#veterans hall core

[kafkaspestcontrol]

It would’ve hurt a lot worse

When you ripped my heart from my chest

If I wasn’t already dead

From the knife in my back

[tabletopgayventures]

My current list of Tabletop Roleplaying Games.

13th Age

1879

A Grim Hack

Aberrant 

Absolute Power

Abyss

Accursed 

After The War

Anima Beyond Fantasy

Animal Adventures:  The Faraway Sea

Apocalypse World

Arkham Horror The Roleplaying Game Starter Set

Ars Magica 4th Edition

Arzium

Avatar Legends Starter Set

Babes in the Wood

Badger + Coyote and their Daring Adventures 2E

BattleTech:  A Time of War

Beacon Tabletop RPG

Beam Saber

Blades in the Dark

Bulldogs

Bunkers & Badasses

Cairn

Call of Cthulhu

Candela Obscura

Cantrip

Cats of Cathulhu

Chaos 6010

Champions Now

Collateral Damage

Contagion 2e

Cortex Prime Game Handbook

Cosmic Patrol

Cowboy Bebop Roleplaying Game

Coyote and Crow

Cthulhu Awakens

Cthulhutech

Cypher System 

Daisy Chainsaw

Deathmatch Island

Defiant Role Playing Game

Denial & Yearning

Dialect

Dinocar

Dinosaur Princesses

Discworld RPG

Dragon Age Roleplaying Game

Dragonbane

Dread

Dream Machines

Dresden Files Accelerated RPG

Dungeon Crawl Classics

Dungeons and Dragons 3.5

Dungeons and Dragons 5e

Durance

Dwelling

Epitaph

Epoch

Essence 20

Fabula Ultima

Fantasy Age

Fate Core System

Fever Nights Role-Playing Game

Flabbergasted

Fragged Empire

Fratboys Vs

Girl By Moonlight

Glitter Hearts

Goblin Quest

Goblin Slayer TRPG

Gods of Metal:  Ragnarock

Hannukkah Goblins

Have Axe, Will Travel

Hellfrost

Here, There, Be Monsters!

Hero Kids Fantasy RPG

Heroes Against the Darkness

Hopes and Dreams

Hounds 

I’m the Badguy?!?

In Nomine

In the Ashes

Inevitable A Doomed Arthurian Western

Ink

Interns In The Dark

Into the Dungeon

Jiangshi:  Blood in the Banquet Hall

Jordenheim

Katana-Ra

Kids on Bikes 2nd Edition

Killshot an Assassin’s Journal

Konosuba TRPG

Leverage The Quickstart Job

Lilliputian Adventure on the Open Seas

Little Fears Nightmare Edition

Lost Roads

Marvel Multiverse RPG

Mermaid Adventures

Micro rpg book

Modern Age

Monster of the Week

Moonlight On Roseville Beach

Mork Borg

Motel Spooky Nine

Musketeers vs. Cthulhu

Mutant Year Zero

My Mother’s Kitchen

Necrobiotic

Never Going Home

Night Shift:  Veterans of the Supernatural Wars

Night Wolves

Numenera

Odyssey Black Tales

OneDice Pirates & Dragons

One More Quest

Ork! The RPG

Our Woodland Gods

Outcast Silver Raiders 

Outgunned

Over the Edge

Overlight

Pasion De Las Pasiones

Pathfinder 1st Edition

Pathfinder 2nd Edition

Pathfinder Savage Worlds

Perils & Princesses

Pirate Borg

Power Rangers RPG

Prism

Psychic Trash Detectives

Punk’s Been Dead Since ‘79

Queerz!

Raccoon Sky Pirates

Raven

Rebels of the Outlaw Wastes

Reign

Rhapsody of Blood

Rivers of London

Ryuu Tama natural fantasy role play

Samurai Goths of the Apocalypse

Scum and Villainy

Shadowrun 5e

Shadows Of The Past

Shield Maidens

Shiver

Someone in this Tavern is a fucking mimic!

Spell The RPG

Squeeze

Star Trek Adventures Captain’s Log 

Star Trek Adventures The Roleplaying Game

Star Trek Adventures Second Edition

Star Wars 

Starfinder 1st Edition

Starfinder 2nd Edition

Stoneburner

Syma

Tangled

Temples and Tombs

The Bleackness

The Dark West

The Dread of Night

The Play’s the Thing

The Quiet Year

The Revenant Society

The Void

The Watch

Thirsty Sword Lesbians

This Discord has Ghosts in It

This house is Fucking Haunted

Thousand Year Old Vampire

Tomorrow City

Troika!

Unisystem

Urban Decay

Utopia

Vaesen

Vagabond

Valiant Universe

Variations On Your Body

Venture and Dungeon

Waffles For Esther

Wanderhome

Warcraft The Roleplaying Game

Werewolf the Apocalypse

What Lurks Above

What Lurks Beneath

What Lurks Beyond

World Ending Game

Yazeba’s Bed & Breakfast

Xianta Cyber Wuxia

Xoe Microplayer

Zweihander

I'll update this list as I get more. Feel free to send me ideas and also reblog this!

[gear-project]

Annon-Guy: Any thoughts on the Season 4 content, including the newly announced characters?

Queen Dizzy

Venom

Unika

Lucyna "Lucy" Kushinada (Guest Character from Cyberpunk: Edgerunner)

Okay, time to address some aspects of the trailer DIRECTLY:

3 on 3 Mode seems to also involve the SACRED TREASURES (OutRage Jinki Weapons), so I imagine some mechanic is involved in the Multiplayer Mode that will make teams far more strategic than first glance would indicate!

Taking a wild guess here... the new stages appear very similar to Tioria (Village of Witches), Ganymede Island (Dr. Paradigm's home), as well as the Sacred Order of Holy Knight's Central Hall (which appeared in Accent Core, and was designed based on the original Paris Stage that Sol and Ky would often settle their fights in).

And of course we have Queen Dizzy, Venom (leaving retirement must not be easy for him), Unika (newcomer from Dual Rulers)...

And Lucy from the New Cyberpunk Edgerunners game (which I barely have any information on). (I imagine one of the new GG Stages will also be associated with Lucy as well.)

GG Veterans are most definitely familiar with Venom and Dizzy, though I imagine Unika is more of a mystery than the others.

It appears they are taking less mystery out of the future of the DLC and revealing their plans more directly (which I think many of us can appreciate, since guessing at shadow reveals gets boring after a while).

Above all else, I'm looking forward to learning more about the new mechanics and features of each character (and once again, I hope they address offline concerns for single player fans as well).

This also marks the first time they've revealed a playable guest character for Guilty Gear... so they are breaking the mold with this game! I hope that meets fan expectations by a great deal!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Martin Pengelly at The Guardian:

Mark Milley, a retired US army general who was chair of the joint chiefs of staff under Donald Trump and Joe Biden, fears being recalled to uniform and court-martialed should Trump defeat Kamala Harris next month and return to power. “He is a walking, talking advertisement of what he’s going to try to do,” Milley recently “warned former colleagues”, the veteran Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward writes in an upcoming book. “He’s saying it and it’s not just him, it’s the people around him.”

Woodward cites Steve Bannon, Trump’s former campaign chair and White House strategist now jailed for contempt of Congress, as saying of Milley: “We’re gonna hold him accountable.” Trump’s wish to recall and court-martial retired senior officers who criticized him in print has been reported before, including by Mark Esper, Trump’s second secretary of defense. In Woodward’s telling, in a 2020 Oval Office meeting with Milley and Esper, Trump ���yelled” and “shouted” about William McRaven, a former admiral who led the 2011 raid in Pakistan in which US special forces killed Osama bin Laden, and Stanley McChrystal, the retired special forces general whose men killed another al-Qaida leader, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, in Iraq in 2006. Milley was able to persuade Trump to back down, Woodward writes, but fears no such guardrails will be in place if Trump is re-elected.

Woodward also describes Milley receiving “a non-stop barrage of death threats” since his retirement last year, and quotes the former general as telling him, of Trump: “No one has ever been as dangerous to this country.” Milley spoke to Woodward for his previous reporting. Woodward now reports the former general as saying: “He is the most dangerous person ever. I had suspicions when I talked to you about his mental decline and so forth, but now I realize he’s a total fascist. He is now the most dangerous person to this country. “A fascist to the core.” Woodward, 81, made his name in the 1970s with Carl Bernstein during Watergate, the scandal that brought down Richard Nixon. Woodward’s new blockbuster, War, will be published on Tuesday. His fourth book at least in part about Trump – after Fear, Rage, and Peril – stoked uproar this week with the release of revelations including that Trump sent Covid testing machines to Vladimir Putin early in the coronavirus pandemic, and that Trump has had as many as seven phone calls with the Russian president since leaving office.

Milley was chair of the joint chiefs of staff from 2019 to 2023. His attempts to cope with Trump have been widely reported – particularly in relation to Trump’s demands for military action against protesters for racial justice in the summer of 2020 and, later that year, Trump’s attempt to stay in power despite losing the election to Biden. Last year, marking his retirement, Milley appeared to take a direct swipe at Trump, then a candidate for a third successive Republican presidential nomination. “We don’t take an oath to a king, or queen, or tyrant or a dictator, and we don’t take an oath to a wannabe dictator,” Milley told a military audience at Joint Base Myer-Henderson Hall in Arlington, Virginia. “We don’t take an oath to an individual. We take an oath to the constitution, and we take an oath to the idea that is America, and we’re willing to die to protect it.”

In Bob Woodward’s soon-to-be released book War, Gen. Mark Milley rightly called Donald Trump “a fascist to the core.”

Let’s defeat fascism by electing Kamala Harris!

See Also:

HuffPost: In Bob Woodward's New Book, Retired Gen. Mark Milley Calls Trump ‘A Total Fascist’

[direwombat]

tagged by @inafieldofdaisies and @socially-awkward-skeleton to share some wip

Tagging: @adelaidedrubman @detectivelokis , @sstewyhosseini, @strafethesesinners , @strangefable , @fourlittleseedlings  , @purplehairsecretlair  , @schoute  , @gaeadene  , @g0dspeeed  , @sukoshimikan  , @poetikat  , @josephslittledeputy  , @madparadoxum  , @euryalex, @clonesupport , @ivymarquis , @nightwingshero  , @deputyash  , @harmonyowl  , @aceghosts  , @inquisitors-grave , @trench-rot , @river-ward , @confidentandgood , @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @voidika, @jacobsneed, @cassietrn, @neverthesameneveranother and anyone else who i maybe missed and who has something to share (but no pressure <3)

so sorry for all the abo fic recently, i know it's not everyone's cup of tea, but here's a non-smutty bit of syb being forced to run the trials despite her...condition...

Sybille awakens in the Red Place, standing outside of the Veterans Center. The same song as before — one she’d always found sweet and romantic (and maybe still does) — warbles hauntingly all around her. It echoes and bounces off the brick edifice, making her bones thrum and pulse quicken. The air is already tinged sweet and metallic with blood. 

Blood that stains her shirt and smears across her skin, dripping to the ground along with her slick. In her hand is a pistol, and all around her lay the dead bodies of those who fell at her hand. 

Last time, this was where her trials ended. But apparently she isn’t done just yet. There’s one more person she needs to find. 

“Come back to me, sweetheart,” he says, his voice rumbling like thunder from the sky, beckoning her home. “Your Alpha’s waiting.”

She lurches forwards, drawn inside by an invisible string. Her Alpha’s in there. He’s calling to her. A bone aching emptiness guts her to her core, a bone aching emptiness that will only be filled when she’s finally wrapped in his arms and his knot is inside her. 

