#underthrow

[mitchumsstinkums]

Sometimes you just gotta commit to failure.

[allpromarlo]

to the dOLPHINS???

[ofsmokenandgold]

Land of Women Episode 5

More flashbacks - this time Julia, playing bitlles with Mariona to determine who gets Andreu - Julia loses deliberately because she knows Mariona really likes him - but it's not clear at this point if this is before or after she slept with him.

Later this is important because they have another game to determine whether the ladies have to listen to Gala after she has pissed them off once again, and Julia flashes back to the earlier game and deliberately underthrows thinking she's back 40 years before. It also results in a conversation between Julia and Mariona that leads to them working out their differences (Julia apologizes for sleeping with Andreu when she knew Mariona liked him) and to Mariona getting on Gala's side over the winery.

So Gala - she begins the episode bargaining with Tony to give him installments based on the profits from the winery - which she is absolutely not entitled to - but I can forgive that as a temporary stalling measure so Hank and Kevin don't kill them. She then lies about who they are and sticks Amat with housing them, instead of telling Andreu when she had the chance. And when she finally talks to Amat, he explains why he's so mad at her and tries to get her to come clean, but it just results in her lying some more and focusing on that fact he said he was worried about her.

They go into Day 8 with Amat trying to figure out who the guys are and finding a box of shells, so he knows they are dangerous. He goes in search of Gala only to be waylaid by Montse who wants to talk. And he's a total fucking arse again - he apparently blew off the date they had the night before and hasn't been answering her calls and texts. For someone who yelled at Gala for worrying him by not answering her phone, he's really blasé about the fact that he just didn't answer Montse because he "was busy". And actually, he wasn't busy - we see him standing at his bedroom window watching Kevin for quite a long time the night before - he could have called her then if he wasn't so focused on Gala. And he blows her off once again - he's too busy to talk - she doesn't fail to notice that the first place he goes when he's done with her, is to Gala's side.

Can I just say how much I love Ariadna Gil here - I don't know what the hell the writers/showrunners were intending, but she lets us know with face and body and gesture that Montse is deeply unhappy with the way she is being treated, even if she's too much of a mature adult to make a fuss about it. I have to wonder if she saw the way the story treated the character and just thought "Fuck it, I'm not going to let her be an NPC." But then, anyone who is cool and smart and interesting enough to have been in a relationship with Viggo Mortensen for the last 15 years, I'm sure knows how to craft her characters in ways that give them life and authenticity - regardless of what the writers are doing.

Eventually, Kate saves the day with her drawings of the women, and Gala finally apologizes and makes an impassioned speech about how special they all are and everyone rallies round to get the wine ready for Edna's visit.

And finally, Gala comes clean to Amat about what is going on and he says he won't let anything happen to her and that he trusts her to get them all out of this mess. Cue an almost kiss, interrupted by the arrival of Fred - nice timing Fred, I appreciated it, even though many others didn't.

So, I have to ask - why does Amat trust her? She's made consistently bad decisions, she's arrogant, stubborn, entitled and rude, her lies have put all of them in danger - especially if it turns out that Amat may have his own reasons for hiding out (see episode 6). And he's known her all of five days (we first see Gala the evening of Day 1; she meets Amat on Day 3 and this is now the evening of Day 8).

I get chemistry, I really do, and their chemistry is undeniably great, but it doesn't make up for careless storytelling. And this is really careless, she's given him no reason to trust her or even like her - but here they are about to kiss. It really makes him look like he's thinking with his dick. Yes, she's pretty, yes she's glamorous (even in "dirty work clothes"), yes she's new and different and exotic, but none of that is a reason to be this into someone you've known for all of five days and THEN we add on that he's already in a relationship (no matter how casual, it's still a relationship).

It's like the writers are SO focused on the romance and the relationship between the two principals that everything else gets either ignored, or twisted to fit the story of Amat and Gala's ill-fated (but of course, ultimately happy) romance.

But I shouldn't also forget that once again he's very pretty and is really rocking the layers - t-shirt, henley, shirt and waxed jacket.

[unroxyfication]

underthrows you

throws you

[outspeakings]

Unwitting shammer

Sometimes, in a talk ring, a thread may be talked about that only a few folk have indepth knowledge of, as they are outhwits in the field. However, it can happen that a head who is not a outhwit nor has higher knowledge on the underthrow, ends up saying truly outright and crafly insight, either by getting the word the outhwit was trying to remember, or by outspelling, for whatever need, some thread. This ends up making the head seems like a outhwit too, for the way, troth and flowing with which he spoke, when he, in truth, only happened to have this outright knowledge. This is a gripping thing I heed sometimes from folk, and even from myself. Talking about this with ChatGPT, he forset the termen "unwitting shammer".

At first, I heeded this with great firwit, with an awe for how things happen in a talk, but soon after I undergot that this outward outhwit meting can make not only the folk see the fellow as knowledgeable about antimbers, but also the fellow himself, falling into the Dunning-Kruger-fallout, and showing off along of this. Blatantly, this is a fully latsome thing to do, it nettles me. Eadily, I've never felt this, and I would ward this off, If I did. I'm glad I'm aware of this hapenning.

[pumathoughts]

Pain Thy Name is The Buffalo Bills

As my lovely wife and I were leaving the Cesar’s Sportsbook Lounge at Highmark stadium, walking into the frigid cold only western New York can offer, I overheard a dejected Bills fan say to another dejected Bills fan “you should talk to me, you look like you have a lot to say.”  You know what I have a lot to say. I have a lot to say yet no idea where to start. I was in the drive thru at Tim Horton’s talking out loud to myself trying to figure out what to say and I got so frustrated I let out a scream before I rolled my window down to say I had a mobile order. That’s what this team does to me. Makes me an irrational mess and affects my mood for days after a loss.

My wife and I wanted to go to the game, we splurged and got some nice seats in the aforementioned Cesar’s Sportsbook lounge, out of the cold. It was her first home Bills game, our first playoff game, and a bucket list item for me to see a Bills home playoff game. I felt good about the game, stressed and nervous like always, but I felt good right up until the Bills took a 24-20 lead with 3:23 left in the third quarter. I had a knot in the pit of my stomach. Too much time left to run out the clock, and not enough to make any significant stretch of a lead. I knew what was coming, I just didn’t know how it was going to present itself.

