#wait also the cannibalism part as a threat is so fascinating. not even that i should be cannibalized. it’s that i’m the one who should do it

[11x13kyle]

i don't disagree that shipping kyman ain't right, but I do disagree with you saying random things are mental illnesses because that is just foul on every conceivable level. as someone who has struggled with mental illnesses and know many friends and family who have, eat an entire ass for belittling and demeaning this shit like that (and before you use anything from the show as justification i literally grew up with it. as much as you still have the right to be an ass, i also have the right to suggest you partake in cannibalism)

printing this out and putting it on my wall

[visardistofelphame]

A trigger warning for the content below. Suicide and abuse are lightly touched upon, so please keep that in mind when reading.

Here is the old article (if you need context)

┌────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────┐

“Witchcraft is an old hag, dead and rotting. She sits on a pile of bones, and hides behind the graves of her elders. It is here where she lurks waiting for the right moment. Witchcraft hungers for youth, it hungers for you.”

It is said that the Craft has continued to survive, despite being ‘destroyed’ time and time again. No matter how many times it has been uprooted, it is a weed that will regrow. So why the visceral description? What is it about Witchcraft that invokes such violence and wrath within the imagination? Why link it to death? To cannibalism? To these things that are faux pas in our modern world?

Within the British traditions (as well as others I am certain), there was a push to change the viewpoint of what the Craft was to the general populace. The hope being to reveal it not as some boogeyman cult, but as a private faith as genuine and fulfilling as any other. The idea of acceptance and freedom was forefront, and it can be understandable why. Who doesn’t want those things? 

As a queer woman, I certainly crave acceptance and freedom. I imagine it's what we all want: to live as we will, unafraid of the threat of shame or assault. But what happens when societal mechanisms press down upon you? No one is specifically stopping you from living your life, free and happy. Yet, can anyone truly achieve those if we cannot even afford shelter and food? I can only speak from my understanding of the world, living within the USA. What was once the American Dream has transformed into a nightmare. The paralysis demon that is Despair and Dread, a future with no hope.

I sometimes wonder if my passion for the occult and (more specifically) witchcraft is an act of escapism? It's easy to understand why one would turn to the past for relief from the thought of what the future will bring. A bit of “Yeah, obviously” sort of thing. The idea of nostalgia isn’t new, whether it’s a longing for your childhood or for a history you were never a part of. I feel like it is a perfectly natural thing to experience. I know for me, it is less nostalgia for my childhood and more towards general history. 

I flocked to fairy tales, folktales, old Irish ballads, ghost stories, and was thrilled to learn history. I’ve always been fascinated by how people lived their lives, how the world once was. It seems natural that I would get caught up in the obscured parts of it, into the secret histories of the Occult. Though there was also a hidden side to my interests, an obsession with death. This is what led me to find Witchcraft. I know that not all are drawn to the Craft have experienced trauma in their life, but many I know have. I certainly have. Perhaps it is an aspect of the Craft being counter-culture, being quite attractive to those that are othered.

So what is my point? All I’ve described and talked about isn't revolutionary. These topics have all been discussed by far better writers than I. Yet, we each individually come to our own revelations and realizations about these things in our own time. It is the nature of the mystery, to be experienced. And for me, all this has brought me to the understanding that we aren’t any different from the peoples of the past. The struggles I’ve described have been universal, social society evolving alongside mankind. These feelings of a hopeless future, dread and despair? The only thing that’s different is the specific nuances: technology, our understanding of how the physical world operates, etc etc.

When writing the original piece, it was fueled by my feelings of anger and frustration, fueled by a spiteful hope - The acknowledgement that I will die, traditions die, movements die. Yet, death is part of a greater cycle and that such primal and universally human desires will never be gone for long. They can only be suppressed for so long, before boiling over. 

So I ask myself again, why did I write with such bloody description? I find the modern world to be oppressive when it comes to allowing the presence of healthy feminine rage. I was taught to be quiet and calm, only pleasing to others. The abuse and pain I had experienced was mere inconvenient to everyone else. It is a culmination of the many times that I had tried to end my own life, only to somehow still be alive and learn how to keep on living. A feeling of kinship to peoples long dead. 

Yet with all that said, who I am now is very different from who I was then. It's true of everyone and everything, we’re moments in time: always changing and always becoming. True of people and everything we have and will ever create. The revelation of my own understanding, both as a spiritual and physical creature. The even greater revelation that this is true for every person. 

“The very moment you step within the Sabbat these secrets are made possible. The witches are waiting there ready to teach and pass their secrets; however, are you ready to be dined upon by their wicked cannibalism? For when you are torn apart and thrown into the cauldron, the witch blood truly takes hold.”

I bring my entirety, whether I want to or not. The good and the bad, the love and hatred. No one is exempt from this. Things are not cookie cut perfectly as desired, everything is thrown in both good and bad. To a practice of those who have been othered, one cannot live in the fantasy that being othered prevents them from those same acts. We are all susceptible to misinformation, propaganda, bigotry and hate. The witches have a wicked cannibalism, they dine upon all of me. They dine upon all of those that seek this. And as I said before, “You are what you eat”

So to this diabolical nature, the untamed current of Witchcraft. No one group can ever hope to have ownership, despite some who have tried. No one controls when the witch cult rises and falls, it simply is and will continue to be. 

Please keep in mind that all this said, I do wish to note that all this is more towards the nature of Witchcraft as I understand it and have experienced it. The untamed nature is its own beast, so do not confuse it with the depths that is the well of magic. Even so, I know that the greatest mystery for any who explores these hidden paths: to know yourself.

Hope you all enjoyed going over an older article I had written back in 2018. My current practice has been heavily influenced from my dive into philosophy, so it's good to be able to write a think-piece like this. Nothing like a healthy dose of self analyzing to help get the creative juices flowing, though I hope that I'm not the only one~

[my-writings-and-musings]

Could you do Fort Max and First Aid for the oxygen loss?

Seriosuly loving it, angst and comfort/fluff is the best combination lmao

It is the best combination and those are two of the best boys so I am ON IT! Fort Max is in part eight listed below, but here's First Aid!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: You're Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

First Aid

·Ever one for new experiences, he'd been quite enthusiastic to have a human join the crew, and perhaps it was his penchant for thoroughly appreciating every unknown he came across that had led to your fast paced courtship. The bot had simply demonstrated an almost overwhelming fascination towards you from day one, and in short time the connection between the two of you had been discovered through his efforts. Now you were nearly inseparable. Off days and breaks are always used for bonding, and today is no exception. Atop his lap as he sits comfortably, you happily listen to his enthusiastic and commentary filled reading of a Wrecker's Declassified, loving how he has the most obvious and adorable starstruck look while doing so. You could listen all day just to see his schoolboy crush play out before you.

·For him, having someone who listens and values his opinions without hesitation is enough to get his spark humming. He's rather accustomed to being passed over for bots with more experience and fame, so seeing your eyes focused on him with such rapt attention is... well, it's just nice. Finding you exceptionally adorable doesn't make it any less sweet. Being human also means a great deal of his favorite topics are new to you, so he gets to introduce you to all the wonders of the Wreckers, something that he loves every moment of. It's also not unpleasant to have your tiny body close to his, practically snuggling against him... Cuddling is something more or less new to him as well, so having it at all is yet another wonder you've brought to his life. There's a vague hope in the back of his processor that he'll be brave enough to suggest sharing a berth someday, just for a nice nap together, as he's not yet been brave enough to ask such a thing of you.

·Unfortunately, the universe has very little respect for his plans. Accustomed to interruptions as an always on call medic, he can't help but be a little frustrated when Ratchet starts comming him out of the blue, but he knows better than to show it. Something serious must be going on if their CMO needs assistance. Still in your partner's lap, you watch as he answers the communication, quite used to sudden messages like this pulling him away. It's a part of dating a medic; but nothing about this seems standard. First Aid shifts his expression to one of concern as the voice comes through the comm in broken static, though he's experienced enough to put together what little there is. A warning of failing systems gets him moving on instinct, his arms scooping you up as he moves to stand, and the instructions to head to his emergency stations is almost unnecessary when the line goes dead.

·You're surprised but not offput by the sudden change in your position, if only because being swept into his arms is... very nice. That doesn't prevent you from knowing something is off though, and thankfully he is just as aware of you as he is his responsibilities as a medic, more so of you to tell the truth... A calm visor reflects your face as he lifts you close to relay the situation. Something is wrong with the ship, he explains, and it's bad enough that Ratchet made a preemptive call for medical bots to get moving. That means he needs to get to the medical bay, and before you can ask he brings up the possibility of you coming with him. Worry is just perceptible on his face as he hesitantly expresses that having you there would be safer, and thus he'd feel better... The bashful look is so cute you momentarily forget the danger to give him a reassuring kiss on his faceplate while accepting the proposition.

·Ignoring the stars you make him see with a tiny smooch, he gets right to work, securing you in one arm and ensuring his room is locked before heading out. He can't help but feel protective as he does so, almost like your guard against the threat that feels omnipresent in every hallway. You feel the same, and he can tell by how you hold him tighter in his grasp, something that stirs his spark with almost overpowering affection. It's enough to make him certain he'd fight like a Phase Sixer to protect you... For your part, a similiar drive to keep him safe is present, despite the difference in size between you. Hopefully you help him feel a little more secure as the two of you move through the eerily quiet hallways.

·The protective instincts First Aid has honed in his career as a medic give him a half second warning that danger is inbound, but all he is able to do in that time is curl around you protectively when the world seems to shake itself asunder. Hard floors meet his back in a painful rush, and you're similiarly jostled against him, though thankfully the worst of the blow is softened by his reflexive brace for impact. Tremors continue to rock the ship once you both realize you're on the ground, but a great cacophony of noise fails to die down when the shaking does. It's not a noise you've ever heard before; though you can compare it to metal being torn, the echoing and overbearing sound is at a scale you can't even comprehend.

