#vengeresse

[corinneecrivaine]

SHANIA ANGE DE JUSTICE - Chapitre 8 (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1355170596-shania-ange-de-justice-chapitre-8?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=CorinneEcrivain&wp_originator=Sy3mteoFutZ8ZU5EBBXqanPhx1ervaobxqV9ukYMvCqZfZm0%2FTisJ9TGDeE3tdB7l7JofiLQ7tWSc1r6XQnKfK8%2ByGumqVuaSbbXW4OWxFKKxpfAEnvNwAuSAXKCL%2FPJ Selwyn, et Zaîna, couple princier, ne pouvant avoir d'enfant, pris par le désespoir, acceptèrent un marché avec un jeune couple d'une grande beauté qui frappa à leur porte, un soir d'orage. En échange du gîte et du couvert, ils leur proposèrent de concevoir un enfant. En accord avec son époux, Zaïna passa la nuit avec cet inconnu. Elle tomba enceinte et eut un magnifique bébé : une fille qu'ils nommèrent Shania. Dès la naissance du bébé, le jeune couple disparut dans les ténèbres non sans que la jeune femme n'ait prononcé ces dernières paroles qui résonnèrent aussi violemment que l'orage qui persistait depuis plus de 9 mois. « Le moment venu il viendra réclamer son dû ». Afin de protéger sa fille, Selwyn, demanda à un chamane et ancien assassin, Adjib de veiller sur elle au péril de sa vie. Le jour de sa 5è année, Shania vit la destruction de son village et le massacre de ses parents. Depuis, elle est hantée par d'horribles cauchemars ressassant cette terrible journée et le visage de ce monstre qui plongea sa vie dans l'horreur. Recueillie par Adjib, elle grandit l'arme au poing et devint une redoutable et impitoyable guerrière. Assoiffée de vengeance et animée par la haine, elle ne vit que pour traquer l'assassin de ses parents et le tuer. Adjib connait le secret de sa naissance. Un secret qu'elle découvrira tout au long de sa longue quête qui la mènera vers bien des chemins et des rencontres voire l'amour. Cette aventure la mènera bien plus loin, au plus profond de son âme. Elle devra choisir, laisser surgir sa part sombre ou combattre ce démon qui sommeille en elle.

[uroborosymphony]

"So. These savages tried to own you and in return you killed your husband for cheating and holds the entire clan by the tip of their pathetic little dicks? I like your style, Akina Mori. What do you need?"

       @wellfell liked for a short starter.

[elementalxfury]

As some of you might've noticed

I have a new oc. I was originally gonna put her on my main multimuse

But given she's a witch I'm gonna add her here

Her name is Thora Godiva and she is my new Gworl.

[ernestinee]

TW su*cide

Tu sais quand tu vois des gens dans la rue, parfois peut-être que tu leur imagines une vie rocambolesque. Là on est près d'une sortie de métro, en haut de l'escalier, on voit Daphné qui a raté deux fois sa ts et à côté d'elle c'est Martin. Elle l'a embauché pour la tuer et il l'a confondue avec une autre. Maintenant elle n'est plus sûre de vouloir mourir et Martin ne la tuera que si elle retrouve ses certitudes.

C'est le pitch d'"Accident de personne", ça parle de dépression, d'envies d'en finir, de maladie incurable, de masculinité toxique, de neuroatypie et de psychopathologie. Des sujets sérieux et profonds mais dans un style décontracté et piquant, qui rend la lecture fluide, j'ai lu ce livre en deux fois, je l'ai juste posé pour dormir.

