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[easy-there-leftovers]

Magnum Opus (Ch. 1)

When an MIT prodigy on their gap year is contacted by the FBI regarding her potential involvement in a series of murders in Washington D.C., she must now cooperate to uncover how her paintings are mysteriously appearing at the crime scenes.

(Written with Season 1-4 Spencer in mind, but the timeline could be anywhere pre-season 12. No mentions of past cases)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist! reader|cw: Canon-typical violence|word count: 2k words

Also on Ao3!!

Series Masterlist

While Aaron Hotchner remained vigilant as he drove the black SUV, the constant flipping of Spencer’s case files seemed to be louder than the car’s air conditioning. 

He had directed Morgan and JJ to touch base at the MPDC, and had Rossi and Prentiss survey the crime scene of Jonathan Edwards; the identity of the previously unknown man in the vacant apartment.

This left him with Reid in the passenger seat to conduct an investigation on their only lead so far. 

From the update Garicia had given them, Y/n L/n was a prodigy a year younger than their very own. Having graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology a year ago, she moved to Capitol Park Plaza and Twins Apartments in Washington D.C., and is currently unemployed. Occasionally selling her paintings out of her unit under an anagram of her name.

 But something bothered him.

And it seems like Reid has picked up on it too.

“Do you think Dr. L/n is the unsub?” The unit chief asks.

Spencer hums before answering.

“While we can’t rule it out just yet, the possibility of her being the unsub is totally unlikely. The thing that’s throwing me off is that everything is too convenient. I mean, why would the unsub use something so publicly personal to them as part of their signature? It’s as if she’s overtly incriminating herself.”

Spencer checks back onto the pictures of the victims, then lifts his head up to look at Hotch to continue.

“Based on the way the victims are modeled, an immense amount of care was put into them. All for the purpose of making them look like the subjects in their paintings. Actually, the fixation on changing the bodies’ posture and keeping them clean is typically done out of remorse. But the added elements, like the placement of the paintings, creates an image of an unsub more on the narcissistic side. By creating two 'artworks,' they're prompting the viewer to decide which version of it they prefer. Mocking the original artist in the process.”

“So the paintings were done before the murder?”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

His unit chief sighs and pulls over to the curb. “Well, we’re about to test that belief.” Spencer hurries to take off his seatbelt as Hotch closes the car door with a thud. 

—------

Hotchner nods at Reid as they find themselves in front of the written address Garcia gave them. He lifts his hand to knock firmly on your door, and waits for a response.

A thud from the other side causes both of them to assess each other before Hotch tells Spencer to stay behind him. Gun in hand until something, or someone, comes running at them.

But instead a muffled, “sorry” is heard right after, which causes him to lower his gun.

The door finally opens a crack to reveal a very tired twenty-something woman, some dark pigment or makeup smudged on their lower eye lines as they rubbed at it. She immediately fixed her posture however at the sight of the unexpected visitors. Eyes wide with concern.

“Dr. L/n, I’m Aaron Hotchner with Dr. Spencer Reid of the FBI.” He highlights his statement by showing his badge. “We’d like to ask you some questions.” 

“Oh, um,” The woman blinks rapidly and shakes their head before immediately saying, “Of course,” with a nod and opening the door wide to let them in.

A quirk that does not go unnoticed by Spencer, who observes how different she looks to her more formal ID photos.

—-----

You let the FBI agents into your apartment, but are now suddenly aware of the state of disarray you left it in last night. Not to mention the state you were in. 

You had just woken up and your brain wasn’t quite all there yet. If you had known you’d have guests over, you would have at least put some of your books and papers back onto their shelves rather than on your floor.

“My, uh—” You start, “Apologies! For the room and the um,”

You inhale deeply and gesture to yourself as you try to find the words before settling on an exasperated, “me.”

“No worries, miss. We don’t really call in advance.” You nod at the older man’s explanation vacantly before coming up with a response.

“Would you like anything to drink ?” You move to your fridge to get water to wake you up, and decide that it would be rude not to offer. The two decline, with the younger more busy observing your living room bookcase than the older one that sat on your couch. 

You notice that something must have interested him as he lingers on certain shelves. That section in particular had prints of dissertations you had been meaning to read, or have already read, in clear folders.

You wonder if he found his work there or something before returning with water for yourself. 

“So what can I help you with?”

“Dr. L/n, are you aware of the current string of murders that have been happening as of this year?” 

You blink rapidly again. The question catches you off guard, but you shake your head. 

“I know it’s a bad habit, and that I should, but I don’t really listen to the news.” Feeling your eyebrows quirk, you rub your hands together slowly. Making direct eye contact with Hotch, before looking at the younger man as he takes out a few papers from the folder he was holding.

“Are you familiar with these paintings then?”

 Now that piques your interest.

Dr. Spencer Reid, who sees a flicker of recognition in your eyes when it meets his own, presents various pictures of your artworks in what seems to be dimly lit areas. They’re a little dirty, but otherwise you would recognize them as your own.

 The thought instantly made something in your stomach turn.

“I–” You start, but shake your head subtly again. Unsure of what to say and how to say it next as you stare at the images. “am.” You turn your head to look back up at Spencer who nods thoughtfully.

“Recently, your paintings have been showing up at crime scenes in the D.C. area. Specifically, victims of an organized unsub that seems to be targeting people who accurately resemble the subjects in your work.” If your eyes weren’t wide enough, that bit of information had certainly opened them wider than ever before as you stared up at him.

“That, combined with the concentrated traces of penta-durastalene found in the pigments of the paint used, have led us to suspect your involvement in these murders, Dr. L/n.” You heavily feel the blink of your eyelids and rest your fingers on them to keep them closed before looking back at the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” you smile incredulously. “So you’re telling me that not only has Lunacite been identified on the paintings you’ve found, but that people who look like the personas in my private works actually exist and have since been–” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Murdered?”

“Well that shouldn’t come as a surprise, they were your muses, weren’t they? You were commissioned?” Hotch is the one who asks and you shake your head with wide eyes.

“I didn’t even know these people existed. They were just– faces I came up with mentally with the visual library I’ve amassed over the years. I don’t really make it a habit to paint from reference. Like I said, they were private.”

“And the chemical?” You thought for a moment before your lips thinned into a line.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Agent Hotchner, but I haven’t touched anything regarding that compound in over a year. I’ve only ever worked on it in my lab on university grounds, and I don’t make a habit of bringing work home.” You scratch the hairs near the base of your hairline.

“More importantly, hundreds of students and lecturers have access to my work, my research, and my lab space. Not to mention the people who might have heard my work through academic conferences.”

You move away from your position near the living room coffee table Spencer placed the pictures on, but picked up one before you did and shook your head.

“Besides, these paintings? No one should know about them, let alone have them. I didn't sell these.” That made Spencer’s brows furrow as he looked at the other photos still on the table.

“Do you have proof?” You stay silent, but then motion for them to follow you to the door of your room.

“Well, for one, I’m sure you’d understand that most people don’t make copies of their artwork traditionally, right? Expenditure of time, work materials, effort, human error, and many other variables. It just isn’t practical nor convenient.” You ramble and look back at them to continue.

“I also don’t make the majority of my art known online. Only a good 30% makes its way to my portfolio, and the others are never to be seen by anyone else.”

“They're studies. They’re made with cheap paints, they’re subjectively not appropriate for commercial use and-–I just wouldn’t be comfortable charging anyone for them.” 

They follow you across the room, and make themselves apparent behind you.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“So if my ‘commissioned paintings’ are currently on D.C. crime scenes, and possibly in MPDC evidence,” You open the door to reveal your studio to the two agents. 

Various paint tubes, books, and brushes littered the floor, table, and boxes. A lone easel was situated near your apartment window, with an unfinished painting on it. And various canvasses, not displayed, but instead kept on tall shelves. Only the differently colored edges indicated that they were ever used.

What surprised them both however, were the same paintings in the pictures staring back at them.

 Some on the walls, some on the floor, but what was most important was that they were in this room, they were clean, and there were more of them.

You turn to look back at them with shaky eyes. “So why are they still here?”

—----

Hotch and Reid stood outside of your apartment door as you cleaned yourself up. Hotch made the call to bring you to the precinct for further investigation and for your own safety, but allowed you to freshen up before leaving with them. Not that he told you about the safety part.

You were hard to read, given your erratic reactions. It unnerved him, but he supposes it comes with the territory of being gifted. You also offered to bring in your paintings and a few other materials for forensics to test, to which while he was suspicious of, was not ungrateful for.

He made a quick call to Garcia to check attendants of any academic conferences you’ve spoken at and if anyone had been more interested than the others. When he was finished, he looked to Reid who was crossing his arms and staring at the carpeted hallway before looking back at him.

“She’s uncomfortable.” He stated plainly.

“Reid, most people would be if they just found out their hobby had been getting people killed.” Hotch said as he kept looking at his phone for anything new from the others.

“There’s certainly that, but I meant her title. ‘Doctor.’” He said in quotes, and Hotch raises his eyebrow at that but allows him to continue anyway with a curt nod.

“I mean, every time we’ve addressed her with her title, she blinks faster. Did you know it’s a common attribute that’s directly related to an increase in heart rate, which is why they’re usually correlated with lying? Initially, you would think that she faked her experience to get those credentials, but given her educational background, she must have not been given an opportunity to be referred to as such for a long time. Also, the gap year she took could’ve only exacerbated any insecurities she might have about her intellectual achievements. Plus, the lack of organization in her own home, while not wildly uncommon amongst people her age, could suggest the sincerity of her belief about compartmentalizing her work and her private life.”

“And what does that tell you?”

As Spencer was supposed to answer, a thud much like the one they heard before they entered earlier was heard again, followed by a similarly muffled, ‘sorry.’

He turns to look back at Hotch again with a small, victorious smile.

“That she doesn’t fit the profile.”

——-

taglist: @littlewolfieposts

[miercoles-wednesday]

Photo by Tony Mottram, July 1990, Boston, Massachusetts

Absolutely no one will read this or care about it, but it matters to me, so I’m putting it here.

This has long been one of my favorite photos of Trent and the band, and I never knew much about it. I recently somehow stumbled on some more information, and learned it was taken by music photographer Tony Mottram, who began his career in the 80s covering primarily UK-based bands for magazines like Melody Maker.

I was shocked to learn this photo, one of my most beloved, was taken in Boston, where I lived while attending school from 2017 to 2022.

That time period—fall 2017–was when I first discovered Nine Inch Nails when they randomly came up on a Spotify playlist.

I remember moving into my dorm and blasting “The Fragile” (the first NIN song I ever heard) on repeat again and again as I unpacked and got settled in. I danced in my sweltering little single-occupancy (thank God) room in Child Hall, a dorm I had put as my “first choice” pick because I desperately wanted to live in a building designed by Walter Gropius, the German-born founder of the Bauhaus School of art and architecture, even if it was just an ugly cinder block with no air conditioning.

I was room #215.

I’d stomp around Cambridge, the neighborhood where I lived, and blast the two albums I knew first: The Fragile and Bad Witch, which was released a few months after I had first moved in.

(Somewhat ironically, I don’t identify much with The Fragile anymore and barely ever touch it.)

I remember stomping around, exploring the city, blasting “Shit Mirror” and “Somewhat Damaged” in my headphones and feeling like a badass. Visceral memories. It feels like it was just yesterday, like I am still there. I remember my boots, the snow, the cobblestoned sidewalk.

At the time, I had no idea yet how much Nine Inch Nails would mean to me someday. How much they mean to me now. It was the first blush of what would become a lifelong love affair.

Boston was also the first (and so far only) time I ever saw NIN in concert on October 19, 2018. I went alone and got so drunk off whiskey-RC Colas (they didn’t have Coke?) that I barely even remember it.

(Before I lost access to my private Instagram account that I forgot the password for, I had a few things from the show: a photo of my planner where I had handwritten “NINE INCH NAILS!!!!” on the calendar date, a clip from the nosebleeds of Trent performing “Hurt,” and a video of me drunkenly cooking refried beans after the show in the Child Hall communal kitchen.)

I have one other half-memory of a performance from summer 2022, my final months in the city before moving clear across the country.

I somehow had missed the announcement that NIN was headlining a 3-night festival called Boston Calling that was held at this one park directly across from the Charles River, where every night I took a nightly stroll.

One night, I was walking along and heard music coming from the other side of the river. I said to myself, “what is THAT?” A homeless guy was sitting at the edge of the bridge that lined the river and said “That’s Nine Inch Nails!”

I was shocked and heartbroken to have missed the announcement. But I sat there with that guy—Anthony—and listened to what we could make out of the concert for about an hour.

Then we went to dinner at Panera and talked about music until we got kicked out at closing time. I even still have a picture of me and him on my phone. I have no idea where he is now.

Before learning more about this photo, I had already nostalgically associated Trent with Boston because of the Social Network soundtrack. I’m not a big “soundtrack person,” or even a movie goer, but that movie and soundtrack are special to me. That was my city, my campus, my home.