·First Aid, having a natural coolness under pressure, is able to collect himself even as the situation continues evolving. The alarm begins to go off as he gets himself off the floor, and he notes that had it not the entire crew would probably still be mobilizing. There was no way anybot didn't feel what he just happened to be a front row spectator towards. While being on a ship of soldiers meant backup would soon be available, he had a few concerns that just couldn't wait for the guards to be scrambled. With one path to the medical bay now inaccessible, and you being so vulnerable, he needs to get somewhere safe to plan. He holds you close as the first open room becomes a makeshift shelter.

·Still reeling from the shock of everything, you find yourself atop a table in one of the Lost Light's many maintenance rooms, watching as First Aid attaches a portable operating flashlight to his helm. Before you can ask a single question the light is covering your body as he looks you over, asking for clarification on your basic functions while checking for injuries at the same time. Only when he's satisfied you're stable does the opportunity for speech present itself. Half expecting another massive tremor to hit at any moment, you ask what on earth made the ship move and sound like it had hit a Titan sized can opener, and his visor darkens with worry. You take hold of his hand to reassure and encourage him.

·The explanation is a bit rushed, but understandable; the ship has been ambushed, no doubt the enemy is preparing to board through the makeshift docking station they just created, and enemies will soon flood in... Also, most of the ship's systems appear to be offline. It's bad enough news that you feel suddenly woozy and need to sit back on your little table. Seeing you afraid drives First Aid into action, his processor working overtime to formulate a plan that will get you to safety, though admittedly the situation is a tough one. It's only when he takes proper stock of his surroundings and notes the monitor station that an idea takes shape.

·Intent on finding a clear path, he lays out his plan as he starts typing, explaining his thought process as he hacks into the virus addled program to get what he needs. Though you find solace in his confidence, the surprise from before is still wearing you down. Exhaustion seems to be the only thing you can truly comprehend... First Aid breaks through the enemy programs holding information back, but his victory proves short lived when the many systems start showing their current status, and his triumph turns to horror at one in particular. Critical to your survival, the atmospheric generators are among the malfunctioning systems. Oxygen levels are dropping by the minute. Without a word, he turns on the spot and begins looking you over again, earning a cry of surprise as he scoops you up.

·Alarmed and confused, you haven't a clue what might have spurred the usually in control bot to act so rashly, and have to sputter out the question when your clouded head fails to settle. Something like an explanation pours out of him, but there's very little you understand due to an increasingly sluggish mind. The growing exhaustion alarms him further. There's precious little time before you reach critical levels of oxygen deprivation, and the hypoxia has already rid you of the ability to process the situation... An ache in his spark is joined by one in his head as he tries to formulate a plan, and when he is left with only a long shot, he's forced to take it for your sake. There's a shake in his hands as he cannibalizes the room for parts, throwing together a makeshift air scrubber that will generate just enough breathable oxygen to get you to the medical bay. You smile as you watch him make it, suddenly too tired to stay awake but wanting to watch him craft, if only because his ingenuity is one of your favorite traits. The pleasant haze is still there even as he lifts you again to bring a makeshift oxygen mask to your face and begin running.

·All he can really do is hope, but there's precious little optimism in his spark as he makes the journey to the medical bay in a blind run, not running into enemies by sheer luck. The countless mistakes he's made so far are all that exist beyond your terrifyingly expressionless face. It's distracting enough that he's surprised when the team of Autobots appears from nowhere, particularly as Ratchet is amongst them, but before the CMO can say a word First Aid is pleading with the more experienced medic for help. He feels like a student on their first bad rotation in a hospital ward, facing the possibility of death for the first time, only a million times more agonized because you're on the line. The older bot is mercifully understanding as he gently takes you and guides him back to the medical bay, where he enters a fog and settles in to his job without conscious thought. He sees everything; Ratchet stabilizes you with proper equipment, wounded bots start to come in with news the battle is over, the systems maintaining the ship all come completely online... None of it registers.

·All he can think of is how he failed. The machine he built could have been more effective, he should have predicted oxygen issues from the start, and had he not been distracting you with his foolish interests to begin with... It physically hurts, but he doesn't allow himself even a moment of reprieve from the self admonishment, and dedicates himself entirely to your wellbeing. Every tiny facet of your recovery is microanalyzed, down to the thousandth of a percent. He won't risk losing you to more of his mistakes. It's bad enough that he doesn't permit joy to show on his face when you finally begin to stir, not even cracking a smile when your beautiful eyes finally blink open and you look into his visor. Your own expression, however, immediately shifts to one of exhausted but emphatic relief. Seeing the bot you love alive after the chaos you remember enduring is more than you could have asked for.

·He can't help but be incredibly gentle as he asks how you feel, his affection too strong to ever suppress in its entirety. But you can see the struggle in his actions, having become so accustomed to his presence that the out of character reservation is as obvious to you as a fireworks display, so you quickly ask if he's okay after everything that happened. The innocent question actually makes him flinch. Not a moment later he breaks and loses the calm air of a medic, collapsing into a nearby chair to confess that your injuries are his fault, caused by a myriad of failures he can't reconcile. Head in his hands, he's caught off guard when you make an effort to move from your little bundle of blankets and tubes keeping you stable.

·Before he can say a word to stop you, he is silenced by a little hand taking hold of his digit, and though the mask is firmly fitted you still speak loud and clear enough for him to hear the firmness in your voice. As lovingly as you can, you insist that he stop what he's doing. Loving him is worth any risk, but because he's as resourceful and brilliant as he is, you had made it through a situation most wouldn't have survived. The rest of the universe may not always see his worth, but you do every time you see him. Growing dizzy from the force of your conviction, you're gently shushed and encouraged to lie back, yet to your exhausted delight First Aid appears anything but pained as he works. Adjusting your blankets and tenderly ensuring your comfort, he doesn't need to say thank you through anything but his actions. As always, you've brought him back down from that exhausting despair he grappled with so often in the past. After all, he must be capable indeed to have earned the love of someone so wonderful and unique. The least he can do is show his gratitude in a gentle brush of his thumb over your palm as you drift back to sleep.

[alwaysthinkingoutloud]

Hannibal Episode-by-Episode Meta/Analysis: Episode 3, Season 1 (Potage)

The first scene of the episode takes us back to Abigail’s memories of hunting with her dad. That whole memory provides us with a brand-new aspect to who Abigail is what Hannibal might see in her.  Suddenly, it makes us question if Hannibal saw her as something more than a tool to draw Will in. Afterall, Hannibal’s philosophy would not sound too strange or bizarre to Abigail than what she already is accustomed to. She grew up being taught to normalize killing and eating what she kills with maybe different reasons than Hannibal, but obviously she still is the most fitting instrument to whatever he is planning.

Alana comes to Will’s house to talk about Abigail’s waking up from the coma and when Will expresses his concerns for Abigail’s being left alone, she says “Dogs keep a promise a person can’t”. And Will replies it with “I am not collecting another stray”. While she is trying to warn Will before he makes a huge commitment he probably cannot keep, because of guilt; she compares Will to a dog and Will compares Abigail to one. In the previous episode’s article I had already expressed my thoughts about Will’s relationship with dogs and how I think it represents his animalistic, urge-full side. So I find this set of metaphors to be a touch-on to Abigail’s yet-hidden killer side and Will’s subconscious recognition and acceptance of that, along with his own.

The conversation of Alana and Abigail is pretty informing about who Abigail is. When Alana walks into room and says that she is a psychiatrist, Abigail’s curious, if not tactical, question of what kind? and Alana’s saying family trauma (and not, for example, criminal something), ends up Abigail’s facial expressions to suddenly change into one that looks victimized. I do not believe it was an emotional transaction, I think it was one on purpose. As Alana later will say, Abigail shows enough-to-be-considered-healthy emotion about her parents’ deaths but also enough detachment from what happened to falsely suggest a lack of connection on her behalf. Her jumping from the topic of her parents’ being dead and her dad being a serial killer to making plans about college is not a mere denial caused by being traumatized but also a strategical move that someone of guilt would do. Her lying to nurses and trying to analyze Dr. Bloom is not a very victim-like behavior, she manipulates and tries to establish a position of dominance. I am this close to almost suggesting that this is something Hannibal would do. Hannibal made a fantastic move, bringing Abigail into the equation. (Abigail’s yet-to-come talk with Freddie is another example to what this paragraph is telling too.)

When Jack, Alana and Hannibal come into the same room together; everybody’s priority is different. Jack wants the case to resolve at all costs (at the cost of Will’s or Abigail’s stability), Alana wants the best for Abigail and Will, protecting their mental health and Hannibal wants neither. He wants the case to stay unresolved or resolved in a way he is pleased, and he wants both Will and Abigail in a position that is furthest from being stable. Actually in his thinking, he does want the best for them. Afterall, that is how Hannibal operates. He wants people pushed to their darkest potential, to unleash their beast, in whatever form it may come. He does that by increasing chaos around him and he feeds on that chaos. He sets things into motion to ends that even he sometimes does not know what of. So of course, he will agree with anything that stirs up the pot, which is right now Will and Abigail coming together.

Hannibal and Jack walks into classroom when Will is giving a lecture about the Copycat Killer. While doing so, he describes the killer in detail and to our knowledge, quite accurately so too. Hannibal seems to be listening to him intrigued and almost fascinated at Will’s deductions about the killer since they are so right and his smile reaches its max (well… max at Hannibal standards) when Will points out that the unidentified caller is in fact, the Copycat Killer. He is not just enjoying the thrill to be discussed as a killer in the same classroom he is standing in, without a soul knowing; what he enjoys the most is Will’s closing in. His spot-on deductions on what kind of person the killer is. Maybe this is the first time Hannibal hears someone speaking about the real version of him who is not wearing a person suit and doing that quite accurately too. Will is getting to know him, real him, and Hannibal enjoys it.

Will and Hannibal take Abigail for a walk in the greenhouse, Will supporting Abigail’s arm with his own. There is a one-second scene where Hannibal also touches Abigail’s arm (but that is all it is, a very no purpose-serving touch) to try and help her sit just like Will does and looks at Will, almost hoping to find appreciation or approval, which makes me smile.