C'est le premier livre de Florence Mendez, il y a des petits indices qui traduisent cet effet "premier livre", l'envie d'en dire beaucoup, l'envie de placer telle ou telle réflexion, et ça n'alourdit pas le style parce que c'est sa voix qui parle, la femme vengeresse, incisive et terriblement sensible qui souhaite passer un message. Ça ne conviendra pas à tous les lecteurs, et tant mieux.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

[lounesdarbois]

Mais vous avez perdu les pédales ? Quand on est une association qui s'appelle "Notre-Dame de CHRÉTIENTÉ" on produit ça comme communication externe pour exprimer la Tradition? Un putain de spot de BDE féministe dans une École de Commerce de 2005? Le vêtement, le phrasé, l'élocution, sans parler du reste, où sommes-nous exactement ? À la caisse du magasin d'une aire d'autoroute ?

Rien n'est plus ringard que d'essayer de "faire jeune". Ce pèlerinage qui était une belle procession grave de gens d'élite, aux corps exercés, aux vêtements appropriés, est devenu une kermesse de hurleuses vengeresses dans une ambiance de bordel de merde. La fréquentation a doublé oui mais à quel prix?

[corinneecrivaine]

SHANIA ANGE DE JUSTICE - Chapitre 15 - Eclats de Feu et Liens Indissolubles (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1438290718-shania-ange-de-justice-chapitre-15-eclats-de-feu?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=CorinneEcrivain Le jour de son 5e anniversaire, Shania fut la témoin de la destruction de son village et du massacre de ses parents. Depuis, elle est hantée par d'horribles cauchemars rappelant cette terrible journée et le visage du monstre qui plongea sa vie dans l'horreur. Elevée par Adjib, elle grandit l'arme au poing et devint une guerrière redoutable et impitoyable. Ignorant le sombre secret de sa naissance, Shania nourrit une soif ardente envers l'assassin de ses parents. Les combats qu'elle mènera la plongeront dans un tourbillon de violence, développant son côté démoniaque. La poussant à se perdre dans les abîmes de son enfer. Partagée entre sa part sombre et son humanité, les choix qu'elle fera détermineront sa destinée. Laisser émerger son côté obscur ou combattre le démon qui sommeille en elle.

[uroborosymphony]

The underworld was silent, save for the low crackle of ashes in the distance. Cerberus stepped forward, the heavy doors groaning shut behind her. She did not stumble, did not hesitate—only a fool would falter before the god of the underworld. And she was no fool. She moved with reverence against the obsidian floor. The weight of her existence bore down on her shoulders, but still, she knelt before his throne. She had never questioned. Never wavered. Never wanted. Until now. The need for free will had never occurred to the hound. She had been born of obedience, molded by purpose, bound by duty as tightly as the chains that had once wrapped around her throat. The thought had never even been a whisper in the back of her mind—until now. A particular daughter of Hecate, slipping past the underworld’s gates with a will of her own, moving like a thing unclaimed. She had smelled of magic and defiance, had carried herself as though the world itself bent to her whims. And something in Cerberus had stirred. A thought, a hunger, a quiet question: What would it mean to choose? She did not understand it. Not fully. But it had rooted itself in her bones, growing, spreading, refusing to be ignored. She lifted her head, red eyes gleaming in the dim light. "My lord." Her voice was steady, though it carried the weight of something new. "I have served you without question. I have guarded these gates, torn apart those who would defy you, and stood as the hound of your domain. I have known no life beyond your will, no purpose beyond your command." A pause. A breath. "But even the most loyal hound must one day be unchained." She did not beg. She did not demand. She simply asked. "I dream of the overworld My lord, in ways I have never dreamed of before." She had never asked before. Not for anything. And now, for the first time, she wondered if she had just made the greatest mistake of her existence.

[uroborosymphony]

"Look Sweetie ( @hatesdogs ), I gotta be real with you. I dream of getting arrested, nothing like a little cage fun, spicy jail time and dramatics, life is my Stage but I have things to do before that day, so we have to talk about your bike."

[elementalxfury]

Thora Godiva is a witch in Dacian's coven. She's remained hidden and is using her magic behind the scenes to get revenge for the lost members of the coven. Thora and Dacian used to date before the trials and broke up for safety reasons. She was heartbroken after Dacian vanished but knew it was better than him being dead.