The Chiefs countered the Buffalo touchdown with one of their own, set up with a beautiful 32-yard dime from Mahomes to Valdes-Scantling to then set up a Pacheco TD run to take a 27-24 lead. The next sequence of events was just a sight to behold. 1st down an 8-yard Josh Allen run, 2nd down a James Cook run for MINUS 3 yards. 3rd down incomplete pass to Stefon Diggs. 4th down FAKE PUNT RUN WITH DAMAR HAMLIN. That’s right, a fake punt run, with a fringe special teamer, for 3 yards when they needed 5 yards, on their own 30-yard line. I don’t even possess the comprehensive thought to accurately describe how a conservative, defensive minded head coach in Sean McDermott, on his own 30-yard line thought a fake punt was a good idea in a 4-point game. Not to mention Kansas City only had 10 men on the field for it. But it happened, and we are worse for it.

So, the Chiefs take over on downs and drive into the redzone, and, as if it was a gift from whatever football gods take pity upon this sad franchise we root for, gave us a gift. After a 29-yard run by Pacheco to the Buffalo 3-yard line, Mecole Hardman as he was being tackled after catching a 2-yard pass, Jordon Poyer knocked the ball out of his hands and it rolled out of bounds into the endzone. A touchback, after Buffalo challenged the play for being ruled down, they won it, and THEY GOT THE BALL BACK! I don’t know why the NFL wants to change that rule, it’s awesome.

So, what do the Bills do with this magnificent gift from up above? Promptly go 3 plays for minus 2 yards and punt. Somehow, they force the Chiefs to punt on the ensuing possession. Then we get to the heartbreak.  The Bills first play on their final drive was a dime, A DIME, to Stefon Diggs and he dropped what would have been a 60-yard play. Then they somehow managed to go 54 yards in 6:40, narrowly avoiding a Josh Allen fumble along the way, to set up Tyler Bass for a 44-yard field goal with 1:47 left which he missed, wide right. Time is a flat circle.

Most may point to the underthrow of Shakir in the endzone that could have potentially won the game, but I’d say if you have defenders blocked into you and try to deliver a strike like that and you can’t do it, then you deserve to catch the shit Josh Allen is forced to catch today.

Josh Allen in 10 career playoff starts: 244/378 (64.6%), 2,723 passing yards, 563 rushing yards, 16 receiving yards, 27 total TDs, 4 INTs. The Bills are 5-5 with no Super Bowl appearances. Those 563 rushing yards are second in playoff history to Steve Young’s 594. Josh Allen has started 104 games in the regular and postseason. Sunday’s game was the fourth game of his career in which he didn't produce a single 20+ yard play. The Bills went 9/17 on third and fourth down and the Chiefs went 1/5. James Cook had 67 rushing yards entering the 4th quarter. His final four carries went for: -4 yards, -3 yards, 0 yards, 1 yard. Final count: 61 yards. Buffalo ended up averaging 3.6 yards per play in the 2nd half of each game versus Kansas City this year. Those were their two worst games in 2nd half yards per play on the season. But defensively there was a lot left to be desired. Ed Oliver & DaQuan Jones were held to 0 pressures on 38 combined pass rushes, Oliver's first game without a pressure since Week 13, 2021. Jones was double teamed on 12 of 17 pass rushes (70.6%), while Oliver had 10 one-on-one matchups vs Joe Thuney. The Chiefs averaged 7.7 yards a play, the Bills 4.7. Chiefs had eight plays of 20-plus yards. Sean McDermott ran off Leslie Frazier for less.

Now, I could rag on coaching but I think that speaks for itself. I’m going to go a different route. After the 2021 Divisional round game versus Kansas City, you know “13 seconds”. Brandon Beane made the proclamation that “we couldn’t get 15 on the ground.” So, Von Miller was signed, and the shift to get defensive help was made to do exactly that. The Bills lost to the Bengals in last year’s playoffs. So, we fast forward to the 2023 off season and free agency period. Now I’m going to list off the “major” signings, which includes the resigning of players who were on the team in 2022 and give you their contribution for this game:

Poona Ford

DNP (inactive)

Latavius Murray

3 rec. 27 yards

Shaq Lawson

1 QB hit

Damien Harris

DNP (I.R.)

AJ Klein

5 total tackles

Trent Sherfield

1 rec. 7 yards

Jordan Philips

No stats

Deonte Harty

1 rec. 3 yards

Taylor Rapp

DNP (Injured)

Dane Jackson

1 tackle 1 pass defense

Jordan Poyer

8 total tackles

Tyrel Dodson

8 total tackles

Cam Lewis

1 tackle

Tyler Matakevich

No Stats

AJ Klein was called up from the practice squad and Jordan Poyer is a constant so take him out of this but the 2023 haul of players to make us “championship caliber” left a lot to be desired. AJ Epenesa had 1 tackle too, I felt that needed to be said because there was talk about resigning him at one point this season. So, EVERYTHING that has been done defensively to “get 15 on the ground” left you with only 2 QB hits and ZERO sacks against Patrick Mahomes on Sunday. Offensively, the 30-something, journeyman RB shouldn’t have more receptions and receiving yards than your two receivers COMBINED but here we are. I wanted DeAndre Hopkins in the worst way for this team. What I got was Trent Sherfield and Deonte Harty to give me 2 catches for 10 yards in a franchise defining game.

