#to volstead

[todaysdocument]

Act of October 28, 1919 [Volstead Act]

Record Group 11: General Records of the United States GovernmentSeries: Enrolled Acts and Resolutions of Congress

Sixty-sixth Congress of The United States of America;

At the First Session,

Begun and held at the City of Washington on Monday, the nineteenth day of May, one thousand nine hundred and nineteen.

AN ACT

To prohibit intoxicating beverages, and to regulate the manufacture, production, use, and sale of high-proof spirits for other than beverage purposes, and to insure an ample supple of alcohol and promote its use in scientific research and in the development of fuel, dye, and other lawful industries.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the Unites States of America in Congress assembled, That the short title of this Act shall be the "National Prohibition Act."

Title I.

To Provide For The Enforcement Of War Prohibition.

The term "War Prohibition Act" used in this Act shall mean the provisions of any Act or Acts prohibiting the sale and manufacture of intoxicating liquors until the conclusion of the present war and thereafter until the termination of demobilization, the date at which shall be determined and proclaimed by the President of the United States. The words "beer, wine, or other intoxicating malt or vinous liquors" in the War Prohibition Act shall be hereafter construed to mean any such beverages which contain one-half of 1 per centum or more of alcohol by volume: Provided, That the foregoing definition shall not extend to dealcoholized wine nor to any beverage or liquid produced by the process by which beer, ale, porter or wine is produced, if it contains less than one-half of 1 per centum of alcohol by volume, and is made as prescribed in section 37 of Title II of this Act, and is otherwise denominated than as beer, ale, or porter, and is contained and sold in, or from, such sealed and labeled bottles, casks, or containers as the commissioner may by regulation prescribe. [complete transcript at link]

[ncrediblechels]

[newyorkthegoldenage]

On January 23, 1923, prohibition agents thought they'd hit the jackpot at Luigi's in the Village when they seized $60,000 worth of liquor (around a million in today's dollars). But Luigi walked, having proved that the booze was "pre-Volstead stuff."

Photo: Museum of the City of New York (MCNY)

[autumnmobile12]

Defying the Volstead Act: Illicit Affairs

“We came to America for a better life and what did we find?  Enforced sobriety.” ~ Trevor Belmont

Castlevania Prohibition AU

I’m having way too much fun with this one.  Alucard is too powerful, Sypha is adorable, and Trevor’s just done.  Definitely gonna be drawing more characters in this au, stay tuned!

[wildbeautifuldamned]

After Meissen Aelteste Volstead Porcelain Monkey Band Figure Flute Player ebay Blue ho

[thepopculturearchivist]

Reflections on Prohibition. LIFE, March 11, 1926

[spockvarietyhour]

[readandwriteclub]

↑ thank you Biden Administration! Trump didn't have shit to do with that lol

[hennybee123]

HONEYBEETHEDJ

Volstead (2024)

Austin, Texas

[lackadaisycats]

Hi so sorry but uhhhhh I saw your ask saying “with few exceptions all the characters are the villain” and yes fair absolutely- but what about Freckle and Ivy? Freckle got roped into this and Ivy was raised into it, also not to pressure you but if you say they’re villains I’ll cry (kidding) (mostly)

Much of Lackadaisy is an exploration of very flawed, morally ambiguous characters. Many of them are deliberately orchestrating, knowingly engaging in, or knowingly accomplice to some very bad things (and I don't mean their disregard for the Volstead Act itself). The story is meant to explore a lot of the how and why they ended up in this place. There's an internal logic (or sentiment) to their behavior, but that's not really a justification for the violence they do. And my calling them 'villains' doesn't mean that their arcs necessarily exclude seeking disentanglement or making moves to do better.

Ivy and Freckle's interactions are set in deliberate contrast to what's going on around them and what they've become involved in. There's a point to that. I feel I'm doing far too much 'author attempts to explain their meaning instead of showing it' here, though, so I'll just leave it at that.

[valleydean]

Sweet Science [a Heavyweight timestamp]

Part of 12 Days of Smutmas Read on AO3 | Read Heavyweight For River

Part One: Sleigh/Slay

These days, most of the fans stood outside the arena, straining their ears in an attempt to hear the commentator’s booming voice from within over the honking car horns on the street. Somehow, they would find out the results of the bout and swarm beneath the marquee for the victor’s autograph—for a chance to relive even a fraction of the glitz and glamor that had slipped from New York’s grasp and shattered on the floor like a delicate pearl necklace.

In hindsight, the roar of the 1920s was always bound to be silenced. The ‘30s were more of a whimper.

Supper clubs shuttered their doors. Speakeasies were a memory of the past since the repeal of Volstead. Central Park was a city within a city, made of tents and campfires, as more people failed to pay their rent. Most couldn’t afford to feed their children. It went without saying that they no longer had the money to spend on frivolous things like tickets to boxing bouts.