[fetznerdeathrecords]

Duelliste - Duelliste

Raw/Atmospheric Black Metal from France

1. Traces figées 03:13 2. L'âme guerrière 03:58 3. Comme une éclipse 03:49 4. Les troupes au loin 02:35 5. Hauteurs crépusculaires 03:05 6. Figures décharnées 03:48 7. Lame vengeresse 03:45 8. Champs brûlés 02:12 9. La cité dépravée 03:40 10. Tenture de mort 03:45 11. Sentence 01:53

Release date: February 25th, 2025

@carcasseenchainee

[uroborosymphony]

ㅤ—ㅤAra’s expression hardens as Mitsuko questions. The dim light overhead flickers—old neon, buzzing faintly, casting jittering shadows along the damp. The air is thick with something stale, something old. Isn’t it a good thing, for something similar to Ara to exist in this realm? Centuries of shadow inhabit her. She doesn’t answer immediately—just a slow shake of her head, and thoughts. It’s not. “Especially not for me,” she finally admits, her voice carrying something sharp, bitter, like the lingering taste of iron. She has been alone—ripped from the heavens and hells, thrown into the mortal realm with nothing but time as her warden. A sentence without end. A cruel joke. It is suffering for creatures to be severed from their origins, to exist in a schizophrenia of past, present, and future. She has seen it before. The ones who lost themselves in it. A madness of violence and longing. “Hell is deep, you know,” she says, her voice stretching over the words as if tweighing them. “Deeper than the abyss of any ocean on this earth.” The flickering light hums louder. A shadow shifts in the far corner—nothing there, not really. But the darkness in this place feels thick, like something breathing just beyond the edge of vision. “There are layers there. I used to guard its gates—I know how dark it gets. Even if I liked that darkness, it doesn't have its place in here.” A pause. A bitter smirk. “I had allies. Or, well, I had them.” A scoff escapes her lips, something almost nostalgic. The ones who stood by her side back in the centuries. “But I’ve made just as many enemies, and—” she glances around, her nose wrinkling slightly, “—it reeks of doom in here.” A wry tilt of her lips. “And trust me, darling—if they were friends of mine? They’d have at least texted.” The last words are laced with humor, but they mean something. Whatever they’re about to walk into—it won’t be friendly. Ara doesn’t miss the sad little smile tugging at Mitsuko’s lips, the way her arms cross tight over her chest, a quiet sorrow settling in her eyes. It’s a look Ara knows all too well. Mitsuko’s loneliness is winter—slow, drawn-out, the kind where you sit by the window, waiting for the past to walk through the door. Ara’s, in contrast, is fire and blood, the kind that makes you gnash your teeth and bare your fangs at the world. “What have you seen?” she asks, voice low, edged with something almost hungry as she needs to hear more about this. “Describe it. Piece by piece. Or at least what you could grasp—what you felt. If it tried to take anything from you, like a... like a piece of your thoughts, a piece of your soul? I have met many creatures and so has you,” It’s a missing puzzle piece, a vital thread in a tapestry neither of them fully understands yet. Mitsuko speaks of being haunted. Ara listens. And she relates. Silence settles between them—not an uncomfortable silence, but one that hums with understanding. A curse—a haunt—never breaks easily. “There’s always a reason, did you know that?” Ara murmurs, her voice dipping lower, conspiratorial, like a secret shared between shadows. “A soul doesn’t get haunted for no damn reason, mm. It’s chains. Always chains. Chains that connect you to your demons, your ghosts—sometimes ghosts from your ancestors pasts, sometimes ghosts from someone else's future that has been tied to you.” She steps closer, her black-heeled boots clicking against the concrete, the sound sharp against the heavy quiet. Shadows cling to her like a second skin. She is, as always, dressed in black, a creature of the night itself. “And those chains?” Her gaze is dark, steady. “They can break, yes, we can break them Mitsuko.” Her hands land on Mitsuko’s shoulders—firm, warm. “I would never leave you alone in this.” There’s steel beneath the softness in her tone. “Honestly, darling... You thought I'd leave you alone with some ghosts and demons messing around in the city? it’s almost an insult that you even asked for help.” A smile is on her lips. “Come on. We’re in this together.”