Her trials aren’t done. There’s one last leg to go. 

And at the end of it she’ll have proven herself. Proven herself to be a strong Omega. One worthy of being mated by a strong Alpha. 

She enters the building, its hallways twist and wind in a labyrinthine manner. Floating staircases and impossible spaces where the paths should intersect with one another, but they never do. Faceless figures lunge at her, and each time they do, she puts them down with brutal efficiency. Two bullets to the head and they drop like flies. 

“Good. Cull the herd.”

But as she climbs flight after flight of stairs, everything gets darker. Jacob’s scent thickens and her surroundings begin to distort. The reds get deeper and the shadows stretch ominously, turning into an inky void that she toes around lest she fall straight into them. The halls stretch out in front of her, and no matter how fast she runs, she just feels like she’s trapped in the same spot. 

She runs, twisting and turning, calling for Jacob until her lungs go raw. But she gets no answer. Tears prick at her eyes but she blinks them away. No. She’s better than that. Stronger than that. This is a test. A challenge. She needs to prove how badly she needs him and only him.

The realization hits her at the exact same moment a pair of arms grapples her from behind. They’re large and strong, but they’re utterly wrong. They squeeze her tight, a deep growl rumbling in the chest pressed up against her back. She snarls in response, kicking and throwing her head back, trying to break free. The back of her skull makes contact with her attacker’s nose and they release her as they stumble back. She whips around and fires two shots. 

Earl Whitehorse — the most mild-tempered Alpha she’s ever met — falls to the ground. 

“Good,” Jacob says. “Again.”

She opens her mouth to scream, but before she can, she’s hit with another wave of Alpha scent. It’s wholly unfamiliar; she can’t identify who it belongs to, but as she stumbles away from the corpse of her boss, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Another figure emerges from around the corner, and just like before, she lifts her pistol and fires. 

This time, she doesn’t look to see who she’s killed.

“Excellent. Keep going.”

She guns down Alpha after Alpha as she frantically runs through the moving halls of the Veterans Center. Her heart races in her chest, ducking for cover and picking up ammo where she finds it. 

Joey. Burke. Tammy. Tracey. And more she doesn’t know but recognizes from around the county. They all charge towards her, their arms open wide to pin her down and claim her. And one by one, she puts each of them down. 

They can’t have her. She doesn’t want them. The only one she does want is the one she can’t quite seem to find.

“Almost there, honey. You can do it.”

[bookish-bi-mormon]

Source

I hate suburbs I hate isolationism I hate it here

(ID under cut)

[ ID: Screenshots from an academic essay in plain text reading:

"Oldenburg discusses the dramatic decrease in public space as the plight of America. “In their kind and number, there has been a marked decline in gathering places near enough to people’s homes to afford the easy access and familiar faces to a vital informal public life. The course of urban development in America is pushing the individual toward that line separating proud independence from pitiable isolation (Oldenburg 1989, xvi). Oldenburg’s sociological theory of third place preceded the takeover of social media and smartphones, but even in the 1980s, he observes “America does not rank well on the dimension of her informal public life … her citizens are encouraged to find their relaxation, entertainment, companionship, even safety, almost entirely within the privacy of homes” (Oldenburg 1989, xvi – xvii). His desperation over Americans retreating to their first places and reducing social interaction is in keeping with our current retailer exodus where chain stores and malls, the quintessential gathering place of the latter part of the 20th century, are shuttering daily.

Oldenburg attributes the increased isolation of Americans, in part, to a desire for convenience, a deemphasized informal public life, and reliance on self-help (Oldenburg 1989, 285–292). Busy, working Americans view third places as inconvenient because it takes effort and time to visit them, and their presence in society has lessened (Oldenburg 1989, 286–287). The health and fulfillment benefits of third place have been abandoned, and Americans seek to solve their own emotional and mental troubles or turn to professionals in a formal setting. This decline in third places increases the urgency for libraries to accept the social responsibility of providing space in the public sphere. Libraries are still vulnerable to the isolation habits of the general public just like any third place, but the principles that libraries represent and the values they are capable of preserving, suspend the hasty fate to which franchise stores have fallen victim. The synergy for preserving libraries comes from history, core values, and a future sanctity of public.

We may not need third place association to build a town hall anymore, but we sorely need it to construct the infrastructures of human relationships. Ever since the solidifying effect of World War II passed into history, Americans have been growing further apart from one another. Lifestyles are increasingly devoid of gathering places. To the extent of our affluence, we avoid public parks, public playgrounds, public schools, and public transportation (Oldenburg 1989, 2).

Following World War II, veterans returning home were able to obtain singlefamily dwellings in the suburbs with the privacy they desired at low cost (Oldenburg 2002, 4). There was a deemphasis on local pubs, and the suburban housing development represented retreating from public life rather than nurturing its shared spaces. In his book, Individualism and Public Life, Ralph Ketchum discusses the postwar trend of individualism and says “the suburb put people on their own in a way that contrasted sharply with traditional understandings of community” (Ketcham 1987, 9). The American flightpath was headed for private ownership and a concealed existence as opposed to the more collective focus of its predecessors. The bearings of a private life became associated with prosperity and well-being. Simultaneously, corporations flourished in America post war (Oldenburg 2002, 4). Relative to this corporate occupation are Frank Webster’s words regarding the capitalist encouragement and subsequent deterrent of the public sphere: “the capitalist state came into being: as such its adherents increasingly turned their backs on an agitational and argumentative role and used the state – now dominated by capital – to further their own ends” (Webster 2014, 165). The American business model turned to privatization just as individuals retreated to a more private life"

End ID]

[phantomato]

Having recently finished reading Maurice by E. M. Forster (thoughts on DW), I immediately turned to AO3 to scavenge for fic that would give me some shade of that high. I return bearing two recs, both somehow crossovers, and I love that.

The Measure of Love by fengirl88 T, 2.2k, The Great Gatsby/Maurice crossover, Nick Carraway and Clive Durham

An Englishman and an American meet in a New York diner.

This was a beautifully-written crossover of two great books. Because I’ve recently read/reread both of them, I was delighted to find it. The author treats both Nick and Clive with subtlety: their conversation conveys multiple things at once, and we get to see from Clive’s POV how he picks up on the hints and implications of the offer for more. I love the choice to parallel these characters as men who have survived a great shock—it’s unrequited love, yes, but it’s also a specific tragedy and unexpected change in life direction. Nick is that man in its immediate aftermath, still physically shaking from it, and Clive is the veteran recognizing the ache of an old wound which still plagues him years on. It’s heartbreaking for both characters, especially the ending’s choice to dwell on what-could-be (but won’t).

Divagations of a Prig, Or: the Risley Reshuffle by HotUtilitarian E, 8.9k, Maurice (stealth David Blaize crossover), Clive Durham/Maurice Hall

Risley and Clive compete for Maurice's affections. It changes a few things.

This is gorgeous, just a wonderful pastiche of the Edwardian novel, wherein one can keenly feel the author’s research and experience with the style. But while the prose will catch your eye to start, the characterization is what will keep it—Clive Durham gets the consideration that E. M. Forster sets the foundation for, but didn’t love him quite enough to follow through on. Well, I love Clive, and this author does too.

Clive’s repression is woven into his character through his intellectualism and snobbery so tightly that he jumps off the page, a fully-realized person. The sex is incredibly hot—both the sex he has with himself and what he shares with Maurice—but so are his reflections on life and self, especially his references to the Phaedrus. And, happily, sex doesn’t change the essential core of Clive; the bittersweet ending continues the romantic push and pull between him and Maurice. I wouldn’t want their differences to be brushed aside in service of a tidy romance, and this gracefully avoids that outcome.

[over-the-time-flow]

Super Robot Rollcall: Members of the Londo Bell

Bright Noah

"I'm sorry, but i'll be putting your lives on the line."

Source Material: Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack

Age: 32

Height: 180 cm

Hobby: Model Kits

Voice Actor: Hirotaka Suzuoki

War vet among war vets, Bright is just plain old tired. Thrust into a commanding role right out of military academy due to the death of the entire chain of command above him, then mistreated by an authoritarian government, only to then have to fight a reborn version of his very first opposing faction while babysitting an entire ship of teenagers, Bright’s career has been seemingly nothing but a recipe for a nervous breakdown. Despite it all, he’s always managed to keep things together just enough to command authority and inspire confidence in all of those who serve under him, even if he’s had his fair share of low points.

When it comes to raw stats, Bright is the best captain in the game. On top of that, he has a top-grade lineup of support-oriented Spirit Commands.

However, he has two big weaknesses. He doesn’t learn Focus (集中) nor Strike (必中, guarantees this unit’s next attack will not miss), which for a battleship captain means it’s gonna be very difficult for him to hit anything, and he spends long swathes of the game unavailable. Depending on your choices during route splits, you can have as little time with him as 12 total chapters of use (out of 37 chapters in the game!!).

Despite this, he DOES stay with us all the way to the end, and as a battleship captain, is going to be deployed whenever he’s around, whether we like it or not. And with that performance, we very much do like it.

Fun Fact: According to the December 1979 issue of Animage, Bright’s name is derived from “the Brightness of Noah’s ark”.

Ra Cailum

Source Material: Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack

Length: 487 meters

The culmination of Earth Federation battleship design, this is the Londo Bell’s own flagship. Nearly as much of a SRW veteran as Bright and Amuro themselves.

An absolute beast of a battleship. Tied for best allied battleship armor (though the battleship it’s tied with does have an edge over the Ra Cailum thanks to its barrier) in the game, Incredible firepower, 4 part slots, and a very powerful MAP attack thanks to its signature nuclear warheads. Sadly, Bright's Spirit Command learnset just isn’t quite equipped for this ship’s offensive output, so you could say it isn’t used to its fullest potential. If you really want Bright getting some kills, consider dedicating some of its parts slots to accuracy-boosting items.

Fun Fact: This style of ship (as a group, referred to as Ra Cailum-class battleships) would go on to see frontline usage as far as six decades after its first initial deployments. The culmination of Federation battleship design indeed!

Amuro Ray

"I'm not impatient like you! I can wait for humanity to learn and grow!"

Source Material: Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack

Birthday: November 4th

Age: 29

Height: 172 cm

Education Level: Middle school graduate

Favorite Food: Hamburgers

Voice Actor: Tooru Furuya

The Federation’s infamous White Devil. If Bright is tired and stressed, Amuro is tired and depressed. 

Alongside Bright and the entire makeshift crew of the White Base, he was thrust into active warfare in the middle of one of humanity’s bloodiest wars, but unlike Bright, he was one of the crew members who was originally nothing but a civilian. Feared due to the abilities he displayed during the war, after it he was essentially kept under house arrest and strict vigilance by the authoritarian regime of the Titans. Once they were finally toppled, Amuro's next foe would be one of his oldest and most personal enemies, Char Aznable. 

Alongside Bright, Amuro is something of a SRW hall of famer. There’s very few SRW games he’s not present in. Alongside Ryoma from Getter Robo and Koji from Mazinger Z, he forms the core trio of SRW protagonists, who in recent games tend to be characterized as old war buddies.

He’s just as much of a beast as his reputation would have you believe. He is top notch in every stat besides Melee and Defense, neither of which he particularly needs anyway. His already exorbitant Accuracy and Evasion are further compounded by his high Newtype level; by default he arrives with the skill at level 6, meaning that he has a permanent 25% hit/dodge modifier. This is nearly equivalent to him always having Focus (集中) active. If that somehow wasn’t enough, he comes with a stacked spirit command list right out of the gate, and will very soon learn an incredibly powerful skill in Zeal (覚醒, grants this unit an extra move). 