During the conversation of Will and Abigail, the camera focuses on Hannibal only right after Abigail says, “That’s not all I brought out in him”. Up until then, Hannibal seems almost bored with their conversation about her mom. But that sentence makes something in him move, suggesting that he may be hoping Abigail to bring out something in Will too. Maybe that something being protective feelings against her which can be manipulated to familiarize Will with normalization of crime. Abigail continues to express her concerns about being messed up and having nightmares. But Hannibal only says “We will help with the nightmares.”, so they will not with her being messed up part? Well, why on earth would he? That is exactly how Hannibal wants her, messed up as others would say, or perfect as Hannibal would. Then, Abigail finally asks a question to Will that intrigues Hannibal the most, “Does killing somebody…feel that bad?”. Hannibal almost holds his breath waiting for Will’s reply. In return, Will gives a very interesting answer. He does not say yes it does, he does not confirm. He says, instead, that it is the ugliest thing in the world. He maybe right, but ugliness is not equal to badness, is it?  Ugliness is a measure of visual taste, not a measure of morality. He almost suggests, killing may be an ugly act, but does not necessarily feel bad.

“It is not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks of killing people for a living.”

says Will to Freddie, in response to her threats about badmouthing him to Abigail. Obviously, Abigail already became family for Will. He protects her and shows a very different face of his when his relationship with Abigail is threatened to get compromised. A face that Hannibal loves seeing Will with. So when Jack asks Hannibal why he let Will say those words, Hannibal gives some Hannibalistic answer while smirking in a very non-subtle way. Of course, he would not stop Will in one of those rare times that he reveals his inner demons, Hannibal counts on it, even.

The second time Alana and Hannibal have different opinions (the first time was about Will going to see Abigail) is about if it is right for Abigail to visit her home where all the crime happened. While Alana disagrees with the idea on an attempt of saving Abigail from possible trauma, Jack chooses to go with Hannibal’s idea which is that confronting everything that happened in her home could be healing for Abigail. Jack is so blinded by his professional ambition to figure out everything hastily that he does not even realize how much damage he is causing unknowingly by each time not taking Alana’s professional opinion over Hannibal’s, whose motive actually is the opposite of Jack’s.

I think right about here is a good place to express my thoughts about Hannibal’s effect vs Jack’s effect on Will/Abigail. Although Hannibal is supposed to be the so-called ‘villian’ in this show, the serial killer, the cannibal, the person who drives people’s minds off the edge, the person standing opposite of law enforcement; he has a moral code. A code that is very different from the consensus but nevertheless, a code. And all the mind games he plays with Will and Abigail are meant to serve a purpose of helping them achieving their highest selves. Not forcefully making them into someone they are not, not harming them of out nowhere, but watering the seed of whatever it is inside them. To his thinking, he is elevating them. Helping them. On the contrary, Jack being one of the good guys in the show, the FBI director, the voice of justice; he manipulates and uses Will and Abigail never having their best interest in his mind. The only thing he cares about is the crimes and criminals; and everyone else’s stability and sanity, if lost on the way, is considered collateral damage. Unlike Hannibal, he does what he does to Will and Abigail knowing that it might end up harming them. So it is open to discussion, if Jack’s morality is any better than Hannibal’s. Or if his even is half consistent as Hannibal’s. I will come back to that in the coming episodes.

While still in the office and the four are talking, we learn that Jack’s motivation to take Abigail home is about gaining information about the Copycat. That is probably when the wheels started turning in Hannibal’s head about diverting FBI. Hannibal’s acts are never well-planned or calculated until the moment of actually killing someone. Although he is spotless on his murders, he rolls the dice and works with the material he is given on the events that lead up to those murders. Yes, he has one great big plan that consists of bloodshed, severed limps and a few people on specific positions; but he does not have one definite way to reach that. He goes with the flow placing the pieces into their places, which is what makes him that exciting: His unpredictability. 

The short conversation happening between Will and Abigail about Will’s empathizing and his putting himself in her father’s shoes are seemingly pleasing for Hannibal. Afterall, more bonded they become, greater the chance of Will protecting her on all costs and consequently that cost being slipping away from the light side into Hannibal’s lap (sigh). When the topic of why they came there (to find out about the man who called the house that morning) comes up and Will asks her about the caller, she throws a very quick glance at Hannibal while saying that she did not recognize the caller’s voice, which suggests that it is a lie. Hannibal looks a little surprised, either for the fact that she remembered his voice, or that she did and did not blurt it out. Considering Hannibal’s thick accent, it is unlikely that someone would not recognize it after hearing it. So the second option weighs more heavily, just as her suggesting Hannibal being the man on the phone on a reenactment proves it so.

“One cannot be delusional if the belief in question is accepted as ordinary by others in that person’s culture or subculture. Or family.” 

says Hannibal and it says a lot. Is not this the very thing Hannibal is trying to do? Putting together a family where his beliefs will be accepted as ordinary? Providing the same freedom to other members of his family as well? Making a family to set them all free, along with himself?

When Marissa shows up and somewhere in between the events calls her mom a bitch, considering the look Hannibal gave her (a very similar look he had given to Franklyn after he blew his nose and placed the dirty napkin on the table), her death was expected. The combination of that and finding the stone stained with Nicholas Boyle’s blood would be an obvious one-stone-two-bird solution to Hannibal’s diverting FBI from the Copycat Killer plan.

The second time Will dreams about the stag is at least as illuminating as the first one. He dreams about the stag right after the Copycat Killer kills someone. The first time, he saw it after Hannibal killed Cassie Boyle. And this time, we will learn that he sees it after Marissa was killed. I do not think that is a coincidence. This time though, as a difference, Will sees himself as the stag getting into a defensive position against Abigail’s throat being cut, again by himself. So he has no way out, either he is the guy killing Abigail or he is the stag who we already know is a killer, although is in defense right now. This almost suggests that deep down he knows regardless of the path chosen, there is no escape from blood. There is only a lesser evil, maybe, and that is killing to save. And the stag is the representative of this lesser evil in the dream, which is interesting because well, we know the stag will turn into Hannibal. Almost to suggest that, Hannibal’s true evil self without the person suit and Will’s maybe acceptable lesser evil sides will be one, to complete one another. (I may be reaching with that one…)

When Alana, Abigail, Will and Hannibal reach to cabin; the look on Hannibal’s face when Will asks Abigail if there is anyone else beside her and her dad who has been to the cabin and she says no, suggests that it is not true, although she is not aware of it and it also suggests that the plan of Hannibal is put into motion. In a little while, he also loudly accuses of Nicholas to kill his sister and Marissa, suggesting he is the Copycat Killer. 

While Hannibal is making remarks about this killer not being Garret Jacob Hobbs because of leaving a body behind and not eating all of it, Will gives him a little disturbed look. Either because Hannibal looks too certain speaking, or because deep down, Will is smelling something suspicious. He actually gave a very similar look to Hannibal when he came into his classroom in between his lecture about the Copycat Killer. I do not think it is a coincidence, but it is very arguable to what degree Will’s awareness was at that point, even on a subconscious level. (There is another possibility that Will’s looks at Hannibal are just/also because he finds Hannibal glamorous with the way he thinks and everything ;)) )

Hannibal, hearing Freddie talk about someone else lurking around the house, asks her if she saw Nicholas. So we conclude that by putting the blame on Nicholas, what Hannibal hopes to achieve is to draw him out to the house to talk to Abigail to clear his name and… Well, there is no “and”. That is probably as far as his plan went and Hannibal did not know that Abigail would kill Nicholas but we can say he hoped she would. Creating a bond (preferably) and/or leverage (that can be used if Abigail did not turn out to be compliant) between them perfectly.

After Abigail escapes from the hospital and comes to Hannibal’s office, in between the conversation Hannibal says, you climbed over the wall, which means, apart from its literal meaning, that after she killed Nicholas, she is now free. By killing him, she broke her restraints and now in new territory. Then, he tells her to come down from there, suggesting after climbing over the wall, what you do is to come down, where Hannibal is also standing. Meaning, Hannibal also had climbed over the wall and now they are at the same side, so she can relax. This is the family where the belief is accepted as ordinary.

While Hannibal convinced her that if she did not hide the body, nobody would believe her innocence right after she killed Nicholas, insinuating she had no choice but to ask for Hannibal’s help; now that it is all over, he tells her that most people actually would believe that she was innocent. Abigail who understands that she has been manipulated, puts the pieces together and reveals that she did know Hannibal was the one who called the house. Not trusting her enough yet, Hannibal does not deny what she is saying so that she would feel let in, but not so much to let her in all the way either, creating a balanced relationship dynamic (of course, in the eyes of Abigail) between them. Then, by saying “No more climbing walls, Abigail, he makes sure she understands they are in the same side now, as equals (he lets she thinks) and there is no going back.

[victorineb]

On a moonlit Halloween night… 

“This is ridiculous. How are we getting away with this?” Will had adopted a theatrical whisper that, in Hannibal’s opinion, was more likely to draw attention than their current, admittedly fairly dramatic, appearance.  

“Most people do not share our intimate familiarity with the substance,” Hannibal whispered back, leaning into the side of Will’s throat to breathe in the scent of blood and sweat. “Nor your particular fondness for it, my love,” he added, just to see Will blush like he hadn't ravished Hannibal next to a still-warm corpse not half an hour ago.

“Shut up,” Will said, elbowing Hannibal in the side as if irritated, though the smile he couldn’t quite rein in put the lie to that idea. “They’re so content in their blindness. We’re dripping in viscera and yet the guys in the giant Pikachu suit got more attention than we have.”

“Are you disappointed, mylimasis? Were you hoping to instil terror amongst the crowd, to watch as they shrank from your magnificence, to bask in their fear as they recognised the hunter in their midst?”

“Shut. Up!” This time Will grabbed Hannibal and shoved him against a convenient wall, immediately pissed off that the fond, amused smile on Hannibal’s face didn’t falter for a moment. He shoved his leg between Hannibal’s thighs – causing a symphony of plastic squealing as their murder suits rubbed together – and that got a reaction, Hannibal’s eyes fluttering as he snatched in a breath. Will let him wait for a moment, making no move other than to gently rock his leg against the stiffness he could feel rising beneath it. He watched Hannibal with the sharp gaze of a predator awaiting the moment their prey breaks from cover, and when Hannibal’s lips parted slightly, he surged forward to devour them.  