[the-paintrist]

Léon Choubrac - Advertisement for the serialization of "Germinal" by Emile Zola in the magazine "Gil Blas" on 25 November 1884.

Émile Édouard Charles Antoine Zola (; 2 April 1840 – 29 September 1902) was a French novelist, journalist, playwright, political activist, the best-known practitioner of the literary school of naturalism, and an important contributor to the development of theatrical naturalism. He was a major figure in the political liberalization of France and in the exoneration of the falsely accused and convicted army officer Alfred Dreyfus, which is encapsulated in his renowned newspaper opinion headlined J'Accuse…!  Zola was nominated for the first and second Nobel Prize in Literature in 1901 and 1902.

Germinal is the thirteenth novel in Émile Zola's twenty-volume series Les Rougon-Macquart. Often considered Zola's masterpiece and one of the most significant novels in the French tradition, the novel – an uncompromisingly harsh and realistic story of a coalminers' strike in northern France in the 1860s – has been published and translated in over one hundred countries. It has also inspired five film adaptations and two television productions.

Germinal was written between April 1884 and January 1885. It was first serialized between November 1884 and February 1885 in the periodical Gil Blas, then in March 1885 published as a book.

The title refers to the name of a month of the French Republican Calendar, a spring month. Germen is a Latin word which means "seed"; the novel describes the hope for a better future that seeds amongst the miners. As the final lines of the novel read:

Des hommes poussaient, une armée noire, vengeresse, qui germait lentement dans les sillons, grandissant pour les récoltes du siècle futur, et dont la germination allait faire bientôt éclater la terre. Men were springing forth, a black avenging army, germinating slowly in the furrows, growing towards the harvests of the next century, and their germination would soon overturn the earth. — 1885 translation[

Gil Blas (or Le Gil Blas) was a Parisian literary periodical named for Alain-René Lesage's novel Gil Blas. It was founded by the sculptor Augustin-Alexandre Dumont in November 1879.

Gil Blas serialized novels, such as Émile Zola's Germinal (1884) and L'Œuvre (1885), before they appeared in book form. Numerous Guy de Maupassant short stories debuted in Gil Blas. The journal was also known for its opinionated arts and theatre criticism. Contributors included René Blum, Alexandru Bogdan-Pitești, and Abel Hermant. Théophile Steinlen and Albert Guillaume provided illustrations.

Gil Blas was published regularly until 1914, when there was a short hiatus due to the outbreak of World War I. Afterwards, it was published intermittently until 1938.

In addition to Germinal, Gil Blas serialized the Zola novels L'Argent, Au Bonheur des Dames, and La Joie de vivre.

Gil Blas critic Louis Vauxcelles's phrase "Donatello chez les fauves" ("Donatello among the wild beasts") brought notoriety and attention to the works of Henri Matisse and Les Fauves exhibited at the Salon d'Automne of 1905. Vauxcelles' comment was printed on 17 October 1905[4] and passed into popular usage.

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book Two, Chapter XXIII:

For the first time in this novel where any place can suddenly become a prison*, we enter the first tangible, actual jail in the novel, and it's none other than the Bastille.

*I believe Proust ironized about noblemen becoming the hosts of whichever place they were in. In Borel’s novel, they are imbued with the alchemic power of transforming any place into a jail whether they own it or not.