If i had to find fault any with him, it’d be that Mercy (てかげん, if this unit’s next attack would shoot down an enemy, it will survive with 10 HP instead. Only procs if the user’s Skill stat is higher than the enemy’s) is basically a wasted Spirit slot, as this game doesn’t really have any particularly difficult missions requiring you to keep an enemy target alive, but if you ever need to feed someone kills for one reason or another, you can rest assured that Amuro’s enormous Skill stat will always make Mercy proc.

Fun Fact: During early phases of planning for 0079, Amuro was called Higashi Hongo.

Re-GZ

Source Material: Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack

Model Number: RGZ-91

Height: 20.5 meters

Power Source: Nuclear Fusion Reactor

Real World Designers: Mamoru Nagano, Yoshinori Sayama

The Re-GZ (pronounced “Re-Gazee”), short for “Refined Gundam Zeta”, is a proof-of-concept Mobile Suit intended to simplify the famous Zeta Gundam from the Gryps Conflict for mass-production. Its complex transforming frame has been replaced with the much simpler solution of the Back Weapon System, a fancy marketing term for “what if instead of a transforming MS, we made a partsforming MS”. Though this succeeded in creating a Mobile Suit cheaper to produce than the Zeta, it’s just as unintuitive to pilot, was prone to running into issues due to the slapdash nature of the BWS, and was still fairly expensive in its own right. As a result, it never saw proper mass-production and instead became a machine for aces who could handle its eccentricities.

True to its lore, the Re-GZ is underwhelming. Average at best in most regards, and dips further into below average after armor purging. 

The BWS-less Re-GZ IS equipped with the full UC loadout of gun, sword, and shield, so it has better survivability than you’d think, and getting shot down in BWS form will simply armor purge into this form, so you could argue that above all else, this machine prioritizes survivability. Still, even within that niche, there’s other robots later down the line that will completely invalidate it.

Fun Fact: Though only in a cutscene, in Super Robot Wars MX, this unit joins the rank of the distinguished few machines to be piloted by a character from an entirely different show, in this case a supporting character from Nadesico.

Kayra Su

"Don't worry about me!"

Source Material: Mobile Suit Gundam: Char’s Counterattack

Voice Actress: Shinobu Adachi

Second in skill only to Amuro himself, Kayra is one of the Londo Bell’s top aces. She’s also in a relationship with Astonaige, the resident mechanic. Despite how it might look, it’s implied she’s the older one in the relationship!

I have a soft spot for her, even though she doesn’t do much. I just think she’s neat!

Kayra is the single Oldtype pilot we get from the Universal Century in this game, and boy she does not do much of anything to make up for that unfortunate distinction.

Her stats are all fairly low save for a higher than usual Defense stat for a MS pilot (emphasis on the "for a MS pilot"), and her Spirit learnset is more fit for a Super pilot. Her only two upsides on that front are learning Valor (熱血) and Enable (再動) early, both of which are pretty good to have.

She does have one distinction, however; she is capable of acquiring the single highest level of the Blocking skill to be acquired by any allied unit in this entire game, at a whopping level 6. The Blocking skill is something I'll have to cover in a more indepth way once it comes up, but rest assured that this is actually rather impressive. There’s only three other characters in the game that even come close to this feat, and of those three, only two will be with you to the end of the game, and one of those two is a secret pilot! Sadly, there's little practical use for this other than making her slightly better at survival than you'd think at first glance. No Potential (底力) dashes her hopes of being some strange UC equivalent of a Super Robot pilot, and even "designated Support Defense punching bag" is too lofty of an ambition for her, thanks to her Support Defense skill capping out at level 2.

It's no great loss, but she won't be with us to the end of the game.

Fun Fact: In a possible reference to SDF Macross, Astonaige once promised to cook her his signature salad before a battle in Char’s Counterattack.

Jegan

Source Material: Mobile Suit Gundam: Char's Counterattack

Model Number: RGM-89

Height: 20.4 meters

Power Source: Nuclear Fusion Reactor

Real World Designer: Yutaka Izubuchi

The standard mass-produced Federation mobile suit circa the mid-UC 90s and beyond, and the successor to the iconic GM series of mass-produced mobile suits. Of the Federation's mass-produced MSs, this is probably the one with the most appearances in SRW.

SRW R’s Jegan is unfortunate. There are so many issues with it i struggle to even see where to begin. There's Supers with better Mobility and Reals with better Armor.

Its only good points to speak of are having the UC standard loadout of sword, shield and gun, having 4 parts slots, and having a 5-range post-movement attack… but its base damage is so low, and its upgrades cost so high for so little return, that you couldn’t possibly see that last one as a selling point unless you’ve already made up your mind that you want to use this robot. To rub salt in the wound, it’s got a glacial default movement range of 5 tiles, meaning that in practice, its post-movement 5-range missiles are hardly an advantage.

Depending on the way you look at it, keeping this thing until the end of the game kind of constitutes a secret? I know the Jegan has some diehard fans out there, so if you are one, you'd better make your presence known soon so i can know not to lock myself out of it. And be aware that keeping the Jegan until the end also means picking it over the Thaqnz Zx-VVV (rot13).

Fun Fact: A rarity for mobile suits, the Jegan does not have a “front skirt”, e.g. the little mechanical flaps that usually cover the mobile suit’s “thighs”. This was apparently done to reduce the workload of drawing a bunch of Jegans onscreen during the movie.

[metallicthirst]

Core

The Core is the central complex and power structure of the Rulerlings within each locality. A biomechanical superstructure the size of a small moon that is FTL capable. These structures house the Geneforges, farms, Archives, foundries, academies, barracks, and armories.

The cores have a general strategy of avoiding direct conflict with any of the locals, instead choosing to create gateways and sending relatively small forces to varying locations around the locality, they in fact lack impressive fleets like those seen in many localities. Their 'fleets' mainly comprise boarding craft, troop carriers, and strike craft.

Outer Shell

The outer shell of the Core is heavily armored, with alloys and layers of Vibranium, Adamantium, Uru, and Adamantine; gained from the more productive locality. The Harvester's shield technology has also been integrated, though this was before the shell's reinforcement. Finally, the shell has some degree of self-repairing functionality due to the biomechanical nature of the core.

Inner Void

Within the outer shell are many pockets and chambers, far more than the outer size would suggest, as the inside has been expanded a number of times, with further storage space having been gained through the digitization from the reverse-engineered technology of Kevin Flynn.

This is where the vast majority of the facilities are located, most of the castes possessing their own sections of the inner void for their own Geneforges, farms, academies, barracks, and armories. The Archives and foundries are specifically separated from the caste's jurisdiction.

The Geneforges are the cloning facilities for the castes, as they each utilize a unique genetic profile and go through different augmentations to one another, centralized Geneforges were deemed hazardous.

The Farms each caste manages are primarily for the purposes of food and fuel for the Geneforges. However, the Hemalurgists and the Harvesters have additional varieties of livestock on hand, with a Harvester working on each farm to harvest the investiture of the slaughtered livestock.

The academies are self-contained digital spaces in which the training clone units are housed, granted Identity Discs which hold many useful memories, habits, and instincts in order to streamline the training process. The training is overseen by Programs, however, final evaluations are made by Veterans. Upon succeeding, they receive their own Crystal fragment from the Central Mind.

The barracks are realspace locations within the Core, containing mess halls, sleeping quarters, and recreation facilities.

The armories, though majorly overlapping in the weapons allowed to each caste, is not the same uniformly, and was deemed that separate stockpiles of arms, vehicles, and ordinances would be safer.

The Archives is an archive of history and reports about the localities visited, the technologies implemented and deemed unnecessary, tactics and training methods, research on the abilities of the various castes, numerous unsealed metalminds, and a spike repository. Though not under the jurisdiction of any one caste, each caste has a section for specific works, histories, or tactics they have contributed.

The foundries are the machine factories that tirelessly work to manufacture the arms and vehicles utilized by the Legion.

Gate Matrix

A series of doorways that open a close to the will of the Central mind, some are large enough for a large company of ships to go through, others are small enough for three units to barely walk through shoulder to shoulder.

This is the location of the hangars for the Legion's 'fleet'.

Central Mind

An awakened metalmind fueled by the mutilated and wiped Crystal acquired from Atlantis, it utilizes the Map, which naturally updates itself with each locality and enables the various doorways to be opened. This metalmind possesses near absolute control over the core and is more than capable of terminating every organism on board, however, it must obey the commands of the Rulerling it serves.

It coordinates the forces and rations investiture to the units. It often evaluates the threat level of localities based on the data from the Map and sends units accordingly. If a locality has little more than a low-technology world, it may only send a member or two from each caste to the world. But if it has a number of particularly dangerous entities within, it will usually mobilize the entire Legion.

[guds9784562]

Pocket Prowess: The Art of Billiards

Billiards, often referred to as the gentleman's game, is a timeless pursuit that marries precision, strategy, and finesse. Within the dimly lit confines of a billiards hall or the comfort of one's home game room, the smooth surface of the pool table serves as a canvas for players to exhibit their mastery of angles, spins, and tactics. "Pocket Prowess: The Art of Billiards" delves into the intricate world of this beloved game, exploring its history, techniques, and strategic depth.

At its core, billiards is a game of geometry and physics. Every shot requires a keen understanding of angles, trajectories, and the behavior of the cue ball upon impact. Whether executing a simple bank shot or a complex combination, players must possess a sharp eye and a steady hand to consistently pocket their intended balls. "Pocket Prowess" elucidates these fundamental principles, offering insights into stance, grip, and stroke mechanics to help players refine their skills and elevate their game.

Beyond its technical aspects, billiards is also a game of strategy and mental acuity. Each turn at the table presents players with a multitude of options, from aggressive offensive maneuvers to cautious defensive plays. "Pocket Prowess" explores various strategic approaches, from controlling the cue ball for optimal position to setting up intricate patterns for run-out sequences. Through analysis of real-life game scenarios and expert tips from seasoned players, readers gain a deeper appreciation for the strategic depth inherent in billiards.

Moreover, "Pocket Prowess" celebrates the rich history and cultural significance of billiards. From its origins in medieval Europe to its evolution into a global pastime, billiards has left an indelible mark on society, influencing art, literature, and popular culture. Through engaging anecdotes and historical vignettes, this book pays homage to the luminaries of the game and the iconic venues that have served as its battlegrounds.

In essence, "Pocket Prowess: The Art of Billiards" serves as both a comprehensive guide for aspiring players and a love letter to the timeless allure of the green felt. Whether you're a seasoned veteran seeking to hone your pool table or a novice eager to learn the ropes, this book offers valuable insights and inspiration to enhance your journey through the world of billiards.

[thewestern]

Chapter 25

Mayor Mockingbird was ensconced in the private dining room of the vegan steakhouse of which he was a part owner. That morning there had been an incident at City Hall wherein one of his schizophrenic constituents — an ever-increasing slice of his core demographic — had charged the door to his office brandishing a hatchet. His sheriff's department detail didn’t hesitate to Put the [Assailant(— redacted/sic, profanity)] down, as he so phrased it in the official report. After preliminarily engaging the unsub with six warning shots to the torso area, I preceded to fire a follow-up, security round to the facial and head region, to heretofore confirm the neutralization of the imminent threat magnitude in perpetuity. 