He allowed himself the span of two minutes to work Hannibal up, biting at his mouth and pressing against his body, hips rolling just enough to have Hannibal straining against his hold. Then, mercilessly, he pulled back completely, watching with satisfaction as the dazed look in Hannibal’s eyes turned dark and wanting. Will grinned.

“Now, behave. Or I will put a leash on you and teach you obedience.”

With a smack to his thigh just short of truly painful, Will turned from his panting cannibal and began sauntering off, pausing only to check that he was being followed and finding Hannibal peeling himself from the wall with a hungry gleam in his eye.

“Down boy,” he teased as Hannibal stalked towards him. “Blood’s one thing but a public sex show will attract an audience, even on Halloween.”

Hannibal stepped straight into his space, sliding his face into the crook of Will’s shoulder and breathing deep. “As if I would allow another’s eyes to behold you as you writhe in ecstasy,” he growled, biting tenderly at the tendon in Will’s neck. “Slaughter thousands in the clear light of day and I would only watch in admiration, but your body and your pleasure belong only to me, beloved.”

Will grinned, sharp and amused, then grabbed Hannibal’s hair and yanked him upwards. “Likewise,” he said, and once more crushed his lips to Hannibal’s, blood smearing and sliding messily between them. And when they parted this time, it was only to rush with hurried footsteps back home, hands clasped tight in promise of the closer touch that would-

“Murder husbands!”

Will tensed and froze mid-step. Hannibal suspected he would have already bundled the young man pointing at them into the nearest available alley had he not been held in place by Hannibal's grip on his arm. It wouldn't do for Will to go off half-cocked (the consequences tended to be messy) and, besides, it wasn't fear with which they were being regarded. The young man – early-twenties, clearly inebriated, dressed in a swirling black cloak and clutching a bright red sword of some sort – was beaming at the pair with enthusiastic delight.

“You're the first to correctly identify us,” Hannibal said, his tone affable and pleased and giving absolutely no hint that he would snap this young man’s rather scrawny neck at the first sign of a threat.

The young man grinned and shook his head. “Yeah, I bet most people think you're a couple of Patrick Batemans, with the plastic get-up and the blood. Dummies. Obviously you're them, Will and Hannibal; Bateman had a raincoat, not a onesie!”

Will fidgeted as their admirer rambled, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Hannibal, for his part, though not exactly pleased by the description of his hunting suit as a “onesie,” was rather amused by the young man’s familiarity with his story, allowing him to give a semi-factual account of their previous life he had clearly put together from Internet chatrooms and the ever-lurid speculation of one Freddie Lounds. Until:

“I mean, your costumes are almost perfect.”

Hannibal frowned. “Almost?”

“Yeah, I mean, obviously the real Will Graham's a lot shorter than your friend. Like, you should be towering over him, but I guess you can't do anything about that.”

“Indeed, I could hardly be said to dwarf my dear husband.”

“I mean, I guess you could wear lifts like Robert Downey... oh wait, you're really married? I thought maybe the rings were just part of the costume…”

“Mmm, for almost six months now,” Hannibal replied, squeezing Will’s arm and smirking at the glower he got in response.

“Ok, cool. So, also, your husband's way too built to be Will – the real one’s all scrawny and delicate, no muscles on him at all. The hair’s good though, and the scowling - it's amazing nobody realised Graham was a killer for so long, every photo of him looks like he'd murder everyone in a ten mile radius just for existing.”

“Might still,” Will muttered, so low that even Hannibal barely heard it. He smirked and tried not to get distracted by the image of Will cutting a bloody swathe through the throngs of be-costumed revellers. Instead, he delivered a small pinch to the inside of Will’s elbow and returned his attention to their admirer.

“Forgive me if I'm not too disappointed that my husband is a more impressive specimen than the actual Mr Graham,” he said, with a wink that automatically caused Will to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, don't blame you,” the young man grinned in response. “And you're pretty much dead on. I mean, you're not blond and your eyes aren't red but you've got his cheekbones, for sure. And the accent. Just one thing, though,”

“Oh?” Hannibal raised a brow.

“Well, it's just that Lecter would never go around being so obviously affectionate. I mean, he's an evil sociopath, right, so he can't feel love? Whereas you guys, it's so obvious that you're totally into each other, no way Lecter and Graham would behave like that. Especially you,” he said, gesturing towards a rapidly-less-amused Hannibal, “you were pretty much draped all over your ‘Will’ here, Lecter’s way too much of a cold fish for that!”

“Cold… fish…” Hannibal said, slowly, leaning into the young man’s space. “You know, your manners could be considered somewhat lacking, my friend…”

The young man’s expression faltered for the first time, the always-satisfying first gleam of fear flashing in his eyes. But just as Hannibal was about to kick his feet from under him and teach him the true meaning of horror, he heard a snicker from behind and felt Will pull him back to his side, nuzzling them together.

“Come on, babe, he already complimented the costumes, you don’t have to give him your scary Doctor Lecter impression too. Besides,” he added, leaning in to kiss his still-coiled husband on the cheek, “you know he’s right. I’d never have fallen for that uptight, pretentious, emotionless asshole. Not even if he does look fine as hell in those suits of his.”

Hannibal peered down at him, inscrutable. “Fine as hell, is that what you think?”

“Guilty secret, huh?” the young man asked, apparently recovered enough to watch them with the amusement of one who has no idea how close he is to death.

Will winked at him. “One of many, I’m afraid.”

“Ought I to be jealous of this fine young cannibal?” Hannibal purred, the monster already tucked back safely beneath the sheen of avuncular friendliness.

“Absolutely, I’m going to abandon you, my brand new husband, and run off with the fancy cannibal who has a habit of cutting into his boyfriends. What can I say, I can’t resist the lure of a romantic gutting.” Will grinned sweetly at Hannibal. “Come on, what kind of fool would do that?”

“Will Graham?” the young man suggested, clearly having bought Will’s lie hook, line and sinker.

“And I am most definitely not Will Graham,” Will said, nodding at him in agreement.

“Lucky for me, I guess,” the young man said. “Hey, any chance I could take a selfie with you?”

It was Will’s turn to tense at the suggestion – albeit it more out of a hatred of being photographed than any sense of danger – but thankfully Hannibal had never met a fool he couldn’t charm the sense out of. “Ah, but then you might be tempted to post it where the good people of the FBI could see and we couldn’t have that, could we?” He wagged a finger gently at the young man and Will thought that was spreading it on a bit thick but it seemed to work with the professorial persona Hannibal had adopted because the young man laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Ok, ok, I can take a hint. Wouldn’t want to wind up on your dinner table, right?”

“Definitely not,” Will agreed. “It’s from Ikea, it probably wouldn’t take your weight.”

The young man gave this a bigger laugh than it probably deserved, which meant he missed the fleeting, outraged glare Hannibal gave Will for even daring to suggest he would shop at Ikea. “Ok, well, I gotta go, lot of tricks still to be treated, you know? Have a good night!” He stood back and took one last look at Will and Hannibal, shaking his head and saying, “Man, those costumes really are almost perfect, glad I got to see them.” And then he turned and disappeared along the street, cape flowing out behind him.

“Fascinating,” Hannibal murmured.

“Dangerous,” Will countered.

“I suppose now would be your opportunity to say ‘I told you so.’”

Will’s head whipped round and he glared at Hannibal. “Yes it is and yes I did and if you thought I’d be above saying so then you know me about as well as that kid does.”

“At least he does not believe you to be such a cold fish that even a modest amount of public affection is wholly out of character.” Hannibal was actually pouting and Will melted like he was looking at the last puppy in the pound.

“Please, if our best disguise involves you acting like my own personal boa constrictor, I'm not gonna be unhappy about it. Besides,” he said, lacing his fingers together with Hannibal’s, “I think I'd rather keep the real real Hannibal Lecter my little secret.”

“Oh? And which Hannibal Lecter would that be?”

“The one who is both a bloodthirsty, brutal, beautiful killer and a heart-eyed, loved-up, hopelessly besotted little love bunny.”

“Will…”

“The one who both fucked up my life, manipulated me and tried to force me to be something I wasn't and who saw the real Will Graham and freed me from an existence that was slowly killing me.”

“Will…”

“The one who is both a gigantic, fussy, pretentious pain in my ass and the love of my fucking life. And I'm the only one who gets to see him. All of him.”

“All?” Hannibal echoed, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

Will stepped in close and brought his lips to Hannibal’s ear, delivering a nip to the lobe before murmuring, “Yeah, but only if you can manage to get us home without any further incidents.”

Which, of course, Hannibal did, and in less than ten minutes to boot. For which trick, Will rewarded him with a quite magnificently big treat indeed.

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day(s) 5/6 - Iquitos-San Rafael- Iquitos again - In Which I Live Out My Genuine Nightmares

This is going to be a very special (and very long) double entry, because a) the following two days were largely spent doing the same thing b) I am so far behind with this blog that cramming two entries into one seems like perhaps the only way I will ever be able to catch up and c) I didn't really sleep enough to properly separate the two days, anyway, so functionally, they really do count as one for me.

I remember being in no more than primary six or seven, when a man came to speak to our class about the Amazon rainforest. I don't remember who he was or why having a guest speaker tell us about the jungle was particularly necessary, but I do remember in vivid detail the things he told me. More specifically, I remember the things he told me about all the things that could - and most likely would - kill, maim or otherwise damage me, should I ever be fool enough go. Poison tree frogs that can kill you with a single touch, spiders as big as dinner plates that'll snatch your toes right off you, jaguars, scorpions, snakes, wasps, venomous ants, millipedes and even trees; the list went on seemingly forever and I distinctly remember, even at that young age thinking, very firmly to myself “fuuuuuck that.” - except probably a bit higher pitched. More recently, I remember being in Budapest zoo (an excursion featured in this very blog) and there being a very big sign at the entrance to their Amazonia exhibit, describing the area as simply “the green hell”, for much the same reasons. Both of these things have stuck with me for more than twenty and more than five years respectively and, to be honest, did combine mentally to rather put me off ever going to such a horrible, godless locale. It seemed almost unreal, almost like a fever dream, then (Not least of all, because I actually was running a fever, still being fucked into a paste as I was, by my jungle flu.), as I loaded my bags into the back of a tiny little tuktuk motor-taxi, to be whisked away to this nightmarish place, which I swore I would never visit, for actuals and reals.