J.M.W.Turner, Lecture Diagram 75: Interior of a Prison c.1810 based on an etching from Piranesi’s Prima Parte de Architettura e Prospettiva (1743, pl.2)

We follow Patrick, armed with Pompadour’s letter, into the building. Borel compares it with a beast. Patrick is entering its belly to rescue an already semi digested Fitz-Harris. The jail itself is alive, slowly ruminating on and digesting its prisoners in its gut-like cells. The Bastille is a stone bull, a lot like Phalaris’ Bronze Bull, the narrator remarks. This was a terrifying torture device from ancient Greece, the neoclassicists’ model of rationality and measure, imposing the style in repressive official art (for example see Auguste Préault’s Tuerie: a Romantic response to Triqueti’s La Loi vengeresse a previous and official neoclassical bas-relief)

I’d also say Borel is putting us in perspective with this example: it not only casts the horrors of the Bastille in a magnitude of excess worthy of a capricious, self-appointed tyrant from antiquity, it also shows us how this type of power abuse is not specific to a determinate place and time period (although this novel is very much about ancien régime and restoration era France), it has happened in ancient Greece, it has happened in 18th c France, whenever this abysmal power imbalance is allowed to exist these types of abuses will happen. Finally, the brazen bull is also a great metaphor: its acoustic design transformed the tyrant’s victims desperate cries into the bull’s mooing, a final insult to those dying in it, transformed into a gag or entertainment for the tyrant. (also worth noting, Phalaris was established in what now is Agrigento, Sicily, a colony of Greece, coexisting with democratic Athens)(Phalaris was also, like the French tyrants, finally overthrown by the native population, and some say, roasted inside his own bull)(it is a VERY relevant comparison, on so many levels)

It’s also interesting to note how abstract Borel is keeping France’s most iconic prison. Most of his readers would have had a mental image of it I suppose. But think of how precise Balzac gets when depicting the Concièrgerie (or Hugo in his Choses vues, or Dumas with the Château d’If in Montecristo) it’s almost as if Borel, for now at least, is not interested in documentation of a precise space, we are allowed to imagine any prison, we are allowed to go full Piranesi here. [Insert your mental image of an ancien régime prison here] in lieu of ancien régime France’s most iconic prison, because, maybe its horrors exceed a concrete time and space, specific as they are.

We do see the vault Fitz-Harris is locked in, in its tangible side: a dreadful place where you can barely stand upright, humid, dark, freezing; as well as in its psychological dimension, the effect it has had on Fitz-Harris, how different he sounds now, no more cheerfully mean spirited “monomania of speech”. After weeks of sensory deprivation and immobility, probably half starved as well, he’s grown completely paranoid and afraid of his own shadow. He has probably been hallucinating before, since he thinks Patrick is imaginary too, he also fails to react to the sound of his cell’s door opening.

Fitz-Harris’ monomania of speech is not entirely gone, he cannot help and call Pompadour “—L’infâme! La Putiphar!” right within the guards’ earshot. Patrick grows understandably anxious....

(Interestinly Patrick, a relatively recently emigrated man, knows the Bastille by reputation, he mentions in reference to Fitz-Harris’ anti Pompadour outburst, something called citerne-aux-oublis, a place he says, prisoners were thrown into for harsh(er) punishment. I tried looking this up on Borel’s Bastille related sources but had no luck with the exact words or synonyms I could think of... It is possible Borel is referring to the apparently famous “oubliettes” of the Bastille?

“M. Viollet-le-Duc has assured us, quite gravely, that the famed oubliettes (the bottoms of which were shaped like sugar loaves, so that prisoners might have no resting-place for their feet) were merely ice-houses! It is not denied that these cells existed, and those who care to believe that a Mediæval architect built them under the towers of the Bastille as store-chambers for ice to cool the governor's or the prisoners' wine, are entirely welcome to do so. These were amongst the places of torment in which Louis XI. kept the Armagnac princes, who were taken out twice a week to be scourged in the presence of Governor l'Huillier, and "every three months to have a tooth pulled out."