(Here the deputy had partaken in a controversial practice called Canoeing, which he’d heard about by way of his cousin, Jaxson, who served a half a tour overseas. Popular among American servicemembers, canoeing entails shooting a high-caliber bullet at point-blank range directly into the face of an assailant who has been previously mortally wounded, if not killed outright. This, as a primitive means of marking them — like a calling card. Thoroughly macabre. The deputy bragged how his cousin was special forces, but in actuality, he had only achieved the rank of enlisted private before his dishonorable discharge for unrelated offenses. [He was caught with his pants down — around his ankles — as he masturbated onto the bunk of his commanding officer, in retaliation for putting him on Shit Detail {Cleaning out the latrine}.] The commanding officer wasn’t present in his bunk, {Jaxson} reiterated in the incident report. I’m no faggot. Not that those JSOC jagoffs are any fucking better. Tell you what they’re a bunch of psychos. Serious, dude. Ever wonder how come there aint been no serial killers recently? What … you mean after Gacy and Bundy and Dahmer they all decided to pack it in? Like they was on strike? The Local 666. Hell no. Don’t believe that shit for a second. It’s cause serial killers are for peacetime is the real reason. Look it up. War is when those crazy sons a bitches get paid. For plying their trade: wasting fools. Poppa said if you do what you love you’ll never work a day in your life. Mother fucking freaks get recruited like they’re five-star prospects. Right of high school — presumably you can make it through without shooting the place to high hell — it’s straight to Camp Jeffrey or Fort Ted, Jack. Boy, they’ll make a useful fucking American out of you yet.

[Speaking of spree killers, rumours had recently circulated on a popular online message board — one typically used for soliciting restaurant recommendations and complaining about the weather — that one was active in the city, and that the local police was covering it up. It was true that there had been several young men who had washed up dead in relatively short succession on the river banks just downstream from the old train yard, not far from #x_brüing. No, it wasn’t Jaime. Actually, homicide detectives had quite thoroughly investigated the deaths and determined conclusively there was no foul play. The sad truth was those boys had more than likely fallen in the river and drowned by accident. Probably they were drunk. It’s a reality of bodies of water in urban areas. Happens more than you think.]) 

This was the first time the Deputy had the honour of discharging his service weapon in the line of duty. (In service of killing a man, that is. Routinely he took on-the-clock target practice at the empty energy drink cans that piled high atop the passenger seat of his cruiser. All ammunition was carefully inventoried at the station weapons depot, so these were rounds he purchased himself at a local sporting goods store which offered a discount to first responders, active duty military and veterans.)  As per department protocol, the deputy would thusly be required to attend No Less Than Three mandatory sessions with a county sub-contracted psychiatrist, so as to evaluate the effect of this violent event on his mental state. You didn’t need to be Sigmund fucking Freud however to tell by the shit-eating grin plastered on this son of a bitch’s face that he was, in a word, giddy. No doubt this would get him off this shit detail and back into a cush post at county lockup, where he’d get his time and a half. (Not to mention whatever he made on the side … trafficking toilet wine, prepaid cell phones and the like among the inmates, that is.) For the time being, however, he had to keep biding his time babysitting Mayor Muffdiver here, who had insisted that he order anything off the menu, what as a token of his gratitude for saving his hide. That’s right, you fucking pussy. Unfortunately, he didn’t recognize any of the items on the menu. I thought the sign out front said Steakhouse. (You couldn’t really fault him for not comprehending the Sanskrit-font fine print above that said Vegan.) But this ain’t look nothing like the Sizzler. Even the sides are dogshit. What the fuck is a Quinoa Risotto, he wondered to himself, pronouncing it Quinn-oh-Ah in his head. Whatever, it’s free. So then preternaturally he defaulted to ordering the most expensive thing on the menu — the sixty-nine-dollar tomahawk shiitake. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t drier than that old lady’s taint. Beet juice was no substitute for blood. He should know too. What having just this afternoon bukakee’d a brain stem’s worth of it all over the Mayor’s fucking drywall. Hoo-hah. 

A self-described lapsed pescatarian, Mayor Larry also wasn’t feeling particularly appetized, even at this restaurant he owned in part. In truth, like the deputy, he preferred red meat. Secretly, he craved it … insatiably, in fact, at all hours of the day and night. Alas, his intestines were tied. For one thing, he had made Nutritional Education a cornerstone of his platform, campaigning on the promise that proper diet and exercise were the two most powerful weapons with which to combat poverty. (Government assistance finishing a non-competitive fourth, just missing out on the podium.) Third and more importantly, the Natural Foods Mafia — a powerful local lobby of health and wellness-oriented grocers, restaurateurs and CPG purveyors of granola-based snack bars, flavored energy pastes and fermented beverages of a non-alcoholic persuasion (hell yeah we’re talking about kombucha, bitch) — had been instrumental to his political rise. Larry had joined their ranks as an unmade consigliere of sorts after departing the New Frontier, during his first foray into angel investing. He was participating in a seed round-funding of a FoodTech startup that which aimed to create a speculative marketplace for trading — of all fucking things — seeds. Would you believe they called it, the Stalk Exchange? (That was back before the first dot-com boom went bust when at least the fugazi tech companies had real names at least. Meaning ones that say what they mean. Pets dot com. Diapers dot Com. Product We Sell or Service We Provide dot Com. Now all the startups had stupid fucking names that had hardly anything to do with their business. And as if that weren’t confusing enough, some unofficial style guide called for most vowels and all letter casing to be omitted entirely. Billy was hip to this game. For a fact, when #x_brü inevitably got so big it would have to restructure into a conglomerate of shell corporations so as to skirt antitrust regulation, Billy planned to rebrand that new holding company DRFT. Like a startup shorthand for Draft, as in beer.) While that investment didn’t bear fruit, it did help him to cultivate some deeply rooted connections in the budding organics lobby. (Punch me in the fucking face.) Fortuitously, it was their coveted endorsement that helped to earn him a narrow victory in his first hotly-contested primary election. What Mayor Larry didn’t count on was that once you owed a debt to the Natural Foods Mafia, they owned you for life. Like some other fraternal organizations you may be familiar with, they were very much a blood-in, blood-out, sort of situation. La Couscous Nostra. So here he was, trapped in a restaurant for which he was coerced into buying a minority ownership, waiting on another of his unpaid lackeys to smuggle in a mostly beef hamburger through the back door service entrance. 

Suffice it to say, Mayor Larry would have much preferred to be back home at City Manor, unwinding with some fundraising calls, were it not for the nagging omnipresence of his wife, Matilda. She was already angry about having to chauffeur their son, Carter, to Tuscon tomorrow for a soccer tournament. Youth sports culture had gotten out of control, as he was fond of commiserating with his fellow parents at cocktail parties. For Pete’s sake, this was the U-Eleven division — we’re talking ten-year-olds here — traveling all over the country to play against other children. Interstate airfare, hotel reservations, chartered buses, catered orange slices. Like they were the Pittsburgh freaking Steelers, for crying out loud. These boys haven’t even hit puberty! And Larry’s son, in particular, hated soccer anyway. Probably on account of he was born with a mild case of clubfoot. Hey, don’t look at me. I was second-team all-state in fencing. Any lack of athleticism, he got that from his mother, who herself meanwhile through some acrobatic feat of albeit well-earned marital resentment, had resolved to blame his father for being attacked by a lone axman. Don’t ask him how.

But then, even if it was sincere regret for its failure, at least Matty felt something about the botched assassination attempt. Hildegard, for her part, hadn’t so much as called. By now she must have heard. It was all over the news. Before his would-be Wilkes Booth had even hit the ground, the Mayor had quite savvily called a press conference, cashing in the political capital of his near-death to pump some desperately needed life into his currently flatlining gubernatorial campaign. Woe for the maneuver backfired, when his opponent used the violent attack to rhetorically counterattack Mayor Larry’s stance on gun control, tepid though it was. Common Sense Reforms and Best Practices for Responsible Weapon Ownership, was how it was clumsily copywritten on the website. (Visit More 4 Mockingbird dot com slash donate today! … the web domain for 4 More 4 Mockingbird dot com was already being squatted on for his reelection, all the more improbable though it may now have seemed.) Now here we got ourselves a situation where a bad guy Did Not have a gun. It was a battle axe, or some sharp, throwing implement of sorts. Because, isn’t it the god’s-honest truth that most radical terrorist acts aren’t carried out with firearms in the first place? Statistics bear that out. I believe it to be the case it’s because they’re too yeller to look a man in the eye and pull the trigger. Instead, the Islam-ists here, they’ll use whatever they can get their hands on — anything from a kitchen knife to explosive de-vices, ignited in their damn’d underpants. You name it. Whatever causes a maximum output of pain with the bare minimum input of guts, them cowards’ll use it. Hell, they’ll stampede a crowded market in a truck if it so suits ‘em. So you tell me this … howsit that Mayor Mockingbird knocking on your front door, and taking away your guns, to which you are constitutionally entitled by the Almighty God, Himself, howsit that that’s going to stop something awful like this from happening to you? Or to your children, heaven forbid? I don’t need to remind any of you fine folks, the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun — or a boxcutter, or a bomb, or an ali-baba sword or a foreign-made truck careening through a crowded pedestrian area — is an even badder guy with a gun. And guess what, Kimosabe, you gone done found him. [Here the chosen candidate of the opposition party sidestepped the lectern and slowly pulled back his barn coat to reveal an as-previously concealed carry hand cannon holstered on his right love handle. It was an Austrian-made, polymer-framed piece with a matte American flag finish; but only the red, white and blue were swapped out with black and two very menacing shades of gunmetal gray, and the stars were interspersed throughout with skulls. Returning to the bouquet of microphones from the assembled press, he resumed his diatribe.] If you d’ruther take your chances with a rape whistle or a pocket knife or a damn wrist rocket, for all I care, well then that’s your prerogative, Mr. Mayor. I don’t tell you your business. You don’t tell me mine! 

If indeed the pen were mightier than the sword, never mind the semi-automatic pistol, then Larry had better get to work on crafting an in-kind response to these scurrilous and inflammatory attacks on his character. Unfortunately, he was previously occupied with a separate bit of oratory entirely. The Office of the Mayor was issuing an Official Civic Apology on behalf of The City for the historic blight that was the Main Street Melee, a massacre carried out on the order of the then-Mayor Curtis Hixon. It was a nasty business, wherein Hixon — or Hick, as he was Affectionately Known, who mind you had been duly elected by no public vote, and was rather named Mayor by power of self-appointed title and homemade-sash only — deputized a posse to retaliate swiftly and unconditionally against a war party of renegade Indians. This, for their Unprovoked raid on an arriving wagon train of white settlers, wherein two poor German immigrant families were murdered quite brutally. However, being that the band of hostiles in question was by that time already long gone on down the warpath, the militia of mostly drunk miners — hastily, they had been commissioned for duty inside a saloon … another thing they had in common, in addition to their public service, was that outside of their political lives, Mayor Larry and his predecessor Hick were both part-time publicans, as well as avid real estate speculators — settled for settling their score on the account of some innocent bystanding Indians, who ironically were in town to negotiate a treaty of peace on behalf of a separate tribe entirely than the one the renegade braves formerly represented. (Hence, they were Renegade.) After a brief if-you-could-call-it-a standoff, eight elders and twenty squaws, unarmed to a one, were gunned down right there in the thoroughfare. A more perfect butchery, there never was. Thus epitaphed one of the massacre’s co-authors, apparently he who fancied himself a fucking poet. 