Before that though, I had a tuktuk to ride. These little things are basically the only way to get around Iquitos, other than a truly abysmal bus service, or just owning a bike; cars are essentially a non-entity here, being very difficult to actually transport over from other citites as they are, as Iquitos is entirely inaccessible by road. They're also quite fun – the tuktuk taxis, that is- I have to be honest, however not-in-keeping with the tone of this blog that statement is. Riding one is sort of like being the terrified non-player-character passenger in a Grand Theft Auto taxi driving side-mission, as your driver weaves carelessly through a sea of other motorcabs, paying no heed whatsoever to the rules of the road or the safety of pedestrians, hoping against hope that they don't lose interest in the task at hand and drive you off the edge of a cliff, or into a deserted field at night, to shoot you in the head with an AR-15 and take all your money.

All too soon though, we were ejected from our mental little death-wagon and ushered into a sort of garage, that appeared to be serving as the headquarters of Maniti Expeditions; the company that was due to take us jungle-side.

We took a seat and waited while the other members of our tour filed in. As it turned out, we were rather a small group. We were joined by a family of Pakistani-Americans from New Jersey, a Portuguese man, who I think was called Pedro, who was nice, though verging dangerously on the pretentious, and, of course – because apparently there is a God, but unfortunately he's just a bastard – the Indian couple from the night before. Of course they were there. Of course they were. Also, it turned out they were actually American, so that made my accidental racism one degree worse than it had even been before. Whizzer.

After a brief interlude wherein a man, whom I did not realise had just wandered in off the street, handed me a torch - which I assumed was just an extra they gave you as part of the tour, but after some time and a lot of him refusing to let me hand it back to him, realised he was trying to sell me, for a frankly ludicrous price, resulting in me having to physically force the thing back into his hands while shouting “no gracias” as politely, yet firmly as I could - we were loaded on to a shitty, rickety old bus and sent towards Bellavista Naney port with our new guide. His name was Alfredo.

Alfredo was, as you might expect a jungle tour guide to be, an interesting chap. He was a short, sturdy, sixty-five year old man, sporting a Peruvian national football shirt, a pair of quite small shorts with sailboats printed on them, a camouflage backpack with a Cannibal Corpse patch poorly sewed onto it and one hell of a coke-nail. He told us, also, not long after we had met that he had been doing Ayahuasca, that traditional Peruvian mind-fuck broth for the last fifty years or so of his life. This was our expert. This was the only barrier between ourselves and definitely dying at the hands of a cruel and dangerous jungle. A junkie death-metal-head. Great. (though, to be totally fair to Alfredo, he was only about 20% as fucking weird and unreliable as this description makes him out to be. In reality, he was very knowledgeable, friendly and really, clearly cared a lot about making sure we were all safe and happy. He was both a top lad and a ruddy good bloke)

We were rushed through Bellavista port by Alfredo, stopping only briefly to marvel at the culinary delights the small port had to offer

Like these buckets full of fucking grubs, for some reason. Apparently they taste just like butter

and before we knew it, we were boarding a small, rickety boat bound for jungletown in the least official looking dock I had ever been to.

Pictured: Not a dock

Just as I was going to take my seat, something pale darted across the corner of my eye. I quickly spun to face the movement and there it was, sitting, bold as brass, right next to where I was about to park my – frankly 10/10 – arse was a massive, white spider, about the size of the palm of my hand, staring up at me, human blood dripping from its fangs, hissing threats in some esoteric spider-language. Fortunately, I was too fucked with the flu to have any energy left to make a fool of myself by panicking and so, instead, quietly just moved down the boat, screaming myself hoarse inside. Alfredo, then noticing the spider himself, then scooped the horrible thing into his hands and very softly deposited it off the side of the boat as if it was nothing, thereby tacitly making a total bitch of me for being so scared of it. Thanks Alfredo. Prick. Fortunately, though that seemed to be the only spider that had snuck on board, as I remained unbothered by any of its kin for the duration of our (very long) boat-ride up the Amazon river.

The boat ride was, despite my malady and my intrinsic fear of ever being submerged in the Amazon river, for any amount of time and for any purpose, fairly incredible. The river is bizarrely fascinating to be on, even when nothing of any interest is happening, and once I had gotten over my terrible, terrible fear of the boat capsizing, or a piranha flying out of the water and biting my face, I settled in to really quite enjoying myself. Alfredo's talk about the river, much like the thing itself, remained interesting, even at points when he was pretty much just babbling a load of shit about nothing, and a conversation with the father of the Pakistani-American family (who was every inch the spitting image of a brown Todd, from The Last Man On Earth) revealed that he, too, was something of an absolute delight. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, after all.

We eventually pulled in to San Rafael, the little community adjacent to our lodge and, after veeeeery fucking carefully removing myself from the boat, we walked for about ten minutes through very nearly actual proper jungle

Aaaaaah!

seeing some wild tamarins on the way and everything (which are apparently very rare to spot in the wild, so that was neat). By this point though, the heat was almost unbearable and lugging around  my heavy backpack with a swirling vortex of fluey malaise sucking me ever deeper into its terrible maw was really starting to wipe me out. Before long, though, we arrived at the lodge, which was really quite nice, though perhaps a little too similar to the Others' village in Lost, for me to be totally comfortable in.

Delightful, yet sinister, like if Ted Bundy could make balloon animals

I quickly scooted off to dump my bag in our... fairly modest room

Hey, cool, I’m definitely going to die here.

before, with little to no chance for me to rest, being dragged straight back out for a short taster walk, into the actual and for reals jungle.

The walk was definitely an interesting, if very tiring excursion, especially for a gross, snotty flu-man, which I very much was. I think, though that it was largely the novelty of being in a new biome that really did the bulk of holding my attention, as, presumably due to the lovely, but very loud and panicky American family's constant hoots of fear, we didn't see a huge amount in the way of wildlife. Especially not anything that might bite, poison or constrict you. Still, though, it was quietly quite comforting to not be the most scared person there. Grow up, Americans. God.

Around half an hour later and fifteen pounds heavier in mud caked to the bottom of my shoe and trousers, we returned to the lodge for a surprisingly nice lunch of mashed potato and beef. I couldn't really enjoy it, however, as my sinuses were full beyond bursting and the room was spinning horribly around me, as I ate. We were given, mercifully, around an hour to relax before the next part of our tour, which I spent soundly asleep, not even caring that spiders could and probably would be crawling over my exhausted, broken body as I did.

The nap turned out to be a good choice. I awoke feeling slightly more human, albeit by the scantiest margin possible. It wouldn't have mattered if I was literally dying though- I'd still have gone on the next bit of the tour; was I fuck missing a trip to Monkey Island, under any circumstances.

We boarded the boat once more; one tour member lighter - in the form of Pedro who had decided to go off with another, different guide to camp in the jungle for a night, though with the new addition of Karl, another American man and weird lookalike of his namesake Karl Pilkington, arriving late - and were away to Monkey Island. Fuck yes we were away to Monkey Island.

Monkey Island, as its name suggests is a rehabilitation centre for monkeys who were rescued from the black market's pet trade, and that's all brilliant and everything, but jesus christ, it was just a little patch of jungle with all friendly woolly monkeys running around and, jumping through trees and tumbling around and playing and coming up to you to hold your hand or climb onto your shoulders and it was everything I have ever wanted and I don't expect I will feel joy like I did while being there, ever again. Or any sort of joy at all, to be honest.

L O O K A T T H E M 

It was so good that for around the hour and a half we were there, I basically forgot I had the flu. That's how good it was; it was good enough to override my body slowly shutting down through fatigue and illness, like a lemsip for the soul. It was genuinely fantastic; the only thing that marred the experience, even slightly was the American family being a bit too loud and overbearing, pushing to the front of every experience, and so taking all of the monkeys' precious attentions for themselves, for the vast majority of the time. I suppose it can be forgiven of people for being a little over-excited about a god damned island full of monkeys though, so for once, I will bare no grudge against them. But let it me known, if anyone physically comes between me and a monkey, ever again, I will cut a bitch.

Way, way too fucking soon, though, we were pulled away from Monkey Island, in much the way its inhabitants were pulled away from the still-warm corpses of their mothers by poachers (...too dark?) and loaded back onto the boat.

We returned to San Rafael and, by this point, a combination of the heat, the flu and not being allowed to spend literally forever on Monkey Island in a perpetual state of utter bliss had ruined me. I badly needed a nap, again, for fear that if I did not take one, I might actually die, but alas, I was not to be afforded such a simple pleasure. Alfredo informed us, once we were back on land, that we'd be heading out into the jungle again, for an hour long night-walk to look for spiders and shit. I couldn't think of a more terrifying sentence for him to say, to be honest, but I decided that was probably actually quite unlikely that I was actually going to die and it would be quite an experience to miss out on if I just spent the time asleep in the relative comfort of my room, and so, like the solider I am, I nutted up and just did it.

I've genuinely had nightmares about being stuck in the jungle at night. If you'd have asked me a week ago to describe my top most terrifying real-world scenarios I'd never want to be in, that probably would have ranked in the top three. Actually experiencing it, however, really wasn't all that bad. I don't know if my mind and body were just too mangled to process exactly what was happening to me (I do remember spending a lot of the time, almost asleep on my feet, not fully knowing where I was, but being quite convinced that I was in a forest in Scotland), or if the lovely, but loud American family had just spooked all the dangerous animals in a fifty mile radius away with their unforgivably loud hollers and yelps, but I didn't find myself feeling at all anxious, or frightened, or...anything, really. It was just something that was happening to me before I could sleep.

Although in retrospect, it looks fucking terrifying

The walk progressed slowly, with little of interest being spotted, other than a couple of (admittedly pretty sick) stick insects and apparently an opossum (although I didn't see it, myself) and seemed to be winding down without incident. Then, ten minutes or so from camp, Sam's left leg stated burning. Panicking, she told Alfredo what was happening, who traipsed back to her, lifted her trouser-leg and saw, to Sam's horror, but his own light amusement that a not insignificant amount of fire-ants were swarming around her calf. Apparently she had stomped her little stompy feet through their nest and was now paying the price for her murderous hubris. Alfredo swatted the ants away as best he could and we continued walking (or in Sam's case, badly limping) back to the camp.