From The Dungeons of Old Paris, by Tighe Hopkins.

Violet-le-Duc’s drawing of the vaults, and explanation of its origin as ice storage here

Whether he means that or something else, it speaks of the Bastille’s infamy as a symbol of terror, mentally torturing the general population in an attempt to keep them in line out of fear.)

Fitz-Harris, maybe out of prison instilled paranoia, or maybe just projecting his own faults into others, thinks this is a trap, Patrick is lying, he falsely claims he is pardoned, but Patrick is actually leading him to his execution. He still follows, because he has to prove he’s not a coward. (this reminds me of the duel and how differently they both understood masculinity and honour... more on that very soon, in a shocking reveal about Pat’s character)

This routine of Patrick begging for FH to follow him, and the prisoner refusing to be set free is pretty interesting.... there’s something Plato’s Cavern to be said about it, surely. However terrible the conditions, a routine is a routine, sudden change is more scary than quotidian incarceration. It is uncertain and stable at the same time (trying to put myself in the shoes of a person who could barely see his surroundings, calculating the passage of time by the irruptions of the guards, once you realize you’re not being moved I imagine you grow calm because it means you get to live, since any abrupt change is seen by Fitz-Harris as the possibility of execution)

However, as F-H is not as far gone yet as to be unable to notice that he is in fact, being released, showers Patrick in praise, abases himself, swears to change for good and live to “earn” Patrick’s friendship, which he has without having really deserved it. But Patrick reveals a dark side to what we before though was his Christlike behaviour. He confesses a rather perverse pleasure in subjugating the one who hated him so much by making him thankful. His revenge is simply not won by the force of an iron blade, but it is a much crueller revenge, he says. Patrick is less of a saint, less of a Christ intuiting virtues in his potential apostles than what we had been led to think before. He of course has never shared this secret source of pleasure to Debby, not even when she thought him mad and too good for this world for helping Fitz-Harris...

(i am including Fitz-Harris’ previous phrase, I bolded a part that seems like it will be relevant in the future, translation by @sainteverge )

“Apologies, apologies for the all the harm I have done to you! My entire life shall henceforth be entirely dedicated to cleansing myself of my crimes towards you. I shall do everything to be worthy of your esteem; for he whom you esteem must be esteemed by God. As for your friendship, do not ever give it back to me, it would be to profane it! Keep it for hearts righter than mine. Oh! you have my eternal gratitude!” “Fitz-Harris, no gratitude. You owe me nothing, I told you I do not avenge myself with a blade; but I did not tell you that I am not capable of revenge; therefore here is mine: a good deed for an insult. This one is more cruel, I think, than the blade, what say you? to force someone who hates you to bless you, despite himself, in the depth of his conscience; to force a man to blush, to die of shame before his fellowman; that is, if I’m not wrong, a revenge! What say you, Fitz-Harris? We are even, I believe?”

I for one, did not expect this from Patrick... his revenge is still, killing them with kindness in a way... but there’s something about his choice of word that is sensuous and almost cruel, that reveals a vanity, and a perverse relishing in other’s subjugation that is surprising from him. He seemed exceedingly good, and it’s interesting for borel to suddenly introduce this mildly sadistic streak in him.

We are denied Fitz-Harris' reaction, but I bet he was surprised himself.

[uroborosymphony]

