#when I put strychnine there I was like

[callisteios]

this is so beautiful, thank you <3

i made a character uquiz. i 100% promise you that you will get a character you know AND like

[bemusedlybespectacled]

I don't understand the chevron law thing, could you explain it like I'm five? Should we be working towards fixing whatever the courts just fucked up?

So, okay, I am condensing like a semester of a class I took in 2017 into a very short explanation, but:

It would be really annoying for Congress to individually pass laws approving every new medicine or listing out every single poison you can't have in tap water, so instead there are agencies created by Congress, via a law, to handle a specific thing. The agencies are created by Congress but overseen by the executive branch (so, the president), which is why we say things like "Reagan's EPA" or "Biden's DOJ" - even though Congress creates them, the president determines how they do the thing Congress wants them to do, by passing regulations like "you can't dump cyanide in the local swimming pool" and "no, you can't dump strychnine, either."

However, sometimes people will oppose these regulations by saying that the agency is going beyond the task they were given by Congress. "The Clean Air Act only bans 'pollutants,' and nowhere in the law does it say that 'pollutants' includes arsenic! You're going beyond your mandate!" To which the experts at the EPA would be like, "We, the experts at the EPA, have decided arsenic is a pollutant." On the flip side, the EPA could be like, "We, the experts at the EPA, have decided that arsenic isn't a pollutant," and people would oppose that regulation by being like, "But the Clean Air Act bans 'pollutants,' and it's insane to say that arsenic isn't a pollutant!" So whose interpretation is correct, the government's or the challengers'?

Chevron deference basically put heavy weight onto how the agency (i.e. the government) interpreted the law, with the assumption that the agency was in the right and needing pretty strong evidence that they were interpreting it wrong (like, blatantly doing the opposite of a clear part of the law or something). If there was any ambiguity in how the law was written, you'd defer to the agency's interpretation, even if that interpretation was different depending on who was president at the time.

(Note: there are other ways of challenging regulations other than this one, like saying that they were promulgated in a way that is "arbitrary and capricious" – basically, not backed by any evidence/reasoning other than "we want it." Lots of Trump-era regulations got smacked with this one, though I think they'd be better at it if Trump gets a second term, since they've now had practice.)

Chevron deference wasn't all good – remember that the sword cuts both ways, including when dickholes are in power – but it was a very standard part of the law. Like, any opposition to a regulation would have some citation to be like "Chevron doesn't apply here" and every defense would be like "Chevron absolutely applies here" and most of the time, the agency would win. Like, it was a fundamental aspect of law since the 80s.

The Supreme Court decision basically tosses that out, and says, "In a situation where the law is ambiguous, the court decides what it means." That's not completely insane – interpreting law is a thing judges normally do – but in a situation where the interpretation may hinge on something very complicated outside of the judge's wheelhouse, you now cannot be like, "Your Honor, I promise you that the experts at NOAA know a lot about the weather and made this decision for a good reason."

The main reason it's a problem is that it allows judges to override agencies' judgements about what you should do about a thing and what things you should be working on in the first place. However, I don't think there's really a way of enshrining that into law, outside of maybe adding something to the Administrative Procedure Act, and that would require a Congress that isn't majority Republican.

I will say that kind of I expected this to happen, just because IIRC Gorsuch in particular hates Chevron deference. IMO it's a classic case of "rules for me but not for thee" – Scalia and other conservatives used to rely on Chevron because they wanted their presidents to hold a ton of unchecked power (except for the EPA), but now that we've had Obama and Biden, now conservatives don't like Chevron because it gives the presidents they don't like unchecked power.

[cineresis]

Angels in America

It's amazing how fast an evening at your favorite club can be ruined by someone keeling over and frothing at the mouth. The band never quite gets back into the swing of things afterwards.

"Angel," sighed one of the men, or nearest approximants, at the table next to mine, "why is it that I can never go anywhere with you without stumbling across a body?"

"Oh, come now," said his partner, a soft, fluffy confection in caramel and cream, rising hastily to make his way toward the source of the commotion. The first gentleman, dark, lanky, and excruciatingly chic, got up to follow him. "It's hardly every time."

I stayed where I was for now, casting my gaze around the room as I went over my memory of the past twenty or thirty minutes. Too many people passing close enough to slip something into the victim's drink, too many others to watch at the same time, too many more opportunities to poison him outside my field of view. I was a detective, not God.

"Stumbling upon, once. Literally. Do you know what it's like to have to clean up after that sort of thing? It takes a personal toll."

"Hush, Crowley," chided "Angel". "People can hear you, and you know how queer they get about these things. Ooh, yes, that's strychnine, all right," he added cheerfully, pulling a small vial from his vest pocket and tipping it into his handkerchief. "Nasty stuff."

I got up. As I approached, I caught the faint, unmistakable chemical sweetness of ether fumes and gave them a wide berth, choosing instead to inspect the victim's plate and glass before turning to scan the room from this perspective.

"Now, just what might you be doing?" drawled Crowley.

I looked him over, too, while I was at it. In Crowley's case, this involved a lot of looking and not much over; he was easily more than six feet tall, even while slouching rakishly. The snake tattoo on his right temple suggested certain things about him. The dark glasses that he hadn't removed since he'd entered just suggested questions, since I highly doubted he was blind. "I'm a detective," I said, leaving the obviously at the end of that sentence to implication. "What are you doing?"

This response seemed to delight him. "So are we," Crowley answered, and grinned. "But if you want to get specific about it, I'm keeping you distracted while my friend saves this man's life. Let's see your license, then."

As I took it out, keeping at least one eye on him and his partner, Angel called out to the rubbernecking crowd around us, "I need someone here to run and call the nearest hospital, and a couple of strong men to help get this poor fellow someplace dark and quiet to rest. Best use one of the tablecloths for a stretcher," he added to the first volunteer who stepped forward.

Crowley leaned in closer to study my license. "Drake Silas Donovan," he read off. "'Silas', really?"

"What about it?"

"I've just always wondered what kind of parent would name their kid Silas."

"The kind who had a grandfather named Silas," I replied coolly, snagging my license back. "Your turn."

He obliged. Anthony J. Crowley, it read, licensed in London since 1905, the year before mine. I wondered how long he'd been at this; he looked too young for his apparent age, but then I looked too old for mine. "A. J. Crowley," I read his signature aloud. "Get asked if you're any relation every time, or just most?"

There's a certain motion a person's head makes when they roll their eyes. Crowley's was making it. "The man's an embarrassment to the side," he griped. "I made my name legitimately."

"And your friend?" It wasn't as if I couldn't put two and two together. There's a certain type of person who's got both a nose for trouble and the brains to prepare for it; if it walks, talks, and thinks like a dick, it probably is one. It was just that I wasn't in the habit of trusting people, and I'd be a real schmuck to neglect basic due diligence on the guy purportedly surrounded by bodies. 

Detectives are no better or worse than any other person. They just think it's usually more interesting to solve crimes than commit them.

"Oh, he's as legitimate as it gets." Crowley turned to his companion, who was getting to his feet, brushing his clothes off fussily. Beside him, the two volunteers hoisted the unconscious victim onto a tablecloth spread across the floor, momentarily dislodging the ether-soaked cloth before Angel caught it and laid it carefully back in place over the victim's nose and mouth. "Aren't you, Aziraphale?"

Angel — "Aziraphale"? — looked up, startled. "Pardon?"

"Mr. Donovan here wants to see your detective's license," Crowley explained, enunciating his words with malice aforethought.

