat Cleetus. This stops now!"

Of course, the bat was Cleetus' lightweight weapon. His real power was in the double barrelled shotgun she'd seen wielded once before. While her Glock could put a hole through anything, that boomstick would make things disappear into a shower of red and grey glop. She'd seen it bark once before, and the more she knew of Cleetus, the more she knew that he was the last person that should wield that kind of power.

And then she heard the gnome behind her. She looked out of the corner of her eye for just a second. It held a shotgun exactly like Cleetus' and it was aimed at her own head.

"Drop it, Boobs," the little man said, laughing all the while.

"What the hell?" she started. "Where'd you get..."

Then the shotgun disappeared and the gnome began laughing maniacally. It had been an illusion. But the click that came from Cleetus' direction was no illusion.

She lowered the pistol and sat down on the ground and began to cry.

"That's better," Cleetus said as he returned to the innocent man.

Her friends had all gone back to harassing the guy - for no reason whatsoever. But she'd gotten an idea. There were guards here! She'd seen some when they entered the town! She was off before they even saw her, looking for a guard. This lawlessness was more than she could handle, but it was their JOB to handle it! She might be only a level 1 Paladin, but she could alert the Authorities!

She left quietly and soon ran across a couple of people that could have been help, but their responses quickly made her realize that - even if she could enlist their help - they would probably be dead within a matter of minutes. No, she needed some real guards. So instead she asked and they directed her to one of the town entrances. There she finally found a real guard with armor and everything!

"QUICK!" she said as she screeched to a halt in front of him, not even caring at the way her body jiggled at the sudden stop. This was an emergency - no time to worry about niceties like that!

"There's a (huff) brawl at the tavern!... People (huff) DEAD!... Need (huff) help!"

"Can't," the big green guard grunted. "Gotta watch the road."

"But...," she heaved, trying to catch her breath. "DYING! MURDER!"

The guard's eyes turned back to the road. "Get off with you, bitch. I've got to watch the road."

Sanity left her then, but nature took over. Here was a man... a BIG man. And he did not want her. Her perfect man.

She caught her breath and began stroking his massive arm, making sure her breasts did just as much stroking as her talons.

"How about if I just sit here with you and we can watch the road together?"

The guard looked down at her as if at a cockroach. "Fuck off cunt! Get the hell away from me!" he screamed and flung her away bodily.

She hit the ground hard but in ecstasy as the mud splashed all over her face and body. His physical repudiation of her had sent her over the top. She felt both humiliated and perversely satiated at the same time as she sat in the mud of the road looking at his back. Her eyes rolled back as she felt mud drip slowly down her scales and she shivered involuntarily. She was in a sick and perverted heaven momentarily.

But after a few seconds her consciousness returned and her sex drive had turned into something else. Everything she'd been through came rushing back to her. The guard didn't see her eyes go narrow as his concentration returned to the road. She felt something on her hip, cold and metallic and she looked at it. She looked back at the guard, oblivious to her now.

She thought of the innocent people back there, dead, maimed or wounded from her own band of 'friends'. Her own sexual frustration. The mess that her life had become. She had put everything into this last thread of hope that she could salvage something meaningful from this, and this goddamned guard couldn't take his eyes from the FUCKING EMPTY ROAD.

She stood up, feeling the mud dripping from her tail and stepped 5 paces back.

She turned back towards the guard and knelt, drawing the Glock.

She aimed squarely at the back of his head.

She pulled the trigger.

It wasn't as spectacular as the shotgun had been. But it was just as effective. And with that, she gave up her concept of what a Paladin was. She would invent a new kind of Paladin. She still would fight for justice and law. But she'd also fight against incompetence and beaurocratic ineptitude just as hard. Maybe harder. And who knows? Maybe she'd evenutally figure out a way to get laid even with her self-defeating psychosis. There WAS still that reptilian who'd gone down that trap door after all...

Perhaps... just PERHAPS... the anarchists had a point.

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opedguy · 4 years ago

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Trump Defies Democrats/Media at Mt. Rushmore

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), July 3, 2020.--Threatening street protests at 74-year-old President Donald Trump’s Fourth of July bash at Mount Rushmore, president the Oglala Sioux tribal council president Julian Bear Runner cautioned Trump to not attend the event. Following Black Lives Matter protests around the country in the wake of George Floyd’s May 25 chokehold death, Native American tribes around have also been reminded of U.S. historical treatment of indigenous peoples. “Trump coming here is a safety concern not just for my people inside and outside the reservation, but for the people of the Great Plains. We have such limited resources in Black Hills, and we’re already seeing infections rising,” Mr. Bear Runner told U.K’s “The Guardian” newspaper. Whether or not Bear Runner has a problem with Mount Rushmore or the Black Hills, the days have long passed when his tribe held sovereignty over the area.