To lay this all on Josh Allen is absolutely absurd. Allen had 3 total touchdowns, 72 yards rushing, 186 passing yards. He was one of the lone bright spots. I’m not sure Gabe Davis would’ve made that big a difference but the absence of Stefon Diggs (3 rec. 21 yards on 8 targets) was noticeable, but the big drop he had late was worse. Kahlil Shakir is emerged as a steadier target and Shakir the last 10 games has 37 targets with 462 yards. Diggs in that same span 80 targets with 422 yards. Defenses adjust I know but Diggs needed to be unguardable and he wasn’t. Josh Allen can only be as good as what he’s got around him. If his number 1 receiver isn’t making a difference, or at the very least hauling in the big catches, then what are we really doing here? Dalton Kincaid should be more involved. I don’t remember hearing his name in the second half. Dawson Knox isn’t worth the money he’s getting paid. Knox had 1 rec. for 4 yards. Where are the difference makers on offense? Where was this new play calling Joe Brady provided? Trying to keep the defense honest with runs with Cook, but his last for carries netted -6 yards. Josh Allen averaged 6 yards a carry. The Bills outsmarted themselves. They didn’t get the yards they needed when they needed them. Pacheco grinded out yards to kill the clock after the missed FG. James Cook couldn’t buy a yard with King Midas’ gold.

Now where do we go from here? Honestly it should be a completely new direction. Sean McDermott did a commendable job rebounding from a 6-6 start and firing Ken Dorsey, but 0-3 versus the Kansas Chiefs in the playoffs is inexcusable. Each passing year is a wasted opportunity, and with a Bengals team that didn’t even make the playoffs this was the year to assert yourselves with the Chiefs not even playing their best football. Yet, here is another year, out of the playoffs, by the same team that always knocks you out. Looking for answers but having to listen to the same loser post-game crap from a head coach whose defense has failed this team time and time again in the big moments. Is firing him the way to go? Maybe. Running it back for one more year is going to happen, but let’s not be shocked by the same result next year when this team inevitably loses to Kansas City again. It’s in this teams DNA. They can’t close. Josh Allen is the Philip Rivers of his generation. If the Buffalo Bills had any self-respect this would be the loss that kickstarts an absolute reinvention of self.

Championships are the goal. The ring is the thing. Wining franchises fire coaches for failing in the playoffs. Bill Belichick just got fired after 2 rough seasons with the Patriots. He has a hell of a more impressive resume that McDermott does. Now I got to sit here and listen to McClappy say it starts with him, he has to be better. Stop insulting my intelligence. This team, he is directly responsible for creating, has failed. His defense, failed. This was a masterclass in how far a coach can take you. The mindset should be it doesn’t matter who we play, you’re a team in my way of winning a Super Bowl. But we seemingly wax poetic of how nice it would be to win for the city of Buffalo but we have to go through Kansas City to do it. This year Kansas City had to go through you! Instead of getting 15 on the ground and moving on, number 15 went right through you again and he didn’t look back.

[caffeinesam]

Fuck overthrowing, let's underthrow authority

[domovoivideos]

Gta 5 Online - Project UnderThrow - Long Play - 10

[stigmvtas]

If Mercy saw him now - he'd laugh his ass off, probably; Ducky being played by a pretty blonde with nothing else to do, apparently - and him falling into the trap seamlessly. Poor instincts - when it came to just about everything except business. Even then - sometimes that, too. "Um - yeah, sure -" Almost dropped the ball as she passed it along, hand a little too quick to move away from Scarlett. "It's just, you uh - you gotta do a bit of a fucking - crouch. It helps, I swear -" Ducky mimicked what he said, "Then you just um - move arm back, then uh - roll the ball, forward - out? Like - an underthrow."

Scarlett wouldn't typically spend more than five seconds talking to a guy who gave her such an... off... energy, but she was intrigued more than anything. He seemed to have something about touch, and she was curious if there would be any shift in reaction if she kept doing it. "Do you think you could show me how?" she asked, picking up one of the balls and placing it in his hands, letting her fingers linger on his skin. She obviously knew how to roll a ball, this was a game that children could play, but she was playing a different game altogether.

[kala-ya-aan]

THE CREED MANIFESTO v. 0.1

I do not consent to government, of any kind, whether that's a colonial home rule government, a monarchy, an empire, a dynasty or a bunch of village idiots, because the idea that someone can rule over another against their will, for any reason, be that popularity, might, or divine right, is inherently flawed.

Each and every human is endowed with inherent rights that are not granted by a crown, an antique piece of paper signed by a bunch of wig wearing dicks, or by degrees, ethnicities or monetary value....they are inherent in our very existence.

Anarchy is called "anti state" but what it really equals is "pro human".

Every human is born sovereign.

And you don't have to be violent or loud to be an anarchist. You just have to accept you do not have authority over others and act accordingly.

To rise against and resist we must rise above and exist. And that's the idea behind underthrowing the system. We don't have to violently overthrow the system. We just have to live outside it and be prepared to defend ourselves and our loved ones when the time comes.

Its a valid question. And for those of us who cant Bundy ranch it, there are times when we engage with the state peacefully.

But there are many things we can do TODAY to underthrow the state. For one we can overgrow it.

What do I mean, you ask?

😉👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽

[runningwithhellhounds]

The year is 1672 and Keith Kogane is accused of witchcraft.

This can’t start with a dialogue. It starts like this:

Lance is cutting across a meadow to the forest line, and then stops when he spots four village men on the footpath. Two men are holding onto a boy's upper arms, whose eyes are downcast. Whose stride is purposeful.

Lance passes the bucket of peels from one hand to the other. Hoarfrosted grass cracks under his feet. The men couldn't see him from the road unless they really looked, with the hazelnut trees covering him, and the men are not looking; one of them tugs an arm and the boy's rhythm breaks. The boy doesn't look up.

He knows this moment will be replaying in his head in empty moments. Because it came as on overthrow when he expected an underthrow. At eighteen years old, Lance has learnt the shortcuts, because he wants a faster way through, because repetition has started to calcify his body and he wants a faster way through.

When things like that happen, they happen like secrets: everyone knows and cares in the way one cares for secrets. People don't really care.

Except. Except Lance knows the boy is eighteen-to-nineteen; doesn’t wear a hat when he goes outside; except Lance knows his name, because Lance knows things, because his mother calls him curious and it's different from nosy.

Because people talk. People say: Keith is an illegitimate child, born out of wedlock in a tavern or a stall or in the shadow of a cherry tree, and left to grow in the dust of the streets.