“Hand Covers Bruise” evokes deep, deep melancholy and nostalgia for that time period in my life. There’s even this one YouTube comment on the song that I screenshotted and keep, because it describes so perfectly how that song makes me feel:

I met someone in Boston who I sometimes think ruined my life. Changed it for the worst. And for how much I loved that city, how much fun I had, I sometimes deeply regret that I was ever there at all, for that one simple reason, that one chance encounter at Boston’s Sinclair nightclub that turned into a torrid, ruinous love affair. It haunts me: I almost didn’t even go out that night. I’m not a nightclub person. But that one night, the night I met him, I said “yes” to a friend who begged me to go.

The fateful night we met, he walked me back to Child Hall while whispering Aleksandr Pushkin’s «Я вас любил» (“I Loved You”) in my ear in a native Muscovite accent and I never stood a chance.

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,

В душе моей угасла не со��сем;

Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;

Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.

Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,

То робостью, то ревностью томим;

Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,

Как дай вам Бог любимой быть другим.

It was a love affair born in Boston that many of Trent’s lyrics help me to process, even several years later.

So to learn that this photo, one of my most beloved, was taken where I once lived, the place I fell in love with Nine Inch Nails, and the place that changed my life (for better and for worse) in so many ways… was incredibly meaningful to me.

It’s especially meaningful to me that it’s a photo from the Pretty Hate Machine era.

My first era fixation was The Fragile, then Broken, then The Downward Spiral.

But now in every way, Pretty Hate Machine is my era. “My sweet everything.”

(And my reputation for loving Trent’s dreads has become an essential part of my NIN fandom social media presence.)

Boston and the genesis of my NIN fandom are inseparable to me, part of the same moment, the same thread.

I'll never forget what it was like to discover both at the same time. To think, “where has this band been all my life?”

So, I just had to write this little diary entry to keep these thoughts and memories somewhere. I wanted them to live here, with all the other things I cherish.

[marzipanandminutiae]

Marzi's Old House Supply Kit: A Non-Exhaustive List

So you've moved into an old house! Congratulations! No, no, look at me. Look in my eyes. Congratulations. You don't need smart lighting. You don't need paltry things like "showers that don't make ungodly noises if you set the water outside a very specific temperature range" or "logical staircases." Because those people who say They Built Them Sturdier Back Then is survivorship bias are wrong, lead paint is only a problem if you eat it, and your new home is basically a tank

also it might have stained glass. so basically you win

(no but seriously the Survivorship Bias argument is just like. tell me you don't live in a city with large quantities of remaining working-class 110-year-old buildings without telling me. I do. they're sturdier. end of.)

but you might need some things to make it a bit more comfortable. here's what I've found, over eight years of living in houses built 1920 or earlier

Power strips. Depending on the age of your house, it may or may not have had electricity originally. And even if it did, whoever lived there almost certainly had fewer things to plug in than the average denizen of the 2020s. There also may have been gorgeous wall sconces that some asshole heartlessly ripped out at some point, forcing you to use the hideous hateful Overhead LightTM or plug in a bunch of lamps. Either way, you're going to need to turn that single outlet in the room into several more. Hence, power strips.

(hey, I never said this list was free of my design biases. deal)

A Good Fan. You may live in a place where retrofitting with air conditioning was commonplace in the last several decades. I do not. So a good pedestal fan can make the difference between comfort and just not sleeping at all from late June to mid-September. Weirdly, I did once look at a place that was from the 1850s and had been retrofitted with central A/C, which is vanishingly rare in even urban Massachusetts. But I digress.

A stud-finder. "Marzi, you spent years of your life explaining to tourists that picture rails existed because trying to hammer nails directly into horsehair plaster and then putting weight on them did Bad Things." Yes I did. "What did you attempt to do the second week of living in your first house with horsehair plaster?" ...shut up. I used the Poltergeist Method to find solid wood- I don't know if it's actually studs or the lath or what; I'm not a builder -to hang my Lady and the Unicorn tapestry from, namely knocking on the wall until it doesn't sound hollow. You might want to go a bit quieter and more advanced. Or, if you have a picture rail, embrace the "long visible hanging wires" look. It is in fact there for a reason!

Window screens. You are actually required by Massachusetts state law to provide these to your tenants. Doesn't mean my last landlady did. And if you own your place, live in another state, or have a similarly laissez-faire building owner, you might end up needing to Bring Your Own Insect-Blocking Shield. Just make sure you've got them, one way or the other. Because see above re: fan vs. air conditioning in old houses.

WD-40. When's the last time those hinges were oiled? Potentially before television. And they WILL squeak. UPDATE I HAVE BEEN INFORMED THAT WD-40 IS NOT A GOOD LONGTERM SOLUTION. Find "actual oil." Not sure what the more specific name is. Good to know!

That's just what I've found needful so far, but I'm happy to update the list as required!

And you'd better believe, if I owned my own place, this would include "the name of a preservation contractor to undo all the unnecessary ~*MoDeRnIzInG*~ aesthetic bullshit the past owners did since the End of Mainstream Western House Beauty AKA 1920 (That Brief Rococo Revival In the 1930s Can Maybe Sit With Us)"

[forever-a-lake-effect-kid]

[ID: A four-panel comic in the style of "self-care tips" memes. Four states are in four differently colored squares, giving advice. In top left, Illinois, a state with light brown skin and darker reddish-brown hair that's slightly past chin length and curly at the bottom, wearing a red-and-blue hat, red-and-blue striped scarf, and shirt with a Chicago flag patch on the arm, says with a confident grin "Defend sanctuary cities." In top right, Minnesota, a state with pale skin and short straight blond hair, wearing a purple shirt with the state of Minnesota on it and a blue flannel, folds their arms and glares, saying "Protect trans youth." In bottom left, Oregon, a state with light skin and short, messy brown hair, wearing a black Oregon Trail t-shirt and green beanie, raises a molotov cocktail in the air and yells "SET FIRE TO TESLA DEALERSHIPS!" with a feral grin. In bottom right, New York, a state with brown skin and short, dark brown hair, wearing a black hoodie and red beanie, grips the panel border as they lean forward and glare, saying "Sue the fuck out of the bastards. And win." End ID.]

happy start of wttt week!!! i'm so psyched for this, i've already been seeing a lot of fantastic stuff and it's really giving me a much-needed mental boost :')

as you all know there is. a lot. of terrible stuff happening out there right now. so after going back and forth between several different ideas i eventually settled on just highlighting some of the good stuff happening right now.

this is in the style of those self-care memes with advice like "murder is okay" "your feelings matter", but its... Self-Care For When Your Nation Is Descending Into Fascism. as such hopefully you can see that i am not actually advising you to set fire to tesla dealerships any more than those memes are actually saying that murder is okay. i still have my right to satire, for now. :)

sources for the news:

chicago, and the state of illinois, were sued by the trump administration for refusing to comply with ice attempts at deportation and maintaining their sanctuary city and state status. the mayor of chicago continued to defend chicago's status in a national hearing, along with 3 other city mayors, and while there were threats of a department of justice investigation, they appear to have not been carried out.

washington, oregon, and minnesota all sued the federal government to counter the order banning federal funding for gender-affirming care for people under 19 (colorado later joined). a federal judge ruled to block the removal of said federal funds. (even though most of the legal battle was in washington, i chose to draw minnesota because i was already drawing oregon and i didn't want to seem biased towards the pnw :P)

there have been multiple instances of people setting fire to or otherwise damaging tesla dealerships, but oregon had the first one, so it seemed fair to give this panel to them. :)

new york has been participating in a lot of lawsuits, as have many states. some of the things they've sued over including giving doge access to government systems (along with arizona, california, colorado, connecticut, delaware, maine, maryland, minnesota, nevada, new jersey, rhode island, and vermont) (a federal judge in manhattan ruled that doge should be blocked), the national institute of health cutting research funding (led by massachusetts, and along with 21 other states) (a federal judge again ruled in the states' favor), and unfreezing federal funds (the battle over this one is still ongoing, i think, but it was led by new york and joined by 22 other states and dc). the claim to winning is maybe a little overly optimistic, but in conditions like these, i think keeping up the fight is a victory in and of itself.

okay that's all my rambling for today '^^ tomorrow will be... *checks notes* oh, it'll also be political, okay. well. what can you expect in times like these :P

[deadpresidents]

The Elegant Mr. Arthur

It was about two hours after midnight on September 20, 1881, and not unusual for the resident of 123 Lexington Avenue in New York City to be up at such a late hour, or to have plenty of guests. In fact, he preferred to keep late hours, entertaining friends deep into the night with late-night dinners, drinks, and endless conversation. Yet, on this night, 123 Lexington Avenue was somber and the mood was grave. Just a few hours earlier -- at 11:30 PM -- a messenger knocked on the door of Vice President Chester Alan Arthur's Manhattan brownstone and handed Arthur a telegram. Surrounded by a few friends and colleagues, Arthur read that President James A. Garfield, just 49 years old and in office for barely six months, had died in a beach cottage at Elberon, New Jersey. Turning to his friends in his sitting room, Arthur said, "I hope -- my God, I do hope it is a mistake."

On July 2nd, President Garfield was shot twice and seriously wounded by Charles Guiteau as he walked through the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad Station in Washington, D.C. with Secretary of State James G. Blaine and Secretary of War Robert Todd Lincoln (son of Abraham Lincoln) en route to a speaking engagement at his alma mater, Williams College in Massachusetts. Guiteau was a disgruntled, disturbed, and delusional office-seeker who had been pleading for an appointment as consul to Paris (though he was willing to "settle" for Vienna) despite an absence of diplomatic and political experience and a complete lack of general qualifications. Hounding Garfield throughout the early months of an Administration that had just begun on March 4, 1881, Guiteau's constant harassment of the new President finally resulted in Secretary Blaine to never return to the White House again. Guiteau felt that he had been entitled to some office, particularly an ambassadorship, and was terribly upset that Garfield and his Cabinet members refused to consider his requests. Blaine's order to stay away drove Guiteau to purchase an ivory-handled .44 British Bulldog revolver (specifically chosen because Guiteau felt that particular firearm would look good in a museum) and he began stalking Garfield throughout Washington before finally shooting him inside the rail station two days before Independence Day 1881. As police arrested him, Guiteau shouted, "I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts...Arthur is President now!"

But Arthur wasn't President; not yet at least. Garfield was a physically robust man and relatively young in comparison to most Presidents to date. While one bullet had lodged in Garfield's spine, the other bullet grazed his arm and caused no significant damage. While it appeared that he was gravely ill immediately following the shooting, Garfield's vital signs soon started to improve and the American people began to get their hopes up about a full recovery. A vigil of sorts was underway as President Garfield convalesced in the White House, and his doctors issued regular bulletins updating his condition. Garfield's doctors also poked and prodded him with unsterilized instruments and dirty fingers to attempt to locate the bullet still inside of his body. Had they left it alone, Garfield almost certainly would have survived; his wounds were significantly less dangerous than those survived 100 years later by 70-year-old Ronald Reagan. However, the unnecessary poking and prodding resulted in a serious infection that ravaged Garfield's body, weakened his heart, left the muscular, 215-pound President emaciated, weighing less than 135 pounds, and turned the 49-year-old Garfield's dark brown beard and hair a ghastly white color. Fighting for his life in the sweltering summer heat of Washington, on September 6th it was finally agreed upon to transport Garfield to a cottage on the Jersey Shore in hopes that he could benefit from the change of scenery and from the fresh ocean air. Sadly, it was too late. The infections were accompanied by blood poisoning and pneumonia, among other ailments. On September 19th at 10:35 PM, Garfield suffered a massive heart attack and was pronounced dead. An hour later the messenger arrived at 123 Lexington Avenue.

•••

The Vice Presidency was a stretch. Chet Arthur of New York as Vice President? When offered the Republican Vice Presidential nomination by James Garfield in 1880, Chester Arthur was urged by his political mentor and close friend, Stalwart leader Roscoe Conkling, to decline the appointment. Arthur, a man who had never spent a day in Congress or been elected to any office at any level, went against Conkling's wishes for perhaps the first time in his life. The Vice Presidency was certainly a stretch, but President of the United States? That was an almost frightening thought to a nation still recovering from Civil War and desperately seeking civil service reform, especially now that a disgruntled office-seeker had assassinated the President. Arthur was President left a lot of Americans worried -- some because Arthur's political background was as the powerful and somewhat shady Collector of the Port of New York, appointed during the corrupt Administration of President Ulysses S. Grant and eventually fired by President Rutherford B. Hayes during a housecleaning of corrupt institutions; and some because James Garfield's murderer had claimed to be a Stalwart and, by his own words, insinuated that Garfield's shooting might be a conspiracy on behalf of the Conkling/Arthur side of the divided Republican Party.