Castiel had certainly felt the difference in his own wallet. Even as a four-year heavyweight world champion, the money was dwindling. The cash prizes were mere fractions of what they had once been. All over the country, fighters had to hang up their gloves and find day work in the factories and mills, vying for spare cash along with the rest of the masses huddled at the tall fences, hands covered in soot and oil.

Dean had even started picking up shifts at the car garage beneath Winchester’s Gym. Castiel had found himself alongside Jack in the shipyards of Brooklyn more than once, hauling imported goods from the barges to trucks. There, no one bat an eye at him. He was treated the same as everyone else who had been fortunate enough to find a wage for the day.

It was safe to say the glory days of boxing were over.

But, walking through the crowd of fans under the marquee beside Dean that night, it was easy to pretend they were still in the halcyon heyday of the sport. Dean had won his bout by knockout in the ninth round. There hadn’t even been the need for an eight count. The commentator had cheered through the speakers, “Pretty Boy Winchester slays the competition and wins the night!”

The crowd pressed in, practically throwing themselves over the barriers, waving pens and pieces of paper. All of them were wrapped up in patched coats and mended, dulled clothes that were at least five years old.

“Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester!” they shouted, trying to get his attention. Flashes from handheld cameras washed out the bandages and red cuts on Dean’s face in bursts. Stars were in Castiel’s eyes just from looking at him.

“Mr. Novak! Over here!”

Castiel scribbled his name on whatever was shoved into his face as quickly as he could. Distantly, he wondered how many of these autographs would be sold to make ends meat. Usually, he’d be happy to help feed a family for a day or two with nothing but his signature, but not tonight.

Half of his attention was constantly on the car waiting for them in front of the sidewalk. He needed to get home to pack. It was late, and he and Dean had planned to get up early to drive upstate.

In lieu of Christmas gifts that year, he and Dean had rented a room at a mountain house an hour outside of Manhattan. They would be there through the New Year. It would do them well, Castiel thought, to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city for a while. Besides, now that Sam and his wife, Eileen, had moved back in, in conjunction with working so much, it had been some time since Castiel had Dean all to himself. He was looking forward to it.

More than that, he was impatient for it. Logically, he knew rushing Dean wouldn’t bring the morning any faster, but it was worth a shot.

He shot Dean a look, silently telling him it was time to go. Dean seemed to get the message. He took a step back from the barrier and the hands reaching for him and shouted, “Merry Christmas, everybody!”

The crowd delighted in that, even though it was the day after Christmas.

Castiel waved toward them in general before beelining to the rumbling car. Exhaust coughed out of it into the late December air. Dirty snowbanks melted to slush on the sidewalks. He slipped into the backseat and shimmied over to the far door. Dean got in after him. The driver closed the door after him and started walking around the car. While he was out of sight, Dean grabbed Castiel by the tie and yanked him in for a hard kiss. Castiel melted into it.

He lingered close to Dean’s lips while he said, “Congratulations.”

The driver’s door clicked open, and Dean pulled away. It was a shame. Dean was so warm. The chill of the night hadn’t left Castiel’s bones yet. He rubbed his hands together. Out of sight from the front seat, Dean clasped his hand atop Castiel’s thigh and dragged it up and down.

The car started moving.

“Extra cash is gonna come in handy for New Year’s, huh?” Dean said, patting his breast pocket where the envelope of his earnings was stored. After his team was paid, he was left with a little left than $100. “I mean, gonna have to set some aside so Sammy and Eileen can buy groceries for the week, but—” He shrugged, like it was of little consequence.

Dean was no stranger to living with limited funds. He’d done it for most of his life. But Castiel had thought those days had been over for him. Dean deserved to not have to worry about such things.

“We can have a nice dinner at the inn’s restaurant. My treat,” Dean finished with a grin.

Castiel tried to smile at that, despite the guilt mixing inside of him at the reminder of their limited funds.

There was something Castiel had wanted to tell Dean during their trip, but he didn’t know how Dean would take it. After all, it wasn’t exactly the ideal time to retire.

But it wasn’t just the sport of boxing that had crested its prime. Castiel had, too. He was thirty-three years old, and every punch, every blow, every injury was taking a toll on his body more than it had before. His recovery time seemed to take longer after every bout, and many of the aches remained inside his body, becoming a part of his muscles and bones. He was getting slower, more tired. He’d even fractured his jaw again last year, and the bone still hurt when it was cold out.

He was getting old. At least, too old to be a professional athlete. It had taken a long time for him to let go of his pride and admit that to himself. After that, it was easy to make the decision.

He’d already told Michael and the rest of the Garrison team: next year would be his last.