Comprising 2% of the U.S. population, Native Americans now want recognition for the historical mistreatment—including genocide—that was part of U.S. treatment of native Americans from Colonial days through the Wild West to current times. “It’s going to cause an uproar if he comes here. People are going to want to exercise their First Amendment right to protest and we do not want to see anyone get hurt or the lands be destroyed,” Bear Runner said. But like Black Lives Matter, racial or ethnic groups in America can’t have it both ways, claiming they’re an independent part of the country while, at the same time, claiming First Amendment Rights when it comes to their group. When Black Lives Matter and Antifa protesters seized six square blocks in Seattle June 12, they weren’t practicing First Amendment rights. Protesters threatening violence against the local, state or federal authorities are criminals.

If Trump’s campaign or any other lawful U.S. group wished to stage an event at any site inside the United States they don’t need permission from African Americans, Native Americas or any other group. Bear Mountain can’t claim cite the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights when challenging U.S. sovereignty, engaging it acts against U.S. laws, including rioting, looting, vandalism, arson, anarchy, falls under the 1807 Insurrection Act, authorizing the president to use federal troops to preserve order. Seizing property, violating local, state and federal laws under whatever guise is outlawed under the Insurrection Act to preventing revolution, rebellion, sedition, insurrection or lawlessness. Threatening violence, as Mr. Bear Runner warns, places him under U.S. laws banning criminal conduct. Claiming Mt. Rushmore or the Black Hills as sovereign Indian land is no excuse.

Native American tribe signed peace treaties with the U.S. government, including the 1851 and 1868 Fort Laramie treaties, require tribes and the U.S. government to resolve future disputes through U.S. local, state and federal courts. Redress for Indian tribes, like any other dispute, is through the U.S. Court System. “The lands on which that mountain is carved and the lands he’s about to visit belong to the Great Sioux Nation under a treaty signed in 1851 and the Fort Laramie Treaty and I have to tell him he doesn’t have permission from its original sovereign owners to enter the territory at this time,” Bear Runner said. Whether Bear Runner is serious or not, what’s left of the Sioux Nation is managed under the Bureau of Indian affairs. Mt. Rushmore, Deadwood, the so-called Black Hills are part of South Dakota, an accepted state into the United States Nov. 2, 1889, with all its rights and privileges.

Playing to the cameras, Mr. Bear Runner speaks only for himself, not for his tribal nation that has treaty commitments confining sovereign lands to federally designated reservations. Trump and his campaign has every right to stage a Fourth of July celebration at any legal venue inside the United States, not subject to censorship by Native tribes making political statements during an Election Year. If Mr. Bear Runner prefers former Vice President and Democrat nominee Joe Biden that’s his right as an American, not as a spokesman for his tribe. Whatever covenants were signed in 1851, 1868 or any other time, if Mr. Bear Runner thinks the U.S. government has breached its compacts, he’s entitled to redress through the courts, not threatening violence at a July Fourth celebration or campaign rally. Militant leaders can’t rewrite U.S. laws, whether they like them or not.

Militant groups like Black Lives Matter or those representing Native tribes must conform like everyone else to the rule of law, whether inside or outside their communities or reservations. New York’s Black Lives Matter Hawk Newsome said if he doesn’t get what he wants, then he’ll burn the system down. “If this country doesn’t give us what we want, then we will burn down the system and replace it. All Right? And I could be speaking . . . figuratively. I could be speaking literally. It’s a matter of interpretation,” Newsome told Fox New Martha McCallum June 26. While riots are sometimes tolerated, violent acts are not part of First Amendment protesting. “As a leader of the United States he has an obligation to . . .honor the treaties that are the supreme law of the land,” Bear Runner said, forgetting they he’s a citizen of the United States subject to the same laws.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma.

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opedguy · 4 years ago

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Native Americans Rebel on Fourth of July

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), July 2, 2020.--Threatening street protests at 74-year-old President Donald Trump’s Fourth of July bash at Mount Rushmore, Oglala Sioux tribal council president Julian Bear Runner cautioned Trump to not attend the event. Following Black Lives Matter protests around the country in the wake of George Floyd’s May 25 chokehold death, Native American tribes have also been reminded of U.S. historical treatment of indigenous peoples. “Trump coming here is a safety concern not just for my people inside and outside the reservation, but for the people of the Great Plains. We have such limited resources in Black Hills, and we’re already seeing infections rising,” Mr. Bear Runner told U.K’s “The Guardian” newspaper. Whether or not Bear Runner has a problem with Mount Rushmore or the Black Hills, the days have long passed when his tribe held sovereignty over the area.