Chester Arthur was a creature of the era known as the "Gilded Age" and was the symbolic mascot for the widespread political corruption of the 1870s due to his position at the Port of New York. At a moment when drastic reform of the civil service was being demanded by many Americans outraged by James Garfield's assassination, Garfield's successor was a man who, for years, had been the poster boy for crony patronage and machine politics. Born in Vermont in 1829, Arthur was the son of a preacher and grew up mostly in upstate New York, graduated from Schenectady's Union College in 1848, briefly taught school while studying law, and was admitted to the bar in 1854. As his law practice grew in the 1850s, Arthur immersed himself in New York Republican politics yet never ran for office. A political appointee to the New York State Militia, he found himself serving during the Civil War and his superb organizational skills led to quick promotions all the way to quartermaster general in 1862, a position which carried the rank of brigadier general. As a political appointee to the militia, however, Arthur served at the pleasure of the Governor of New York and was forced to resign in 1862 when a Democratic Governor took office. Returning to New York City, Arthur resumed his law practice and political gamesmanship. More appointments came his way as he supported Republican candidates throughout the state and worked on national campaigns such as President Lincoln's 1864 bid for re-election and Ulysses S. Grant's 1868 Presidential campaign.

In 1871, President Grant appointed Arthur as Collector of customs as the Port of New York, which gave Arthur responsibility for about 75% of the nation's custom duties and was one of the most powerful patronage positions available in the United States government. Arthur used his office to efficiently raise money for Republican campaigns and candidates, supporting President Grant's 1872 re-election campaign by seeking (if not "requiring") contributions from his employees at the customhouse. In 1876, Arthur championed his political mentor, Senator Roscoe Conkling, for the Republican Presidential nomination, but supported Rutherford B. Hayes in the general election, once again using the employees at the customhouse to help raise money to finance the successful Republican campaign. However, once Hayes was elected, the new President made it clear that he was serious about civil service reform and that meant reforming Arthur's customhouse, too. In 1877, Arthur testified before the Jay Commission, which was formed to investigate charges of corruption and eventually recommended that President Hayes reduce the workforce of the customhouse and eliminate the corrupt elements that had worked there for so long. Due to Arthur's longtime support of the Republican Party, President Hayes offered him an appointment as consul in Paris (the same job Charles Guiteau would kill James Garfield for a few years later) in order to quietly remove him from the Port of New York. When Arthur refused the appointment, the President fired him and Arthur resumed his law practice in New York City.

When Arthur headed to the 1880 Republican National Convention at the Interstate Exposition Building in Chicago, it was as a New York delegate supporting the aspirations of former President Ulysses S. Grant who was coming out of retirement to seek an unprecedented third term. However, neither of the front-runners for the nomination -- Grant and Senator James G. Blaine of Maine -- could capture enough votes from delegates to clinch the nomination. After thirty-five ballots, Blaine and another prospective candidate, Treasury Secretary John Sherman of Ohio, threw their support behind a dark horse candidate -- Ohio Congressman James A. Garfield. On the next ballot, Garfield clinched the nomination and reached out to the opposing wing of the Republican Party for his Vice Presidential choice. The first choice, Levi P. Morton of New York (who would later serve as President Benjamin Harrison's Vice President), declined Garfield's offer, and Arthur -- who had never previously even sought an elective office -- excitedly accepted, much to the chagrin of his angry political mentor, Roscoe Conkling. Not confident in Garfield's chances for election, Conkling told Arthur, "You should drop it as you would a red-hot shot from the forge." Arthur replied, "There is something else to be said," and Conkling asked in disbelief, "What, sir, you think of accepting?". Despite the complaints and anger of Conkling, Arthur told him, "The office of Vice President is a greater honor than I have ever dreamed of attaining. I shall accept. In a calmer moment you will look at this differently."

Following the election, Arthur prepared to settle into the quiet role of Vice President during the 19th century. The Vice President of the United States has only one real responsibility -- to preside over the Senate and even that responsibility is normally delegated to Senators who rotate as presiding officer almost daily. The powerful or even influential American Vice Presidency is a fairly recent evolution, not even 50 years old. While some Vice Presidents were relied on for advice or counsel or given larger duties than others, most Vice Presidents were so far removed from the Executive Branch that they were not only kept out of the decision-making process, but also kept in the dark about certain information. For example, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt died towards the end of World War II in 1945 and was succeeded by his Vice President, Harry S. Truman, the new President had to be quickly briefed about the existence of the Manhattan Project to develop atomic weaponry. Still, the first Vice President to have an office in the White House was Walter Mondale and that didn't occur until 1977, so in 1881 a Vice President was expected to preside over the Senate on special occasions, cast a tie-breaking vote when necessary, and be available to take the oath of office if the President happened to die or resign.

Like most 19th century Vice Presidents, Chester Arthur didn't even spend much time in Washington, and he was returning to his regular home in New York City on July 2, 1881 when he stepped off a steamship with Roscoe Conkling and was told that President Garfield had been shot. In fact, the message that Arthur received first erroneously reported that Garfield was already dead and at the request of Garfield's Cabinet, the stunned Vice President immediately returned to Washington, D.C. to proceed with the next steps necessary for maintaining the continuity of government. When Arthur arrived in Washington, President Garfield's condition had improved and his recovery continued to show signs of promise as the Vice President and the nation prayed for him and held vigil throughout the summer. Shaken by rumors that he and his "Stalwart" wing of the Republican Party conspired to assassinate Garfield, Arthur returned home to New York City, hesitant to invite criticism that his continued presence in Washington was merely an eager deathwatch so that he could grab power.

Garfield clung to life for eighty excruciating days with doctors probing him in an effort to remove the bullet in his body, causing infections and leaving the President suffering from blood poisoning which led him to hallucinate at times. The Navy helped rig together an early form of air conditioning in Garfield's White House sickroom in order to give him relief from Washington's stifling summer conditions. When Garfield was taken by train to New Jersey in early-September, it was clear to many that the long vigil was nearly over. More infections set in, along with pneumonia and painful spasms of angina. When the messenger arrived at 123 Lexington Avenue just before midnight on September 20, 1881 to inform Arthur that President Garfield had died just 60 miles away, the new President wasn't surprised, but he also wasn't quite prepared. The nation worried about the lifetime political operative stepping into the position being vacated by the promising President assassinated before he could enact the civil service reforms promised in his Inaugural Address. What would Arthur -- the quintessential patronage politician -- do as President? Nobody knew, but Chester Alan Arthur had an idea. •••

It was fitting that Arthur was surrounded by friends when he took the oath of office at his home in Manhattan at 2:15 AM on September 20, 1881. Arthur's beautiful wife, Nell, died of pneumonia in January 1880 and he was inconsolable for months, regretting for the rest of his life the fact that she never saw his election as Vice President or ascendancy to the Presidency. People who knew Arthur stated that he clearly never fully recovered from her death, and that as a "deeply emotional...romantic person," it was no surprise that he ordered that fresh flowers were placed before her portrait in the White House every day while he was President.

Chester Arthur had a lot of friends. That's what happens when you control as many lucrative patronage positions as Arthur controlled for as long as Arthur controlled them. But it wasn't just his political position that gained him friends. Arthur was a great storyteller, a man who loved to hunt and fish, kind, easy-going, charming, graceful, and smooth. During his life he was nicknamed "Elegant Arthur" and is considered one of the most stylish of Presidents. Photographs of Presidents from the 19th century typically show us men no different than statues. They dressed the same, they looked the same, and when portrayed in the black and white photos of the time, we feel no differently when we see their pictures than when we see a slab of marble carved in their image. Arthur leaps out of his photographs, however. He was a very large man for his era, standing 6'2" and weighing around 220 pounds during his Presidency. Large muttonchops connected to a bushy mustache and his close-cropped, wavy brown hair seemed to pull back his forehead and place more emphasis on expressive black eyes that easily reflected his moods. While it seems that most Presidents of the 19th century wore the same boring black suit and black tie like a uniform, Arthur's ties are patterned, jewelry is visible, collars are crisp, handkerchiefs are folded creatively, and his lapels shine as if they were polished along with his shoes. We see photographs of Arthur in fashionable overcoats, a wide variety of hats, and he employed a personal valet who helped the President change clothes for every occasion -- he was said to have over 80 pairs of pants.

Most apparent of all is that Arthur was a gentleman -- an interesting man with superb social skills and fastidious manners. Even as one of the top operatives in New York's Republican political machine of the corrupt 1870s, he was nicknamed the "Gentleman Boss." As President, he brought entertainment back to the White House -- something that had been missing on a large scale since before the Civil War twenty years earlier. His predecessor, Rutherford B. Hayes, was one of the few critics of this development, stating that there was "nothing like it before in the Executive Mansion -- liquor, snobbery, and worse." Arthur also redecorated the White House, hiring Louis Comfort Tiffany to help with the design. To help raise money for the redecoration, Arthur basically held a White House yard sale. On the lawn of the mansion, twenty-four wagons full of history (including a pair of Abraham Lincoln's pants that had been left behind in a closet) were sold to citizens. To some, the items were priceless; to President Arthur, they were ugly and a man like Chester Arthur did not live in an ugly home. Several weeks after Garfield died, Arthur got his first look at his new home and quickly stated, "I will not live in a house like this." He didn't end up moving into the White House until three months into his Presidency.

•••

[Secretary of State James G. Blaine, President Arthur, and former President Ulysses S. Grant, view the open casket of President James A. Garfield as he is lying in state in the Capitol Rotunda.]

After taking the oath of office at home in Manhattan in the early hours of September 20, 1881, now-President Arthur proceeded to Washington, D.C., stopping in Long Branch, New Jersey to pay respects to the late President Garfield and his grieving family. Once Arthur succeeded to the Presidency upon Garfield's death, there was no Vice President, no president pro tempore of the Senate, and no Speaker of the House (Congress has not elected its leadership yet), thus, there was no Constitutional line of succession. If something had happened to Arthur at that moment, the United States would have faced an unprecedented Constitutional crisis. As his first act as President, Arthur immediately called the Senate into session in order to select their leadership positions and position someone in the line of succession. Upon arriving in Washington, Attorney General Wayne MacVeagh suggested that Arthur take a second oath of office and he did so at the U.S. Capitol on September 22nd, in the presence of Garfield's Cabinet, members of Congress, Supreme Court Justices, and former Presidents Grant and Hayes.

Americans worried about the former machine politician's integrity were transformed quickly as Chester Arthur underwent something of a transformation himself. Widely considered a lapdog of New York's Roscoe Conkling, Arthur broke ranks with the party boss and pushed for the same civil service reform championed by James Garfield prior to the assassination. Arthur's former associates in the New York Republican Party were disappointed when he declined their requests for political favors. One former colleague sadly reported, "He isn't 'Chet' Arthur anymore. He's the President." Arthur found that the transformation was almost automatic and out of his control, noting that "Since I came here I have learned that Chester A. Arthur is one man and the President of the United States is another." His old benefactor, Conkling, was one critic of the new President, complaining "I have but one annoyance with the Administration of President Arthur and that is, in contrast with it, the Administration of Hayes becomes respectable, if not heroic." Arthur signed the Pendleton Act in 1883 which created a modern civil service system and eliminated the spoils system that had long dominated American politics. This reform, which Conkling called "snivel service" was the final break between the longtime friends and colleagues.

To the American people, the great surprise of an Arthur Administration was the fact that it was clean, honest, and efficient. Arthur helped lift the gloomy moods that had shadowed Washington throughout the Civil War, Lincoln's assassination, Reconstruction, the corruption of the Gilded Age, the wildly controversial Election of 1876, and Garfield's assassination. His popularity rose throughout his term and most critics focused on his lavish entertainment or the fact that he was notoriously late for meetings and seemed bored or lethargic at times. He often procrastinated -- as a White House clerk once said, "President Arthur never did today what he could put off until tomorrow." Still, most Americans were happy with President Arthur and echoed the thoughts of Mark Twain who said, "I am but one in 55 million; still, in the opinion of those one-fifty-five-millionth of the country's population, it would be hard to better President Arthur's Administration."

He was bored, though. President Arthur didn't like being President. He enjoyed the entertaining dinners that he could throw and loved public events or ceremonies that allowed him to meet the people of the United States, but the desk work was tedious and he wasn't interested in policy. Arthur stayed up late and seemed to vacation often, which perplexed many people because it was said that he was constantly exhausted. What they didn't know was that from almost the time he became President, Chester Arthur was dying. In 1882, he was diagnosed with Bright's disease, a fatal kidney ailment at the time. Despite reports that he was suffering from the disease, Arthur hid it from the public, desperately protecting his privacy, as always. Arthur's distaste for the Presidency probably stemmed in part from depression triggered by the Bright's disease. At times, Arthur suffered from debilitating illness and it was always covered with a story about the President catching a cold during a fishing trip or spending too much time in the sun while hunting. In a letter to his son, Alan, in 1883, the President confided, "I have been so ill that I have hardly been able to dispose of the...business before me."