These events unfolded — more than a century ‘ore — on the present-day site of a salad store, part of a burgeoning fast-casual chain of restaurants founded by a trio of business school classmates. Three Masters of Business Administration. (Per their business plan, this was the End of the Line for the Salad Bar, which conjured up distasteful images of sneeze guards, wilted lettuces and those dressing dispensers in the dining hall, the ones that would get all gross and congealed on the slide-open lids with weeks-old ranch and thousand-island. Rather, this would be a premium dining experience for on-the-go professionals. A loyalty program would incentivize online ordering through a proprietary mobile app, creating a more frictionless meal-fulfillment process. Recipes would be calibrated with seasonal ingredients from local farmers, and curated in collaboration with celebrity chefs, superstar athletes and more … ) Mayor Mockingbird had been a ground-floor investor. The following morning — right before the lunch rush — he was scheduled to make these, his belated condolences and present a commemorative plaque to be displayed semi-permanently outside the storefront. He would be joined by the acting chairman of the tribal council, a senior-ranking representative from the state Office of Indian Affairs, and the salad company’s Chief Diversity Officer. ( … For a limited time only, try our newest salad bowl collab, Beet Don’t Kale My Vibe, inspired by our partnership with Grammy-winning recording artist, Kendrick Lamar.)

Ten times out of ten, he would have delegated this thankless Speechwriting assignment to the liberal arts doofuses on his communications staff, who would have no doubt poured over every word of these brief introductory remarks like they were the goddamned Gettysburg Address. Mother fucking sermon on the mount, ass. However, not only was his office closed for obvious reasons. (These same staffers had spent their afternoon fielding quotes from among the concerningly competitive market for crime scene cleaning crews, — although, by far, their most common customer use case was Suicide by gun — awarding the winning bid to a locally-owned family outfit called Trauma Cleanse, LLC, a name that resonated with them in particular. At this very moment, their certified technicians were power washing the scattered brain matter off the drywall. Back on Main Street, a bounty of scalps had been paraded through town and triumphantly nailed to the wall of Mayor Hixon’s saloon, cleverly called City Hall, right above the bar.) But also, per security protocol for any such violent incident, his entire staff had been furloughed indefinitely effective immediately, while their email and phone servers could be shut down and fully crawled for any forensic evidence. Most likely they were looking for instances of proper protocol not having been followed for flagging threats. Or perhaps on the off chance that someone within the Mayor’s inner circle had colluded to do him harm. Larry wasn’t sure that precaution was altogether necessary in this case. I think we can confidently rule out that the hatchet-wielding lunatic with feces smeared across his face like warpaint — as for the excrement, investigators deduced that it was presumably human, likely the suspect’s own particulat … although whose poop was really anybody’s guess  — spewing an incoherent diatribe of mostly racial slurs as he kamikazeyed my office door, was doing so on behalf of a vast political fucking conspiracy. That he was in cahoots with anyone apart from the chorus of voices in his head, is highly unlikely, you nincompoops.

 As for the speech, all he’d managed to type thus far were two words … I’m and Sorry. And indeed he was. Sorry for having agreed to participate in this public farce in the first place. (It had been his idea, as he’d already forgotten.) Sorry that he ever left the private sector. Sorry that his loveless marriage would have to last him another two election cycles, as a worst-case scenario for his sputtering political aspirations. Sorry that the woman he did love treated him like her bureaucratic errand boy and non-reciprocal sex toy. (The Pulsator MK-48 — nuclear torpedo or prostate massager?) Sorry that his only son couldn’t walk a straight line. Sorry that he part-owned the city’s first and soon-to-be-last vegan steakhouse. It’s a contradiction in terms, you fools! Yes, Lawrence Mockingbird was feeling very sorry indeed. So sorry that he longed for the only person on this planet who had ever understood his struggle — of course, his mother. The doting Mrs. Helen Mockingbird. At times like these, as there had been many, only she could have consoled him. Isn’t it so unfair? Oh, how she would have moved heaven and earth to spare him from enduring even the mildest frustration. Especially as a schoolboy, when he’d complain incessantly about his homework. It’s unfair, mother. The teacher hadn’t covered this subject adequately. You’re right, dear, she’d say. It is unfair. And then she’d do it for him. No matter the subject. This woman learned Spanish in her spare time, all to help her only son. Su hijito solo. This pattern of co-dependency continued all throughout high school, and into college. Even as a graduate student, he’d call home to her for help with a vexing problem set. Alas, she couldn’t help with this tedious assignment. A five-paragraph political essay prompt. Why should I apologize? I never massacred anybody. I know, Sweetie. It is unfair. No, she was no help to him now. Now that she was put away in an Assisted Living Community. Larry paid her room and board on the first of every month, although he hadn’t had the occasion to visit. Not in the past year. But not because he didn’t want to. He’s not a monster. Simply, he couldn’t bear it. How she couldn’t recognize him. 

And so the cursor on the otherwise blank, as yet Untitled document was taunting him. 

Come on, Lawrence, think. Okay, how about we don’t open with, Sorry. Yes. Because it sets a bad precedent. Instead, let’s lead with gratitude. 

I would like to thank these esteemed representatives of the Tribal Council for joining us today, as well as the fine folks at springleaf for their hospitality. Also, they have marked this momentous occasion — as well as they will be catering a brief reception immediately following the ceremony — with a special edition commemorative salad dish. The Native Lands Southwestern Chipotle Caesar Bowl, most all of the ingredients for which have been sourced in collaboration with peoples of indigenous descent. Additionally, a portion of the proceeds will go to benefit a STEM scholarship fund for reservation students. The Native Lands Southwestern Chipotle Caesar Bowl is available for a limited time only, while supplies last. 

Much better. Ease ‘em in. And, now that you got their stomachs churning, hit them on the heartstrings. Time to right an historic wrong— 

—But maybe don’t take outright responsibility — like, as in, individually. Lest we forget, Lawrence … first rule of political discourse: never give a convenient soundbite. A personal apology would be all too perfect attack ad fodder. Besides, contrition makes you sound weak. 

[Deletes I am, types all with his index fingers (hunt and peck style), We are. Adds, On behalf of all the citizens of this city, I would like to say that.]

And that is how it’s done, son. Dodged another hatchet job. Self-satisfied, Mayor Larry leaned back in his faux leather throne and cracked his knuckles. Now all that’s left is to pad this thing out with a little exposition, borrowing liberally from these bullet points here printed out in outrageously large font by his interns, who had in-turn wholesale copy-pasted the information from an internet encyclopedia entry of some dubious provenance.

Where we now gather before a progressive beacon of entrepreneurial spirit and nutritional inclusivity, here on this hallowed ground, some seven score and four years ago, independent contractors acting on behalf of this municipal government committed our city’s original sin. One for which, too long, has gone unatoned …     

Just as he was hitting his rhetorical stride, punching the keys with rhythm and verve like a young Donald Fagen, his creative process was so inconsiderately interrupted … 

Jiminy Christopher, Jaime … Would it kill you to knock?

Jaime looked behind himself through the beaded curtain door, perplexed. He came bearing a brown paper bag, keeping his hand outstretched to prevent the visibly pooling grease from seeping onto his #x_brü-branded Workshirt, a selvage chambray with hand-stitch embroidery and pearl snap buttons. (At #x_brü, Merch was a strategic business priority on level par with beer. [Core Value No. Eight: Think outside the Beer.] Jaime painstakingly designed and sourced all pieces in-house himself.)

Well, let’s have it then. Come on. Burgers and fries don’t travel well.

Larry further scrunched his already scrunchy face and tapped his cheap rubber sports watch. Jaime was immediately thrown off guard, having never had the Mayor — whom he considered to be his mentor in personal brand building — behave in such a belligerent way toward him before. It was true that the Mayor typically saved his short temper for the members of his staff and immediate family, who naturally were bound to-a-man, woman and child by airtight non-disclosure agreements. Perhaps being the target of a homicidal maniac had revealed a blemish in his carefully manicured facade of the unflappable, Clintonian/Bushian statesman. 

Placing the bag and the plastic soda cup — so extra large as to defy any cup holder that should hope to contain it — a safe distance from the Mayor’s laptop, Jaime eagerly started in on his pre-rehearsed ass-kissing.

Lawrence, I would just like to say how truly sorry I am that you had to endure this trauma. This is a dark day for our city. May I add how I am eternally grateful, foremostly for your safety, but also that the perpetrator of this heinous act of domestic terrorism has been exterminated from—

—Save it, Jaime. I’m fine. And take it easy with the terrorism stuff. This wasn’t a radical idealist. Probably just some junkie. Poor bastard was pumped full of bullets before he even laid eyes on me.

My god. I hadn’t considered that. And this after all you’ve done to rid our streets of the scourge of drugs.

By now Mayor Larry had all-but devoured half his burger. A dollop of special sauce splashed onto the spacebar. Suckling audibly from the bendy straw, with a mouthful of half-chewed, diet cola-soaked meat, he asked the existential question: 

Jaime, why are you here? 

Because you asked me to deliver your supper? 

Which is cold, by the way. Stale fries and a soggy bun. Have I died and this is hell after all? What did I say about fast food never traveling well.

But wasn’t that what you wanted? You insisted—

—I insist you tell me why you’re kissing my butt. Rather, what for. I mean, why … obviously, because I’m the Mayor of a mid-major American city. But, usually you’re much more nuanced in your flattery. Of all people, I should know. Day and night, they come to kiss my butt. Heck, how do you think I got here in the first place? Because I happen to be a world-class butt-kisser myself. Without peer, if I do say so. Although I do see some of myself in you. 

Thank you. Jaime said this with the utmost sincerity. 

But this … this is something different. Desperation. For the both of our sakes, it’s unbecoming. So, then, spare us, will you? Out with it. 

Um. Well, while I’d be loath to trouble you at this time, there is an urgent business matter on which I would seek your wise counsel.

Oh, baloney. You don’t want my advice. You want to couch whatever request your about to make in the form of a question. It’s the oldest trick in the book. I should know. I wrote it. But, fine. At least, now we’re getting somewhere. Please, then, arrive at your ask. Although if it’s another investment you're after I’m afraid the books are closed, indefinitely. The political action committee is a little cash-poor, at the moment. They’re even advising me that I should start self-funding my campaign, in part, if you can believe that. For the optics. And to take some of the heat off. I’ve got the Secretary of State so far up my you-know-what, my proctologist could just as well file a public records request. 

Oh, no. We’re not raising a round at the moment. And you’ve already been so generous in that regard. Besides, I think our capitalization requirements have matured beyond the friends and family phase. 

Is that so? Well la-di-da. Here’s a bit of unsolicited advice, Jaime: Don’t get in the habit of turning down checks, Jaime. Especially when they aren’t on the table.  

You’re right. I’m terribly sorry. I intended no offense. It’s just, as you know, we’ve been positioning ourselves for an acquisition for some time now, and I believe we’re currently optimized as such for just such an exit.

Is that so? Well wouldn’t that be nice. I’m currently optimized for a blow job from Christie Brinkley.

Who is that? 

Seriously? Supermodel. Swimsuit issue. She married and subsequently divorced Billy Joel. 

Who’s Bil—

—Ah. Don’t you dare … ask me that. [Uncomfortable silence.] You know, it’s my understanding that the markets aren’t exactly foaming for boutique beer makers. So then, by whom, may I ask, are you hoping to be acquired? 

By the Wolffenbeir Company, of course. 

Thus followed another, even more viscous silence. The mere suggestion of Hildegard — so soon after his crude allusion to oral sex … the receiving of — sent a painful tingle down Mayor Larry’s dungarees. It took him a moment to compose himself. 

I’m sorry to say, Jaime, but that’s simply preposterous. What in the world makes you think the Wolffenbeir Company would want to buy a craft brewery?