Yoona's words, Ara listens to them. Hasn't she always? In a twisted way, despite these moments of yelling at her, or making fun of her, or belittling her, Ara has always listened to Yoona, in the same way she always listened to every single one of her members. Could one call that tough love? Could it all really be put in the past just like that? Emotionless, the Dark Quinn is. Yet not insensitive. Yoona is the first person who belonged to her found family that she got to interact with ever since she decided to walk on her own. The path she chose, it's a path of determination, of faith but a path of loneliness as well. Knowing she can call Yoona, knowing Yoona will answer, it makes her feel less... Lonely. It is a difficult field to walk on for Ara, a conversation that's starting to get difficult to have - the best issue for her is to keep going, to stay away from these memories. Right here, right now, her helmet is already in her hands, her figure already by the door as she refuses to dwelve more. It's heavy. The words Yoona speak, they are heavy too, words of her still fighting, this order she gives to Quinn to keep on fighting, too. "Fighting for what?" Is the question that drops out of Quinn's mouth, severe, almost angry at the statement, this cold, set anger she has always carried inside. "Fighting for who?" Quinn now, she doesn't fight for herself anymore - she fights for the voices inside her head, she fights for these hallucinations she has at night, she fights for this world she has built inside her head within a reality that got deformed over and over, twisted, torn and bent. "Why would I keep fighting for myself... When every single soul in this goddamn world never truly wanted to fight for me?" It is a line she wouldn't ever say at loud, ever.

Ara doesn't want to appear weak, she doesn't want to appear broken but she is. A father who never bothered knowing her, a mother who physically and psyhologically abused her before abandonning her in foster, comrades who would think less of her and turn their backs on her, a lover who promised to give his life for her and yet ended up closing the door to her and finally, an entire gang who has stopped ackowledging her. Her demons on the other hand, them, they never gave up on her, they never abandonned her. Yoona's statement about Taiyang makes Ara wonder where he is too. Even if she refuses to care, even if all she feels for him is hatred, she cannot help but wonder... Is he alright. "He abandonned you the way he abandonned me, then." The last time Taiyang and Ara faced each other was quite a time ago, at the very beginning of her ascencion, the very beginning of her army - the memory is half clear, half blur, as in, she never truly is herself anymore with a head decaying, is she. "You could stop caring and leave, get yourself a normal life. A decent job at one of these luxury stores you like so much, who knows maybe start your own brand of scrunchies and handmade bags. Get yourself a decent man who brings enough money and treat you right. Go to bed every night without worrying a gang war will lead to a bullet in your head. Eat well. Have kids... Have you ever thought of that?" Has Ara? "If you do not answer my call, I will not be so upset, I will understand you chose a better life than this one."

[lounesdarbois]

La racaille est un nemesis. Les destructions ont visé pour le moment des marques et des structures qui ont speculé sur la persécution des Blancs depuis 20 ans : - Five Guys (Obama) - Foot Korner (pro-racailles) - Action (produits plastiques ultra-discount sur le modèle americain) - Lidl (regardez la clientèle d'un Lidl) - Chatelêt (sans commentaire) - Macdo - Centres des impôts - Concessions Yamaha (T-Max) - Zoo (symbolique du singe lâché) - Mediathèques (livres débilisants pour enfants lus par grosses dames vengeresses) - Mairies - Écoles (école obligatoire 2023 = gynécée autour d'un octogone de MMA, présence obligatoire) - caméras de surveillance

Voilà. Qui veut bouger pour défendre ces moyens de coercition? Toutefois il faut raison garder. Les récentes algarades nocturnes sont le fait de très parcimonieux dilettantes racailles. Il n'y a là rien qui annonce "la vraie grande pluie qui balaie les trottoirs" (Taxi Driver). Tous ces paresseux se sont excités sur ce qu'ils avaient à portée de main mais ils ne sont pas "allé chercher" hors de leur zone de confort (ce sont des bourgeois) les vrais leviers de vrai pouvoir, et ils n'en n'ont même pas seulement eu l'idée (ce sont des primitifs): - Skyrock - CAF - Sièges de banques agressives style Goldman Sachs, Rotschild - Sièges de partis politiques - Journaux, presse, TV, médias (un seul journaliste de Libé dépouillé de son appareil photo, c'est ça une "jeunesse révoltée en lutte"?) - Les fourrières - Les Influenceurs - Les fauteurs de guerre - Les gens qui ont touché au business de la pornographie. - ambassades étrangères - dépôts de carburant

C'est dire comme ces remueurs de merde estampillés lutteurs pour la justice sont loin du compte. Zéro conscience politique, cent pour cent cerveau reptilien.