Despite his popularity, Republican leaders opposed Arthur's nomination for a term as President in his own right in 1884. The man who opposed it most, however, was the President himself, who stated "I do not want to be reelected." Not only was he disinterested in a second term, but he knew very well that there was a possibility he might not even survive to the end of his current term. He did, and after attending the inauguration of his successor, Grover Cleveland, on March 4, 1885, Arthur returned home to New York City where his health rapidly declined. The former President was aware that he was dying and made plans for a relatively quiet retirement, deciding to practice law, but doing very little work due to his health. When asked about his future, Arthur said, "There doesn't seem anything for an ex-President to do but to go out in the country and raise big pumpkins." On November 16, 1886, Arthur suffered a stroke that paralyzed his left side. Gravely ill, he called his son to his bedside the day before his death and had all of his public and private papers stuffed into trash cans and burned. On November 18, 1886, the 57-year-old former President died in the same place he became President just five years earlier, 123 Lexington Avenue in New York City. After a quiet funeral at the Church of Heavenly Rest on Fifth Avenue in New York, Arthur's remains were buried next to his beloved wife at Rural Cemetery in Albany, New York.

•••

When President Arthur had many of his personal papers burned prior to his death, he eliminated one of the best sources of information about his life and career for future historians. With a thin resume and a fairly uneventful Presidency, there wasn't much public information about his career, either. This leaves us with very little to remember Chester Alan Arthur by. Research on his life -- particularly his personal life -- is difficult, and Arthur would have appreciated that. During his Presidency, leaders of the temperance movement called on Arthur and urged him to follow the non-alcoholic lifestyle led by President Hayes and his teetotaler wife, who became known as "Lemonade Lucy".

Arthur's response: "Madam, I may be President of the United States, but my private life is nobody's damn business."

And so it isn't.

[fantasies-fairytales-n-fics]

Code Blue Ch. 62- Raising Cain

Summary: Josie contemplates her next move regarding predator Peter. Savvy Cyrus emerges from the shadows to make another powerplay but Josie uses her own against the odious thug. One of his henchman has her seeing double. A terrifying test is passed with flying colors and unbeknownst to Lee, it's because of him. Josie's actions spark a heated argument that may end a longtime friendship. An unexpected call for help is made. Lee and Orlando collide. Josie cannot believe her ears. Lee is summoned.

*Chapter Warnings* Strong language, angst, intubation, weapon use, mob hit

Stories Stories Stories Masterlist

March 24, 2022

Salem, Massachusetts

It was 4 P.M. as Josie made her way to the ER to scope out the situation with Peter August whom she had told David she would stay away from. Standing in the shadows observing, it was quite astir with staff moving about, phones and monitors ringing, a baby crying and sirens blaring as an ambulance was arriving. She didn't have to guess which room her abuser was in though when she spotted the prison guard sticking out like a sore thumb as he stood vigilant outside of a closed curtain cubicle.

Although Dave had explained to her the critical condition Peter was in, Josie needed to see it for herself because not only was he a professional deceiver, but he was born and raised the son of an international terrorist and an uncaged animal like that, no matter his physical state, was a danger to all who got in his way of freedom and having her for himself if he were to live. She would never be safe until Peter no longer drew breath and the conundrum she now faced was what to do about it.

Gazing down at the phone in her hand, she contemplated on calling Craig, although she was certain he already knew since he and Jeffrey had been waiting on the call confirming the hit he ordered had been carried out, but did he know that it had failed? Most likely not, for she was confident that he would have called her to make sure she knew and that she was safe, regardless of how bad she had hurt him. Should she call him anyways? Would he even answer her call? She definitely could not leave a voicemail or text him about the situation for incriminating purposes so she chose to at least see if he would pick up.

As Josie turned to leave and find a private area, her blood ran cold when someone just as terrifying as Peter appeared out of thin air.

"Jesus!!" she gasped as she stumbled back, almost plowing straight into stealthy Cyrus.

"Sorry." he raved as he placed both index fingers pointing upwards on each side of his head like horns. "Wrong guy, remember?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, she attempted to pass. "Excuse me."

He stayed a contactless hand before her stomach to stop her. "Are you alright Miss March? You look as white as a ghost. I hope it's not due to the prison guard I saw you eyeing? Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain. I assure you he is not the great and powerful Oz. There's no hot air balloon...or helicopter on the roof that he can magically fly away in with you this time. From what I gather, he's more like the scarecrow now up here." he grinned, pointing to his temple.

Her eyes slightly widened. How could he have possibly known about that?? Had he followed her and eavesdropped on her and David's conversation???

"Oh don't worry Dorothy, your juicy little secret is safe with me. I think it's safe to say though, that you're not the small and meek like the girl with braids from Kansas proclaimed to be. I admire a strong woman who takes control of her life. Is that...not...what you were contemplating just now? How to handle the infamous Peter August aka Henrick Faison that my substandard son failed to handle?"

Once again, Josie found herself fondling the rubber band upon her wrist, desperately wanting to snap it to ease her growing anxiety but at the same time, she didn't want to give Cyrus the satisfaction that he did in fact intimidate her.

"Judging by the look upon your lovely face, you must be wondering how I know the things I know? Well, you see, I'm a very observant man, especially when it comes to the people my son associates with or...falls in love with. I must say, you'd be a better suited match for Craig given your unfortunate predicament in the child bearing department. You are nothing like Elizabeth, the hot mess who's now a cold, decaying mess, that his hormones exploded over, resulting in the mess of parenting in a world where a child should not be. Lord knows I made that mistake and look how that turned out. My own son chose the opposing team. I mean no ill will but even your brother, god rest his soul, was drawn into her web of deceit but at least he was smart and strong enough to distance himself from diaper duties and allow another man to take on the role and responsibility of a father. I can't imagine how difficult that must have been for Dr. Pace to learn the truth that he was not the boy's father after the poor child had passed and also that the person responsible for his death was the boy's own mother. Jacob was his name? And how hard that must have also been for you to learn he was your nephew and you never got to know him. Well, at least now, Elizabeth will never hurt another child ever again. Justice was well served, wouldn't you agree?"

Josie's overstimulated nerves stirred in her stomach over his cold and calculated words. It was confirmed. Cyrus Renault truly was the devil in disguise. He knew things he shouldn't and he was using that knowledge to administer a very patronizing power play against her just as she had witnessed him do with Gerry. She knew though, with all of the internal rage she was feeling, that she had to choose self-control like Gerry had and not let Cyrus bait her in to clawing his beady black eyes out. The last thing she needed was to be on his shit list, so instead of violence, she chose to play his game.

"Yes, yes it sure was. Everyone is better off without that wretched woman around. She has hurt many people I love and I commend whomever put her where she belongs, six feet under. The children though, they do not deserve to suffer. I am sure you are doing everything in your power to bring your granddaughter home? I know will do whatever I can to make that happen for Craig and for Blaise. She must be terrified wherever she is and your son is very heartsick over it all. You wouldn't have any ideas as to who has taken her....would you? I mean, you've made it quite clear that you're in the know how of past and current events with being a man of your stature and all, so I guess I'm just very surprised that you haven't located her yet. How does a little girl just vanished without a trace?"

The old man's browless brow line arched. "I think it's pretty black and white, don't you? Ethan Bloom claims to be her father and then both he and Blaise disappears days later. Coincidence?"

Josie was beginning to get a gut wrenching feeling that Cyrus was involved after everything he had just said about Craig and Blaise. "Maybe. Or maybe it's not so clear cut. Maybe Ethan didn't take her at all. Maybe it's someone we all would least expect. Someone right under our noses all along. Maybe someone that's trying to teach Craig a lesson. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Renault?"

He chuckled, picking up on her passive aggressive accusation. "Please, call me Cyrus. It's intriguing, the way you think. Coloring outside the lines or thinking outside of the box per se and then just letting those thoughts fearlessly roll off of your tongue. I do like your pluckiness. You've got backbone. Maybe you can make a man out of my son yet."

Cyrus caught sight of two men standing at the nurses station and made his departure. "It's been an absolute pleasure chatting with you Miss March, without your crony K9."

As Josie observed his close interaction with the young men both wearing the popular business suit that everyone in the surrounding area really did seem to wear, she quickly concluded they were Cyrus' henchmen. For some reason though, one of them she couldn't take her eyes off of, for his short mousy hair and facial features, especially the compelling eyes of bright blue hues, were all too familiar.

In her overwhelming curiosity, Josie remained where Cyrus had left her and listened to their conversation that the eldritch Kingpin made no effort to conceal, which he solely directed at the man who held her utmost attention. "I have a meeting in my office shortly. Go to HR and ask Janine how the interviews for the chief of staff position are coming along."

"Yes sir. Still no word from Britt Westbourne?"

"Not a peep so whatever happens next, Dr. Westbourne won't be returning here."

The mention of her missing best friend's name sparked an instant solution as to how she would gain access to Peter's cubicle and so she made her way to interrupt.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ren...Cyrus. I'm sorry to intrude but after hearing you speak about Britt, I was wondering if it would be alright to gather her personal belongings from her office? She asked me to retrieve them. I..I'm her best friend, but I'm sure you already knew that."

His brow line quirked. "Did she now? And yes I did. May I ask why she would not just come to claim them herself or even have her brother, Dr. Conrad to do so?"

Knowing the answer to his own question, Cyrus recalled the day he learned Jason was alive and made the call, ordering the hit on Britt to hurt Jason and draw him out of hiding.

"Bring in Pine, get rid of Dr. Westbourne, make it look like an O.D. and I want eyes on Jason Morgan now."

At the same time, Cyrus' other minion recalled putting the hit in to motion by restraining Britt in her office and preparing to lethally inject her with a syringe full of fentanyl but the mission had went sour when he was attacked from behind by Jason which had allowed Britt to get the upper hand on his partner with a swift knee to the groin and then she and Jason ran off.

Josie also recalled the day she last saw Jason and Britt at Lee's lake house and how terrified she was that Cyrus was going to kill her, so she continued to lie. "She and Dave had a sibling spat and aren't speaking to each other and she's also out of town. It seemed simplest for me to collect her things."

"I see. Well then, I can accompany you to her office on my way to mine."

After Cyrus' reply, her eyes were magnetically pulled to the man at his side who seemed oddly recognizable. Noticing her awkward stare, the man's brows slightly furrowed as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Ahh, yes," Cyrus intervened, also aware of the uneasy eye exchange, "I see you are curious of my retainer which must be due to the family resemblance. Miss March, this is my son, Brando."

Her eyes popped. "Son?? Cr...Craig has a...you're his...brother?"

Brando's hands swayed out as if he were uncomfortable with the introduction. "Yes ma'am."

Now she understood his familiarity. The uncanny resemblance was flooring. Although Brando was clearly much younger, at least by a decade, he could have passed as Craig's twin were he to have a clean shaven face. Aside from age, the only differences she picked up on was he did not have a kiwi accent or a muscular build.

"It's...nice to meet you Brando. I...I apologize for my reaction. I just...I wasn't aware Craig had a brother."

Brando's blues met Cyrus' coals in which he then spoke for his son. It was clear that Cyrus held great sway over Brando. Not only was that apparent in his mannerisms but it was visible behind his blue eyes. They screamed of oppression when he looked at his father. "It's not unusual for Craig to disavow his brother just as he has renounced me. Unlike my seditious son, Brando is a trustworthy son who's loyalties lie with the family as they should. Now, Brando, do as I have asked and then wait in the car with Pine. We have much to discuss. I shouldn't be more than an hour."

With a nod each, both soldiers obeyed. "Yes sir." and then the knee-length trench coats flared out as the two men simultaneously and swiftly turned with Brando delivering a side eye glance at Josie.

Cyrus glided his hand forward. "After you Miss March."

Out of habit, Josie path of choice was the stairwell but Cyrus stopped at the elevator with a grin on his smug face and pushed the button that glowed of red in response. "Your chariot awaits Miss march."

It was quite obvious to her that Cyrus also knew of her fear of small, enclosed spaces but there was no way in hell she was going to give the sadistic snake the satisfaction of getting off over her suffering.

With determination to conceal her weakness, she marched right into the metal box as the doors opened and stood calmly in the back corner as the doors closed. Holding her breath to regulate her heartbeat and to avoid inhaling the skunk smell of Cyrus' Old Spice, she envisioned Lee holding her close, just as he had done when she bravely attempted to ride the elevator ten floors up up to his dad's funeral reception at the Metro Court but had a full blown panic attack before the half way point.

Although the current journey to Britt's office was only three floors up, it was still treacherous and seemingly long, especially feeling Cyrus' soulless eyes upon her, waiting for her to crack under pressure but the imaginary feel of Lee's magical arms around her carried and shielded her through the squall.

Once the doors reopened, Josie served a raised cocky brow at Cyrus and proudly exited with her head held high as the defeated beast closely followed. Had she really won though? For she sensed that Cyrus was rather turned on by being put in his place by her.

As she mentally shook off the creepy crawlies from the appalling thought, Cyrus unlocked the door to the cold, dark office and reached his arm in front of her in a way too close for comfort manner to flip the light on. "Help yourself. I'll just wait here and observe in case you try to make off with one of our pens."

Her brows furrowed in trying to decipher if he was actually serious as he stared at her, for he held not even the slightest hint of humor in his blank expression and then his hearty chuckle startled her. "I'm just pulling your leg. Take what you like. There's nothing of any value in here. My team has already gave it a once over for the important things such as files and what not. I'll leave you to your business as I'm running a bit late for mine. Be sure to turn the light off and lock up when you are finished. It's been a pleasure as always. Until next time then, take care Miss March. I'm sure we will be seeing more of each other."