I know. It was a moonshot, but I think we’re in striking distance of a deal. This is strictly confidential, but I’ve been cultivating a relationship with WIlhem Wolff III, and—

—Wait. I beg yoru pardon, but did you say Wilhelm? Do you mean Billy? As in Billy Wolff, Trip, Born on Third, the last and decidedly least … Jesus, Jaime. How can I put this diplomatically? Take it from a fellow butt-kisser. Billy is a horse’s ass. The poor son of a gun won the egg lottery, and since then he’s spent his entire useless life pissing all over the winning ticket. And now you’re telling me that this is the mule to whom you’ve hitched your wagon?

Sir. Respectfully, I know Billy can be a bit of an eccentric, but I’d hardly call him a lightweight. In fact, he’s the head of the Beverage Advancement Division.   

Oh, my, the Beverage Advancement Division. Have you ever heard of anything ever so serious sounding? It must be real. Somebody call the Wall Street Journal. Come on, Jaime. And it’s Was, by the way. 

It’s Was what?

Was the Head of something or other, is my understanding. His mother has been in the nasty habit of inventing jobs for him, if only to keep him a safe distance away from the actual business. Only now that he may have stumbled jackass backward into something of actual value, she’s resorted to shuffling him away on some or other makework, wild goose chase. You see, Jaime, our mutual friend Billy is something of a Don Quijote figure. Only he’s trying to fuck the windmill. Come to think of it, I suppose then that would make you his Sancho Panza. Tell me, how’s that going so far? 

I’m sorry, I don’t understand the reference. Also, while I certainly empathize with your skepticism, I can assure you of this opportunity’s utmost legitimacy. Until very recently, I had been given assurances that the deal would be presented to the board, imminently. And that, furthermore, approval was all but a formality. 

Oh, really? And then what happened? 

Well. Just some complications. It’s only temporary. This is coming from Billy himself. 

Is that so? Complications, huh. How apropos. Billy is himself a complication. His entire existence on this planet, I mean. A perpetual stillbirth. His mother would tell you so herself, if only she were here. If it were Hildy running for governor, it’d be on a platform of legalising abortions in the one-hundredth trimester. In that regard — socially, I mean — she’s quite liberal. Fiscally, of course, she’s Attila the Hun. 

Jaime was yet again confused. Something was — amiss. The Mayor he knew was a champion of a woman’s right to choose. Larry wasn’t his usual self.

Sir, are you feeling alright? You’re not your usual self.

Oh, like you know the usual me. Maybe it’s I’m feeling more sympathetic toward the Right To Lifers, having survived such a brazen attempt on my own. Hey. Now this, perhaps that’s not such a bad idea. What’s another flip flop or two anyway? I’m already running out of real estate in the center. So maybe this time I tack a bit to the Right. My political career is a fetal heartbeat away from flatlining completely.   

Jaime hadn’t the slightest idea what the Mayor was talking about. Once more he tried to get through to him. 

Mister Mayor. Lawrence. Again, you’ve been so generous, to myself and all the #x_brüers, of which I hope you count yourself among. For that we are eternally grateful. Speaking of Hildegaard, at the risk of asking too much, would you be willing to act as our intermediary to her? I know you two are close. If I could make the connection directly, I’m quite sure I could plead our case as a viable target for corporate takeover. Our brand equity is at an all time high. We project to reach profitability within a five-year window. Production is ramping up—  

—Whoa. Wait just a second, Jaime. Ramping up, you say? How, dare I ask, are you affording that? You said so yourself in our last board meeting. You’re debt-financed up to your nipples. 

Yes. I’m excited to announce to you now — this with the anticipated capital influx as resultant to our iminent acquiring on behalf by the Wolffenbeir Company — we have secured a handshake agreement to ourselves acquire the new New Frontier production facility before it goes online. 

Hearing this, Larry spit out a bit of his soft drink. 

Hah! I’ve really got to hand it to you. You’ve got a knack for spending other people’s money. Another quality I also possess in great quantity. Perhaps a political future awaits thee, my son. Although you’re taking a roundabout approach. The New Frontier? You know I divested my interest in that fledgling concern some twenty years ago. Why ever would you wish to own a piece of that money pit? 

What do you mean? You started the Newfy. I thought you would be proud of me.

Is that a joke? 

No? 

Hmm. That’s too bad for you. Well then, it’s time for your last free lesson, Jaime. It may be too late yet for you to learn it, I’m sorry to say, but I implore you to listen all the same. Because unless you’ve got a rich uncle out there whom I’m not aware of, this is the last time we’ll speak. Are you listening? Because here it is:

We aren’t in the business of pride. Look around you. This [the Mayor was again gesticulating, this time with a soggy french fry] … this is the business of debasing ourselves to the highest possible bidder. Now, what you did, was you tried to build something. And good on you for it, my boy. To be sure, it was a quite absurd something which no one needed, but then again are most things. And this something, You tried to build It. Of That, one could be proud, in theory. Of course I won’t be proud of you. Don’t be silly. However what I have done and will continue to do is take that pride and sell it. Or maybe I borrow against it, in a manner of speaking. Securitize it. Whatever the transaction or the financial instrument may be, we are its licensed brokers. It’s our reason for being. Certainly it’s why you’re sitting here today. It’s why tomorrow I’m apologizing for a genocide that happened a century ago out front of a takeout salad store. It’s … you’re like our yeomen farmer, Jaime. A vision somewhere’s way off in the distance. The further we get away from it, the clearer it rounds into view.

Vision. Let’s talk about vision. Entrepreneurs such as ourselves talk of having Vision. It’s possible you do see further in some direction, but your sight is distorted through the jagged prism that is your pride. Because here’s a question: what’s the difference between seeing visions and hearing voices? The answer: very little. Particularly when your head’s too far up your keister to smell your own bull crap. Sound familiar? It should. Because that’s what this is, nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine times out of a million. Absolute buloney. But then there’s that one in a million times. Why wouldn’t it be me? There’s your pride. They use on Us. It’s really white slavery.  

Who are They? You’ll never know. I do, of course. We all used to know them. Everywhere you looked, their names were carved into marble. Your Rockefellers or Fords, your Carnegies, Vanderbilts and Hearsts. Our dear Wolffs. Not anymore. Unless they suffer a three-quarter’s life crisis and do something foolish, like haul off and buy a football team. Imaging feeling so existentially depressed that you resort to buying the Buffalo Bills. Have some pride and kill yourself. But hey, it happens. Apart from that, though, they’ll remain totally anonymous. That’s how they prefer it these days. To them, pride is a writeoff. Of course, shame comes at a high cost, but they can afford it. 

Now where I went wrong was I thought I could be one of them. It started I was just like you. I hung up my shingle. You know that used to be the extent of one’s personal brand. Look at me, mother, I’m a small business owner. Of course we didn’t own anything. Least of which the ground beneath our feet. So, I get wise. Okay, I say, I’ll quit this racquet and start buying up properties, like a real big shot. Strip mall here, warehouse there, condos everywhere you look. I have my own little fiefdoms. And then you give a mouse a cookie … which is to say now that I had the land, of course I wanted the power to go with it. So then I ran for Mayor! Ha! Are you still looking, Mother? I’m the mayor of a mid-major American city. So now I’ve got the power. I’ve got the land. But these people. They’re not people at all. Forgive the cliche, but they’re dieties. Their power is within the land. It rolls the country like the weather. God of fire. God of wind. Natural gasses, precious metals, Drinking Water, fiber optic cable, Old King Coal. Taking it out, putting it in. Transporting it — all around the world. Killing, or at the very least permanently displacing whoever stands in the way, if necessary, which it almost is. Schmucks like you and me? All we’re good for is selling what comes out the other side for a ten-percent commission and a holiday bonus. You had a good month? Congratulations. Here’s a set of steak knives. And you get a company lease on a luxury sedan. Hell, maybe it’ll be a convertible, if you’re lucky. Gold watch and a pretty good pension come time for retirement. And from time to time, the real bosses will come down from their corner offices and their ranches up on magic mountain. They’ll pat you on the back and tell you good job. They might even invite you to one of their secret sex parties. Ah. That’s the closest you’ll get though. All they’re really here for is reminding how truly replaceable you are. 

For a moment nobody spoke. All that yapping he did, Mayor Larry understood the dramatic purchase of a well-timed pause. He picked up many such flourishes along the way, studying history’s great speechmakers, with emphases on their cadences. Adolph Hitler — to name one example at random — orated with a rhythm that some Hitler scholars described as, erotic. To start out he lured in his audience with a sort of rhetorical foreplay, in the form of leading questions and some friendly banter. Then gradually he’d build toward his climax. The trademark fascist gesticulations and foaming out the mouth declarations of restoring pride to the father land. For a fact, whether it was due to his undescended testicle or perhaps his micropenis (both alleged), the Fuhrer was known to have suffered acute symptoms of erectile dysfunction, which according to urban legend could only be assuaged by the sexual release he achieved through this, the addressing of large crowds. Which is to say, coloquially, that he got off on that shit. That, and schizer play (also allegedly). And here meanwhile Mayor Larry here would have settled for the occasional blow job. 

Wait. What were talking about? I lost my train of thought. 

Mayor Larry was daydreaming about Hitler’s genitals again. 

Oh, right, Billy Wolff. What am I saying? Everybody knows the story. It’s Icarus, it’s Macbeth. It’s whatever — don’t go chasing waterfalls. You took a wrong shortcut. Now the game starts over. It’s okay. Maybe you’ll make it all back. More than likely, you won’t. But maybe. And if you do, hopefully I’ll still be here to slap you on the back. Until then, goodbye forever, Jim. Thanks for the hamburger.   

Jaime, whose ass-kissing days were just about over, had as of this very moment had just about enough of this bullshit. First the Mick was up to his old tricks. Then Billy had up and gone full retard. Now suddenly his trusted mentor, Larry — something of an absent father figure — was forsaking him? And, furthermore, he had the gall to act like it was all for his own good. What the fuck? You have one near death experience and now you’re here doling out life lessons. How about you suck my dick, Lawrence, was how he felt. Although, as much as he would have delighted in telling him so to his scrunchy fucking face, — to suck his dick — just as he had told Billy, Jaime still understood something: that there were guys you could tell to suck your dick, and guys you couldn’t. Mayor Larry wasn’t quite a guy you couldn’t tell to suck your dick, but nonetheless, he thought it prudent to withhold from biting the hand. So, like a big boy, he stood there and took it. Content in the steadfast belief that he would make it all back, albeit probably in some other incarnation. He was Buddhist in his ambition. Willing to do anything in service of his ego god. As Larry alluded, he’d already reinvented himself several times over to get to this point. What makes you think I won’t do it again? Bitch, I’m D.B. Cooper. Madonna. Kaiser Soze, mother fucker. Take your pick. Underestimate me at your mother fucking peril. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck me. Why couldn’t have I just gone to nursing school? Is it too late to get a masters? Shit. I’d be fucking thirty by the time I graduated. Beside I can’t take on any more debt. Fuck. Fuck it. No. Yes. Fuck yes. I’ll be back. So fucking back. Baby, I’m coming. At least Icarus could fucking fly. 

But he didn’t say any of that shit. All he did was clasp his hands together in secular prayer, bowed to his once and former master and made his exit. Thus allowing the Mayor — blissfully oblivious to his mentee’s inner torment — to return to drafting his conciliatory declaration. 

On that day which will live in infamy, on this hallowed ground, it was my predecessor in the Mayor’s office who made the fateful decree, that which will echo into eternity: 

A dead Indian is the only kind I like. If you see one, 

shoot on sight. 

Today, as a gesture of my goodwill, I officially rescind that civic order.