Once back, we ducked back into our bungalow to make sure neither of us had any more of the nasty little fuckers on us, which thankfully, we did not, and everything was great,forever. The End.

Nah, just kidding; we had an entire fucking colony milling around our socks and lower trousers. We very quickly and with very very little dignity, stripped our khakis off in a bit more of a girlish panic than I'd honestly like to admit, shook the ants free from the trousers, outside and just straight up binned the socks like the unwearable garbage they now were. When we were absolutely sure that we now ant-free (which took so much more time and energy than my body could realistically spare), we headed to dinner; another fairly nice affair full of chicken legs and mashed potato, so I'm told, at least. Genuinely, I don't know, I was so far beyond physically okay that the entire thing really was a bit of a blur for me. I do remember being given a pill by the Indian couple, which they claimed was a combination of painkillers and muscle relaxant and which knocked me out almost as soon as I returned to our room. At least I was too sick to care about spending a night in the jungle- the part of the trip I was most worried about, previously – so uh. Every cloud and all that, I guess. Also, the muscle relaxant didn't even one, as I had worried it might, make me piss the bed. So that's two silver linings, which honestly, is pretty good going, as far as silver linings are concerned.

I was up several times in the night. The jungle is (shockingly) pitch black during the evening and, much like the night before, I found myself awaking with a jolt every two hours or so, to empty my bladder and perform a full and thorough inspection of my bed, using the torch on my phone, to make sure no errant tarantulas had decided to become my erstwhile bedfellows. They hadn't, to be fair, but that doesn't make me hate them any less. Furry, spindly little pricks.

Despite this, I did sleep better than I had the previous night (albeit again, only by the slimmest of margins) and actually found myself, for once, being woken up by my alarm, rather than just being awake several hours before it was due to go off, anyway. Take that, alarm.

Our morning plan was to take the boat out once more, to watch the sun rise over the Amazon and then around to go river-dolphin spotting, which, to be fair, did sound appallingly lovely. The sunrise was mostly obscured by clouds, so wasn't perhaps as impressive as it could have been, though still managed to remain fairly bloody impressive

Neat, I guess.

and what the clouds took away from the gravity of the experience, Alfredo more than added back in by uttering the cryptic, slightly frightening and just very, very metal line of “...His eye opens” as the sun just began to peek over the horizon

BEHOLD!

By the time we had begun dolphin spotting, I had once again grown weary and while I was definitely thoroughly enjoying the experience, and managed, at points, to get incredibly close and take some pretty okayish videos of the ugly, pink little jerks

I have no way of editing videos out here, but if you wait until around the 30 second mark, you should see a big splashy boy

I was definitely not enjoying my nostrils turning into a snot-faucet and my head being slowly crushed into a singularity from the inside, so by the time we packed it all in and returned home, I was super glad to be doing so, despite feeling a little guilty for thinking like this. To be honest though, as amazing as this experience was (and indeed all the experiences the rainforest had to offer thus far – save for fire-ants, which can go fuck themselves), it was hard for me to really, properly enjoy them, as each time I got close to feeling like I was, the realisation that I am a comparatively rich, white tourist who paid for this experience set in, hard, and, in what has to be the most first-world-problemy way possible, did rather make the entire thing seem a bit...plastic. Not the monkeys though; they were legit.

Once home, we took a quick break; not long enough for a recovery nap, but just about long enough to relax in a hammock for a while

So relaxed...

before being ushered out onto the river by Alfredo once more. This time to go and meet some members of a local tribe. I wasn't particularly thrilled about this part of the tour, feeling that it was perhaps a little ...colonial and exploitative; parading us around this relatively primative tribe, oohing and ahhing at their grass skirts and shitty little home-made crafts and rudimentary hunting techniques and all that, but I did pay...quite a lot for this tour and didn't really want miss any part of it; especially a bit so awkward and unwanted that it was almost guaranteed to generate some dynamite blog-content, so I bundled myself back into the boat and headed off to tribesville.

We arrived at the small village and were directed to sit down inside, what I assumed was the main hut. We had been joined by another, different tour-group for what was about to ensue, which I was uncharacteristically thankful for, as it, at the very least, would dilute some of the attention that our group would get. After a brief talk on the tribe from Alfredo, which didn't exactly blow me away with any fascinating insight into their way of life (they're farmers who grow rice and bananas, they hunt for their food and use blowdarts), we then got another small talk in the tribe's native tongue from the chieftain; short, stern and stocky man, wearing a grass skirt and a large ornamental headdress, who was, hilariously, just called Richard, who essentially just went over the same things as Alfredo, but in a language that seemed to only consist of three independent syllables.

The tribe then demonstrated two of their traditional songs, both of which were accompanied by a dance, with which we were invited to join in (an offer which every single member of our group declined)

Not this guy, though. He was fucking loving it.

and both of which, with the best will in the world, were a bit shit. After a gruelling and genuinely awkward few minutes, the music abated and we were led to a different area to try our hand at blow-gunning, which, I'll be honest, I did rather enjoy, despite myself.

P-tew!

with no time to enjoy my definitely 10/10 blowgun prowess, we were directed immediately to the tribe's market stall, in which we were expected to spend our money on various bits of, to be totally honest, absolute garbage, which the tribe had made. Sam had brought very little money with her and I hadn't thought to bring any, at all, so we had a quick look around to see what we could buy with fifteen soles that was something either one of us would actually like and we weren't just buying because it felt awkward not to. It was then that li'l chief Richard approached us, his hand outstretched, rubbing his thumb against his middle and fore-finger – the international symbol for “give me money”

“Para la musica” he told us. For the music.

Great. Now apparently we had to pay for enduring their shit music which wasn't good and which I didn't enjoy listening to. Perfect. We (Sam) handed him five of our soles and he looked disgusted with us. We (Sam) apologised for not giving more and Richard walked away, unspeaking. I don't care if you are in some jungle tribe with all different culture and everything, rudeness is rudeness. Fuck you, Richard. Prick.

Now feeling a little like what little shine the experience had possessed, previously had very much worn out, we continued being made to browse the tribe's wares, until we finally succumbed to pressure and bought ourselves some tat.

Glad I spend money on this sweet little number

With everyone's pockets now entirely emptied and the lines on who was exploiting who blurred beyond all recognition, we loaded ourselves back onto the boat. Also, a little side-note here, but it was at this point that I watched a portly lady who was on the other tour, lean out of the window of her boat to take one final picture of the tribe, though instead managed to let her phone slip out of her hands and straight to the bottom of the river; an act which I singularly enjoyed infinitely more than I had the last hour or so of tribal interaction and having my money guilted off me. They should genuinely employ someone to do that on every tour, because, honestly, I nearly enjoyed it as much as Monkey Island.

Our next stop was one I could be fucked with almost as much as the previous; piranha fishing. I'm not a huge fan of fishing, to be honest, because I don't really like killing things (although, being in the Amazon does generally make you a little kill-happier. There was no way in hell I was going to scoop up each individual fire-ant on a bit of cardboard and pop them outside on the bungalow's windowsill. It was the boot for them), but we were told by Alfredo that the lodge's chefs would cook up what we caught and we could have them for lunch, which did remove some of the grey morality which which I was struggling.

Turns out I needn't have worried about any of that, though, because I was fucking terrible at Piranha fishing and didn't land a single catch. I couldn't get them to stay on the hook, no matter what I tried and more than likely emptied our group's reserves of spare bait, single-handedly in the process, like the saint I am. Sam, however, being a salty Geordie fish woman, was great at it and caught, as she kept boastfully reminding me of, as if ending the lives of innocent little snappy-boys was something to be proud of, no fewer than four fish. Five, actually, but one wasn't a piranha and was therefore too small to bother cooking (it was, however, too badly damaged to go back in the water and so had to be stomped to death, anyway. What a monster she is.)

After a while, even Sam's bloodlust was sated and we unanimously decided to pack in this whole fishing lark and go back for lunch. I got back on board the boat, over the piranha infested waters as carefully as I have ever done anything in my life and we returned to the lodge for what would be the final time.

We were afforded enough time, once back, for me to have another nap, which, at this point were the only things making me feel even vaguely alive or human, in any sense, before being served our last lodge supper. More mashed potatoes, jungle-beans, the piranhas Sam caught and a big chunky fillet of another, different (and anyone with tastebuds would say) better fish called Pacu and which looks like this

...yummy

I am told that this all tasted quite nice, but by this point, the flu had cruelly taken away my senses of both smell and taste, so I had no idea. I could just about make out that it was very salty, though, so that was something. Small victories.

With that, our jungle experience came to a close and after a strangely intimate hug goodbye with Alfredo, we and the Indian couple (who were the only other guests not booked to stay any longer than a single night) were plopped back on our boat and ferried upstream back to Belavista. A trip which I spent nearly the entirety of asleep, which I like to think was because I had grown so comfortable with being in the jungle, at that point, that I could relax fully in it, but more likely was because I had just been crumpled into a ball of misery and fatigue by my flu over the previous three days. Overall though, being in the jungle was a surprisingly good experience and one that I might even consider doing again at some point, should the opportunity arise. A solid 9/10, except for, as I've said, the fire-ants which can go fuck themselves.

Back on terra firma, we were wizzed via tuktuk first back to the company's headquarters, where we finally parted ways with the Indian couple – hopefully actually to never see them again this time, and then to our new AirBnb, in which we would spend out final few days in Iquitos.

Our new AirBnb, as it happens, was actually a collection of luxury riverfront apartments, in which, we had unknowingly booked the nicest room. We were checked in by the receptionist, Diego, who looked the spitting image of a brown Zach Woods and who was incredibly welcoming and helpful to an almost snivelling degree (not entirely unlike every character Zach Woods plays, now I think of it.) Diego explained everything there was to explain about the apartment in frankly laborious detail and, after dropping this info-dump on us and bidding us welcome, asked us point blanc

“what's my name?”