"Oh! Yes. Of course I always have that with me. Now just where did I..." He started patting down his pockets, stopped suddenly, and took a lovely calfskin card holder out of his coat. "Ah. Here it is."

Beaming, he passed it to Crowley, who passed it to me with the comment, "You'll find everything in order, I'm sure."

I glanced down at the card, then back up at Angel. "Am I supposed to call you A. Z. Fell or Aziraphale?" I asked, pronouncing the Z correctly as zed.

"A. Z. Fell is how 'Aziraphale' is pronounced in the King's English," said Crowley blandly, affecting a cut-glass Oxford accent on the last phrase. His partner seemed pleased by this comment, rather than annoyed.

"I'm afraid my progenitor bestowed me with a rather unwieldy given name," Fell admitted, raising fascinating questions about just how many syllables the British peerage could fit on a birth certificate when they really tried. "Aziraphale just sounds so much more euphonious, don't you think?" Crowley was right; I couldn't tell whether Fell had meant to say A. Z. Fell or the de-accented gloss. He'd lengthened the half-syllable between zed and Fell to a full vowel, but some people said zetta.

"I wouldn't know," I replied, handing the license back to Crowley, who was nearest. When Fell didn't take my bait, I added, "Lucky that you happened to have ether handy. I wouldn't like to imagine what might've happened if you'd decided to stay in tonight." I also lied when I said sorry, and when I swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but. Little white lies are the oil in the gears of civilization.

"Oh, I always carry that, too," Fell explained earnestly. "One gets into the habit after one's first run-in with strychnine, and of course ether has so many useful applica—"

"I wouldn't, angel," Crowley interrupted, sounding very amused. "Mr. Donovan thinks you're the one behind this."

"Oh," said Fell, nonplussed. "Gosh. Well, I — I suppose I can't blame him. He doesn't know me from Adam, after all, and has no reason to trust me — I did warn you about giving people funny ideas, Crowley, honestly. Of course," Fell turned to me, laying an elegant hand across his chest, "if you were to search me, you would find only a small collection of antidotes — oh, but a habitual poisoner would probably carry those, too, especially if he were the sort of voyeur with a penchant for playing the hero. I certainly wouldn't be convinced of my innocence. Yes, I can certainly understand whatever suspicion you might feel towards me, however misplaced it may be."

Crowley watched this thought process with an expression somewhere between fascination and agony. "Well, at least now he probably thinks that if you'd done it, you'd have been caught by now," he remarked, presumably because he was thinking the same thing. "You'll have to excuse my friend," Crowley added to me. "He still believes that the innocent have nothing to fear. Somehow."

"First time visiting?" I guessed.

Fell's bemusement answered my question before he did. "Pardon?"

"Never mind."

[spontaneousglitterbees]

If I may ask, how do you think Kokichi acts around Maki after the game? Because I always imagined that what with the whole 'shooting him in the spine with a poisoned arrow' probably left him a little scared of her. I mean, if you consider that Strike-9 is likely named after strychnine, if the symptoms are similar, then that poison probably wrecked his body pretty good while him and Kaito were setting up his murder, he'd have been in considerable pain right up until the press came down. I can't imagine that Maki isn't a regular part of his nightmares.

Sorry it took a bit to answer. This is a lovely ask with much to think about, but your first question there really grabbed me and I immediately wrote a three-pager about it.

I think that after the game, Maki is actively trying to distance herself from her V3 persona. She's stated she doesn't like fighting in the first place in TDP, so in this universe I think she'd in the process of legitimately trying to change her title to SHSL Child Caregiver. It's kind of a probationary limbo in admin, proving she has the requisite skills to outright change tracks since IIRC there's not much if any precedent for it, but Maki works hard and has found herself opening up a bit more in the wake of surviving the simulation. She cut her hair to further put the past behind her (though she's not sure she quite likes it yet, it's a work-in-progress) and is, in part, trying to reclaim pieces of the childhood she functionally now never had. Kaede has taken her to I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Claire's at least once.

Now, Kokichi on the other hand.

He tries to avoid her like the plague, as he is (justifiably) terrified of her. They haven't spoken since the end of the game, but it isn't lost on Maki that Kokichi is the only person she's actually tried to assassinate (and, depending on who you ask, she succeeded. She, Kaito, and Kokichi each ultimately blame themselves for the press, even if Kokichi outwardly blames Maki for all of it and not just the torture) and it's just a bit difficult for her to stay angry. Especially when her one and only mark backs up against the wall and covers his upper right arm subconsciously so she cant shoot him there again when they pass each other in the hall.

Putting a nightmare sequence on the to-draw list, but Kichi has... thoughts, about potential poisoning he does as much as he can to suppress (only packaged food, even if that's not how he was poisoned before, because 'they'll have to get more creative now that it's not a game'; never leave your drink unattended anywhere, at all, even your own room; he started doing his own laundry again instead of asking Kirumi like the rest of Class 79, considering she defaulted to doing it to keep her hands busy and nobody else has really stopped her...) Little things.

Little things Kaito notices, now that he knows (now that he cares) to look. He thinks that they'll be friends, someday (but it'll be pretty far out, if it ever happens.) Mutual tolerance is a bit more viable.

Oh, hey. Looks like someone started listening to Miu.

[AU Masterpost]

[scaryscarecrows]

Hostile Takeover

Charles ‘ChiChi’ Smith woke up six hours ago to pandemonium.

Poisonings. Seven of them, the big boss and his lieutenants. Nobody knows what the fuck happened apart from, well, ‘poisoned’. Somebody had gone to find them and they’d been stone dead, vomit drying around them. Nasty business.

Nobody will cop to it, either. That’s the weird thing. Somebody’s clearly making a grab for power, so own it, right? But nobody is. Everyone’s spooked, and pissed, but nobody’s owning up. It’s not like Sionis was beloved by any stretch, and neither were the bastards he kept close, so why won’t the new boss step up?

Well, ChiChi figures, it may as well be him. He’s been here long enough.

First order of business is to find the responsible party. He loves the opening, but they’re a liability. So he’d gathered a handful of their better foot soldiers, big idiots that shoot first and ask questions later. Sent ‘em out. Grabbed more people to burn the bodies–can’t be too careful–and wondered if it’s too soon to start redecorating the main office.

A few hours later, he decided it’d been long enough and headed in, only to be met with a little fucker.

Jason Todd has been here about three months. He’s eighteen, a mouthy little bastard. It’s been ChiChi’s dream to shut his ass up one way or the other, but so far no luck. And he’s sitting in the leather chair with his boots thrown up on the desk, toying with some expensive glass doodad.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he demands. Todd grins up at him.

“Checkin’ out my new office. What are you doing here?”

He laughs.

“This ain’t your office, kid. Get out.”

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t poison the old man.” Todd’s eyes flash. “Seems I’ve got more right to it than you.”

ChiChi stares.

“You did that.”

“Uh-huh.” Todd stretches back, chair creaking. “Spiked their beer, sat back, and laughed.”

“Bullshit,” ChiChi spits. “Get the hell outta here.”

Outside, there’s shouting and Todd rolls to his feet.

“Sounds fun. Let’s go see.”

Before ChiChi can grab him, he’s breezed by and gone out into the heat.

There’s strangers in the compound. ChiChi doesn’t recognize most of them, but the big guy, Trent Ages, has done business with them before. Not often, and he’s fucked ‘em over a few times, but it’s happened. He’s holding a big duffle bag. The others, guys ChiChi doesn’t know, are armed but standing loosely despite the sheer number of guns trained on them.