[Pause for effect and/or possibly applause]

[packernet]

New Post has been published on https://www.packernet.com/blog/2024/02/02/tackling-traditions-the-cultural-impact-of-the-green-bay-packers/

Tackling Traditions: The Cultural Impact of the Green Bay Packers

Credit

In the heart of Wisconsin, a legacy has been meticulously woven into the fabric of American sports culture. The Green Bay Packers, a team as storied as any in the annals of football history, stand as a testament to tradition, community spirit, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. 

This article delves into the cultural impact of a franchise that is more than just a team—it’s a way of life for its legion of fans.

The Birth of a Legacy

The tale of the Green Bay Packers begins with Curly Lambeau, a man whose vision for a local football team transformed into a national phenomenon. In 1919, Lambeau, working for the Indian Packing Company, convinced his employer to sponsor the team, hence the name “Packers.” This humble beginning set the stage for what would become an enduring symbol of community pride and sporting prowess.

A Record of Excellence

The Packers’ history is rich with triumphs, boasting the most championships—13 in total—of any NFL team. Their storied past includes nine NFL conference championships and four Super Bowl victories, with the latter coming in 1967, 1968, 1997, and 2011. Each victory not only added to their impressive tally but also cemented their place in the hearts of fans across the nation.

Community at Its Core

Green Bay’s unique community spirit is perhaps best exemplified by the Packers’ ownership structure. Unlike any other NFL team, the Packers are owned by their fans, making them the truest representation of a community-based team. This spirit extends beyond the field, fostering a sense of belonging and collective identity among its supporters.

Honoring the Brave

The Packers’ commitment to their community includes honoring those who serve. Operation Fan Mail is a program that recognizes military families, celebrating both active duty members and veterans. It’s a poignant reminder of the team’s dedication to its roots and the values it stands for.

The Power of Tradition

Tradition isn’t just about the past; it’s a living, breathing aspect of the Packers’ ethos. From the iconic “Cheesehead” hats to the time-honored “Lambeau Leap,” traditions create a bond between the team and its fans that transcends generations.

Betting on the Future

With platforms like FanDuel, known for their competitive FanDuel Super Bowl betting odds, the excitement builds as supporters place their faith—and wagers—on their beloved team’s prospects. This not only adds to the thrill of the game but also allows fans to engage more deeply with the sport they love.

The Gridiron’s Green Horizon

As the sun rises over Lambeau Field, it illuminates more than just a playing surface; it reveals a commitment to sustainability that has become increasingly vital in today’s sports world. The “Go Green” initiative demonstrates the team’s dedication to ecological stewardship. Recycling programs, waste reduction strategies, and even solar panels are manifestations of their pledge to protect the green horizon for future generations of fans.

This forward-thinking attitude resonates with Packers supporters who take pride in their team’s environmental efforts, knowing that each game they attend contributes to a larger cause beyond the immediate thrill of football. It’s a side of the gridiron that scores its own set of points for being socially responsible and a champion for the planet.

Legends and Legacies: The Hall of Famers

The echelons of football glory are graced by Packers legends whose exploits have etched them into NFL immortality. Names like Brett Favre, Reggie White, and Bart Starr are not mere footnotes in football history but pillars that uphold the rich narrative of the Packers. Their stories, characterized by exceptional skill and indomitable spirit, are passed down like cherished heirlooms within the Packers family.

Honoring these individuals in the Packers Hall of Fame serves to educate new fans and stoke the embers of nostalgia for those who witnessed their heroics firsthand. This pantheon of greats provides inspiration for current and future players, breathing life into the dreams of those who aspire to one day don the iconic green and gold.

Conclusion: A Legacy Unmatched

The Green Bay Packers represent more than a football team; they embody a culture steeped in history, community, and success. As they look to the future, one thing remains certain: the Packers will continue to tackle traditions, both old and new, with the same fervor that has defined them for over a century. Fans and sports enthusiasts alike will be closely watching the odds to win the Super Bowl, a testament to the team’s enduring impact and a symbol of their ongoing quest for excellence.

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

The Missing Witness by Allison Brennan

Quinn & Costa #5

Excellent addition to the series ~ wrapped some issues up and opened doors for many more wonderful books to look forward to ~

What I liked: * Kara Quinn: LAPD police officer on loan to FBI’s Mobile Response Team, has worked many times undercover, parents were con artists, has trust issues, bright, quick, impulsive, street savvy, can hold a grudge, in a relationship with Matt Costa, has some big surprises and issues to deal with

* Matt Costa: FBI special agent, team leader of the Mobile Response Team, bright, team oriented, calm, sees the bigger picture, protective, traditional, not impulsive, in love with Kara and “sees” who she really is, good with and for Kara

* Violet Halliday: IT savvy, works for Los Angeles City Hall, volunteers with First Contact NGO, had difficult childhood, has trust issues, tends to shy away from people, central to this story, might have a future with Will

* Will Lattimer: military veteran, started First Contact NGO, has a nine-point plan he believes would work better for the homeless than what is in place in this story, bright, aware, compassionate, realistic, might be interested in Violet

* Michael: Kara’s work partner, strategist, tactician, protective, difficult childhood, would like to know more about him

* Sloane: FBI newbie undercover in LA-FBI office, ex-Marine, bright, calm, family oriented, intriguing, hope to see her in future books

* The look into corruption, fraud, homelessness, and the impact it has

* The plot, pacing, setting, character development, and how it all was wrapped up at the end

* Knowing/hoping that there will be a book six to read in the future

What I didn’t like:

* Who and what I was meant not to like

* Thinking about how callous, selfish, corrupt, and evil some people can be and then thinking about the impact their behavior has on others. Won’t name names but there were quite a few I would gladly see behind bars in this book

Did I like this book? Yes

Would I read more in this series? Yes

Thank you to NetGalley and HQN-MIRA for the ARC – This is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

When a key witness goes missing, Quinn & Costa must find her before a killer silences her for good…

Detective Kara Quinn is back in Los Angeles to testify against a notorious human trafficker, finally moving past the case that upended her life. But when the accused is shot in broad daylight, the chaotic scene of the crime turns up few reliable bystanders. And one witness—a whistleblower who might be the key to everything—has disappeared.

After another person close to the case is killed, it’s clear that anyone who knows too much is in danger, and tracking down the witness becomes a matter of life-and-death. But as explosive secrets surface within the LAPD and FBI, Kara questions everything she thought she knew about the case, her colleagues and the life she left behind months ago.

Now with FBI special agent Matt Costa’s help, she must race to find the missing witness and get to the bottom of the avalanche of conspiracies that has rocked LA to its core…before it's too late.

EXCERPT

1

My parking garage off Fifth was nearly a mile from where I worked at city hall. I could have paid twice as much to park two blocks from my building and avoid the rows of homeless people: the worn tents, the used needles, the stinking garbage, the aura of hopelessness and distrust that filled a corner park and bled down the streets.

I was listening to my favorite podcast, LA with A&amp;I. Amy and Ian started the podcast two years ago to talk about computer gaming, technology, entertainment and Los Angeles. It had blossomed into a quasi news show and they live streamed every morning at seven. They’d riff on tech and local news as if sitting down with friends over coffee. Like me, they were nerds, born and bred in the City of Angels. I’d never met Amy or Ian in real life, but felt like I’d known them forever.

We’d chatted over Discord, teamed up to play League of Legends, and I often sent them interesting clips about gaming or tech that they talked about on their podcast, crediting my gaming handle. Twice, we’d tried to set up coffee dates, but I always chickened out. I didn’t know why. Maybe because I thought they wouldn’t like me if they met me. Maybe because I was socially awkward. Maybe because I didn’t like people knowing too much about my life.

Today while I drove to work, they’d discussed the disaster that was city hall: all the digital files had been wiped out. The news story lasted for about five minutes, but it would be my life for the next month or more as my division rebuilt the data from backups and archives. It was a mess.  They laughed over it; I tried to, but I was beginning to suspect the error was on purpose, not by mistake.

Now they were talking about a sweatshop that had been shut down last week.

“We don’t know much,” Amy said. “You’d think after eight days there’d be some big press conference, or at least a frontpage story. The only thing we found was two news clips—less than ninety seconds each—and an article on LA Crime Beat.”

“David Chen,” Ian said, “a Chinese American who allegedly trafficked hundreds of women and children to run his factory in Chinatown, was arraigned on Monday, but according to Crime Beat, the FBI is also investigating the crime. And—get this— the guy is already out on bail.”

“It’s fucked,” Amy said. “Look, I’m all for bail reform. I don’t think some guy with weed in his pocket should have to pay thousands of bucks to stay out of jail while the justice system churns. But human trafficking is a serious crime—literally not two miles from city hall, over three hundred people were forced to work at a sweatshop for no money. They had no freedom, lived in a hovel next door to the warehouse. Crime Beat reported that the workers used an underground tunnel to avoid being seen—something I haven’t read in the news except for one brief mention. And Chen allegedly killed one of the women as he fled from police. How did this guy get away with it? He kills someone and spends no more than a weekend behind bars?”

“According to Crime Beat, LAPD investigated the business for months before they raided the place,” Ian said. “But Chen has been operating for years. How could something like this happen and no one said a word?”

I knew how. People didn’t see things they didn’t want to.

Case in point: the homeless encampment I now walked by.

I paused the podcast and popped my earbuds back into their charging case.

“Hello, Johnny,” I said to the heroin addict with stringy hair that might be blond, if washed. I knew he was thirty-three, though he looked much older. His hair had fallen out in clumps, his teeth were rotted, and his face scarred from sores that came and went. He sat on a crusty sleeping bag, leaned against the stone wall of a DWP substation, his hollow eyes staring at nothing. As usual, he didn’t acknowledge me. I knew his name because I had asked when he wasn’t too far gone. Johnny, born in Minnesota. He hadn’t talked to his family in years. Thought his father was dead, but didn’t remember. He once talked about a sister and beamed with pride. She’s really smart. She’s a teacher in…then his face dropped because he couldn’t remember where his sister lived.

Four years ago, I left a job working for a tech start-up company to work in IT for city hall. It was barely a step up from entry-level and I couldn’t afford nearby parking garages. If I took a combination of buses and the metro, it would take me over ninety minutes to get to work from Burbank, so factoring the combination of time and money, driving was my best bet and I picked the cheapest garage less than a mile from work.

I used to cringe when I walked by the park. Four years ago, only a dozen homeless tents dotted the corner; the numbers had more than quadrupled. Now that I could afford a more expensive garage, I didn’t want it. I knew most of the people here by name.

“Hey, Toby,” I greeted the old black man wearing three coats, his long, dirty gray beard falling to his stomach. He had tied a rope around his waist and attached it to his shopping cart to avoid anyone stealing his worldly possessions when he slept off his alcohol.

“Mizvi,” he said, running my name together in a slur. He called me “Miss Violet” when he was sober. He must have still been coming down off whatever he’d drank last night.

I smiled. Four years ago I never smiled at these people, fearing something undefinable. Now I did, even when I wanted to cry. I reached into my purse and pulled out a bite-size Hershey Bar. Toby loved chocolate. I handed it to him. He took it with a wide grin, revealing stained teeth.

One of the biggest myths about the homeless is that they’re hungry. They have more food than they can eat. That doesn’t mean many aren’t malnourished. Drug and alcohol abuse can do that to a person.

A couple weeks ago a church group had thought they would bring in sandwiches and water as part of community service. It was a nice gesture, sure, but they could have asked what was needed instead of assuming that these people were starving. Most of the food went uneaten, left outside tents to become rat food. The plastic water bottles were collected to return for the deposit, which was used to buy drugs and alcohol.