I suppose this was as some kind of test to see if we had retained the information he had just said, rather than a test of politeness, or some weird ego-trip. Regardless, I did not remember what it was. I was hard-humped with flu and generally disregard someone's name the first three times they tell me it, even when it is someone I know I'll actually see again.

“...What's. My. Name?” he repeated.

I laughed and told him I'd just be in the jungle for two days, so I'd forgotten. This seemed to be an acceptable enough answer for him and he immediately flicked back to his friendly, helpful self, creepily seamlessly. The entire interlude was really quite odd, totally out of keeping what the rest of what I'd seen of his personality and I'm almost certain, a preamble to my own murder.

Doing our best to put whatever psychosis we had just witnessed behind us, we settled in to our new digs. This apartment, a penthouse suite overlooking the Naney river, was about as different from living in the jungle as it was possible to get, and let me tell you, the change was one hundred percent welcomed by me.

The view is spectacular

...I mean if you’re into things like that.

The bed was comfy, the fridge loaded with pre-cooled water bottles, the kitchen fully stocked and the entire apartment almost entirely bug-free, due in no small part to its remarkably effective AC system, which really did turn the flat into a little icy paradise of excess, amidst a sea of poverty and sweat.

We couldn't quite settle in fully just yet, though. Sam insisted that we make a quick outing to the supermarket, because apparently she needed shampoo and apparently wasn't willing to go alone, for fear of being “mugged” or “abducted and killed” by a “crime man”, which to be honest, I felt was very selfish of her.

For the final time that day, then, I dragged what was left of my body out through the streets of Iquitos, to the supermarket and back, before finally being able to collapse onto our exceptionally soft airbnb couch, to eat a modest dinner of a single sausage and a couple of minty biscuits, while watching the Peru episode of an Idiot Abroad - because watching someone else suffer through what I just had was really the only thing that had the capability of making me feel any better at that point – and then heading directly to our comfy, comfy bed, which I believe I must have fallen asleep in, before my head had even touched the pillow. I have never been more done.

[pixie-skull]

Top 10 villians? :]

THAT IS AN AWESOME IDEA! =D Sorry for the delay had to think this over and ugh my laptop deleted my two lists. Hopefully, I get it done this time. Please note that I am also counting villains who freaked me out when younger (which according to one of my family “was not often for how fearless you (me) as a kid”). No spoilers in case anyone wants to look the character I mention. I feel like this list became more of a “who scared you” list. This list been in the making (yes made a google doc to prevent my laptop deleting my list) from https://pixie-skull.tumblr.com/post/173867958677/ask-me-my-top-5top-10-anything

10. Jennifer from Jennifer’s BodySo where do I begin, the concept is scary and actually parts of this movie got me creeped out. I like the fact the monster from the movie actually a threat like someone’s good friend becoming actual pure evil. Without too many spoilers just be ready for a villain who actually makes you empathize with the main character.

9. Dracula from the book (yes a book slot) DraculaWithout spoilers, this monster is a good slow burn. Like dang makes all movies, shows, video games, etc put to shame. The book actually does something that most people seem to forget, Vampires are DEMONIC CREATURES! So why is it they are romanticized? I know some products like Buffy the Vampire Slayer makes the sympathy more easy to understand, yet those Vampires did start human. I like the story never really explains why Dracula is who he is, he just a creature who curse takes over an innocent Soul and corrupts and keeps the person from moving on to another plane of life.

8. Alliance tied with reavers from Firefly tv show and Serenity movieSo yes a tie of two extremes of humanity. From an alliance government that will hunt down on the common folk who want not be ants of their abusive power. Next the extreme of ravers of people who lost the sense of humanity and will do the most savage things to their fellow human, cannibalism, rape, and more. So for such an intense tie why is it only 8/eight, because the others actually also offer a fear of the unknown. Plus the rest I recall as a kid would shake me up in how scared I got. I would list this lower, yet the thing is oddly an army of the two versus the fact the others are a singular person doing something to lead is scary. An army could be sheep, yet to see the lion who leads, Lord that is more daunting, for that is the one who leads the army. *sorry if anyone feels triggered and excuse language*

7 Chernabog from Disney’s FantasiaI know from my Spiritual background you expect it to be lower, yet nope. Just scary power show off as I think now. Also, fascinating fact Chernabog (even though clearly this the big S or S-a-t-a-n) is from Slavic Mythology.

6. Tie between Gmork and the Nothing from the movie The Neverending StorySo unlike 7/seven, this two are just the fears of something outside of your control and bit bias seeing how much I recall Gmork scaring me as a kid, like darn it. I swear if I did not like Mythology, werewolves and similar would be forever hard to like (as in to read, and no offense yet Vampires and Werewolves are NOT sexy, yet all the power to all of you who think so) thanks to this puppet. Also, the concept of nothing destroying all good bothers me too. :( Does not help thunderstorms would overstimulate or overwhelm me when much younger.

5. Horn King’s Cauldron Born Army from Disney’s The Black CauldronWell, even grown adults can agree this movie can be a fright. Funny enough unlike stated in 7/seven, I recall the gif below and what he summons was one of few scenes to freak me out as a kid and run away. Just the idea of an army of people, creatures, undead, (?), or whatever, just whoever like Horn King was a lot as a kid.

4. The Government from the V for Vendetta movieI know just talked about how a government is not as scary as someone in charge, yet this film (I do want to read the graphic novel) shows what a government like Hitler’s and other leaders now. I am an optimistic person yet the fact the movie clearly shows people like LGBTQ+ members being kidnapped and experimented on. It shows the people behind these horrible actions and makes the faceless government have a face and Lord I want to slap it in the face.

3. Nightmare King before in full body from Little Nemo in Slumberland movie.Oddly scared me for so long till middle school. Only till now I enjoy the build-up of him, plus unlike 4 who just show off power, 3 actually a demonic force that can be freaky. Only loses to others for when not back (without spoiling) comes back to full power is a huge letdown. Just the idea though as bodyless form and spreading evil liking a living oil spill and such hype for him to be silent at first is so much more powerful than when talking. Please read this to understand from someone else and yes does have spoilers, yet this explains if you read it.

2. Maleficent from Disney’s Sleeping BeautyShe literally calls herself the mistress of H-e-l-l like good Lord that is enough to sum up how much actual power she has. O.O Only like the last two who show what if a non-magic person used their power and more, in a creepy way only the worse kind of humanity can show. Maleficent shows if given powers, which why she loses, yes magic like hers is scary, but it takes away any sense of humanity in her.

1. Vidal from Pan’s LabyrinthUnlike 0/zero he shows a more not as multidimensional Vidal is a close evil, hence 1/one. I can not go into too much detail with no spoilers just trust me he is so evil.

HONORABLE MENTIONS:The Great Animal from The Swan PrincessI was just scared of the design as a kid and now like the chimera of this really bad movie. :( I think being a creature not real a villian.

Bellatrix Lestrange from Harry PotterHoly cow she is scarier than people give her credit. Only she is not the main antagonist. :( I would put her on the list yet she just shows someone of loyalty to a dictator can be like, not actual dictator.

Eddie Blake from the movie AND graphic novel WatchmenWithout too many spoilers, let me say this if a character *sorry if triggers* attempts rape someone else and he is like Disney’s Beauty and Beast Gaston; thinks he is a hero for enjoying killing people like pregnant women, then I hate the character. I do not hate easily yet after the movie and the read, I wanted to kick him where it hurts and more. I do not even condone violence and he made me so frustrated, which is not easy to make me feel this way. He is not considered the main antagonist too. I just see him as a character you are suppose to hate.

NOW ON TO THE TOP VILLIAN OF ALL TIME!0. Frollo from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre DameGood Heavens, he the type of person who abuses power for selfish gain. It does not help how much he seems like the person who gets away from harming someone if sexual, emotional, physical, spiritual or all of the above. I mean it he just human enough where the realistic side of you is shocked and then the tiny side of supernatural freaks out as well. Interestingly enough I original wanted number 1/one to be here instead, only the fact that Frollo abuses not just power of government yet of Faith is a personal sense of worry as someone who is spiritual.

Well, I hope this was worth the wait and shows a side of me that maybe no one was expecting. O.O Again please ask me more @myhollie1911 and anyone else. https://pixie-skull.tumblr.com/post/173867958677/ask-me-my-top-5top-10-anything Have a good day everyone.

[shardclan]

The Sunbeam Sentinel - Edition 3

Lutia Granted the Title of Queen's Mage: Undeserved Authority or a Royal Muzzle?

Opinions on the Archmage have been mild since she re-appeared in Aphaster territory to say her apologies, but due to recent events she is once again in the spotlight as a controversial figure.

Reports have been flooding in from Ashfall and the western Expanse that the Ashfall Catoptria have fallen. The area of their camp has been so intensely irradiated that Arcane investigators had to be specifically called in. According to their reports:

Most of them were suffocated, their mouths were stuffed full of grit and ash and bits of broken glass and metal. A few managed to avoid this, only to be killed by the radiation.

The area has been declared a biohazard, and a boundary ward has been established to prevent entry. The half-life of Arcane magic varies, but estimates have been made. The time of radiation event is assumed to be the same as the time of death of the Catoptria, and based on current radioactivity levels, the area is not expected to be habitable until after the Greenskeeper Gathering.

When questioned, the coatls at the Weathervane reported a dark red male imperial was on site during both the debris storm and the radiation event. This led investigations to Carnelian, who answered plainly that his job was to escort both Dust and Lutia to the site. When this inevitablyy led to Clan Aphaster and Queen Telos was inundated with demands for an explanation, she had this to say:

"It is my understanding that Dust was a survivor of the Catoptria. It is unsurprising that she would go back to take revenge, and that she would want to take insurance. She wasn't a citizen, just the ward of the Medical Sector, and she has already moved on. However, I understand the concerns raised by Lutia exercising large-scale magic with long-lasting consequences without my knowledge."

It was then that she made the unexpected decree:

"To that end, I will be naming her the Queen's Mage. She will serve me directly from now on, as Arcanus and the Umbra Wolf do."

This news shocked the clan. Making a government official out of a rogue element with such an immense well of power and historically poor control of her temper was alarming to say the least. But none were as shocked by the news as the Archmage herself.