“You got ‘em!” Todd crows, striding over. “Nice.”

What.

He turns to the assembly, spreads his hands, and intones, “Last night, I gave our former boss and his cronies a case of strychnine-spiked beer. To put it bluntly, I’m in charge now. Before anybody tries to argue–Ages, throw me that, would ya?”

Ages obliges. Todd catches the bag, staggers a bit, and tosses it towards ChiChi. Keeping one wary eye on Todd, he crouches down and opens it up.

Glassy eyes stare up at him and he scrambles back when it clicks that those are heads, that he knows those heads, he sent ‘em out this morning what the fuck–

“Recognize ‘em?” Todd’s smile is cold. “They had to go.”

“You’re a fucking psycho!”

“No, I’m pragmatic. They were too quick to jump for you.” He raises his voice. “Sionis was small-time. I’m not. We’re not gonna keep wasting our time fucking with the Garage. They don’t have anything better than we do.” He pauses. “Luthor’s got a supply convoy heading this way next week. We’re going to take it from him.”

There’s a wave of murmuring. ChiChi stands up. Todd’s going to get them all killed, which he doesn’t give a shit about. He’s been here too long, put up with too much shit, to let this little cocksucker just roll in here and ruin everything.

“That’s crazy,” he says, marching over. Todd studies him, eyebrow raised. “You think, because you found some nuts willing to humor you, that you can just take over? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Bullshit. Somebody fucking shoot–hurgh!”

Todd’s suddenly a lot closer, one hand fisted in ChiChi’s shirt and the other down low, where a burning pain is suddenly spreading through his gut. His knees start to buckle and Todd’s grip tightens, forcing him to stay on his feet.

“You were always a sick fuck,” he breathes. “And a liability. But don’t die on me just yet, I’m not done here.”

He scrambles for something, anything; a gun, a knife, even a grenade, at this point, but Todd kicks his feet out from under him and the burning pain shoots upwards before Todd draws his knife back out and lets him fall.

“I will warn you,” he continues, “anyone who gets in my way will regret it. If you want to end your miserable life choking on your own blood in the middle of the desert, that’s your business. I can’t promise you your death will be as merciful as ChiChi’s here.”

BLAM!

Jason Todd holsters his gun and turns from the corpse without a backwards glance.

“Somebody burn this,” he says carelessly. “That bag, too. Then I want everybody in the Big Building. We’ve got things to discuss.”

He starts back towards the office. One of the new men, a redhead, says something in a low voice and he laughs.

“Oh, yeah, the bodies those heads came from are about a mile east. Might wanna do somethin’ about those, too.”

THE END

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands B2R2: The Corruption

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park:

“Dead pigeon do not eat- does what it says on the tin! A song about poisoning some pigeons as a date idea.”

The Hearse Song:

“This is literally the corruption you guys (But it can also be read as the buried or the end, but the three are close!)”

Lyrics below the line!

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park:

Spring is here A-suh-puh-ring is here Life is skittles and life is beer I think the loveliest time Of the year is the spring I do, don't you? 'Course you do But there's one thing That makes spring complete for me And makes every Sunday A treat for me All the world seems in tune On a spring afternoon When we're poisoning pigeons in the park Every Sunday you'll see My sweetheart and me As we poison the pigeons in the park When they see us coming The birdies all try and hide But they still go for peanuts When coated with cyanide The sun's shining bright Everything seems all right When we're poisoning pigeons in the park We've gained notoriety And caused much anxiety In the Audubon Society With our games They call it impiety And lack of propriety And quite a variety Of unpleasant names But it's not against any religion To want to dispose of a pigeon So if Sunday you're free Why don't you come with me And we'll poison the pigeons in the park And maybe we'll do In a squirrel or two While we're poisoning pigeons in the park We'll murder them all Amid laughter and merriment Except for the few We take home to experiment My pulse will be quickenin' With each drop of strychnine We feed to a pigeon (It just takes a smidgin!) To poison a pigeon in the park

The Hearse Song:

Don't ever laugh as a hearse goes by For you may be the next to die They wrap you up in bloody sheets To drop you six feet underneath They put you in a pinewood box And cover you up with dirt and rocks It all goes well for about a week And then, your coffin begins to leak And the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out The worms play pinochle on your snout They eat your eyes, they eat your nose As you begin to decompose A slimy beetle with demon's eyes Chews through your stomach and out your sides Your stomach turns to rancid grease And puss pours out like melted cheese You spread it on a slice of bread And that's what you'll eat when you're dead And the worms crawl out, the worms crawl in The ones that crawl in are lean and thin The ones that crawl out are fat and stout Your eyes fall in, and your hair falls out Your brain turns into maggot pie Your liver starts to liquify And for the living, all is well As you sink further into hell And the flames rise up to drag you down Into the fire, where you will drown Your skin melts off as you descend And Satan tears you limb from limb Your suffering will never end And the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out They'll eat your guts and then shit them out And when your bones begin to rot The worms remain, but you do not So don't ever laugh as a hearse goes by For someday, you'll be the one to die And when Death brings his cold despair Ask yourself, "Will anyone care?"

[shannyh25]

Well, we’ve been thinking about it for some time—all winter in fact,” returned Marilla. “Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we’d get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you know—he’s sixty—and he isn’t so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it’s got to be to get hired help. There’s never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he’s up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy. But I said ‘no’ flat to that. ‘They may be all right—I’m not saying they’re not—but no London street Arabs for me,’ I said. ‘Give me a native born at least. There’ll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I’ll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.’ So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer’s folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best age—old enough to be of some use in doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today—the mail-man brought it from the station—saying they were coming on the five-thirty train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself..Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.“Well, Marilla, I’ll just tell you plain that I think you’re doing a mighty foolish thing—a risky thing, that’s what. You don’t know what you’re getting. You’re bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don’t know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he’s likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night—set it ON PURPOSE, Marilla—and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs—they couldn’t break him of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter—which you didn’t do, Marilla—I’d have said for mercy’s sake not to think of such a thing, that’s what.”

This Job’s comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on.

“I don’t deny there’s something in what you say, Rachel. I’ve had some qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. It’s so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he does I always feel it’s my duty to give in. And as for the risk, there’s risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world. There’s risks in people’s having children of their own if it comes to that—they don’t always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the Island. It isn’t as if we were getting him from England or the States. He can’t be much different from ourselves.”

“Well, I hope it will turn out all right,” said Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts. “Only don’t say I didn’t warn you if he burns Green Gables down or puts strychnine in the well—I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan asylum child did that and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only, it was a girl in that instance.”

“Well, we’re not getting a girl,” said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were a purely feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. “I’d never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, SHE wouldn’t shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.” Lucy Maud Montgomery quotes.

Follow me for more inspiration! 💜💕

[edogawa-division]

Alternative Rap Battle (Wicked Requiem Ver.)

Bring the Beat!

[Yuriko:]

Dressed up in all black for your funeral parade. If I were you I’d feel very afraid.

Oh? What's this? You're feeling brave? Then I’ll make sure to lay flowers on your grave!

Black Dahlia is here and raising hell. The last thing you’ll ever hear is death’s knell! 

Better pray I’m in the mood for some goodwill. It’s as they say there's no kill quite like overkill.

Mayhem and upheaval, Hypnosis Mic! A rivalry of champions, Alternative Battle!

Throw us some ill beats, DJ Sparks fly off the desperation! We cram into these rhymes!

This is no exhibition, it’s a historic battle! The format is ruthless, this otherworldly magic!