People say: Keith is Shirogane's brother, by roof-sharing and hands clasped on shoulders and shoulder-punches and everything not blood. Shirogane had enough space in his heart to make up for the absence of space in his hut for a boy who never says hello on the streets. Shirogane has joined the Habsburg Imperial Army and threw a fit when he had to leave Keith behind, walked all the way to the tenant-in-chief, and then wrote a letter to the chairman of the state himself.

People say Keith knows the forest better than the village and couldn't get lost off forest trails. Lance has seen him at the mouth of the forest, a hatchet swinging in hand. And Lance has hesitated at the forest line, sunlight ending on his back, thinking others' words: it's not safe.

Now Lance sees him from close and sees tufts of hair falling in his eyes. Notices the face mark – and then it makes sense. Isolation and being different aren't safe. Lance knows things and he knows who the men are.

Keith is eighteen-to-nineteen and he will not have even come of age by the time Lance will.

Lance stands hidden from the pathway, bucket handle still cold in his hand.

*

He keeps wondering, though. He wonders whether he'd see Keith's house trashed if he walked by. Whether Keith was something to hunt down.

He wonders if Keith is so ghostly because he's always in the shadows; Lance's own darkened skin would explain that. Lance is the colours of a breaking autumn, that is: somewhat behind. The tautology of his thought has been somewhat behind, but now he is wondering about Keith, anew. He bets Keith's hair doesn’t get lighter in summer.

Two days later, he hears someone else mention the trial. It’s like this, some people mention it and some don’t. Maybe because of the uncomfortably thin line between knowing and being. Lance feels uncomfortable.

During Confession, he lies and doesn't feel bad about it, then feels bad about not feeling bad. Maybe he shouldn't, though. Priests who have been coming to their church, with city accents, say quite honestly and call that honesty.

He receives his absolution and then steals the pastor's keys.

*

Going before nightfall is a simple choice. Lance can feel the blue hues of dusk on his skin, and people might still be around, but – darkness blinds, alright.

He notices he’s trying to walk soundlessly, and that is false stealth. Revealing stealth. Shut up, he thinks at his boots, and steps on a twig.

It’s there: the bare-brick church extension that Lance has seen used for funerals. For storing bodies with soulless mouth curves and walnut pies and poppy seed bread, pretty things. What a cut-throat irony.

As he walks, he stretches his sleeves over his fingers. Like he's cold; not like he's clutching a set of keys. They feel like rusty metal, which makes Lance loosen his grip. He knows of a woman who has died from an axe cut.

What a cut-throat irony, huh.

He passes the church entrance and steps off the beaten path, onto grass and dry mud. This contrast: mud and bricks. Mud fits with death and funerals. Bricks, though. Should be too luxurious. For death sentences. Four keys are attached to the key ring; he'll have to test them one by one. Maybe the one with a smoother surface is—

And he falls hard.

The door slams into him and he falls hard – falls with the door atop him, the boards breaking apart.

He hadn’t, but he could have imagined it just like this: a body is framed by the doorframe, like a saint statue in front of stained glass. Lance would recognise just the outline.

Keith takes a step back.

He’s breathing shallowly, and Lance wonders which one of them seems more real to the other. Lance is fixated as Keith’s gaze sweeps the surroundings, and starts when Keith looks at him again.

''Sorry,'' Keith says and starts striding away.

''Wait,'' Lance says. Keith doesn't turn. Keith's arms encircle his body as though he was guarding his possessions. He starts running, and Lance runs after him. ''Wait, I'm helping you.'' He holds up the keys.

Keith stops. Nothing falls out of his arms uncoiling when he turns.

''Thanks? I need to—'' Keith blinks at his unfound words and then gestures at the church.  Lance needs a moment to realise Keith isn't pointing at him. Feels like a flinch at being pointed at. Them standing like this, eye to eye, creates the duality: Keith, edged, Lance, an idler. It's not true. It's not nice, to dispute someone's truthfulness just by being nearby.

Lance opens his mouth, but Keith walks off, again. Across the meadow, making Lance think, this is what we are, huh, stretched across a meadow.

''Hi, uh. I'm Lance. What’s your—'' he stops, because he thinks Keith so loudly.

Keith ignores him.

''Hey. Hey. Where are you going? It's too dark for the forest. Hey. Walking right—'' Keith turns suddenly, and Lance almost crashes into him, the energy in his fisted hands vanishing too slowly. They both take a step back.

''Look — why are you following me? Stop.''

Your senses are innervated all wrong, Lance thinks.

''I'm trying to help.''

Keith glances at Lance's hand enclosing the keys. ''I don't need it. Thanks.''

''Literally,'' Lance starts, stops. ''Where are you going, the forest?''

Keith tries to kick the mud off the soles of his shoes, face scrunched up. Some flies into Lance's legs and Keith’s face smoothens a little. Still doesn't look at Lance.

''What about bandits,'' Lance says.

Keith shakes his head. And then moves so slowly, barely perceptibly, but Lance picks it up; the slow bent of knees, into a maybe-fighting stance. A ready stance. And Lance processes it slowly like pressing on a pressure point, wishing for a skilled reflex. Instead, he grabs a handful of soil. As defence. As an explosive projectile.

Keith breathes out before abruptly stepping away. He looks surprised.

''Wait,'' Keith says. ''I'll just walk away. Okay? I can’t give you anything.''

''Wait,'' Lance says, and it ends up being a repetition, but it's not. ''Wait. I don't want anything.'' Jesus. A hypocrite. His own judgements about senses are obviously beyond his judgement. Get the hell attuned. Listen for a damn second.

''Okay,'' Lance says slowly. It feels like placating, and that’s rich coming from him. ''You live on, like, the other side of the village. I live closer. There,'' he points.

The silence feels long, thickening, the breathing of Lance's heart quickening. The soil in his hand feels stupid. He resists the urge to look at the grass that's caught in it. Keith shakes his head.

''No what,'' Lance bites, and Keith looks at the forest.

''They took my jacket.'' It's pushed through his teeth.

''I have a jacket,'' Lance offers.

Keith shakes his head again but doesn’t divert his gaze, and Lance thinks, there's something there.

''This isn’t a joke,'' Keith says lowly. ''What do you want?''

''Nothing. I don’t know,'' Lance replies honestly. ''But I can give you a jacket.''