Militant groups like Black Lives Matter or those representing Native tribes must conform like everyone else to the rule of law, whether inside or outside their communities or reservations. New York’s Black Lives Matter Hawk Newsome said if he doesn’t get what he wants, then he’ll burn the system down. “If this country doesn’t give us what we want, then we will burn down the system and replace it. All Right? And I could be speaking . . . figuratively. I could be speaking literally. It’s a matter of interpretation,” Newsome told Fox New Martha McCallum June 26. While riots are sometimes tolerated, violent acts are not part of First Amendment protesting. “As a leader of the United States he has an obligation to . . .honor the treaties that are the supreme law of the land,” Bear Runner said, forgetting that he’s a citizen of the United States subject to the same laws.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma. Reply Reply All Forward

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opedguy · 4 years ago

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Biden Insults Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), June 16, 2020.--Seventy-seven-year-old gaffe machine former Vice President and Democratic nominee Joe Biden continues to unload doozies on the campaign trail, telling a round-table talk in Philadelphia June 10 that George Floyd’s May 25 death had more worldwide impact that Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. King was the greatest civil rights leader and orator in U.S. history, not some hapless ne’er do well who happened to be martyred on video by a white Minneapolis cop for all to see. “Even Dr. King’s assassination did not have the worldwide impact that George Floyd’s death did,” Biden said, catching himself after making one of the most outrageous, insensitive, ignorant statements by a seasoned politician every made in public. George Floyd and Dr. King should not be in the same conversation but Biden somehow placed them together. Biden tried but failed to rehab his inexcusable comment. .

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was the inspiration to keep going sitting in solitary confinement for 25-years in South Africa for Nelson Mandela who eventually ended apartheid, becoming Dutch-South Africa’s first African President, but, more importantly, ushering in black rule. “It’s just like television changed the Civil Rights movement for the better when they saw Bull Connor and his dogs ripping the clothes off of elderly black women going to church and fire-hoses ripping the skin off young kids,” Biden said, trying feebly to undo the damage from his previous statement. Biden’s comparison of Floyd to Dr. King shows he’s no real student of civil rights making such an absurd statement. “If you have a problem figuring out whether you’re for me or Trump, then you ain’t black,” Biden told D.C. radio show host Chralamagne tha God May 22 on his “Breakfast Club” show.

Biden’s remark to Charlamagne tha God drew gasps for it’s patronizing tone, using slang to respond to a popular black talk show host. “You can’t do that to black media!” Charlamagne said. Biden walked back his comments one-day later, telling voters he doesn’t take black voters for granted, admitting his remarks were “much too cavalier,” a euphemistic way of saying they were off-the-wall. Biden mentioned nothing of speaking in Ebonic-like slang using the word “ain’t.” a demeaning way to speak to the popular D.C. radio host. Biden said no one running for president has a better track record than he does on civil rights. Yet, two weeks later, Biden says George Floyd ‘s death had a bigger worldwide impact that Dr. King, maybe the most outrageously ignorant statement by a seasoned politician every made. Biden tried to walk back his comments by adding more detail

Biden’s comarison of King and Floyd drew gasps. “What happened to George Floyd—now you got how many people around the country, millions of cell phones,” Biden said. “It’s changed the way everybody’s looking at this. Look at the million of people marching around the world,” trying his best to clean up any comparison to the very unaccomplished Floyd to Dr. King. “Someone inform @JoeBiden not to compare the death of Dr. King and George Floyd. He has been in office a very long time and no once has he tried to change anything for black lives. Look at his voting records!” tweeted former NFL Dallas Cowboy’s running back Hershel Walker. “MLK’s niece criticizes Biden comments: ‘Why is it necessary to compare Martin Luther King Jr. and George Floyd?’” Whatever the nation’s convulsive response to Floyd’s death, it paled in comparison to King’s death.

King was an internationally known civil rights leader, who, unlike any other world leader, inspired oppressed populations all over the planet. Floyd was an unemployed occasional part-time bouncer at Minneapolis El Neuevo Rodeo nightclub. Whatever’s currently happening on America streets, Dr. King wouldn’t approve of the riots, looting, arson and anarchy, especially the new militant Black Lives Matters who, together with Antifa, have seized six square blocks in Seattle’s neighborhood AKA “Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone [CHAZ] or more recently renamed Capitol Hill Ongoing Protests [CHOP]. Dr. King wouldn’t approve of the lawlessness and anarchy now sweeping American streets, demanding to de-fund the police. “It’s changed the way everybody is looking at this,” Biden said, throwing his support to Black Lives Matter, the front-group making demands to de-fund law enforcement.

Speaking today in the White House Rose Garden, 74-year-old President Donald Trump expressed a desire for police reform but made it clear he backed law enforcement around the country. If you listen to Biden pander to African American groups, he’s convinced that’s his ticket to the White House in November. But before he anoints himself president, Biden will have to answer questions about Black Lives Matter’s threat of more anarchy if they don’t get their way. Trump made it clear today that while no wants more police brutality, the country must let law enforcement do their job to maintain order in U.S. society. What’s happening in Seattle, backed by 69-year-old Gov. Jay Inslee and 62-year-old Mayor Jenny Durkan, turns the Constitution, rule of law and law enforcement on its head, letting radical groups control the streets. Biden’s now joined hands with Inslee and Durkan.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma.

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