It was time for a new champion to take his place.

He’d been putting off breaking the news to Dean. But he was running out of time. Balthazar and Gabriel were set to make the announcement public in the first week of the year. Castiel was tempted to let Dean find out in the papers, but that would only make Dean angrier. It was probably a bad idea.

“Well, then I’ll buy the most expensive thing on the menu,” Castiel attempted to joke.

Dean scoffed out a laugh. He squeezed Castiel’s leg and let his hand rest there, high up. His thumb stroked the inside of Castiel’s thigh.

The motion made all the dread of telling Dean about retiring drain away, at least for the moment. Castiel only focused on the heat of Dean’s touch. He met Dean’s eyes, seeing the suggestive curve of Dean’s lips and the way his eyes darkened.

Castiel became even more impatient to get Dean alone for days.

///

Bear Mountain House was a stone and wood structure in New York’s section of the Appalachian Trail. The spacious grounds were home to scenic overlooks, hiking trails in the warmer months, an ice-skating rink, and hunting and fishing cabins.

As Dean’s Chevrolet wound its way up the mountain, Castiel watched men coming in and out of the camps of hired workers. They tended to the grounds and roads, blasted rocks from the mountain to load into trucks to take the overlook tower they were constructing at the summit. Most of them were no doubt from the city, sending money home to their families when they could.

In the picnic area, the laborers huddled over the bowls of soup and bread that were being ladled out from a giant pot for lunch. There was a line of more hungry men waiting for their turn. The fluffy snow blanketing the mountain range was jarringly picturesque around them.

The view was much more fitting when they reached the mountain house. The inside of the lobby was both rustic and opulent with its high ceilings and grand fireplaces. Carolers in overcoats serenading the guests the lounge area with an angelic rendition of Silent Night.

Their room, when they reached it, was expansive, with furniture made of light wood and tartan blankets on the bed. The walls were paneled, and paintings depicting nature hung from them. Across the room, velvet curtains were drawn open over the large window. Castiel put his bag on the bed closest to the door and wandered over to peer out at the vista.

The sky was clear blue over the barren, snow-covered trees. Without the obstruction of their leaves, Castiel could see a glimpse of the gray Hudson River. Mountains rose up in the blue distance. It felt like they were lifetimes away from the city.

In fact, so high up, he felt as if he was floating far above the entire world. On top of it.

It may very well be the final time he ever felt that way.

Below, people in winter gear waded through the snow. His eyes landed on specks of tourists sledding down an incline. Others were ice skating in the rink. But what drew his attention the most was the red sleigh gliding over the snow, its bright color sticking out like a neon light. Horses pulled it, giving the visitors inside a ride. Castiel could hear the jingle of its bells muffled by the window.

Behind him, Castiel heard Dean set his own bag on the bed and pace closer. Two warm arms wrapped around Castiel’s middle. Dean pressed his chest to Castiel’s back and pecked a kiss on the back of his neck. Then, he hooked his chin over Castiel’s shoulder to look out the window.

“Not bad,” he remarked. Then, a touch more excited, “Hey, check that out.”

“The sleigh?” Castiel asked.

He felt Dean nod. “That’s pretty awesome. We should do that.”

Castiel set his hands over Dean’s on his stomach. “We can do whatever you’d like,” he promised. “Later.”

Dean hummed. “You got something in mind in the meantime, baby?” His mouth, hotter now, was on the back of Castiel’s neck again.

One corner of Castiel’s lips pulled up. Anticipatory heat curled through his abdomen. He turned around in Dean’s arms, circled his own on Dean’s waist. He splayed his palms on the small of Dean’s back. “Yes,” he answered before kissing Dean deeply.

Dean groaned contentedly into it. He tightened his arms around Castiel and turned them around, their shoes and knees knocking together while Castiel let himself be led. The back of his legs hit against the bed. Dean lowered him down on top of the covers. Castiel’s legs were bent over the end of the mattress. He rounded one hand around the back of Dean’s neck, used his fingers to card through Dean’s hair. He kissed Dean’s face, careful to give gentle attention to the cuts and bruises.

Dean hummed when Castiel kissed the bruise on the bolt of Dean’s jaw. Dean always loved when Castiel kissed his wounds.

“I love you,” Castiel whispered to him. Even after all these years, it was a thrill just to say it.

“You a sleigh?” Dean asked, apropos of nothing. He lifted his head slightly, grinning salaciously down at Castiel, who frowned in question. “’Cause I’m about you ride you.”

Castiel sighed at the terrible joke. It only made Dean rumble more in laughter. Castiel felt the vibrations of it where their bodies were flush together.

“Fine,” Castiel relented, yanking at the back of Dean’s shirt. He played along, “We’ll need a slick surface for that.”