We’re greedy, east, west, south, north! Till we take it all, we’ll throw these insults!

Take or get taken, there’s no time to hold a grudge.

Are you game for more? Do you want more!

[Kaoru:]

Spending all night behind a computer screen. Hypnos himself is trying to put me to sleep. Gonna need some more caffeine.

Stealing information until my eyes glaze over. Won't be long before my systematic takeover!

You're so pathetically easy to hijack. What can I say? Athena herself has my back!

Going against you is like selecting easy on a game. Safe to say I’ve hacked harder mainframes!

Run and gun, Hypnosis Mic! Violently valorous rhyme power, alternative rap!

Connect these dope beats, DJ! Quickly snatching it up for real, and stuffing it full!

One for the treble, two for the bass! Painful brats may die but the flow never will!

This battle of rhymes is karmic retribution! Till we take it all, we’ll throw these insults!

Take or get taken, there’s no time to hold a grudge.

Are you game for more? Do you want more?

[Kanra:]

Found as nothing more than a blank slate. All I can remember is the feeling of burning hate.

It keeps me up all night long. Was there once a place for me and do I even still belong?

No! I won't let my lack of memories drag me down. Not when there's danger all around.

One day I’ll discover who I am when the stars align, But for now, my rage is deadly as strychnine!

Mayhem and upheaval, Hypnosis Mic! A rivalry of champions, Alternative Battle!

Throw us some ill beats, DJ Sparks fly off the desperation!

We cram into these rhymes! This is no exhibition, it’s a historic battle! The format is ruthless, this otherworldly magic!

We’re greedy, east, west, south, north. Till we take it all, we’ll throw these insults.

Run and gun, Hypnosis Mic! Violently valorous rhyme power, alternative rap.

Connect these dope beats, DJ Quickly snatching it up for real, and stuffing it full!

One for the treble, two for the bass. Painful brats may die but the flow never will.

This battle of rhymes is karmic retribution. Till we take it all, we’ll throw these insults.

Take or get taken, there’s no time to hold a grudge.

Are you game for more? Do you want more?

[elizababie]

J-J-J-J-June Day 01: Treasure

Collab with the beautiful and endlessly talented @just-get-fucking-lost

Jade Manath. Maeve Blackwood. Fluffy F x F.

Special thanks to @cecilebutcher for the prompt list that we shamelessly appropriated-slash-appreciated. So sorry, so much love.

Jade Manath buries bird bones.

She buries bird bones and a sachet of small, round river stones and a bundle of sweet-smelling twigs. She's digging a hole at the fourth corner of her property, the most important corner, the last corner, the one that will offer the most protection, when it becomes apparent that she was not fast enough.

A shadow falls across her path.

She has a guest.

Jade breathes in and in and in through her nose then out, once, sharply through her mouth.

"What can I do for you?" Jade asks. Her words are icily polite even while every syllable of her tone screams, 'what the fuck do you want?'

"What does anyone want these days?" A female voice responds, pedantic and falsely inquisitive. "Money, wealth, fame, someone to spend forever with." Maeve. She whispers into Jade's ear. Even though Maeve isn't in view, her curls are; fiery red and orange strands, curled and sticking what seems to be every which way. The scent of charcoal and birch trees floats forward and wraps itself around Jade's head, a gentle pressure with a slight warning of suffocation. "Trying to hide, little bird?" she asks softly, the smile on her lips audible in her voice.

"Some people," Jade says very slowly, very carefully. "Only want solitude."

She sits back on her heels and puts an imperceptible distance between Maeve and herself. It's not enough. It's not enough by far.

Maeve stands out starkly against the landscape around her. Jade is a product of her environment, dusty brown skin and hair and eyes that match the pale earth, the newly sprouting stalks of wheat, the livestock Jade surrounds herself with. Maeve is a fire blazing in the center of Jade's carefully planted, grown, and protected oasis.

Jade wants to hate her for that. Jade also wants to hate herself for her all-too-human desire to keep warm.

She holds her spade in one hand and the leather bound journal she came here to bury in the other. She's going to have to do something dramatic after this. She's going to have to bury her mother's gleaming gold grandfather clock in the creek. She might even have to find some other, more powerful, treasure and some other, more powerful, spot to bury it in.

If Jade litters the earth with trinkets, they will grow into a force that is equal parts magnificent and impenetrable. They will keep her safe. Jade will sow the earth until she is the only thing that could possibly sprout up out of it.

First, though, Jade has to purge her land of the intruder imposing upon it.

"Why are you here?" Jade asks. She stands and brushes dirt off on her pants. She asks one thing and means another, what she wants to know is how she was found.

What she really wants to know is how she can be lost again.

She doesn't get her answer before muscle memory kicks in. Jade starts back towards her cottage and waves Maeve along after her. "Tea?"

Maeve never stops smiling but follows after Jade. The world around them is painted in dusty, neutral tones and, as always, Maeve makes sure to shine bright right in the middle of it. Maybe one day Jade will see that even plants need to burn every once in a while to start off fresh.

"Why wouldn't I be here? It's not like you're hiding or anything," Maeve says. They cross the threshold into the kitchen together. Jade keeps going, deeper into the guts of the room. "You offered me tea, people who hide from me don't offer me tea." Maeve leans across the doorway and watches Jade work. "Why are you here?"

Jade sets the kettle out to boil and collects herbs. She gathers teacups and thinks about strychnine. A corpse would be a powerful talisman to bury.

Jade has done it before.

"Hiding," Jade says. "Not from you, don't flatter yourself. Just in general. I'm tired. Tired of everything, of all of it." Jade waves her hand vaguely through the air.

ALL OF IT: the Manath druids, her clan starving for leadership, her brother sitting at the helm.

ALL OF IT: Jasper's endless needs. His endless demands. “Sister, we're moving camp! Where should we go?” and “Sister, I ruined everything again! Clean up after me!” and “Sister, mother is dead! Bury her while I fuck around!” and-and-fucking-and

ALL OF IT: eyes and ears, always on her. So many fingers, always pointing.

Jade got sick of it, of taking all of the blame for none of the credit. She never wanted that life anyway. She has never wanted to be a leader. Jade Manath just wants to watch her crops grow.

"Here." Jade sets Maeve's tea down at the table. She left of the strychnine. If Jade is remembering correctly, Maeve is too smart for her own good, she's most definitely told someone where she was going. If she doesn't come back there will be more visitors. Corpses take a long time to bury, Jade can only give them so much of her time without neglecting her other trinkets.

Maeve glances down at the cup and picks it up with both hands, She maintains eye contact and drinks the entire glass.

"Hide away with all your treasures, here at the end of the earth," Maeve says, setting her empty cup down and finally seating herself. Her presence alone makes the room feel warmer, brighter. Doesn't Jade know you need a little sunlight to grow? "Sit on your porch at the end of the day and admire your work, not anyone else's." She smirks, brushing some of her curls back. "I guess deep down we all just want a simple life, solid rewards for the effort put in." Maeve rests her hands on the table, her nails are painted a deep, olive green—But why should that matter?

Maeve pushes her cup towards Jade and nods slightly. "Delicious as always. May I have some more?"

Jade looks at Maeve. She looks back at Maeve's nails. They don't match Maeve's eyes the way they always used to. They don't accent her hair. They're the color of Jade's tea cups. They're the color of the ivy that climbs the walls. They're the color of all the things Jade suspects might be buried down deep inside of her.

HER: Jade.

HER: Maeve?