Under the weight of Keith's consideration, he hopes he looks truthful. The meadow is at this time is short and mud-clamped and faded and dead.  The grass is dying with winter and things are waking up under Lance's skin.

He's angry. Angry, maybe, or maybe canceling the falling quality of his organs, and now everything is in his chest. He's the promise of a glint of a sickle. Not a joke, yeah. He lied because of this.

''If you call anyone,'' Keith starts. Then exhales, and Lance thinks, yeah. He is too all half-finished thoughts. He would too be in trouble. Please. They’d both be dead. Watch him.

''I won't,'' he says, seriously, and it’s a promise.

*

They walk in silence. Fast and intentional, and Lance wonders whose intention is more defined. This feels like pretending, which is again a lie of a feeling. He feels on the edge of his silence. Too many questions to ask. And Keith — who knows? He has the confidence of nobility but a tongue too tied.

Maybe this is why Lance says: ''We're building a chimney,'' when they step over the stones in their yard. Keith doesn't say anything. Lance speeds up, arms folded.

Once inside, Lance watches Keith take in the rosary on the wall and the sunflower on the table.

''Wait here,'' he orders, or requests, or maybe he still feels the unrealness of his act. He can figure it out. He pulls his second jacket out of the chest in the loft, with a hole on the elbow. Brings water for both. He can figure out how to help. Even if Keith doesn’t know what he needs. Lance is good at picking up the sides of people unknown to them and make it a gift when he wraps them right and they're accepted with a crooked smile and eyes spelling enchanted—

But Keith has just not been saying anything.

Lance brings bread, a little too dry, and a handful of dried apple slices and shoves them at Keith until he offers his palms. God. Keith is just looking at him. Lance shoves too many into his own mouth.

''What are you gonna do?'' he asks around them.

''Go somewhere. Away,'' Keith answers, looking like he knows what he's saying is inescapable anyway. Should Lance be feeling more of, what, empathy? Less fizz, maybe. Keith doesn’t look like he wants empathy. Lance is good at reading people.

Lance nods, with his whole body, bouncing, feeling like he's stalling. Keith eyes the jacket in Lance’s arms.

''Can I,'' Keith starts and hesitates until Lance almost says just say it, can you what. ''Can you give me a knife,'' he says, not entirely a question, a little skewed, a little far from the side of questions.

''A knife?'' Lance repeats, somewhat alarmed. ''To what, skin dormice in the forest?''

''Well, yeah,'' Keith says, immediate, and Lance thinks, okay, alright. ''Look, you could go to my house and take something. The house isn't mine but you can look if you find— I'm not sure I have anything though.''

''Yes, you do,'' Lance says instantly, stubbornly. Because if there wasn't anything about Keith, they wouldn't be looking at the large air hole in the bread Lance is holding halfway out. Because he imagines a tint of sadness. Because of the vicarious blandness.

''So what do you want,'' Keith asks. A little darkly.

''Nothing. I don't want anything. Keith,'' Lance says. He pushes the jacket into Keith's hands and starts buttoning his own.

''What? You can’t come with.''

''Well, but I am, aren’t I,'' Lance says, with a forged copy of confidence. He couldn't say, but I’m hooked. But this feels irrevocable. But you’re real and I feel real.

Keith licks his lips and turns his gaze to the side, away from Lance. Lance sees it, he does, why it was him. The line of reasoning goes like this: it starts with destroyed crops. In winter, crushed buckwheat tastes like a broken oath, which is to say, it's not something to taste at all. Keith is somewhere in the middle. It ends with the law: harm inflicted by witchcraft is to be compensated by burning at the stake.

*

They walk to the forest. Lance doesn't know why. He has heard people have gotten impaled on a stake and left to die. Some people have gotten sold into slavery.

They make a fire, which they probably shouldn’t, but Keith just goes for it, while Lance blinks through the – something. A magnitude. They sit down on dry leaves and ivy and moss and lean on waist-high rocks. Lance thinks: are we supposed to relax now?

''What about bandits,'' Lance asks, again.

''I’ve seen their tents,'' Keith replies, and Lance thinks, that’s not great, is it, but then Keith adds: ''They’re not here.''

''Okay,'' Lance says. Makes his shoulders untense, but it’s cold, so he sits back up, tight.

He has a million questions. All welded to his breaths. How does he breathe them out? It keeps being just breathing.

He rolls a leaf of a deadly nightshade between his fingers. It grew on the way, the jaws of the forest. He holds it up.

''It makes you see things,'' he tells Keith.

''What things?'' Keith asks. Not with reciprocated caution. Not secret-like.

''Do you think I'm a—''

'I don't believe in witches,'' Keith says.

And Lance realises: the way Keith holds his gaze is a form of caution. No – it’s very deliberate. A secret in itself.

''Okay,'' he says, again.

Here is a secret: Lance knows more about hallucinogenic plants than a magician priest. He knows about ointments, but – he doesn't know what to believe in, and – doesn't use them, either, with no belief-ground to stand on. He calls that stagnant knowledge.

It's something he doesn't tell his family. His sister has put a forked stick in his hand and said, draw on the ground how much you love me. Lance stores village rumours to tell as goodnight stories, and he'd burn the whole of cultivable land for them. Breathe in the ashes. Of course he'd coat a foul interest in something nicer. Of course he'd keep his mouth closed.

And now he's telling Keith. Because Keith stands outside of law? Because the fire is melting Lance's better sense, huh. Huh.

''It would be easier for you if you went to church,'' Lance decides.

Keith shrugs, inspecting his laces. Something about that is so bothersome. ''It doesn’t matter, I guess. I didn’t confess. I got out.''

The way Keith looked at the keys in Lance’s hand. Lance says: ''Anyway. It’s a travesty of justice, anyway.''

Keith raises his eyebrows at him.  And Lance is caught thinking about how he used to ask his mom to sew collars like royalty onto his shirts. He thought Keith’s silence translated to stupidity, thought that he saw through. Stupidly, an hour ago, he thought: Keith, temptation, Lance, redemption. He had felt good using words like travesty. But now he thinks: what does that translate to?