Dean wiggled his brows, his green eyes alight and beautiful. “Got just the thing.” He pressed another long kiss to Castiel’s lips before getting up with a grunt and moving to fish through his luggage.

Castiel shimmied up the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn’t long until Dean was back. He tossed the jar of Vaseline on the bed and straddled Castiel’s lap. Dean unbuttoned Castiel’s shirt the rest of the way, kissing him again all the while.

Castiel took his time with Dean, just because he could.

Outside, the tinkling of the sleigh bells rang through the cold air.

[ask-jay-gatsby]

Can you drop a tutorial on how to lock the fuck in and get on that grind please. In dire need of assistance right now

POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922

Dear Old Sport,

If we're being entirely honest, there have been many occasions where I've dipped into the well of my own supply to, as you say, 'lock in'.

I don't mean anything voided by the Volstead Act, either.

Dope. Dope, old sport. I don't partake any longer, seeing as I now have something better to keep me up at night, but I recommend it in moderation.

Sincerely and emphatically,

Jay Gatsby

[autumnmobile12]

Defying the Volstead Act: We Play What We Play

The forge master duo and Lenore playing for the speakeasy.

Castlevania Prohibition AU

The trombone is a left-handed trombone.  I definitely did not draw it backwards.  Not at all.  Don't worry about it.

[sunflowercat333]

#sunflowercat333

#volstead #blackwomen #sunflowercat #ebonimayah #blackisbeautiful

[alphaman99]

FORGOTTEN HISTORY

A Daily Dose of History

Suggested for you  · 1d  ·

In 1920 the yacht building business that Bill McCoy operated with his brother Ben was struggling. So, Bill assessed the situation. He knew that he was a good sailor who knew how to make fast boats. And he knew that Prohibition had created a huge demand for liquor in the American northeast. Recognizing the business opportunity that presented itself, Bill McCoy seized it, becoming the king of the rumrunners, one of America’s most celebrated and notorious bootleggers.

McCoy bought a 127-foot fishing schooner capable of carrying 6,000 cases of alcohol and retrofitted it to make it one of the fastest commercial sailing vessels on the Atlantic coast. He registered his ship in Great Britain and renamed it “Tomoka.” He was in business.

He would load his cargo of spirits in Nassau in the Bahamas, then sail to the Jersey shore, anchoring between Sandy Hook and Atlantic City, just outside the three-mile boundary of international waters. Customers would come out to him in small boats that could evade the Coast Guard, and McCoy would sell them the booze in sacks that held nine bottles each. Ben McCoy would bring out supplies to the Tomoka, so that she never had to port.

McCoy made no effort to hide what he was doing. In fact, he welcomed the publicity. He boasted that he never diluted his product (as many bootleggers did), and that he never paid a dime to organized crime or to bribe law enforcement. And no law prohibited him from selling liquor in international waters. His enterprise was so successful that he soon added four more boats. In a little more than two years he sold an estimated two million bottles.

McCoy’s brazenness and his celebrity status infuriated government authorities, however, and they were determined to shut him down. In 1923, after first getting the tacit consent of British authorities, the Coast Guard was ordered to arrest McCoy, and to sink the Tomoka if he resisted.

On November 25 the Coast Guard cutter Senaca steamed out to the Tomoka and sent over a 15-man boarding party. When they were aboard, the commanding officer ordered McCoy to bring his ship into port. Instead, he set sail and raced away, with the boarding party still on board. The Seneca opened fire with her four-inch deck guns and the Tomoka’s crew answered with a machine gun set up on her forward deck. But as the shells from the Seneca started dropping closer to his ship, McCoy realized the game was up. He lowered his jib and surrendered. On board the Coast Guard found $60,000 in cash (about a million dollars in today’s money) and only 400 cases of the original 4,200 case cargo.

Once brought ashore reporters asked McCoy how he intended to defend himself against the charges. He answered with a smile, “I was outside the three-mile limit, selling whisky, and good whisky, to anyone and everyone who wanted to buy.”

But after two years of legal wrangling, McCoy ultimately decided to accept a plea bargain. He pled guilty to violating the Volstead Act and was sentenced to nine months in jail.

After serving his time, McCoy retired from rumrunning, returning instead to the boat building business. He also became a successful real estate investor and when Prohibition ended he cashed in on his notoriety by putting out his own brand of whisky, called “The Real McCoy” and featuring the Tomoka on the label.

William Frederick “Bill” McCoy, the King of the Rumrunners, died in Florida at age 71 on December 30, 1948, seventy-five years ago today.

[cigarsmoke]

A beautiful RoMaCraft Intemperance Volstead VO 1920 NOBLE EXPERIMENT 5 x 56 📦 Press! #RoMaCraft #cigarsmoke