Jade tucks her hair behind her ears. She is not the person she was the last time they sat across a table from each other like this.

SHE: Jade.

SHE: Maeve?

“No,” Jade says. She tucks her spade into her back pocket and heads for the door. “Come with me. Bring that.” She doesn’t specify what that is. Maeve’s choice is her own. They all have their own secrets to hide from and their own protections to build. Maeve grabs the porcelain cup in front of her and stands, following after Jade without question.

Jade doesn’t mean to smile but it sprouts up anyway: dandelions growing between cracks in the sidewalk. Determined. Improbable. She's silent as she leads Maeve to the most powerful spot in the farm, the beginning, it’s heart.

ONCE UPON A TIME Jade Manath ran away. She ran away from her home, her family, the responsibilities that were not hers but ended up in her lap anyway. She ran away right to the end of the world and then she sat down, she built a fire, she decided that this was far enough.

Everything else sprouted up after that, veins connected to a still-beating heart. That’s where she leads Maeve. They walk to the memory of that first fire. It’s been years-years-years but Jade thinks the ashes might still be warm. The sacred and the holy have that effect sometimes, they live forever. 

Jade passes Maeve her spade and keeps her silence. If she says anything the spell will break. If Maeve needs to be told what to do then maybe she does not belong here after all.

Maeve kneels and she digs. She digs and she gently places the teacup into the hole and, using her well-manicured hands, she scoops the dirt back in, gently patting the surface down before she stands and dusts her pants off.

Jade takes her spade back and digs a second hole directly beside the teacup. She sets the spade into its bed and gently tucks it in. She thinks that she's not going to be needing it after all. Maybe nothing needs to be buried in the creek. Maybe her new life is perfectly protected after all.

Jade's mind is made up. She nods resolutely at a job well done and stands shoulder to shoulder with Maeve.

"Come on," Jade says. "Let's go home."

[gerogerigaogaigar]

Stevie Wonder - Music Of My Mind

Fourteen entire albums into his career Stevie Wonder finally renegotiated his contract and began his classic era and the greatest five album streak in musical history. It may lack the smash hits of his other classic era records, but it does have beautiful lengthy soul explorations and the smooth synth sounds that would become a staple of his music for the rest of his career. I could say more but let's be real the, rest of his classic albums are gonna be on this list so I'll see you again when either Fullfillingness' First Finale or Innervision come up.

MC5 - Kick Out The Jams

There is no one birthplace of punk rock. The Sonic's Strychnine? The Trashmen's Surfin' Bird? OR maybe it's MC5's Kick Out The Jams. It's none of these, but for when it came out Kick Out The Jams was the most punk rock song 5hat had ever been written. Heavy distorted guitars, nearly unintelligible lyrics and an attitude that got them banned throughout the US. They have the zero fucks about production quality attitude of their early 60s predecessors but with a heavy raw energy that was brand new for the time. Plus these guys were hardcore leftist anarchists and some of their lyrics reflect this. So that's pretty great.

Gillian Welch - Time (The Revelator)

It's hard to describe the exact way Gillian Welch handles time as a theme on this album. Only one song really goes for a 'can never get back the past' kinda vibe the rest treat time like a place you can visit. A loving detachment might be the right way to put it. When she sings about Elvis the song is about his debut tv appearance, but is sung with all the hopefulness of someone who knew and loved him and all the despair of someone who already knows where he'll end up. In April The 14 Part I and Ruination Day Part II she sing about three different tragedies that happened on April 14, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the sinking of the Titanic, and the black Sunday dust storm of the great depression. These events are unrelated, but sung about as if there is some deeper meaning to it all. As if people need to make a connection or else what was the point? If they aren't linked in some magical way then they are just horrible tragedies with no purpose. Welch uses time to make some meaning in these events. It's an album that is stuck in the past from the subject matter to the style. And there are no rose tinted glasses, some things are sweet and some things are horrible but they are all a little distant from us in the present and Gillian Welch captures that distance in a way that I didn't even know was possible.

GZA - Liquid Swords

Every Wu-Tang solo album may have featured every member of the crew, but that does not mean they all sound the same. RZA crafted beats for individual members to suit their aesthetics and my god does that mean this album has kung Fu movie samples. GZAs flow was probably the tightest and punchiest so his album has these striking synth strings and stark beats. And the attention to detail is amazing, for example the most notable vocal samples are in the beats for Living In The World Today and Shadowboxin' the two song featuring Method Man, whose solo work has a lot more vocal samples. It might seem like 8m hyping up RZAs work on this GZA album, but cmon you know that GZA raps good. I'm telling you why this album is as good as all the hip hop nerds say it is.

Arctic Monkeys - AM

I like Arctic Monkeys just fine, but this album just isn't the one. Their first two are great bubbly punk records and the one directly after this nails the Bowie-esque art rock much better than AM does. It's not strictly bad, but I forgot that it was playing and only really perked up after it was over when Spotify started auto playing a track from their first record.

Bruce Springsteen - The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle

This is the real start to Springsteen's career. His sophomore release sees him explode into his street fairytale working class poet self. This album sees Springsteen and his E Street Band in their element, writing songs that run between four and a half and ten minutes. Gone are the solo tracks of his debut instead showcasing a full band on every track providing dramatic backing and dynamics like an E Street opera. And let me tell you, this is one of his weaker albums. Springsteen is a beast and always a treat to listen to.

Toots & The Maytals - Funky Kingston

Oh Rolling Stone, how badly you have fucked up. I'm so excited to tell you how ignorant these fuckers are 😈. Funky Kingston is a 1973 album by Toots & the Maytals. The Rolling Stone list gives this 1973 date for the album's release. But what they reviewed seems to be a completely different album. Pressure Drop? Take Me Home, County Roads? Those songs aren't on 1973s Funky Kingston what going on? Well you see in 1975 an album titled Funky Kingston and sporting the same cover art was released for American audiences. That album contained three tracks from the og Funky Kingston, Pressure Drop from The Harder They Come soundtrack, and the rest from In The Dark. This is the album they actually reviewed. They said they reviewed 1973 Funky Kingston but it was actually 1975 Funky Kingston! I'm so sorry Toots Hibbert that your review was just me dunking on Rolling Stone. Listen to Funky Kingston, In The Dark, and The Harder They Come. They're all really good.

Sly & The Family Stone - Greatest Hits

Why don't we get any greatest hits from white artists on this list? Why is it only black music that gets an overview instead of a deep dive? Listen to Stand! and There A Riot Going On. I guess this has some value since Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) was only released as a single.

The Beatles - Let It Be

So I guess I should reveal to y'all that I am not a hater. I actually like The Beatles so if you wanted to see me roast them well sorry. Plot twist! I'm gonna roast Phil Spector. Yeah this album isn't great, but it is largely a matter of production. This was supposed to be a return to their roots for The Beatles so they hired Phil Spector to produce. Unfortunately by 1970 Spector was an out of touch maniac. He tried to remove every hint of imperfection and wound up throwing orchestra where it didn't belong and generally doing a half assed job. The Long and Winding Road is butchered by the production and honestly Let It Be is overproduced as well. There are a few gems though, I think that I've Got A Feeling is one of their best songs and Two Of Us is super charming. Unfortunately most of the album just falls into mediocrity due to poor production. And I know it's the production because there are multiple pre Spector bootlegs that show how this album should have sounded and they're generally fantastic.