After he left, she took the awaited opportunity to physically shake her entire body out of his creepy closeness that her previous mental thoughts had failed to do. "Ekkk!! Sleezy slimeball! OK, focus Josie. Get moving."

Straight to Britt's bathroom wardrobe she bee-lined and smiled as she spotted the scrubs she had came for. Emptying out a box of copy paper, she placed the medical uniforms, a mask, gloves and a clipboard inside and then placed some of Britt's street clothing on top to keep them all hidden as she snuck her way down to the locker room, knowing the back half was dark and rarely used.

The burgundy scrubs were a perfect fit as she slipped in to them, for she and Britt were the same size and luckily for Josie, she already had running shoes on to complete the impersonation of a nurse.

With a mask on, Josie nervously made her way back to the emergency department, taking the stairwells and keeping her head down when passing others. Although the staff was plentiful and busy and always seemed to consist of new faces, she still faced the high risk of either being discovered as a fraud which Gerry most likely couldn't get her out of and then she could also run in to Dave or Orlando who would know her eyes anywhere. Sure, she knew they would never rat her out but that put them in an unfair position. Still, the selfish, burning desire to expose the real fraud trumped all the risks. It was a moment of temporary insanity that Peter was responsible for.

Her heart raced as she stood in the shadows, eyeing the armed guard and watching Peter's room while at the same time, pretending to look over paperwork on the clipboard she carried. She knew it wasn't going to be as simple as TV shows made it appear to be and with that thought, she almost chickened out until paramedics came rushing in with a head trauma patient.

When all the staff's attention was diverted to the new emergency, Josie's fear subsided as she took the open window as a sign to proceed.

Moving quickly, she approached the guard as she put on a pair of latex gloves, hoping he wouldn't notice the beads of sweat she could feel swimming on her forehead and praying the nearby nurse on the phone wouldn't look over. It didn't even matter, for the stage was set. There was no turning back now as she stood before the guard with sleepy eyes and spoke her rehearsed line. "Good evening, I need to check Mr. August's vitals."

To her astonishment, he simply nodded with no smile and no questions asked as he fought back a yawn while leaning against a medical cabinet. He clearly didn't want to be there. She had to wonder if he was just overworked and underpaid or just despised Peter like the next guy. Maybe both.

It was time to move forward. As Josie slipped inside the curtain, her heart plummeted into her stomach when she saw Peter on the bed with a breathing tube down his throat. His eyes were closed and he was still as a mouse except for the rising and lowering of his chest from the ventilator pumping undeserved air into his lungs. The sound of it disgusted her and she became livid when she noticed he wasn't even handcuffed to the bed.

"Peter!" she snapped quietly but sternly. "I know you're faking. I know for a fact that people can be awake when intubated. Open your eyes!"

The vital sign monitor's beeping slightly increased only making her believe even more that the con was conning everyone again.

"I knew it! You can hear me! This is all a sham so you can escape. How'd you do it Peter huh??? Stick your finger down your throat to get just enough poison out before they found you so you could continue to torture me??? Even while you laid dying, you managed to plot your escape??? Answer me Peter."

He remained still as a statue. The beeping returned to normal as it had been when she walked in and it only fueled her burning fire.

"Alright then. You want to play it that way huh?"

Josie began to scour the room for a specific tool and when she found it, she opened the sealed package to reveal a surgical scalpel.

Holding it out in front of her, she cautiously began to approach him.

"If you won't talk, I will make you tal...."

She gasped as a firm hand clutched her wrist from behind.

"Give it to me now you little liar!" Dave demanded with eyes of ire.

Gulping, she released the weapon and he released her wrist, then took the little but fierce blade and placed it inside his pocket. "Let's go trouble magnet."

Through the ER department and through the halls they walked side by side which is when Dave discreetly laid in to her and the bickering began. "What the fuck were you thinking?? You promised you wouldn't go near him but I know you and I knew you had your evil little fingers crossed behind your back didn't you??!"

She scoffed, chin held smugly high. "I NEVER promised. I do believe I said I won't go near him."

"It's still a lie!! You lied to me Josie! Right to my face."

"I did what I had to do. I needed to see him for myself because I know he's faking it and I almost had proof until you had to go and follow me and ruin it!"

"Damn right I followed you and lucky for you I did ruin it. What if someone else would have caught you huh??? What the hell were you going to do? Kill him???"

"NO!" she huffed. "I was just going to threaten him. You know, hold the blade to his slithering one-eyed snake and make him squirm until he had no choice but to give up the charade!"

"He's has a fucking tube down his throat Josie and his vitals prove he is comatose, not to mention his toxicology came back and he did in fact ingest a very poisonous cocktail."

"How long have I know you and your sister Dave??? YEARS. And over those years, I have learned many things from you both about the medical world and one of them is that you don't have to be unconscious to be intubated and I'm telling you, he knew I was there because his heart rate sped up when he heard my voice! And another thing is, I've known Peter for years as well and I know how skilled he is in fooling everyone, even you! Ya'll will see when he magically recovers or just disappears."

"You know, your lack of faith in my medical intelligence and intelligence over all is rather disturbing and extremely offensive. Who's the doctor here Josie?? Me or you??"

She stopped at the locker room doors and spun around. "And who's the one who knows Peter the best??? You are such a macho cliche! You've got this all figured out. You are so full of yourself!"

"I'M full of myself????!! Hello pot meet kettle! You think you're invincible and always do the most crazy, stupid irrational things and it never works out for you now does it?? Let me guess, you probably told yourself that if you got caught, you could wriggle right out of it with Gerry's help. And he's such a love struck fool, he'd probably break his code of ethics and do it, even when you're nothing but a bitch to him. Trust me, I know the feeling!"

"Oh ok. I get it. This has nothing to do with Gerry. It's all about YOU and your hurt feelings all so you can passively tell me I'm a crazy bitch!"

Josie stormed into the empty locker room and Dave was right on her heels. "You're a spoiled brat and your own worse enemy! All you care about is yourself. Did you even stop to think of me here?? I mean, you know I'm not going to turn you in so what about the position you've put me in?? Just like you did at your mom's for Jason's funeral reception by telling Lee you and I were an item. I'm beginning to think you don't care about me at all."

Dave's shift was over so he went to the laundry bin and angrily stripped his upper body of all but his black tank top. "And this is the thanks I get for trying to protect you yet once AGAIN."

"You did NOT have to get involved!! I don't need a hero because they sure as shit don't exist anyways! And yes, I DO care about myself David! Do YOU ever stop to think about everything Peter has done to me??? It's like that don't even matter here! Should I just suck it up, all the anxiety and night terrors and just move on like he hasn't destroyed a part of me that I'll never get back??? The part of me that could ride in a fucking elevator without hyperventilating or the part of me that never used to be afraid of the dark and jump in fear every time it thundered or the part of me that could sleep through the night without waking up screaming or the part of me that never used to look over my shoulder everywhere I went or the part of me that was able to have children! Do you have ANY idea what it's like to jump out of your skin at the mention of someone's name and to never feel safe?? I shouldn't have to live like this David!"

Her tears softened him. "I'm sorry that you're going through this hell. I really am Josie and...."

"You're not sorry." she snarled. "And I am NOT sorry for what I did today and you just had to go and fuck it all up and why?? All because you love me?? Well you need to get it through your thick skull that I will never love you the way you want me to and as far as I'm concerned, I don't even want to be your friend anymore with all of the pressure because friends don't pressure each other like this! Get a life David and stay the hell out of my mine!!"

David was speechless and choking up as he watched his best friend storm off. Was it his fault? he wondered. Had he crossed a line and pushed her too far with all that she was going through? Had he lost her forever all because he loved her?

Hysterically sobbing as she arrived at the locker she had stuffed all of her things in, Josie quickly removed Britt's scrubs and put her own clothes back on, then pulled her phone out, shocking herself at who she chose to call.

Sobbing even harder to the point of gasping, she snapped the rubber band on her wrist over and over, then dialed the number of the only person she felt she could truly trust.

As Craig's voicemail picked up, she rambled on through her tearful breaths. "I..I figured you wouldn't answer but..but could you please come and get me? I'm at the hospital and I...I don't know what to do anymore and it's dark out and the rubber band is not working and I...I just really need you. If you don't come, I'll understand because I know I really hurt you and I don't deserve your help. I am so so so sorry Craig. I was so wrong and...there's something you need to kn...."

"Shit no no no!" she shrieked as her phone died.

Chucking it with rage into the box of Britt's stuff, Josie rubbed away her tears, then took the box and made her way to nurses' station on Megan's floor to leave a note for her and her mom, for she was in no condition to see them.

"My phone died and I had something unexpected and urgent come up. I'll text soon when I can- Love Joey."

Thanking the charge nurse, she then went to relieve herself, for she hadn't went since that morning. After a long and satisfying bladder release, she washed her hands and stared in the mirror at her bloodshot eyes, wanting to smash her own reflection. "I hate you," she whispered through clenched teeth and teared up. "Dave was right, you are your own worst enemy."

Forcing the tears back, Josie opened the door and froze solid at the sound of Lee's richly profound voice coming from the nurses' station where she had just been and he sounded greatly agitated.

Drawn to the sound like a cat to a can opener, she crept towards a sizeable fake plant at the lobby entryway and parted the plastic leaves just enough to get a clear view of the man she would always love. As she did so, his succulent scent of Drakkar punched her right in the nose. There he stood, ever so handsome in his white lab coat, dress shirt and tie with a stethoscope around his neck as he raised and viewed what appeared to be multiple MRI images of a brain.

As he lowered the scans, Orlando became visible at his side. The much shorter doctor dressed in coordinating attire, was consulting Lee about a patient. "At first, I thought it was just the sedation but her eyes, she's not able to focus. I had her try to fixate on my finger and her eyes would just dart back and forth to a random place, almost mechanical and..."

"Square wave jerk." Lee grumbled without looking at him, then heavily sighed.

"Exactly," Orlando agreed. "So anytime I get an eye thing after a fall on the head, I'm thinking a stroke, but..."

Lee sighed heavily again, his sullen sapphires focused on the computer screen as his fingers tap danced along the keyboard. "Did your workup come back negative?"

"Yeah." Orlando also sighed, feeling nettled by Lee's sour attitude. "Any idea what else it might be?"

"Could be anything from a basal ganglia disorder to normal aging." Lee rambled off, dismissing Orlando as he moved to the other side of the counter and began scribbling on a notepad.

Orlando followed, continuing to poke the agitated lion. "Do you think you could maybe take a look at her?"

Another hard sigh as Lee snapped his pen down. "Tell me Dr. Bloom, were you not recently promoted to chief of trauma?"

His chocolate eyes narrowed at Lee addressing him as Dr. Bloom and not Lando or at least Orlando. "Umm, yes?"

"And you have been on shift all day?"

"Yyyyes?"

"Then why have you not consulted with Dr. Abrams, also a neurosurgeon who's also been on shift all day, instead of inundating me the very moment I walk in the door with an issue that is non-exigent? After the day I have had, I do not appreciate being nagged by an underling. "

Orlando riposted, feeling validated. "Respectfully, doctor Pace, the ER has been Grand Central Station for most of the day and now we have a dangerous inmate on life support to deal with. I was only able to obtain a brief consult with Dr. Abrams because he had an emergency surgery to perform. One would think a neurosurgeon, such as yourself, would feel any type of head trauma IS exigent. You are available and I felt nagging you for a second and more thorough opinion was warranted."

Lee sat down at the computer, his annoyance with Orlando rapidly increasing as he stood over his shoulder. "And I gave it." he snarled, typing in letters one at a time that were administered with harsh jabs by both index fingers.

Stiffening in his chair, eyes widening at the red lettered warning appearing in the new patients list, Lee's hands slowly rose and hovered above the keyboard as he stared in shock at Peter's name on the screen.

Heart pounding, jaw grinding and lips pursing, Lee's sapphires slitted as he hissed through a forked tongue. "I will state my opinion about the prisoner though, whom I should have been informed of immediately per protocol but no one seems to do their fucking jobs around here. Due to his condition though, let me clarify that he's about as dangerous in a vegetative state as an unskilled man, such as yourself, is to a budding clit. The ventilator should be put to better use for someone deserving. Just put a pillow over his head. Problem solved. Danger dissolved. Now, run along back to the ER and apply some band-aids. I have real work to do."

The British doctor's chocolate eyes became dark as coal. "Condescending cunt."

Lee stood up and glowered down at him. "Excuse me??"

Orlando glowered right back. "I will not excuse you. There's no excuse for how you have treated me OR Josie for that matter which this petulant behavior is clearly all about. You think you're better than me? Well I think not considering she's still in my life yet you can't say the same, now can you? And who's fault is that? You don't deserve her and never did. Thankfully, I could tell she's finally starting to realize that when she came to see me and told me all about it. You lost and that's on you."