Quand à la police lâchée par sa hiérarchie elle a pris grand soin de ne pas abîmer la racaille alors qu'elle mutilait exprès les Gilets Jaunes en visant la tête ("a voté") pendant 2 ans.

Les Gilets Jaunes d'ailleurs, doivent ne surtout pas sortir du bois. Dès lors qu'il y aurait 2 fronts le pouvoir se débrouillerait pour les envoyer l'un sur l'autre. C'est là une des grandes prédictions de Roger Holeindre, Dieu ait son âme: "si on descendait dans la rue le pouvoir armerait les banlieues dans le quart d'heure pour sauver la république", et on peut croire sur parole cet homme dont chaque mot fût payé par des actes dans sa vie, et quels actes!

Il ne faut pas s'affoler pour 3 supermarchés pillés, 2 caméras sciées et quelques infrastructures de parc à bestiaux momentanément endommagées. "Y a tchi" comme on disait à Grenoble. Est-ce cela le chaos? Mais alors l'ordre public est cent fois pire avec sa mort lente unanimement admise, le "bah c'est la vie hein c'est comme ça" de tous les mouligasses qui y sont rois, qui vous imposent leur sale rythme et vous rendent faibles.

L'ordre public, "l'apaisement", pour quoi faire ? Pour que des trans éduquent des racailles dans les écoles ? Pour que des dindes masquées DRH virent des pères de famille de 55 ans? Pour que des prédatrices fanatisées dépouillent par divorces des acharnés réglos bosseurs pacifiques? Tous ceux, police et braves gens qui essaient d'empêcher le nemesis de faire son œuvre, se battront à leurs risques et périls pour la parité, pour le "mois des fiertés", pour les foules sorties du néolithique il y a 2 semaines et qui frappent à la porte, pour le masque et l'asepsie, ils se battront pour ce qui les tue et cela au profit de la syna, des loges, des bourges, et de toute la nomenclature hispano-romagnole "européenne" des Nunez/Hidalgo/Valls/Castaner.

Les masques tombent, y compris ceux des états "alliés" algériens, américains. Lisez leurs récentes circulaires officielles concernant nos malheurs. La manière dont ces fissdep entassés devant le KFC en flammes suent d'impatience de grapiller quelques chicken wings dans la curée promise est le plus merveilleux tombé de masque en plein jour depuis Yalta. Ils n'ont pas compris que l'histoire de France a toujours précédé l'histoire de leurs nations: 1776, 1830, etc. Et l'Allemagne, l'Italie, l'Espagne... s'il arrive malheur à la France ce qu'à Dieu ne plaise toutes ces nations qui la jugent se mangeront l'onde de choc comme sous Bonaparte. La France, faute d'être aidée et aimée, est la nation "seule contre tous" mais tous ceux de l'intérieur et de l'extérieur qui ricanent de la voir sans défense se trouvent un jour fort dépourvus lorsque confrontés à de surprenants nemesis.

"Je vais dormir tranquille maintenant car je sais que mon pire ennemi veille sur moi"

[histoire-glitchienne]

Wild Love <3 (court métrage 2019)

Imaginez, une escapade en amoureux. Paysage idyllique, ciel bleu... Malgré ce rêve éveillé, vous essayez tant bien que mal d'oublier que vous venez de massacrer, accidentellement, une jolie petite marmotte. Oh, bon... C'est juste une marmotte. Ignorant que ces petits rongeurs peuvent cacher, sous leurs airs mignons et inoffensifs, une âme vengeresse et des envies cruelles...

Wild Love est un court métrage jouissif mêlant paysage bucolique, amour, massacre et humour noir: un petit "remake" subtil d'Happy Tree Friends et de Cannibal Holocauste ...