But no one gave Toby chocolate, he once told me when he was half-sober. Now, whenever I saw

him—once, twice a week—I gave him a Hershey Bar. He would die sooner than he should, so why couldn’t I give him a small pleasure that I could afford? Toby was one of the chronics, a man who’d been on the street for years. He had no desire to be anywhere else, trusted no one, though I thought he trusted me a little. I wished I knew his story, how he came to be here, how I could reach him to show him a different path. His liver had to be slush with the amount of alcohol he consumed. Alcohol he bought because people, thinking they were helping—or just to make themselves feel better—handed him money.

As I passed the entrance to the small park, the stench of unwashed humans assaulted me. The city had put four porta-potties on the edge of the park but they emptied them once a month, if that. They were used more for getting high and prostitution than as bathrooms. The city had also put up fencing, but idn’t always come around to lock the gate. Wouldn’t matter; someone would cut it open and no one would stop them. Trespassing was the least of the crimes in the area.

I dared to look inside the park, though I didn’t expect to see her. I hadn’t seen her for over a week. I found myself clutching my messenger bag that was strapped across my chest. Not because I thought someone would steal it, but because I needed to hold something, as if my bag was a security blanket.

I didn’t see her among the tents or the people sitting on the ground, on the dirt and cushions, broken couches and sleeping bags, among the needles and small, tin foils used to smoke fentanyl. I kicked aside a vial that had once held Narcan, the drug to counteract opioid overdoses. The clear and plastic vials littered the ground, remnants of addiction.

There was nothing humane about allowing people to get so wasted they were on the verge of death, reviving them, then leaving them to do it over and over again. But that was the system.

The system was fucked.

Blue and red lights whirled as I approached the corner. I usually crossed Fifth Street here, but today I stopped, stared at the silent police car.

The police only came when someone was dying…or dead.

Mom.

I found my feet moving toward the cops even though I wanted to run away. My heart raced, my vision blurred as tears flashed, then disappeared.

Mom.

Excerpted from The Missing Witness by Allison Brennan, Copyright © 2024 by Allison Brennan.

Published by MIRA Books.

AUTHOR BIO

ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling and award-winning author of over forty novels, including The Sorority Murder. She lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets. The Missing Witness is the fifth thriller in the new Quinn & Costa series.

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[kennethhaskin]

Kenneth Haskin | The Heartbeat of Cities- Insights into City Management

Against the pulsating rhythm of contemporary society, cities stand magnificently as the dynamic epicenters, reverberating with ceaseless energy and vitality. Their magnetic charm draws together diverse populations from across the globe, individuals who are lured by the promise of opportunities, the richness of culture, and the sense of collective community. Yet, beneath this fascinating tapestry of urban life, there lies a meticulous symphony of city management. This intricate orchestra of efforts is committed to sustain and amplify this urban heartbeat. Now, the city of Cape Girardeau proudly welcomes a new conductor to this symphony, Kenneth Haskin, a veteran city administrator with an impressive portfolio of experience. His arrival marks the beginning of a new era in the ongoing evolution of our beloved city.

Cities are not merely concrete and steel; they are living organisms, demanding astute management to thrive. At the core of this endeavor is the delicate balance between fostering growth and preserving identity. City administrators grapple with the paradox of progress versus heritage, striving to modernize while safeguarding historical significance. It's a tightrope walk, where innovation must harmonize with tradition.

In the corridors of city planning, foresight is paramount. Anticipating the needs of a burgeoning population involves strategic urban design. It encompasses efficient transportation networks, sustainable infrastructure, and green spaces that breathe life into the urban landscape. Smart city initiatives embrace technology as an ally, weaving connectivity into the fabric of urban living, from IoT-enabled systems to data-driven governance.

However, the true soul of a city lies within its people. Community engagement is the cornerstone of effective city management. Empowering citizens by involving them in decision-making processes fosters a sense of ownership and belonging. Public forums, town hall meetings, and digital platforms serve as conduits for dialogue, nurturing a collaborative environment where diverse voices resonate.

Safety and security form the bedrock upon which cities flourish. Law enforcement, emergency services, and disaster preparedness orchestrate a symphony of protection. It's not merely about reacting to crises but proactively implementing measures to prevent them. From CCTV surveillance to community policing initiatives, cities endeavor to create sanctuaries where residents feel secure in their daily lives.

The complex interplay between economics and finance plays out vividly in the urban landscape. Fiscal responsibility becomes inseparable from the broader goal of economic development, with a keen eye focused on the delicate balancing act of pursuing sustainable growth while astutely managing the city's budget. The pursuit of attracting new investments becomes intertwined with the nurturing of existing local businesses, both large and small. Furthermore, this economic tapestry is enriched by fostering job creation, a key factor that strengthens the city fabric and ensures that the city's financial heartbeat remains robust and healthy. At the helm of these operations, Kenneth Haskin, a seasoned city administrator, applies his vast experience and knowledge to navigate the intricate dance of urban economics and finance.

Education pulses as the lifeblood of any thriving metropolis. Schools, universities, and vocational institutions are the breeding grounds for future leaders, innovators, and thinkers. City management invests in education, recognizing it as a catalyst for societal advancement, striving to provide accessible and quality learning opportunities for all.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, cultural richness thrives. Museums, theaters, galleries, and festivals serve as the pulse points of creativity and expression. City managers understand the significance of preserving and promoting cultural heritage, recognizing it as the essence that gives a city its unique identity. Supporting the arts isn’t merely an aesthetic endeavor but a celebration of diversity and creativity.

Sustainability emerges as a defining melody in the symphony of city management. Climate change casts a looming shadow, urging cities to embrace eco-conscious practices. Renewable energy adoption, waste management strategies, and green initiatives compose the harmonious chords of environmental stewardship. Sustainability isn’t a choice but an imperative for cities to ensure a livable future. Kenny Haskin City Manager

Transportation is the heartbeat of urban existence, directing the tempo and rhythm of city life. Efficient transit systems, from buses to subways, along with pedestrian-friendly pathways, and comprehensive biking infrastructure, guide the movement of citizens across the city's diverse neighborhoods. The responsibility of city management, led by the experienced Kenneth Haskin, extends to alleviating traffic congestion, curtailing harmful emissions, and enhancing accessibility. By doing so, they ensure mobility within the city is seamless and perfectly synchronized with the dynamic, bustling urban pulse. This vital role of city management champions a cityscape that thrives, with fluid movement that makes living, working and recreating in the city a more pleasurable experience.

Inclusivity resonates as a guiding principle. Cities are melting pots of diversity, welcoming individuals from myriad backgrounds. Equity in access to resources, social services, and opportunities reverberates as an essential refrain in city management. Building inclusive policies and programs fosters a sense of belonging for all inhabitants.

Navigating the intricacies of city management is no small feat. The arena is fraught with challenges, ranging from the ever-evolving political landscapes, entangling bureaucratic hurdles, to the constant pressure of budget constraints, all of which can potentially disrupt the symphony of effective governance. In the midst of these intricacies, the need for agility, adaptability, and an unwavering commitment to public service becomes apparent. Enter Kenneth Haskin, the newly appointed city manager of Cape Girardeau. Haskin, with his vast experience in economic development and senior-level management for local municipalities, is set to bring a fresh perspective and pragmatic strategies to the realm of city management. The son of an educator and entrepreneur, Haskin embodies a strong work ethic and a deep-seated belief that diligent work paves the way to success. Kenneth Haskin, armed with a master's degree in public administration and a PhD from respected institutions, is ready to navigate the complexities of Cape Girardeau's city management and steer the city towards a prosperous future.

Cities are not static entities; they evolve, grow, and adapt. The rhythm of city management, therefore, is an ever-changing melody, influenced by the ebb and flow of societal needs, technological advancements, and global dynamics. Flexibility and innovation become essential instruments in the hands of city administrators, composing new melodies to match the evolving urban landscape.

The heartbeat of cities transcends the mere sum of its parts. It embodies the collective dreams, aspirations, and endeavors of its inhabitants. City management, then, becomes a symphony conductor, orchestrating the various elements in unison to create a harmonious, thriving, and inclusive urban milieu. As the city breathes, pulsates, and evolves, so does the artistry of those entrusted with nurturing its heartbeat.

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A Political Earthquake: The Recent US Government Shutdown and Its Tremors

The recent US government shutdown shook the nation's political landscape to its core, with one of its most seismic aftershocks being the unexpected removal of Kevin McCarthy from his leadership position. This episode was a captivating saga that underscored the complexities of American politics.

The shutdown showdown, born from a fierce clash over budget allocations, kept the nation in suspense. As House Minority Leader, McCarthy was at the forefront of the negotiations. His role was vital in navigating the choppy waters of partisan politics and seeking a way out of the crisis.

However, the storyline took an astonishing turn when McCarthy was ousted from his position of leadership. This shocking development sent shockwaves through the halls of Congress and beyond. It was a move that not only reshaped the political landscape but also left us pondering the future direction of the Republican Party.

A government shutdown in the US can affect federal employees who may face furloughs or work without pay. Government contractors may experience payment delays, and social services recipients could encounter application processing delays. Small businesses relying on federal contracts may suffer financial difficulties, while national parks and tourism sectors can be disrupted. Immigration services, scientific research, veterans' programs, and even economic confidence and financial markets can also be impacted by government shutdowns, depending on their duration and severity.

The future course of events is unknown yet as at the moment there is no candidate who has the support of a majority of the House and as we know so far, McCarthy will not run for speaker again.

[jerpears]

Predicting the National League West Division Standings in The Gibson League's 68th Season

As we eagerly await the start of The Gibson League's 68th baseball season, it's time to dive into the crystal ball and predict where our teams in the National League West Division might finish. Last season, the Helena Kellers emerged as the division champions with a strong showing, but owner Joeymillman knows that baseball can be unpredictable.

1. Helena Kellers: Last seasons record: 96-66

The defending NL West Pennant winners, the Helena Kellers, are set to be a formidable force once again. With a balanced mix of veterans and rookies, they are poised to make a run at the top spot. Dave Kirkland, the rookie catcher, is a name to watch out for as he aims for the Rookie of the Year title. Chico Castillo and Ralph Greinke provide consistent offense, and the bullpen is expected to be a strength. The rotation might have some ups and downs, but with Jose Ramirez leading the way, the Kellers should be in contention for the division crown once more.

2. Boise Lumberjacks: Last seasons record: 87-75

Boise finished second last season, and this year, they face some offseason challenges with several free-agent pitchers and an aging core. The fate of the Lumberjacks may lie in the hands of their young stars, Al Syndergaard and Patrick Urich, who need to step up. Danny Gibson, a future Hall of Famer, might see a decline in production, but his leadership will be crucial. Boise's direction could vary widely, but their ability to adapt and the performance of their rising stars will determine their playoff chances.

3. Portland Teddy Ballgamers: Last seasons record: 80-82

The Teddy Ballgamers secured third place last season, and they'll look to build on that foundation. Young ace pitcher Thomas Ramirez and power hitter Gerald Simms will be central to their success. A strong season from Ramirez on the mound and a power surge from Simms at the plate could push them higher up the standings. Portland will aim to be competitive and potentially contend for a playoff spot.

4. Seattle Marauders: Last seasons record: 69-93

Last season, the Seattle Marauders struggled, finishing at the bottom of the division. However, they're not ready to give up just yet. Sammy Pirela will need to provide more production at the plate, and the bullpen, led by Ezequiel Gongora, must improve its performance. Seattle is a team looking for redemption, and with some adjustments, they could surprise the league by climbing the standings.

In a 162-game season, anything can happen, and the outcome is far from certain. While the Helena Kellers might be the early favorites to repeat as division champions, baseball has a way of delivering surprises. Stay tuned as we follow the action in The Gibson League's 68th season to see how these predictions play out on the diamond.