Lee kept his cool with other staff being nearby, although what he really wanted to do was wrap Orlando's stethoscope around his neck and choke the life out of him. Instead, he patted him rather roughly on the shoulder as he served satirical words with a chuckle and a grin. "You worthless wanker. You really think you have a chance with her don't you? You and your dusty dick are not her type. She likes men with big guns. Literally and metaphorically. Mark my words little man, although she's easy, she'll end up in her mobster landlord's bed, yet again, before yours or anyone else's for that matter and you'll still be stuck with rosy palm and her five ugly sisters and a raw cock. So ask yourself then who the real and very SORE loser is. Now, you WILL excuse me because we are done here. Check and mate."

Lee swiped up his clipboard and disappeared into the hall opposite where Josie stood with a rapidly growing lump in her throat as waterfalls gushed down her cheeks. His razor sharp tongue gutted her wide open, disemboweling her. Her mind exploded with question after question. How could he say those deplorable things? Was that how he really felt about her now? Who was this clone of the man she loved even still? He looked like Lee. He sounded like Lee but he wasn't the Lee she or anybody knew. He was cold as ice.

Josie found herself sprinting down the hallway, bursting through the stairwell exit and gasping through each racing step down to the first floor where she sprinted once again through the lobby and out the front doors.

Under dim security lights, she sat on a secluded bench, snapping her wrist so fiercely with the rubber band that it welted and bled. Rocking back and forth, her tear blinded eyes frantically searched for Craig in every passing car but every pair of headlights came and went. It finally sunk in. She had lost him too.

Laying down on the bench in a fetal position as it began to thunder, she clutched the box of Britt's belongings against her chest and squished her eyes closed as cold rain sprinkled her face.

Lee had returned to the nurses' station in search of his favorite pen and when he couldn't find it, he believed Orlando had intentionally taken it to piss him off, for he knew it had belonged to Lee's father. "Thieving fucking weasel." he griped as he rummaged over the entire countertop.

Bending over, sorting through the trash as a last resort before hunting down the Bloom bandit, Lee heard a clicking noise coming from behind him.

As he turned with an arched brow, there stood villainous Cyrus, pen in hand, clicking it over and over with his fat thumb as he wickedly smirked. "Dr. Pace. A word. In my office. Now."

@redeemer46

[mariacallous]

On Monday, January 20, just hours after being sworn in, President Trump signed an executive order for “Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government.” It declares that transgender people do not exist and instructs federal officials to “defend women’s rights and protect freedom of conscience” by eradicating any trace of these non-existent people from public life.

From passports to bathrooms to schools, the president ordered the government to misgender, deny, and denigrate all trans people it comes into contact with. And he singled out federal prisoners, the people most directly under government control, for abuse.

Six days later, one of those federal prisoners, a trans woman housed at a facility in Massachusetts, sued Trump demanding a halt to her forcible detransition and transfer to a men’s prison. She pointed out that putting trans women in a men’s prison does the opposite of “defending women.”

In fact, it virtually assures that they will be routinely sexually assaulted. And on top of that, it violates a whole passel of federal laws.

Weaponized hate

Trump didn’t wake up on Monday morning and suddenly decide to scapegoat a vulnerable population. Indeed, he based his campaign on demonization of trans people. Ads proclaiming “Kamala Harris is for they/them. President Trump is for you,” played during what felt like every commercial break during NFL games and NASCAR races, airing some 30,000 times in each swing state in the hundred days before the election.

Like George W. Bush using gay marriage as a wedge issue in 2000, Trump wielded fear and hatred as a weapon, whipping up visions of imaginary women in danger, desperate for sane adults to ride to their rescue. No appeal to decency or factcheck pointing out that trans women were not taking over sports could stop it, and, after spending tens of millions of dollars, Trump rode the wave of hate right into the White House.

Once there, he was quick to deliver on his promise to hurt the people he’d told his supporters to fear.

“Basing Federal policy on truth is critical to scientific inquiry, public safety, morale, and trust in government itself,” his EO reads, adding that “these sexes are not changeable and are grounded in fundamental and incontrovertible reality.”

This is contrary to the findings of every major medical, psychiatric, and scientific organization in America, but that’s hardly relevant when you’re dictating objective reality by executive fiat.

Trump’s EO includes a biologically illiterate definition of “Female” as “a person belonging, at conception, to the sex that produces the large reproductive cell” and “Male” as “a person belonging, at conception, to the sex that produces the small reproductive cell.”

The order instructs federal officials to “use the term ‘sex’ and not ‘gender’ in all applicable Federal policies and documents … including passports, visas, and Global Entry cards,” misgender all federal trans employees and bar them from appropriate restrooms, and “assess grant conditions and grantee preferences and ensure grant funds do not promote gender ideology.”

This last provision is reported to be the reason the federal government was functionally ordered to shut down earlier this week, in violation of the Constitution’s Spending Clause and thousands of federal contracts — the Trump administration wants to de-”woke”-ify all federal grants and contracts to ensure they comply with the newspeak and don’t promote “gender ideology” or DEI.

Perhaps most cruelly, Trump ordered the Bureau of Prisons to “ensure that males are not detained in women’s prisons or housed in women’s detention centers” and “ensure that no Federal funds are expended for any medical procedure, treatment, or drug for the purpose of conforming an inmate’s appearance to that of the opposite sex.”

Performative cruelty

The order had immediate consequences for real people, including a transgender woman from Massachusetts going by the pseudonym “Maria Moe” who’s currently incarcerated at a low-security women’s prison.

Moe’s complaint contains heavy redactions to protect her privacy and safety, and indeed most of the docket remains under seal. But we do know that Moe lived as female since adolescence and has been prescribed hormones to treat sever gender dysphoria since she was 15.

The Bureau of Prisons (BOP) has always classified Moe as “female” and housed her in a women’s prison. This is consistent with the Prison Rape Elimination Act of 2003, which sought to stem the epidemic of sexual violence in America’s carceral facilities by establishing national standards to protect inmates.

The law required ongoing collection of data and instructed the attorney general to “publish a final rule adopting national standards for the detection, prevention, reduction, and punishment of prison rape.” Those rules were later codified at 28 CFR § 115, and § 115.41 requires that “All inmates shall be assessed during an intake screening and upon transfer to another facility for their risk of being sexually abused by other inmates or sexually abusive toward other inmates.”

When assessing the inmate’s “risk of sexual victimization,” the prison is obligated to consider “the physical build of the inmate,” “the inmate's own perception of vulnerability,” and “whether the inmate is or is perceived to be gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, intersex, or gender nonconforming.” We may infer from Moe’s complaint that she was assessed according to this regulatory rubric and deemed to pose no danger to her fellow inmates. Indeed she continued to receive hormone treatments, as prescribed prior to her incarceration, and “has no violent disciplinary history, poses no threat to her female peers, and her presence in the women’s facility has not caused any disruption or interference with prison operations.”

But after Trump’s executive order, Moe was abruptly removed from the general population, placed in a segregated unit where she had no contact with other prisoners, and her record with the BOP was changed to refer to her as “male.” She’s been told that she will be sent to a male prison and forcibly detransitioned by being denied her medication and ordered to dress as a man.

As Moe notes in her complaint, trans prisoners suffer astronomically high rates of sexual violence — in some reports, 10 times higher than cisgender inmates. And Moe, because of her personal circumstances, will face serious danger if housed in a men’s facility:

In a men’s facility, Maria Moe will be at extremely high risk of rape and sexual assault. She may also be subjected to humiliating, terrifying, and dangerous circumstances like being strip searched by male correctional officers and forced to shower among men, with her female body, including her breasts, exposed and vulnerable to sexual violence.

These are exactly the harms that the PREA was enacted to prevent. Forcing trans women into men’s facilities will certainly increase the rate of rapes and sexual assaults, the theoretical harm which Trump’s executive order was designed to prevent. But, of course, he doesn’t actually care about sexual assaults. He cares about demonizing the tiny number of trans prisoners — roughly 2,000, according to the Marshall Project — so he can claim to have solved the non-existent problem he whipped his supporters into a frenzy about.

Moe’s case

Moe seeks declaratory and injunctive relief on several constitutional and statutory grounds. She claims discrimination on the basis of sex under the Due Process Clause of the Fifth Amendment, noting that sex classifications trigger strict scrutiny, which requires the government to prove that the challenged action is narrowly tailored to further a compelling state interest.

Sections 4(a) and 4(c) [of the executive order] require BOP to treat incarcerated people differently depending on their sex. Under section 4(a), women who are not transgender can go on living in a women’s facility, while otherwise similarly situated transgender women must be transferred to a men’s facility based on their birth sex. Similarly, under Section 4(c), women who are not transgender are able to obtain the same medical treatments that are prohibited if they are prescribed for transgender women.

She also challenges those sections of the order under the Eighth Amendment, which bans cruel and unusual punishment, arguing that transferring her to a men’s prison will “pose a substantial risk of serious harm, including an extremely high risk of violence and sexual assault.” She says that withdrawing her treatment for gender dysphoria constitutes deliberate medical indifference in violation of the Eighth Amendment, the Americans with Disabilities Act, and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973. And she claims that it violates the Administrative Procedures Act to arbitrarily cancel a duly propounded federal regulation by executive order, as Trump did when he instructed his (as yet unconfirmed) attorney general to replace § 115.41 with a new regulation that accords with his own bigoted edicts.

What Moe does not do is mention Bostock v. Clayton County, the 2020 Supreme Court decision penned by Justice Neil Gorsuch and joined by Chief Justice John Roberts, holding that discrimination on the basis of gender identity or sexual orientation violated Title VII’s ban on discrimination in the workplace “because of sex.”

That’s likely because the Court has spent the past four years assiduously walking back that holding, cabining it to the context of employment only. The Court has not bothered to explain why discrimination against trans people at work is “because of sex,” but discrimination in healthcare is not. It allowed Idaho’s ban on gender-affirming care for minors to go into effect, though, and seemed entirely receptive to Tennessee’s claim that its ban on care was perfectly legal during oral arguments last month in a case called US v. Skrmetti. And so the lawyers for Moe took their cue from the Court and avoided Bostock entirely, grounding their claim in sex discrimination without invoking the most important sex discrimination case in the past five years.

Moe’s complaint was assigned to Judge George O’Toole, a Clinton appointee, and has been sealed since last week. It’s not clear what the status of the proceedings is as of this writing. But Maria Moe is not the only trans prisoner whose life will be uprooted by this order. And her case will be one of many that will likely wind up before the Supreme Court as the Trump administration levels its all-out attack on LGBTQ+ Americans.

Like the ban on gender-affirming care for minors, the forcible detransition and deliberate endangerment of trans prisoners is a performative act of cruelty with no purpose other than inflicting pain. Trump and his supporters are unbothered (to put it charitably) by trans prisoners being sexually assaulted if it furthers the goal of erasing trans people altogether. And if they have to pretend to be protecting women to do it, well, they certainly won’t be hindered by anything like shame.

[niratias]

@smolcuriouskitten || Rocky

Springtime usually affords a bit of a break in the gnarly weather of the east coast. As such, it's when Monarch has traditionally held their galas- a gathering of like minds, investors, and potential hires and contractors from around the globe. Live music, exquisite catering, and an open bar mean guests are sure to weather the speeches and formal events, aware they're going to be able to have more fun quickly enough. Usually held on the grounds of the lake house property, a scant few miles from Monarch headquarters and surrounded by a tall privacy fence, the infamous corporate-provided security is out in sharply-dressed force. There is likely no safer place to be in the city this evening. The guest list is broad- anyone who's anyone in Riverport, Massachusetts has been invited, even if they're merely passing through.

It's around eight in the evening. Serene's only recently become the face of his company after enjoying decades of privacy, and the address he gave nearly made his anxiety spike through the roof. His racing pulse brought on a clammy sweat. Thankfully, the worst of it only hit once he'd left stage and been ushered away by his staff, ever wary of gunmen and of his deteriorating physical and mental health.

"What I need," Paul says, swatting away a well-meaning hand on his bicep, "is air conditioning and water. I'm going inside for a while."

The lake house is nouveau riche down to its baseboards. While not closed to guests, few would venture far inside the two-story structure, even to see the art collection lining its main room- a secondary private office for Mr. Serene. With copious seating, a patio, and enough space for a family of ten, it's extravagant for one man...and also unlived in. There's no bedroom here.

He heads inside, planning to grab a water bottle from the fridge and find a place to sit on the balcony for a while to escape the noise.

[sumzeroenergysystem]

Discover cutting-edge HVAC, heat pump, and home energy solutions in Massachusetts. Unlock huge savings, rebates & year-round comfort. Curious how efficient your home could be? Get a free consultation at SumZero Energy Systems & transform your indoor climate today!

[krscblw]

ghoul element perfume associations!

i've done a few scent association lists for individual ghouls, and i thought it would be fun to do one for elements instead! it's a little more general, which lets me include perfume that i really like but that don't fit any of the ghouls exactly. as always, i would love your feedback!!

Usual warning: This might look weird on mobile, but it should be good on desktop. Apologies, I'd fix it if I knew how.

Earth: Dense, earthy, bitter, green scents reminiscent of forests, gardens, and ruins halfway reclaimed by nature.