[keendaanmaa]

Second watch thoughts! Because apparently if I restart the movie before the rental is up I can watch the whole thing even though the movie is 3 hours long and the rental only had 2 hours left 😊

Putting it under a cut because a) loooong and b) rather spoiler-y if anyone still cares to avoid spoilers for a movie that's been out for a year

- the first victim going down on the corner of the carpet: parallel/foreshadowing to the carpet reveal later on?

- the way that at first you aren't sure if the voiceover is bruce or the riddler

- the young man with only half face paint and the way they have him positioned so the painted side of his face is towards the gang and the unpainted side to everyone else

- "but i am the shadows" dramatic much, bruce?

- the way we both see this batman get knocked around even in relatively smaller fights, but also see him go a bit overboard in his beatdowns

- you really don't know how to interact with other people as a human being do you bruce (seconded thirded and fourthed)

- you take the bike down the stairs? Really?

- thursday october 31: ok, so implied setting of 2019 or 2024?

- the way the moment of footage replaying after bruce walks out on alfred is the boy that is so clearly paralleled with bruce the whole movie. And specifically of him looking directly at batman/bruce/the camera and by extension at alfred. And the look on Alfred's face

- bruce you are very bad at explaining your train of thought to people

- calling batman chief: penguin (did not keep track of this further lol)

- you can SEE selina freeze when she sees the pictures of anika

- old school bike with the round headlamp

- selina do you really need the "hyuh" sounds when you fight?

- is that the same officer that stopped him initially at the crime scene? (Ok that's definitely the same officer at the funeral)

- they really love this neck-and-neck bike racing thing lol (here and at the end)

- "...arsenic" "rat poison" i thought rat poison was strychnine??

- selina definitely gets a murder strut walk into the iceberg lounge too

- bruce you don't get the human experience generally but you ESPECIALLY don't get the female human experience wow

- you both have one track minds and neither of you know how to have a modicum of chill in your pursuit of a lead

- shit, selina had a really near miss with becoming "collateral damage" to the riddler

- bruce, one could get the impression you're interested in selina, except I'm pretty sure it's all a product of your absolute inability to leave a lead alone

- is Falcone wearing the same sunglasses as bruce was earlier? (I.e. in that scene with the blueberries at wayne tower)

- "what good's a safety net that doesn't catch anyone?" Bruce starting to understand that he needs to influence gotham as bruce and not just as batman, perhaps?

- oh hey there's the eerily echoing batman steps again.... does that make 3 times all together? (It does. The gang at the beginning, in the church, and at the end of the car chase) is this significant? Idk

- bruce that explosion hit you pretty much directly in the face how are you not more hurt (corollary: alfred threw the bomb *away* from himself and ended up looking like that. Either there was a pretty significant difference in explosive strength or your cowl is magic) (yes i know doylian-ly it's a protagonist and don't unmask batman thing but. Watsonian-ly.)

- five seconds of pure wow followed by "oh shit oh no ouch ouch OUCH mark *that* down as a failure"

- bruce you are So Bad at communicating, "this just got complicated" DOES NOT clue your partner in on what's going on

- but BOY do you know how to do intimidation

- that car really is something else. And the way the scream of the jet burner is played for suspense is impeccable

- that is SUCH a twenty-something boy car

- how is getting down on his hands and knees still so intimidating? Truly this ought to look ridiculous but somehow it doesn't

- straight up vanishing when he realizes he's the next target and Alfred's in danger

- how that drive home is the most emotion he shows on his face the whole movie

- "you needed a father, and all you had was me. I'm sorry" "don't be sorry alfred" this Killed me

- murder strut 2.0 (but it's only like two seconds this time)

- the soundtrack really does go so hard

- selina, how many bullets do you have in that gun exactly?

- lightning that scene entirely with muzzle flashes is a fascinating choice that works really well even though you can see basically nothing

- falcone really is very good at manipulating with his words

- "you don't have to pay with him. You've paid enough"

- yep that's the same officer again

- and again (it's almost like they made him a supporting character or something 😉)

- the dramatic timing in this movie really is impeccable (this specifically was about the timing of the bombs going off while they watch the video but also generally about many things)

- how many people died in that flood this is like. Almost cataclysm/no man's land level destruction (i might've only read the earth one comics but i have approximate knowledge of many things)

- the way the lights make the water running past selina's foot look like blood

- stringing them up like puppets is a bit funny actually

- selina blurring out as Bruce's vision goes out of focus (actually there's a few points where the audio/visual does things that are "from Bruce's POV" and it works quite well imo)

- autoinjector port in the suit (idk this just amuses me. Also the autoinjector on his belt of epinephrine(??))

- the "I'm vengeance" parallel - playing into Bruce's realization that he hasn't been what the city actually needs?

- bruce why'd you walk away with the flare there's still people inside the rubble who need to see to get out

- Wednesday nov 6: this all took just one week wth

- the skyscraper with Bat ears lol

- interesting the way it's not immediately clear the person talking to riddler in arkham at the end is diegetic and not a voiceover, because the deliveryis pretty similar to Bruce's internal monologue/journal voiceovers (at least to my ear) and all the other talking without an apparent source thus far *has* been bruce (afai can tell the speaker is credited as "unseen arkham prisoner" but. Hmmmm that silhouette is A Choice)

- different bike at the end - does he have different bikes for riding as batman and riding as incognito bruce without the suit on? Because this one is Definitely a Batcycle

[avatarvyakara]

Here’s a title (a parody of a title I see at work) Strychnine and Spaghetti

Hmmmm…

When Ramsey Cobbler walks into a room, people turn and stare. It’s not that he’s particularly big, but there’s this air around him like he wants to commit a terrible crime but hasn’t found the right victim yet. Every inn and restaurant in the city of Rhoaltyre has learned to fear him—except for The Jolly Jumbuck, rumoured to be run by fearsome Mirranese mobsters, where he makes his abode. It doesn’t take long for people to make the connection…but who would dare call out one who is so very obviously a hit-man? So poisons are snuck into his food—little things, things that could be there and are theoretically dangerous, just in case. And yet he walks away. Every single time. An immortal, then. A vampire in the service of the Garnegarral Family. But there has to be a way…

There are two issues with this conclusion:

1. Ramsey Cobbler is trying very hard to pretend that he isn’t the world’s first anonymous restaurant critic. If that means putting up with a little strychnine in the haycorn spaghetti, well, it’s a good thing he used to be a chemist.

2. The Garnegarral Family, most dangerous in the borough, isn’t actually employing him. They just find Mr. Cobbler good company and the whole business absolutely hilarious.

Grab your square-pronged forks, keep your antidote kit close, and dig in to a tale of the dying mobs of 42nd Century Rhoaltyre, legitimacy against veracity, and scathing restaurant critiques. (The strychnine must have been an accident, but keeping it in the kitchen? Terribly bad for business, someone could have gotten hurt…)

[neverallnorman]

daisy || 1954

Her name is Daisy, like the flower, which she’d said to him with a shy little smile the day before. Her name is Daisy, she’d just lost her job, she was moving back home with her parents in Los Angeles, could she get a room for the night? It’s storming pretty heavily out there, ain’t it? Never seen California storm this hard, not since she was a kid. Her fingers fidgeted with the necklace she was wearing, a cherubic angel in pretty silver.

The rain had blown three tiles off of the roof of the house and dropped a branch onto the motel. No permanent damage, nothing that getting up onto the roof with a ladder wouldn’t fix. Norman had only come down to check on her, that’s all--- as she’d said, it was storming pretty heavily.