Mamblory was allowed to sit in with Her Majesty and wait for the inevitable. Her report is as follows:

Lutia was flustered. I knew this before she was even fully in the Hall of Five Lights with us. She rushed up to Telos not with anger but confusion and what looked like fear.

"Are you out of your mind?!" she yelled. "You can't make me your Queen's Mage!"

Telos scarcely looked up. "I'm certain I already have."

"I refuse! Did you forget what I did?! You can't possibly think everyone will be okay with this!"

Reader, if you've never been graced by the Morning Queen's full and very annoyed attention, keep up the good work. The intensity of it was enough to make me nervous even though I'm fairly certain the queen forgot I was there for a moment.

"Trust me Lutia," she said coolly. "My memory is very long. And what I remember is that I also made the very unpopular decision to stay here in the Sunbeam Ruins. But here we are, a few eons later with a thriving community and rapidly progressing infrastructure."

Lutia tried to protest, but the queen silenced her with a raise of her hand.

"I won't say I'm upset the Catoptria are gone. I don’t think anyone is but I am being pressured to do something about you Lutia. People are afraid of you again because they don't know what you're going to do next or on whose behalf."

"Then I'll just go back to keeping to myself. Let them forget me, it’s fine!"

"Lutia," the queen said patiently. "A long time ago, I told you the time would come when your clan would need you and I would demand better of you. You cannot just continue to be a specter on the edge of things. You have to answer for this, and you have to be accountable to someone other than yourself."

Mamblory was excused at this point, and the report ends there. At this time it is unclear if Lutia has actually accepted the position, or what will happen if Lutia continues to refuse. At this time, Lutia is still not technically a citizen of Clan Aphaster, which compounds worries about her future actions. Her acceptance would likely see her sworn in properly. At the very least, she would be beholden to the law.

Now on to other stories:

Merchants Mixed on the Destruction of the Catoptria

The Ashfall Catoptria presented a very real threat to caravans on Trader's Walk. Their camp was within visible distance of the Weathervane, and the descent into the Carrion Canyon was becoming an increasingly tense part of the the journey. One would think that the destruction of the cannibal clan would be met with only good cheer, and yet that has not been the case.

While the sources of outrage are few, even a single upset merchant is not easily ignored or without repercussion. The radiation left by Lutia has been the source of a few warped or otherwise damaged trade items. Though the area has been sealed now, there has been a noted rise in magic sickness that will likely persist until the radiation has completely deteriorated.

Reactions from traveler caravans have been more uniformly good. Having no wares, they are merely grateful that the threat of the serthis has been removed from the area.

A Harpy in Clan Aphaster: Follow-up

Dust was last seen at the bend of the Hewn River, on the far side of the Summerlands. No one is quite sure what became of her afterward, but Dantalion has offered the likely probability that if nobody seems to recall the moment she left, Faded's involvement was very likely.

Tràthail and Dust were near inseperable, yet the harpy did not follow Dust to her new coven. So what is Tràthail doing now?

The answer, to the slight worry of everyone involved, is that she has taken up working with Cheese. How the two met is unclear, but Cheese's simple, excitable nature and Tràthail's energy have made the two fast friends.

On the bright side, Tràthail has the common sense to know that not everything can be milked. She has single-handedly led to a reduction in Cheese's milking attempts, but made them much more efficient.

The harpy can primarily be seen in Noon Point, tending the clan's first dairy and creamery. She is not quite so fascinated by the milk as by the things that can be made from the milk. As such, she is rapidly becoming the face of the local cheese and butter trade.

She has said she has no intention of going to rejoin her flock in Ashfall, or of joining the local flock.

Starfall Musuem Grand Opening Date Revealed!

Construction of the Museum ended some time ago, but the opening has remained a subject of speculation only. Ornamentation processes have been on-going, but the exterior and interior carving has been completed, and now all that remains to do is interior furnishing, the completion of the paintings, and installation of artifacts.

Galbana, the curator of the Starlight Museum, reported to the Sunbeam Sentinel that the clan can expect the grand opening right after the Greenskeeper Gathering.

[infolibrary]

Some Chilling Early Morning Reading: Serial Killers

New Post has been published on http://www.infolibrary.net/some-chilling-early-morning-reading-serial-killers/

Some Chilling Early Morning Reading: Serial Killers

Here is a brief article about Serial Killers for some chilling early morning reading.

01. The Murder Castle

Herman Webster Mudgett, better known as Dr. Henry Howard Holmes, one of the first recorded serial killers in the currently accepted sense, was better known as Dr. H.H. Holmes, a pharmacist. In 1886, he purchased a drug store in Chicago, later buying up property around it until he owned the block itself. The buildings were remodeled into a hotel, named the World’s Fair Hotel in time for the 1893 World’s Fair.

The ‘hotel’ had been constructed by a motley crew of workers, none of whom knew the full layout and all of whom were sacked before completion to ensure their complete ignorance of the structure. Most of the rooms had no windows. Doors and stairways went nowhere, hallways were cul-de-sacs. Gas jets were built into the walls of some of the rooms, blowtorches in the walls of others, and a chute led from the upper floors to the basement, where there were two furnaces big enough to incinerate a corpse or three. The whole place was decked out for torture and murder, with a side order of sick mind games to go.

He’d entice a horrifying number of hapless indigents (usually young women) back to the house of horror, killing them and disposing of their bodies via the ovens, lime pits or acid, often selling on the remains to medical schools using contacts accrued during a lifetime working in and around medicine. When he was eventually caught, he’d confess to 27 murders. Convicted and sentenced to death, Dr. H.H. Holmes was hung… but the rope didn’t break his neck, and he’d hang there being slowly strangled for twenty minutes before finally succumbing.

The Murder Castle, as his huge monument to terror and pain eventually became known, was mysteriously gutted by fire in 1895, and the shell of the building was finally demolished in 1938.

02. Ilshat Kuzikov

In February of 1997 Ilshat Kuzikov was arrested in St. Petersburg for the murder of three of his drinking buddies over the span of four years, starting in 1992 and ending in 1996.

After further details came to light, it was later found that he had not only killed his friends but had also sampled their flesh. In fact, his cannibalism appeared to be the main motive for the killings, with Kuzikov stating that he would ask the friend over to his flat for a nightcap before stabbing them to death, eating parts of their body and then disposing of them in a garbage dump.

He had even developed a recipe for his uncommon tastes:

“First, you fry the meat in one saucepan in a little oil; liver is best. Then, in another pot, you fry onions. Put them together with either stock or water and simmer for half an hour.” Ilshat Kuzikov was found to be insane when he was brought to trial and he was sentenced to life in closed psychiatric confinement.

03. Luis Garavito

Garavito is widely considered to be the most deadly convicted serial killer ever to have lived, earning him the nickname “La Bestia”, or “The Beast.” He confessed to the killing of 140 children over the course of just half a decade in Columbia, but is suspected of killing and raping at least 400 in total.

04. Zodiac Killer

One of the most famous serial killers of all time, the Zodiac Killer terrorized San Francisco residents for the better part of a year. The Zodiac Killer case was as fascinating as it was horrifying, due to the killer’s habit of toying with police and reporters.

The Zodiac Killer was confirmed to have murdered at least 5 people during his killing spree, though he has claimed the number was actually 37. He was famous for the intricate ciphers he would send to newspapers and police, which would often contain very creepy messages and occasionally threats once solved.

One of the most famous messages was translated to read the following:

LIKE KILLING PEOPLE BECAUSE IT IS SO MUCH FUN IT IS MORE FUN THAN KILLING WILD GAME IN THE FORREST BECAUSE MAN IS THE MOST DANGEROUE ANAMAL OF ALL TO KILL SOMETHING GIVES ME THE MOST THRILLING EXPERENCE IT IS EVEN BETTER THAN GETTING YOUR ROCKS OFF WITH A GIRL THE BEST PART OF IT IS THAE WHEN I DIE I WILL BE REBORN IN PARADICE AND ALL THEI HAVE KILLED WILL BECOME MY SLAVES I WILL NOT GIVE YOU MY NAME BECAUSE YOU WILL TRY TO SLOI DOWN OR ATOP MY COLLECTIOG OF SLAVES FOR MY AFTERLIFE. EBEORIETEMETHHPITI

The Zodiac Killer would also hide hints and clues of what he’d do next in his letters, although they’d often prove to be false. For example, in the following letter he claimed that his next target would be a school bus filled with children, though this never came to fruition:

“This is the Zodiac speaking.

I am the murderer of the taxi driver over by Washington St + Maple St last night, to prove this here is a blood stained piece of his shirt. I am the same man who did in the people in the north bay area.

The S.F. Police could have caught me last night if they had searched the park properly instead of holding road races with their motorcicles seeing who could make the most noise. The car drivers should have just parked their cars and sat there quietly waiting for me to come out of cover.

School children make nice targets, I think I shall wipe out a school bus some morning. Just shoot out the front tire + then pick off the kiddies as they come bouncing out.”

The symbol of the Zodiac Killer has become almost as famous as the murderer himself, with its simple design of a circle over a cross. Many have attempted or even claimed to have solved the mystery of who the Zodiac Killer is, but none have been proven to be true.

The Zodiac’s puzzles, cryptograms and riddles have continued to be put under scrutiny to this very day, and the police case file has been open since 1969, but no conclusive evidence has ever been brought forward.

The subject of a number of popular films and books, the case of the unidentified Zodiac Killer continues to mesmerize and disgust people even now.

05. The Black Doodler

The Doodler, or Black Doodler as he was sometimes referred to, was responsible for 14 killings in under two years. The killer targeted members of San Francisco’s gay community, often meeting with his victims at gay nightclubs and bars.

The Doodler was named as such because of his habit of sketching each of his victims before killing them. He would draw out a picture of his targets, then give it to them as a means to initiate a conversation. This would often lead to them leaving with the Doodler, before engaging in sex and being stabbed to death.

There were three survivors of the Doodler’s assaults, which resulted in the apprehension of a murder suspect. Frustratingly, due to social stigma at the time, all three survivors refused to testify, as they didn’t want to come out as gay. This resulted in the suspect walking freely, his identity never revealed.

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