Notes: wood, vetiver, greenery, moss, soil, fruit, rose, stone, fungus

Rose Fantôme - LVNEA

“Rose Fantôme breathes not the fresh blooming rose but the one that has been cut, left and forgotten. Now one with its surroundings, it blends with the scents of dried grass and lichen, hay, and dirt.” 

porcelain roses, immortelle, dried hay, graveyard soil, cepes, oakmoss, oakwood

Duende - Fantôme 

“The smell of being lost in an enchanted forest.”

oakmoss, cedar, fir, resinous labdanum, benzoin, tree sap, wild violets, lilac

(i have this one, it's forest-y but also pretty light for a forest perfume. definitely a summery, magical forest smell)

Holy Oak - LVNEA

“Holy Oak alchemizes the aromas of deep, damp oakwood and the dry warmth of cedar to evoke the sound, sight, and smell of a well-worn cabin woodframe creaking against the weight of tempestuous rainfall as it begins to slow.”

galbanum, cedar leaf, petrichor, frankincense, cedarwood, oakwood, oakmoss

Mount Auburn - Little & Grim

“A dizzying array of all the flora that buds in Massachusetts. Fragrant, fruity blossoms and towering trees shading gentle, winding paths.”

fresh raspberry, melon, honeysuckle, blooming lilac, wisteria, spruce

Love Among the Ruins - Alkemia 

“An ancient ruin of fallen stonework covered with lichen and tangles of flowering vines slowly disintegrating/returning to nature.”

stone ruins, lichen, tangles of flowering vines

Rochester - Fantôme

rich earth, crisp fallen leaves, sweet tobacco, a hint of patchouli, garden tomato, newly ripened autumn gourds

Vert Sur Le Vert - Alkemia  

green grasses, new leaves, tomato seedlings, crushed sweet grasses

Air: Scents that range from cold, sharp, and sweet to thick, powdery, and dusty – reflecting the versatility of air as an element. 

Notes: florals, musk, fruit, cold air, dust, sugar, honey, ozone

Lilacs Along the Winding Drive - Alkemia 

fresh lilacs, a gentle breeze after a light spring rain, a dusty pebbled driveway, a slightly rusty porch swing, and a small handful of late blooming violets

Hummingbird - Zoologist 

“This diaphanous scent alights upon you in a pastel bouquet of honeysuckle, mimosa, lilac and peonies, with just the lightest dusting of natural sugars found in pear, cherry and honey. A finishing dollop of velvety whipped cream melds the tantalizing notes, completing this irresistible and opulent perfume.”

apple, cherry, citrus, lilac, muguet, plum, rose, violet leaf, honey, honeysuckle, mimosa, peony, tulip, ylang, amber, coumarin, cream, moss, musks, sandalwood, white woods

Frost Flowers - LVNEA 

“Icy and cold, delicate yet jagged, floral ice crystals slowly melt to reveal a heart of dark florals at the center of this musky and enveloping oil perfume.”

tuberose, jasmine, black currant, ambrette, cypress, elemi resin

Thundersnow - Fyrinnae 

“On rare occasions within a system cold enough to produce ground level snow, the conditions are favorable for the right lifting and instability required to also produce lightning.”

cold air, electricity, metallic ozone, gasoline

Veil of Spidersilk - Nui Cobalt Designs

“Slender strands of cotton flower hung with trembling dewdrops… Wear to bless any new beginning and brighten the path ahead.”

cotton flower, dew, pale pink musk, tiny black vanilla beans, Margaret Merril rose, lily of the valley, neroli, honeysuckle, non-indolic jasmine

Mama Gein - Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab 

crushed baby’s breath dusted with baby powder

Foxfire - Alkemia 

white sugar ambers, jasmine aldehydes, night flowering nardo

Fire: Warm, heavy, lingering, spicy scents. Some fire ghouls smell like smoke and fire, but others smell like heat, metal, or spices. 

Notes: smoke, incense, spices, metal, patchouli, wood

Paimon - Fantôme 

“This is a warm, regal scent conjuring an endless sea of sand with the hint of an oasis of coconut and dark vanilla carried on a warm desert wind. Golden frankincense, black amber, and myrrh stir under the endless dunes of hot sand, grounding the bright, golden notes that shine under the unrelenting sun.”

hot sands, frankincense, myrrh, sun-bleached parchment, vanilla, black amber, coconut husk, gold

Eldritch - Pineward Perfume 

“Lair of ancient eldritch abominations, a resinous and dark perfume for the bold and unafraid.”

leather, myrrh, patchouli, fir, oolong tea, opoponax, smoke, pine needles, oakmoss

Stel - Treading Water Perfume 

motor oil, metal, desert air, frankincense, oud

Persian Tea Room - Alkemia 

spiced black tea, dry desert sand, spices, musk, soft leather

Firebird - Fantôme

“This is a rich, golden scent that emulates the golden apples and warm flame of the Firebird.”

smoldering embers, burning cloves, orange, golden saffron, endless forest, soot on feathers, soft flame, apple 

Dwarf - Black Phoenix Alchemy Labs  

iron filings, chips of stone, hops, soot-covered leather

Tyrannosaurus Rex - Zoologist  

“A sultry heat wafts across the land, lapped up greedily by the abundant flora that thrives in its midst… The Cretaceous period comes of age against a backdrop scorched by wildfire and lightning strikes.”

bergamot, black pepper, fir, laurel leaf, neroli, nutmeg, champaca, geranium, jasmine, osmanthus, rose, ylang ylang, resins, cade, cedar, civet, frankincense, leather, patchouli, sandalwood, vanilla

Water: Water ghouls tend to have smooth, cold scents. Some are sweet, some are sour, some are salty, but all of them reflect different bodies of water.

Notes: ozone, vanilla, water, citrus, seaweed, salt, sand, ice, tropical fruit

Triton - Fantôme

murky sea water, ambergris, ancient forest mosses, crushed ivy, frankincense, resins, ozone, a hint of citrus

Voice of the Sea - Alkemia 

“An olfactory musing from the underside of a wooden dock.”

salty sea breezes, sun-bleached driftwood, crushed seashells, lemon peel, barnacles, sand, and sea-soaked timbers

Dragonfly - Zoologist 

“Giant lotus pads part to make way for buds that pierce the surface of the jade green pond. They raise their faces to the sun, their delicate fragrance floating around them. In the shadow of the flowers, tiny dragonfly nymphs also emerge from the shallows. They spread their fragile wings and shyly take flight, ready to explore a world beyond the water.”

grapefruit, basil, angelica seed, ginger, rice, aquatic florals, geranium, jasmin sambac, mimosa, orris absolute, rose, violet leaves, rainwater, moss, patchouli, tonka, vetiver, benzoin, cashmeran

Acadia - Alkemia

“An olfactory portrait of coastal Maine.”

atlantic ocean fog, balsam fir pine needles, seaweed, bay leaves, saltwater, charred driftwood

Gelatto - Pineward Perfume 

“Suntanned skin and sunny beaches.”

makrut lime, jasmine sambac, mandarin orange, gardenia, massoia bark, sandalwood, ambergris

Squid - Zoologist   

“The vast ocean swells and contracts, caught in the relentless tug of the moon. Beneath the surface, a school of squid emerges. Strange, elastic forms propel from the deep in a frantic search for sustenance. They are not alone. Their predators lunge, only to be foiled by blinding jets of murky ink.”

pink pepper, solar salicylate, incense, black ink accord, salty accord, opoponax, ambergris, benzoin, musk

Seahorse - Zoologist  

“Balmy sunlight trips across foamy turquoise waves, sending rippling haloes onto the coral below. On the lagoon floor, anemone and seaweed sway in unison, limbs pumping to the rhythm of the current. Hovering among the coral branches, a group of seahorses gazes shyly on.”

guatemala cardamom, fennel, ambrette absolute, clary sage, tuberose, neroli, algae absolute, vetiver, ambergris accord

Quintessence: Heavy, warm, creamy scents. Quintessence ghouls tend to smell comforting, and their scents reflect human creations much more often than other ghouls’.

Notes: amber, leather, chocolate, alcohol, linen, lavender, wood, milk, vanilla

Amber Witch - Alkemia

aged dark arabian amber, honey musk, creamy bourbon caramels, spiced rum

Moon Magic - Sorcellerie Apothecary 

“Smells like your favorite cozy witch.”

lavender sugar, tonka bean, chai spices, vanilla steamed milk, cashmeran, ambroxan, crystals charged by moonlight

Sailing to Byzantium - Alkemia

papyrus, leather, ink, cardamon, orris, tonka, wet tweed, precious incense woods

Novella - Alkemia

“A cozy afternoon curled up in a favorite chair…”

spiced lavender de provence, steaming earl grey tea, old paperback books 

The Old Gods Survive - PULP Fragrance 

cherry pipe tobacco, golden amber, aged leather, oakmoss, old cedar chests

Solovey - Fantôme 

black amber, crushed violets, black currants, dark espresso, labdanum, black agarwood, tobacco

(one of my favorites of all time. it smells like nighttime but magical, somehow. the amber, violets, and espresso are most noticeable and it's so good. if dark purple was a scent it would be this imo)

Fleurs Historiques et Cacao - Alkemia 

“A historical recipe from the 1700's court of Versailles created by a mistress to delight a king. A paradox of the decadent and the divine…”    

dark cacao, french lavender, piquant black cardamom pods, tea with lemon peel, grapefruit blossom, vanilla musk

thank you for reading, and i would love to hear your thoughts! (also, gentle reminder if you got this far that reblogs are very appreciated!)

[usafphantom2]

Macchi Fighters Survivors

Luigino Caliaro

Translated into English from an original research by Luigino Caliaro

Precious few Macchi fighters have survived intact and are on display today. In total, just seven of these proud Italian fighters are preserved in museums- two C.200 Saetta, two C.202 Folgore, and three C205 Veltro. Of these, two aircraft were captured by American troops and are preserved in the United States while the other five are preserved in their home country. Macchi Fighters Survivors is part of a larger editorial work by Luigino Caliaro titled Macchi Fighters: C.200 Saetta, C.202 Folgore, C.205 Veltro. This stand-alone monograph covers the development, production, technical details, and operations of these variants.

C.200 Saetta MM 8146, National Museum of the U.S. Air Force, Dayton, Ohio

C.200 USAF Museum Photo Luigino Caliaro

This fighter belonged to the 19th series produced by Breda in 90 aircraft in 1942, it was delivered to the Regia Aeronautica Italiana (Royal Italian Air Force- RAI) in June 1942 and assigned to the 372nd Squadron of the 153rd Autonomous Group at the Turin-Mirafiori Airport and subsequently transferred to North Africa where it was assigned to various other squadrons and ultimately at K3 airfield in Benghazi, Libya in November 1942. Captured by the Americans, it was shipped to the United States and displayed at numerous events and exhibitions, towards the end of the 1940s the Saetta was donated to the city of Worcester, Massachusetts.

Photo Luigino Caliaro

The wreck was purchased by a private individual who exhibited it outdoors until 1964 when he sold it to the Bradley Air Museum (New England Air Museum today) in Windsor Locks, Connecticut. At the end of the eighties, for financial reasons, the museum sold it to Jeet Mahal, a collector of artifacts for US museums who in 1989 contacted AerMacchi (Now Alenia AerMacchi) for the restoration. Thanks to the support of the Italian association A.R.E.A, the Italian company began the restoration work on the fighter at the beginning of 1990, which proved to be particularly complex considering the condition of the aircraft. However, thanks to the availability of the technical documentation and with the enthusiastic support of other volunteers and associations the aircraft was officially presented to the public on December 12, 1991, at the Venegono airport, home base of AerMacchi. Nearly a year later, the Saetta was put on display at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force in Dayton, Ohio. Although slightly different from the original paint scheme, the aircraft was restored with the original codes of aircraft 372-5 MM (Matricolo Militare, Italian for Serial Number) 8146 aircraft, the same codes applied when it was recovered on the Benghazi field by the allies.

AerMacchi C.202 MM91981, National Air and Space Museum Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC

C.202 Folgore Smithsonian Photo Luigino Caliaro

Subject to a recent article by Adam Estes (click here), this Macchi C.202, which is on display at the National Air and Space Museum Smithsonian in Washington, DC, appears to be the world’s only completely intact and original C.202 Folgore.

Captured in Sicily by American troops, it was transferred to the US and subjected to a series of flight evaluations in September 1945 by the pilots of the Army’s Air Technical Service Command at Wright and Freeman fields. Thanks to recent research by Italian historian Giovanni Massimello, the true identity of this fighter has been documented.

The fighter is AerMacchi MM91981 which was assigned to the 356th Squadron of the 21st Fighter Group (FG) with the individual code 356-8 and was captured by the Americans in good condition at Sciacca airport. After being used and repainted with the upper surfaces in a sand color, the American badges and baptized as Wacky Macchi, by some pilots of the American 31st FG. Upon being shipped to Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio the C.202, coded FE300, was used with approximate Italian colors and insignia until April 1946 with the code FE300 (later FE498) before being placed in storage.