''Do you believe what they tell you? That—'' Keith looks at the flames and Lance watches them flicker in Keith's eyes. ''I don't know, buying indulgences?  And talking to toads, and that.''

Lance throws the night shade into the fire. Maybe it’s really not the fire, with how much Keith feels like causality.

''Because you say things like that,'' he says. ''You can't just say things like that.''

''That's why I don't,'' Keith says, then frowns and looks sideways.

There's something compelling about the flames, transforming matter like rebirth that light-boned boys like Lance yearn for; flickering and cracking in a pattern no man with a diploma from Vienna can predict. It makes Lance not matter, and not mattering okay. It feels like — like the first night-chilled breath that fills your lungs when you step away from an overcrowded room, through the door, and let your body fall into resonance with cricket calls. It feels like relief.

''So what’s the plan,'' Lance asks. All bare this time.

''What's my plan?''

Yeah. Nosy. Lance? He’s a bit weird. Intense. Nosy.

''That's what I asked.'' He watches Keith watch the flames.

''I don’t—'' Keith shakes his head. Lance nods.

''You could be imprisoned,'' Lance says absently. Keith looks at him slowly and it takes Lance a moment to register the weight. ''No, I'm just telling you. That's how it is.''

''I would be burned,'' Keith says, plain as a field. ''Sacrilege and all that. Purification and all that.''

Lance, a collector of pretty things, thinks of that: how extravagantly these words fall down a tongue, the sound of them a luxury Lance haven't had the chance to chase, always burning away getting soil behind his nails, always mudding his clothes, leaving white shirts to Sundays and making him hate how they feel like play-pretend—

''I'll find Shiro,'' Keith announces.

''You couldn't,'' Lance says. ''How?''

''Watch me,'' Keith says, and it works as an answer.

Keith touches the back of his hand to the wound on his cheek, then with his sleeve, and Lance says, ''You should clean that.'' Clears his throat. Keith narrows his eyes at him.

''I'll do it,'' Lance says then, too quickly. Looks at his fingers, dirty, and his shirt, the same. He clears his throat, and it feels like again. Pulls his handkerchief from where he has it tucked under his waist, and then he thinks about that, and then he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

''No, never mind, do it yourself,'' he tosses the handkerchief into Keith's lap.

They both watch the burns on Keith’s hands. Not overawed, shut up.

Lance thinks: this is empathy. Don’t call it— don’t call it what it’s not. Dreamy reasoning, that is, the reasoning of a boy asleep. He is not, okay. Unlike what people think: that he acts without the thought of consequences. But it’s all so deliberate. And they are bullshit deducing.

He has found a word for himself, the sifted form of his mother saying head in the clouds: wishful.

They both watch the burns, and Lance thinks: so we have that too in common, huh.

Keith just doesn’t– ask anything about Lance. It’s frustrating. But he’s scowling, hugging his knees, and he has lived alone, word has it, and he has burns on his hands, and these must be things Lance doesn’t understand.

''We could,'' Lance offers, revealingly tentatively, ''wait until dawn in my house. It’s safer. And warmer.''

''I can't sleep in your house,'' Keith says.

''I'm not giving you my bed.''

Keith bites his lip and Lance has to stop himself from mirroring that. ''Look— what's your name?''

Lance freezes. A wave rolls from his core up. He is – so sick of feeling like the wrong superlatives.

He stands up, but is tugged back by his sleeve. ''Sorry, I just, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry. What’s your name?'' Keith looks flustered. ''Sorry.''

Lance pulls his arm back. His voice is steel. ''Lance.''

Now he is the one to raise his eyebrows. Thinks: how funny.

''Lance. You have a family. You can't be serious.''

''I’ve told you before.'' Steel. But he’s thinking: told you what? I don’t know.

''What,'' Keith breathes. In a small voice.

''Whats your problem? You can't be serious –it’s my house, not an— not an, I don't know, a cathouse, I'm not inviting you into my bed, so I don't get what your problem—''

''Bark beetle,'' Keith jokes. He stands up. Lance stands up, too.

Keith shakes his head – but goes, because he's eighteen and without a name that would give him anything.

*

Lance holds out the blanket. ''Here.''

''Hello,'' Keith says absently, dumbly, and then he takes it. He unfolds it, shaking it, and brings it to his nose; and Lance is suddenly aware it must smell like smoke, but so does his and—

''Ouch,'' Keith turns to look at the wall at his back. It must be a nail, Lance knows there are nails hammered into the walls of this stall, in places that don’t make sense.

''Watch out,'' Lance says in reversed causality. Then sneaks out, sneaks back in with his hands full.

''Bread and milk, baby,'' he says. Keith makes a mhm sound. Lance thinks: okay.

The air of the stall is irritating. Keith looks surprisingly calm. Lance – feels hyperaware. The undercurrent of this space contains so much of his life, and he has Keith in it. Lance has carved an L into one of these walls to self-permanentise.

He wants Keith to be interested in him.

''Are you not—'' he starts, then stops before he says something deleterious. Makes a fatal mistake.

''Am I not what?''

Keith's small frown is all in Lance's mind, and Lance is obligated not to look away, because that would be telling. He needs to stop not having reflexes. He's stumbling too much. Never knows how to catch himself.

''Nothing,'' he says, thinks, damn. Keith raises his eyebrows and Lance extends his hand in front of Keith's face front of his face, and Keith flinches back, and Lance flinches, too.

''God, sorry,'' Lance realises he touched the hurt skin. He lightly touches the skin around the wound as remedy, on impulse. Keith is still, again with that dumb spacey expression.

Lance leans back heavily. The silence is something that burns with smoke and he's caught on that spaciness. It's so intriguing.

''That feels nice,'' Keith says, gaze fixed on the hand that Lance withdrew. Lance catapults.

''The unpredictability of it, right?'' Lance says. A fatal mistake.

''Oh? '' Keith voices smugly. Because he seems to take it as a compliment, in a way Lance doesn't understand, and now Lance is half-dead.

Everything about this. He has the last few hours playing inside him, all at once.

''You could buy an indulgence,'' Lance jokes.