How was he to know he’d find her down here with a knife still stuck in her chest? Blood spurts out of her as he drags her by her wrists, pretty little thing with yellow hair and a tiny waist, with mascara running down her face and the beginnings of bruises around her throat. But she’s alive, still, her breath squeezing out of her in tiny, barely audible squeaks.

How many girls is this? How many times has a sweet little someone just smiled at him and Mother's gone mad with jealousy? It isn't her fault, he reasons. It isn't her fault, she can't help the way she is. But he's queasy with panic as he pulls the girl along the floor by her arms, dragging her out the door of Cabin Two. Blood smears, cakes into the carpet. He'll likely have to replace it.

What does he do? Daisy's eyes keep fluttering open and then shut again, twitchy as moth wings. What can he do? If she lives, she'll go to the police. She'll stumble to that payphone and the police will come here, raid his motel, his house, the swamp. They'll find every other girl, their corpses quietly steeping in the dark water. They'll find his mother perched at her window and staring down at her handiwork.

They'll take her away from him.

His grip on Daisy's wrists has turned bruising. His heart pounds so hard that he feels it in his temples, in the roots of his teeth. His fingers are numb.

Once the girl's feet make it across the doorframe, he drops her unceremoniously onto the wooden walkway. Her head collides with a thunk. Norman stares at her, wiping his sweaty hands on the lap of his pants.

Her legs twitch and writhe. Again he thinks of moth wings. Bird wings. Little sparrows and finches drinking from the birdbath, their bodies seizing when the strychnine takes hold, and they fall to the ground the same way Daisy's head hit the floor. Thunk.

She can't leave here, he knows. This motel has to be her deathbed, that swamp her tomb.

Uncomfortably, he approaches her, and sees her cringe when his shadow passes over her, blocking out the wash of light from the open doorway. The wind is still howling. Rain beats unforgiving on the trees, the roof, turning the dirt parking lot into cakey mud.

"I'm sorry," he tells her as though it matters. Her necklace reflects the blue neon from the sign. Daisy barely responds to his voice. Her eyelashes are wet with rainwater and tears.

He pulls the knife from her chest with a squelch. Blood slicks her blouse and skirt, his hands, his pants. It gushes from her in pulses. She tries to talk and all that comes out is a sad gurgle -- the blade must have punctured her lung, slowly drowning her.

"I can't let you leave here. They'll-- They'll take her from me. I told you about her, you know I can't let them do that."

Hours earlier, she had smiled at him so prettily, had let him share the warmth of the motel room with her. Just showing her the amenities, of course. The bathroom, the desk, the stationery. She sat in the desk chair and asked him, upon seeing him so unhappy, Why don't you just move?

As though it were that easy. As though his mother hadn't put her life and soul into this business, as though he hadn't done the same by extension of her.

If he left her here on the walkway, she would bleed out on her own. He could even watch her do it, stand back and passively take in her final throes. But she's suffering, and she isn't one of his birds, she's a girl, lost and unhappy in her own way, the same as all the others.

He can't let her writhe here in so much pain. He has to take a more active hand.

Norman is still holding the knife, but the thought of finishing her off by slitting her throat or piercing her heart makes his stomach turn. He tosses it aside, lets it skitter along the walkway until it comes to a stop after bumping the motel wall. Around them, the world hisses with rainfall, and his eyes cast about the mud for something to use, something to do. He doesn't want to strangle her, and poison would take too long.

A large rock sits by the front tire of her car. Driving in the dark like she'd been, she could have easily missed it, could have run it over. It's large enough that it could have damaged her tire, but small enough to lift in his fist.

Her eyes roll back in her head as she tries to watch him. He sees her baby blues begging him: help me. And he will. If he'd come to her sooner, maybe he could have stopped this from happening at all, but now it's too late for that, so he'll help her the only way he can. Minimize her suffering while keeping his mother's safety his priority.

Norman can't hesitate. He steps over her with one long leg and then sits atop her to ensure she doesn't wriggle away somehow, and then, bringing his arm up high---

He smashes the stone down into the side of her head with a sickening crunch. He does it again, telling himself it's to ensure he finishes the job, and this time, her skull caves under the blow, her brain and blood blossoming out onto the walkway. His stomach clenches. His adrenaline spikes. In these final strikes of the rock into her head, she makes pitiful, hurt little noises, her body seizing and then still, and he continues on, twice, four times, eight, until the muscles in his arm are burning from the strain and he's absolutely sure she's dead.

And she is. He looks at her in the aftermath. His breath heaves likes he's run a marathon, and he sees her head open for him, glistening darkly in the glints of yellow motel light. Only one of her eyes remains intact and stares blindly out at the dirt lot. The other half of her face is pulpy and red as the hamburger meat his mother used to buy from the butcher.

On the walkway, her brains, her blood, white bits of bone. In his hand, the rock. He drops it. His fingers remain stiff and curled around nothing, and there is blood under his nails. Blood soaking the front of his shirt.

Norman stands, shaking. He peels off his sweater and barely makes it to the restroom of Cabin Two in time to vomit.

Later, when he watches her car sink into the depths of the swamp, Norman reaches into his pocket. Her necklace sits curled in his fingers, quiet and delicate as a secret.

[marzipanandminutiae]

*I* want to hear everything you know about the Chocolate Cream Killer!

Many many people asked, so here we go!

Q: How do you get a man to leave his wife for you?

A: Mass poisoning, apparently.

At least, that's the answer if you're Christiana Edmunds.

Born in 1828 in Kent, England, she was highly educated and had apparently been diagnosed with "hysteria" in her early 20s. Given that this diagnosis was frequently a catchall term for "Woman Behaving In Unexpected Way," it's uncertain whether she suffered from an actual mental illness. But her behavior in her 40s, when she was living with her widowed mother in Brighton, would suggest that she may have been.

Around this time she became close to a married doctor, Charles Beard. Their exact relationship has never been worked out, but she tried to kill his wife in 1870 by giving her a poisoned chocolate truffle.

You know.

As one does.

It didn't work and, incredibly, despite strong suspicions that she was the culprit behind his wife's illness, Dr. Beard did absolutely nothing about this.

So she decided to poison. Um. Everybody.

Essentially, she bought boxes of fancy chocolates from some poor local confectioner, injected strychnine into them at home, and then returned them. Apparently returning fully opened packages of food was just Okay in 1871- one really begins to see how modern regulations on these things came about. The chocolates would then be put out for sale again, because I guess nobody saw anything wrong with that either as long as there were no visible bite marks. #capitalism or something

she hired local boys to buy the poison for her after the first few times, in an attempt to allay the suspicion that would doubtless arise if she were seen buying vast quantities of strychnine

(apparently the possibility that they would compare notes and be like "that Miss Edmunds keeps asking me to buy her poison for stray cats 'round her house [yes that was her actual excuse]. she asked you, too? seems a mite rum to me!" did not occur to her. I never said this was a smart Take Out Lover's Wife scheme)

meanwhile, large numbers of randos were getting sick all over Brighton, mostly visitors as it's a seaside resort town. nobody connected these illnesses to the chocolates until- and this part is not funny -4-year-old Sidney Barker, vacationing there with his parents, died from the poison.

that was the only death, and again, it's. not funny. a little boy died because this woman (maybe not fully rational, probably not intending anyone but her target to die, but still) wanted her crush/possible lover's wife out of the way and didn't care about the collateral damage. I will go back to the Ha Ha Funney Weird Inept Mass Poisoning tone in a moment, but...I don't know. take a moment of seriousness for this poor child

everyone good? okay. let's move on.