Keith's eyes sparkle and Lance feels his chest curve inwards the way it does when he's watching the stars.

''Bullshit,'' Keith says, and his eyes sparkle, and — Lance finds himself seeing more and thinking what if's as if Keith was a damn sky, and maybe it's the strayness of shooting stars he's drawn to. Maybe it's the life he doesn't have.

Lance makes a little hay-nest for himself and watches out for nails. Him and Keith fall quiet. He can’t fall asleep.

*

In the morning, Lance panics. He wakes to a hand shaking his shoulder and his name hooking right into his brain, and he ghostly opens his eyes. The thumb on his collarbone is just a pressure, static, and shouldn't feel like that; like his collarbone is a rewarding body part to have. Then there is a quiet and distanced thump and Keith drops his hand and Lance panics.

Keith stands up steadily, in the way Lance has learnt, too quickly, to take as reassurance. Reassurance that throws his heart rate over the steep rock face and into expectation. He notices Keith has folded his blanket, placed atop a hay bale, centred and aligned with the wall.

The thump must be his mother awake. It must be handling pots. Maybe she's pushing her sleeves up right now, the way she always has and the way that had little Lance imitating, possibilities on the tip of his mind. Maybe she's dividing her hair into two and twisting both sides, then tying them together and turning them inwards and the way that mesmerised Lance ever since he remembered to pay attention one day when he was thirteen. Maybe she's squishing her cheeks in the way that makes Lance think that longing is contagious.

She must have noticed Lance wasn't home last night. She must worry.

''You're not going,'' Keith tells him, reading into something that Lance thought he folded between the fabric of his own blanket, ''you have a family.'' And Lance, who has waited a lifetime to prove something, says, ''Watch me.''

They could study in Vienna, or Prague, or Bologna. They could become knights.

His sister has called him a misfortune – Lance, a boy among his five sisters. Lance, with the length of whose legs there's never quite enough space when the six of them sit on the fireplace. His grandmother greets them by where are you, vermin, and thinks she's hilarious. Lance has a lot to leave behind.

Keith biting the inside of his cheek is all the unbeautiful words Lance has never liked. Lance is intrigued.

''Are you going to — are you going to say something to them?'' Keith looks uncertain. Lance sees so much sympathy, the sole observation insults village rumours, or maybe the rumours insult him.

''Nah,'' Lance says. He can't.

At the end, he doesn't take anything from home; the payment day is in five days, and increased tax has been flowing into military defences. Lance works on the field, so he knows. Shiro is gone, so Keith knows.

''Keep the jacket,'' Lance says, and Keith shoves his hands deep into the pockets, like it's something dear, and it makes Lance's heart ache. He's turning around, looking for a way to ease the hurt while Keith just watches him, looking calm and taut at once. Keith glances outside, and Lance gets it, he does. He ends up pulling the hay from where it's bundled and arranges it into a smile on the floor, as a message, as easing worry. He feels better once they step outside.

They are waiting by the road, just outside of the village. Lance knows of a man that rides out a few times a week. If today isn't one of the days—

''I don't know,'' Keith sounds irritated and it surprises Lance. ''Like, I guess I don't get it. I'm going to Shiro and you just—'' he drags the backside of his hand over his cheek, looking away instead of finishing.

''We could go to the city,'' Lance says, not wanting to think about that, could like helium, like head in the clouds. ''Have you been?''

''I’ve been,'' Keith replies and drags the tip of his shoe through the dirt, leaving a line. Self-permanantisation. Says it like it's nothing. Like city curfew laws aren't intriguing, being something that can be broken.

''What is it like?'' Lance asks, casually.

''You know,'' Keith shrugs, like Lance would know, like it's nothing. ''I don't understand German.''

''Oh, damn, that's right. How will we communicate? And we'll have to find a way to pay for things.''

''Lance.''

''But I guess communication comes first. Like, you have to say what you want to pay for. Not that you want to. Or maybe the city people take the pay first, and don't—''

''Not everybody in the city is from the city,'' Keith says, finally facing Lance fully, like a bayonet to the gut, but not bad at all. ''Lance.''

''I know what you want to say,'' Lance snaps. ''You don't have to say it, okay? Thanks.''

*

At the end, he lies again. They are sitting on a cart with barrels. It almost didn't work, convincing that someone will be awaiting at the city gates with payment. A dubious but possible eventuality. The lie is all his. He wonders if Keith feels bad.

Lance's acts are deliberate, even when his wishfulness overtakes him; or maybe sometimes they are not when his wishfulness overtakes him. They are watching the road elongating under the wheels, and Lance is carefully watching Keith. He watches Keith like everything he wants to tell him. Like leaving home and stupid comparisons.

Keith glances at him suspiciously and Lance turns back to the road, eyes unfocused. He tries to relax. This is a familiarity: no matter how heavily he sits, he's always on the edge of his seat, always—

Keith looks at him again; Lance sees it in the corner of his vision, honesty to his previous lie. Keith looks twitchy, but he blinks away, shaking his head.

‘’What?’’

Keith suddenly stands up, sways until he regains his balance. Keith nods at Lance, as if that explained anything. Lance stands up, looking around, feeling uncertain. And then Keith is in his space, and Keith's hands caught on his jacket, and his eyes very close and getting closer. And then still, waiting.

Lance swallows. ''I don't know what I want.''

Keith half blinks and it's almost ridiculous, and then he's blinking rapidly, fluttering, eyebrows furrowed, eyes on Lance's cheeks. It's ridiculous. In how deliberate it looks, and Lance would bet such awareness is not something Keith even thinks about.

Lance thinks, he likes my freckles, and then swallows around that.

''What are you saying,'' Keith whispers. Lance swallows around that whispering, too.

''A warning.''

And then Keith pushes him off the cart.

It's like the church again, but Lance's reflexes don't lock him in: his hands drag Keith down with him. Both fall on their sides. Keith's eyes are squeezed shut and when he opens them they stare at each other.

And then Lance sprints to the cart and pulls himself up, seeing Keith follow. They both plop down.

Keith is breathing heavily, looking down at his lap. Cranes his neck backward, covers his eyes. Lance waits for him to say something, but Keith doesn't.