realizing that putting out poisoned chocolates into the world willy-nilly and hoping Mrs. Beard would buy some wasn't working, Edmunds escalated to just sending boxes of strychnine sweets directly to people- including her intended victim. I assume the rest were mere decoys to throw investigators off the scent, since she sent some to herself to allay suspicion. and pin the crime on the poor confectioner, to boot

but this time, Dr. Beard decided to get off his ass and actually Tell Someone that his possible ex-mistress had a murderous streak. thanks, Charlie. thanks for divulging that little fact

Edmunds was arrested, tried, and convicted of murder and attempted murder. though initially sentenced to hang, she was granted a reprieve due to apparent mental instability and lived out her days in the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum [their wording, not mine]. she died in 1907

so that concludes our brief foray into True Crime, folks. remember, inspect your kids' Halloween chocolates! Someone might have [checks notes]:

bought a bag of Fun-Sized Snickers

opened the packaging

injected poison into the candy

returned them fully opened

counted upon them being placed back out for sale on the off chance that this person's crush's spouse might eat some

(dear sensational news outlets- THAT IS SARCASM)

[scaryscarecrows]

He turns to the assembly, spreads his hands, and intones, “Last night, I gave our former boss and his cronies a case of strychnine-spiked beer. To put it bluntly, I’m in charge now. Before anybody tries to argue–Ages, throw me that, would ya?”

Ages obliges. Todd catches the bag, staggers a bit, and tosses it towards ChiChi. Keeping one wary eye on Todd, he crouches down and opens it up.

Glassy eyes stare up at him and he scrambles back when it clicks that those are heads, that he knows those heads, he sent ‘em out this morning what the fuck–

“Recognize ‘em?” Todd’s smile is cold. “They had to go.”

“You’re a fucking psycho!”

“No, I’m pragmatic. They were too quick to jump for you.” He raises his voice. “Sionis was small-time. I’m not. We’re not gonna keep wasting our time fucking with the Garage. They don’t have anything better than we do.” He pauses. “Luthor’s got a supply convoy heading this way next week. We’re going to take it from him.”

There’s a wave of murmuring. ChiChi stands up. Todd’s going to get them all killed, which he doesn’t give a shit about. He’s been here too long, put up with too much shit, to let this little cocksucker just roll in here and ruin everything.

“That’s crazy,” he says, marching over. Todd studies him, eyebrow raised. “You think, because you found some nuts willing to humor you, that you can just take over? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Bullshit. Somebody fucking shoot–hurgh!”

Todd’s suddenly a lot closer, one hand fisted in ChiChi’s shirt and the other down low, where a burning pain is suddenly spreading through his gut. His knees start to buckle and Todd’s grip tightens, forcing him to stay on his feet.

“You were always a sick fuck,” he breathes. “And a liability. But don’t die on me just yet, I’m not done here.”

[howtofightwrite]

howdy! I know that you've said that "realistic" is an iffy word, but if I were to write a character who had been poisoned, specifically not by ingesting the poison, what would be a "realistic" time for said poison to set in? (It's a fantasy setting, so the poison in question doesn't need to be one that exists in real life, but I'd like the symptoms/timeframe to make sense-ish) thank you so much for running this blog!!

The problem here isn't realism, it's that poisons have wildly different onset times and symptoms. I'm going to cover some ingested points of reference on the way through, for a more generalized overview.

When it comes to injected poisons, or inhaled poisons, that can be almost instant. It can also take considerable time. If your character is stabbed with a poisoned blade, that's effectively injected. If the poison is slipped into their food, twenty minutes is usually a decent off-the-cuff estimate for ingested medications (like aspirin), but really, it depends on how it gets into the bloodstream. (Also, if the victim has a full stomach, it will take longer to get into the bloodstream from ingestion.)

As for specific symptoms? Writing in a vacuum, without context for what the poison is, or does, it's basically impossible to predict the symptoms. Poison isn't a different kind of damage, it's a chemical (some a fairly complex one) that interferes with your body's ability to continue functioning.

For example, ingesting Strychnine will exhibit symptoms somewhere between 10-20 minutes later. Those symptoms will include convulsions, as the poison attacks the victim's central nervous system. They'll usually expire either from sheer exhaustion, or asphyxiation. In it's native form Strychnine is a powder, which can be absorbed through the skin or inhaled. As far as I know, there isn't a significant difference in the speed that it gets to the bloodstream.

In contrast, Castor Beans (ricin), if consumed, ricin won't begin to manifest symptoms for several hours, and can take a couple days before they start to manifest. Ricin works by dismantling the victim's red bloodcells, and the specific symptoms list is, “fun,” including things like nausea, vomiting, cramping, “circulatory collapse,” blood in urine, coma, and of course, death. (This isn't a complete list.) With ricin, death can take over a week.

Castor beans are interesting though, because while they're incredibly toxic (again, this is where ricin comes from), they can be, “safely” consumed, if they're unchewed, or properly cooked. The beans have a thick coating that limits the victim absorbing the poison during digestion, it's only if the bean is chewed, rupturing the coating, that the body absorbs the ricin during digestion. (Note: I put, “safely,” in scare quotes, because it is still possible for the beans to be partially digested in the stomach, it's just less likely to happen.) The other option involves cooking the beans to the point where the poison itself starts to break down. This is a, “feature,” of human biology that is easy to miss, but our practice of cooking food means that we turn a lot of things that would be lethal into edible. (It also makes digestion and nutrient extraction a lot more efficient. It might sound weird, but cooking your meals provides is a shockingly significant biological advantage.)

This is also assuming acute poisoning. If someone is suffering chronic poisoning, symptoms may not manifest for years. A classic example of (suspected) chronic poisoning is Napoleon Bonaparte. During his exile on the island of Saint Helena (from 1815 to his death in 1821), it's believed that he was subjected to chronic arsenic poisoning. (This is a contentious bit of history, and the British maintain to this day that any arsenic poisoning he suffered would have been the result of accidental exposure, which is not completely unbelievable. His wallpaper was, “arsenic green,” and it was a popular color at the time, but it's vibrant color came from arsenic in the dye.) So, look at those dates again, this went on for over five and a half years (from sometime after October, 1815 to his death in May of 1821.) When symptoms did emerge (in 1820), it appeared to be an unidentified illness, and declining health in early 1821. (If I remember correctly, his official cause of death at the time was stomach cancer.) In fact, the theory that he was poisoned didn't emerge (or at least wasn't published) until the 20thcentury, (and it remains a theory. It has not been proven that he was intentionally poisoned.) The competing explanations are that the weather on Saint Helena (particularly the heat and humidity) caused the arsenic in his wallpaper to become airborne, or that his personal stock of wine had been poisoned.

Cyanide is a classic, but it also illustrates some of the difficulty I'm facing here. If ingested, it can be anywhere from a few to fifteen minutes before it starts to manifest. Where Ricin attacks and destroys red blood cells, cyanide simply blocks red blood cells from absorbing oxygen. This causes the victim to, quite literally, asphyxiate, in a normal atmosphere. However, if cyanide is inhaled, the effects are almost immediate. And, again, we're looking at a poison that can be absorbed through the skin.

So, if it seems like I'm dancing around the subject, it's because this is a very broad field, and there isn't a single answer I can provide. Both of time of action, and what the symptoms would be.

It's worse, because both of these answers can be variable to the victim. As I mentioned, with ingested poisons, the time of onset will be directly related to the contents of the victim's stomach. You know how you're not supposed to drink on an empty stomach? That's the same thing.

So, the short answer is, “I dunno.” It depends how and what they were exposed to.

-Starke

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