''Keith.'' His voice is permeated with indignance, with hurry, with coming to a stop. It's unfair that Keith gets to hear that, a liar – he just stood by Lance while he lied to the rider. Retrospect leaves such a nasty scrape burn.

Keith shakes his head. Just continues not saying anything, so Lance pulls his hands from his face, leaving Keith blinking at the ground.

''What,'' Lance says, voice too high. I tried helping you.

''I don't know, okay.''

''The hell,'' Lance hates how upset he sounds. ''The hell do you not know, Keith.'' Keith looks to the side, at the growing distance from the village.

''You're not thinking straight,'' Keith says.

Lance keeps swallowing, keeps breathing, feeling brittle and like something that wobbles. Feeling an indescribable magnitude of something inarticulate.

''I said I wanted to go. I thought we were past this, you fucking jerk.''

''I changed my mind.''

But Keith has joked. He has said watch me.

''You could have said just. You could have just said, like, now. If you didn't want me to go with.''

Keith shakes his head and frowns, still not looking at him. Lance feels it: a fissure in coherence.

''I can't believe you. I wanted to go. You're just— you were just there.'' He can't even tell if he's lying. He had all this – hope.

''They're your family,'' Keith says, tender, and Lance can’t.

''You do not get to sound like that. Shut up.'' He hopes Keith will resent the resent in Lance's eyes. He hopes for Keith to burn.

''What are you gonna do now,'' Keith asks, again sounding tender. Keith could have just said if he didn't want Lance to come with.

''Shut up, I'm in the assessment stage. I haven’t figured it out yet.''

''You decide,'' Keith says and Lance just looks at him, breathing shallow, contempt compact in his throat. ''You decide. Not figure out.''

''Shut up.'' Lance is horrified. ''Oh my god.''

*

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413080

[real-british-empire]

I underthrow your overthrow

chess

Okii u go first

[ounceoftalent]

Incredibly interesting talk on #underthrow with Max Borders, Robert Viglione, Justin Goro and Tomasz Kaye. I can’t give you too many details or they have to kill me. #justkiddingnsa #FEEcon2018 #FEEcon @feeonline @voiceandexit #socialevolution #zencash (at Hyatt Regency Atlanta)

[frontoffline]

Mlb 2k12 2016 roster

this will take time for me cause im doing it on my free time.maybe my roster is ready by february or before start of the season.hope anybody can help the schedule.

i already adjust the ratings for MLB, AAA, AA and single A. This allows players to grow agaisnt the right competition. This setting keeps players in the developmental league they should be in, instead of 85s in A and 50s in AAA. Helps keep teams from making stupid choices. I've sim'd and only when injury or the player breaks that overall threshold will he be moved up or down in most cases others its performance. ▪Adjusting overalls makes sure teams dont fill their affiliates with older high rated players. to prevent the game from automatically placing minor league players above the starter player in MLB. I think it's a very necessary thing to do on the roster. The MLB 2K franchise has made progress since the MLB 2K9 disaster, but not enough to be called up to the big leagues.I would very much like you to give importance to this, which in his project. Not to say the players or stadiums look bad, but you know it’s a video game at first glance. I told a friend of mine that if a person walked by when someone was playing MLB: The Show, you might do a double take to see if that was a real game. But the overall graphics on MLB 2K12 just don’t stack up to the competition.

They’ve adopted the same main menu as NBA 2K, which I like very much. The presentation in MLB 2K is very well done. This is just a terrible decision by 2K Sports, period. You don’t know their record, DNF% (did not finish percentage), or if they are using a mic or not. I still don’t understand why (and same issue exists with NBA 2K) 2K sports has decided to do away with online lobbies. The two online games I played were fine – no lag or disconnects. When I play My Player I’m always a starting pitcher, so I don’t have to worry about playing the field as much. You still create your player and try to achieve all the goals so you can get called up to the big club. Not much changed with MLB 2K12’s My Player mode. This allows you to play along with the real MLB season every day, with up-to-date roster changes. MLB 2K12 has added MLB Today Season Mode. Defense and player movements are my biggest issues with this title. Why would the batter run wide of first on a close play like that? That running angle should only be taken if I was going to second base – but I wasn’t. At the plate, I hit a ground ball to short, and my batter was running wide of first base as if he was going to round the bag and go for second. This doesn’t happen all the time, but it happens enough. When there’s a base hit to the outfield, and a runner is getting ready to round third base to score, your outfielder won’t charge the ball. There are also times when players just don’t react to the situation on defense. Routine fly balls are an adventure because outfielders will lunge for balls when there’s no need to. What is even more frustrating are the player movements in the field. Unfortunately, MLB 2K12 does not give you the option of classic throwing/fielding - which, for me, is frustrating. MLB: The Show introduced a throwing meter for fielding last season, and after a handful of games, I quickly switched back to classic throwing/fielding. I personally never liked the throwing meter, it just opens the door for too many errors and plays like the one I described above. I started off trying the analog stick throwing, and after a few plays where the meter just didn’t read (which resulted in an underthrow) and a play where I wanted to throw the ball to first base, but instead went to third base, I quickly switched to using the button for the throwing meter. Hold too long, and release in the red, you’ll have an overthrow. When your player fields the ball, you’ll hold down the button or analog stick, and try to release when the cursor is in the green. MLB 2K12 introduces a new throwing meter for this year’s game. This is a problem that has plagued the MLB 2K franchise for several seasons. One of the most overused phrases in sports is “defense wins championships.” Well, if that’s truly the case, you’ll have a hard time winning championships in MLB 2K12 because the team at 2K Sports just cannot get defense to work properly on this game.

[iampjr]

@kurt13warner You can’t tell me this hasn’t been milked. QB’s will underthrow to draw the foul.

@kurt13warner You can’t tell me this hasn’t been milked. QB’s will underthrow to draw the foul.

@kurt13warner You can’t tell me this hasn’t been milked. QB’s will underthrow to draw the foul. — Patrick Rooney (@patrickrooney) Oct 11, 2022 https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js from Twitter https://twitter.com/patrickrooney

[skinsgreys]

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