In 1974, the then curator Robert C. Mikesh contacted AerMacchi and the SMA to obtain documentation for its restoration for public display. At the end of the works, in 1975, the fighter was exhibited with the colors of the C.202 “90-4”, a fighter belonging to the 90th Squadron of the 10th Group, 4th Wing when it was operational in Libya in the summer of 1942. Bizarrely it was applied the MM9476 (belonging to a fighter of the IX Series assigned to the 54th Wing, while originally the C.202 90-4 had the MM7795 belonging to the II Production Series). Again, to read the story of this fighter, read Adam Estes’ “The Smithsonian’s Italian Thunderbolt.”

Breda AerMacchi C.200 “Saetta” MM 5311, MUSAM- Museo Storico dell’Aeronautica Militare – Vigna di Valle (Roma)

Macchi C.200 Museo Aeronautica Militare Photo Luigino Caliaro

Preserved at the Museo Storico dell’Aeronautica Militare (Italian Air Force Museum- MUSAM) in Vigna di Valle, this C.200 was assigned to the 93rd Squadron of the 8th Group and after the Armistice, the non-airworthy fighter was assigned to a technical school as an instructional airframe. A peculiarity of the aircraft is that it is equipped with wings with a sharp leading edge, typical of the first examples of construction. In 1961, the aircraft was recovered by the Air Force to be exhibited at various demonstrations and events organized by the Historical Museum. In September 1975 it was temporarily painted as 92-01 to commemorate the activity of the 8th Group on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the establishment of the 2nd Wing.

C.200 Museo Aeronautica Militare Photo Luigino Caliaro

Subjected to a further restoration in Lecce at the III Aircraft Technical Department in 1976, it emerged with the livery of a C.200 used by the 359th Squadron of the 22nd Autonomous Group which operated in Russia. The paint scheme was only partially correct, but it was corrected it in 1995, thanks to the work of the personnel of the 51st Stormo that restored the aircraft by applying a faithful livery belonging to a wartime Saetta of the 369th Squadron of the 22nd Gruppo Autonomo.

Breda AerMacchi C.202 MM 9667 – MUSAM- Museo Storico dell’Aeronautica Militare – Vigna di Valle (Roma)

Macchi C.202 Folgore Museo Aeronautica Militare Photo Luigino Caliaro

Also displayed at MUSAM, this second C.202 was delivered in March 1943 to the 86th Squadron of the 7th Group/54th Stormo and the 208th Squadron of the 101st Group 5th Wing of the Co-Belligerent Regia Aeronautica in spring 1944. In December 1946 this Folgore was assigned to the 3rd Group of the Flight School of Lecce, with the individual code “63”, until it was stricken in 1948. Subsequently, the aircraft was assigned, first to the Naval Academy of Livorno and then to the Department of Aerospace Engineering of the University of Pisa. In the 1970s the aircraft was recovered by the Collection and Restoration Center of the MUSAM which sent it to Lecce to be restored by the III R.T.A. Today the Folgore is painted to represent the personal aircraft of Lt. Giulio Reiner, commander of 73rd Squadron of the 9th Group of the 4th Wing, based at Fuka Airport in July 1942.

Unfortunately, the various restoration tasks were not carried out with the utmost fidelity, and today the aircraft presents some substantial differences compared to the original fighter. One of the most visible defects is given by the propeller spinner which was poorly reproduced, thus altering the original sleek line of the fighter. Another problem is located in the wings, which were missing when the aircraft was recovered. To proceed with their reconstruction, a left-half wing of a C.200 was recovered at the AerMacchi factory which was used as a pattern for the reconstruction of the right wing. The rounded leading edge was correctly fitted but the ailerons were not modified and remained the ones of the C.200. Furthermore when reproducing the missing wing, it was not taken into account that originally the Macchi wings had different lengths to counteract the torque effect generated by the rotation of the propeller and therefore the current wingspan of the Folgore is about twenty centimeters shorter than to what it should have been.

C.205 Macchi C.200 Museo Aeronautica Militare Photo Luigino Caliaro

Breda AerMacchi C.202/205V “Veltro” MM 9546, MUSAM- Museo Storico dell’Aeronautica Militare – Vigna di Valle (Roma)

Macchi C.205 Veltro Museo Aeronautica Militare Photo Luigino Caliaro

The MUSAM is also home to one of the 100 C.202s that was subsequently converted to the C.205 standard. Originally in service with the 81st Squadron of the 6th Group, 1st Wing, this Veltro was taken over by the 155th Group of the 51st Wing following the Armistice. After various further assignments to squadrons of the Cobelligerent Air Force, it was damaged in Albania on September 15, 1944, with Sergeant Major Moressi of the 93rd Squadron of the 8th Group, 5th Stormo. Once repaired, it remained in service until May 1948 it was assigned to the 3rd Group of the Lecce Flight School, where it remained until December 1949, when it was sent to Macchi for conversion to a C.205 Veltro due to a possible acquisition by Egypt. When that order failed to materialize it was returned to Lecce where it remained until its retirement on July 1, 1952.

Exhibited at the Turin Flight Museum without livery and with only the tricolor roundels, it was subsequently transferred to Vigna di Valle, restored for the first time by the 3rd RTA of Lecce and in February 1994 by the specialists of the 4th RMV of Grosseto, who painted it with the livery of a Veltro of the 97th Squadriglia of the 9th Group of the 4th Stormo, with the codes 97-2 and with the original MM. 9546.

Breda AerMacchi C.202/205V “Veltro” MM 91818, Museo Nazionale della Scienza e della Tecnologia – Milano

C.202 205 Musep della Scienza e della Tecnica Photo Luigino Caliaro

The C.205 exhibited at the Museo Nazionale della Scienza e della Tecnologia (National Museum of Science and Technology) in Milan also appears to be the conversion of a C.202, MM91818 to be specific. Following an initial posting to the 386th Squadron of the 21st Group of the 51st Stormo, it was assigned to various squadrons of the 4th Wing and then to the 209th Squadron of the 102nd Group of the 5th Wing. In 1946, it was assigned to the 3rd Group at the Lecce Flight School, where it operated until July 1, 1948. Like the previous C.205, this fighter was also part of the failed Egyptian order and was returned to the Lecce Flight School. After its retirement from active duty in the early 50s, the aircraft was assigned to the to the “Malignani” Technical Institute where the engine was reportedly run by students on a regular basis. In 1980, the aircraft was recovered by Macchi and turned over to a group of elderly specialists and technicians with the task of returning it to airworthy status. It was a particularly complex project where many components had to be built from scratch, but thanks to the support of other aeronautical companies such as FIAT Avio, which overhauled the engine, Oleodinamica Magnaghi, Itala and Secondo Mona, the dream of many enthusiasts finally came true when the Veltro took to the skies again on September 26, 1980.

C.202 205 Musep della Scienza e della Tecnica Photo Luigino Caliaro 3

The civil registration l-MCVE was applied to the aircraft and the camouflage chosen for the aircraft was similar to that of the C.205 of the 4th Wing which, piloted by Maj. Carlo Maurizio Ruspoli. In the following months the C.205 was proudly exhibited at numerous air shows in Italy and abroad by Macchi test pilots Cecconello and Durione, but unfortunately the fighter was seriously damaged in a take-off accident on July 23, 1986. The C.205 has been repainted as MM9327 (81-5) belonging to the 81st Squadron of the 6th Group 1st Wing in May 1943. However, the livery is not exactly correct, since that serial number corresponds to a Veltro of the 1st Series without the wing cannons.

AerMacchi C.205V “Veltro” MM 92166 – LEONARDO – Aermacchi -Venegono Superiore (VA)

C.205 Veltro Aermacchi Leonardo Photo Luigino Caliaro

This aircraft is the only original C.205 and it’s currently displayed at the entrance of the Aermacchi office building in Venegono (VA) now Leonardo. However, its true origin is in doubt since the fuselage denotes some characteristics typical of the C.202 Folgore, such as a fixed tail wheel and radio access panel of the same shape as those of a late C.202. Nonetheless, taking the serial number 92166 as valid, this Veltro was delivered to the Regia Aeronautica on July 15, 1943, and assigned to 360th Squadron and 378th Squadron of the 155th Group of the 51st Wing with the individual code 378-2. Historical research indicates that this C.205 shot down an American P-40 fighter on July 22, 1943, and on August 2, 1943, Lieutenant Dini intercepted a claimed B-26 Marauder off Capo Carbonara in Sardinia.

C.205 Veltro airworthy

After the Armistice, it was assigned to the 51st Wing until its transfer to the Lecce Flying School in the spring of 1945. Retired in 1959, MM92166 was exhibited at various airshows in a metallic finish without insignias. In 1973, the aircraft was sold to the National Museum of Science and Technology in Milan. It was preserved in the new Air and Sea Transport pavilion sporting the bare aluminum fuselage and still with the pods under the wings. In 1988, an agreement was signed between Macchi and the Museo Nazionale della Scienza e della Tecnologia of in Milan, for the exchange of the museums’ respective Macchi C.205, with Macchi obtaining this only Veltro built at its factory. Following the exchange, the fighter was subjected to a thorough overhaul and restored to airworthy status, but it’s never again seen air under its wings.

AerMacchi C.200 “Saetta” MM not identified, Museo Aeronautico “Gianni Caproni” – Trento

C.200 Fusealage Caproni Museo Foto Luigino Caliaro

The Gianni Caproni Aeronautical Museum in Trento has a pair of fuselage sections, recovered from an aviation enthusiast in Bologna in the early 70s, having purchased them from the University’s Faculty of Aeronautical Engineering. After being offered to AerMacchi, the wrecks were purchased by the Caproni Museum.

Although the identity of the aircraft remains unknown, it is hypothesized that it could be one of the two C.200s of the 8th Group which were to be handed over to the Allies after the Armistice. It is presumed that during the transfer flight, one of the pilots made an emergency landing not far from his home in the Marche region. The dismantled fighter was hidden disassembled by the pilot and returned after the war to the Air Force which probably gave it to the local College’s Engineering Faculty. In 1992, in anticipation of its exhibition at the new headquarters of the Caproni Museum in Trento, an attempt was made to reconstruct the fuselage, but this was not possible due to the complexity of the work. The restoration work on the fuselage revealed the original codes of the aircraft, 91-4 relating to the 92nd Squadron of the 8th Autonomous Group in 1943. Further analysis revealed the individual number 86 which confirmed that the fighter was used by the 86th Squadron of the 7th Group of the 54th Wing. An important detail was the discovery of part of the 54th Wing’s badge, represented by a tiger’s head. After painstaking restoration work which started at the end of 2010 what remains of the aircraft was exhibited in the main hall of the Caproni Museum at the Trento Mattarello airport.

Museo dellaeronautica Militare Italian Air FOrce Museum Vigna Di Valle Phot my Museum Staff22

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[lightandwinged]

Fact #1: my husband and I are poly.

Fact #2: my husband’s girlfriend is Nigerian and currently lives in Nigeria while my husband and I live in Massachusetts.

Fact #3: because my husband and I live in Massachusetts, our house doesn’t have central air conditioning. It’s only really used from late May until September every year so we just have a couple of window units we put in on the first day that I, on several medications dedicated to making me feel like overcooked noodles, feel overheated.

This year, that first day was yesterday. My husband and I went out for lunch and some errands and when we got home, I was so exhausted and overheated that I couldn’t really move, so he got me a grape popsicle (yay!) and went to install the window units. Once they were installed and we’d both basked in their cool air for a minute or two, he called his girlfriend to brag about his accomplishment because the window units are annoyingly heavy and require some finagling to get in place.

And she was baffled and wanted to see the fruits of his labor so he took the phone outside to video call her.

About five minutes later, he came back inside, still on the video call, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, not able to explain, and his girlfriend exclaiming at us with a mixture of concern and derision, “HOW DO YOU WHITE PEOPLE LIVE??? THAT IS THE MOST BROKE ASS SHIT I HAVE EVER SEEN!!”

Which also caused me to break down laughing too hard to breathe bc looking at our window units, that’s entirely fair.

[rjzimmerman]

Massachusetts Land Trust to Tackle Affordable Housing and Land Conservation in One Project. (Sierra Club)

Excerpt from this story from Sierra Club:

In Easthampton, Massachusetts, there isn’t much open land left. The area’s housing shortage means that most unprotected areas are attractive lots for real estate developers to add stock to this post-industrial artist’s haven, where old mill buildings house studios turning out pottery and paintings and new restaurants and microbreweries. The skyrocketing demand for housing then prices out land conservationists who aim to protect wildlife and air and water quality, and connect residents with nature. A new project in the city seeks to overcome the either-or narrative between sprawling cul-de-sacs and conservation, a shift rippling throughout the conservation movement. On a 53-acre parcel of land in this former mill town, Kestrel Land Trust will conserve 42 acres and will work with a partner organization to develop the other 11 acres into affordable housing. 

“We’re dealing with a climate crisis, a biodiversity crisis, and a housing crisis all at the same time,” said Mark Wamsely, conservation director at Kestrel Land Trust. “The effectiveness of the projects—both in terms of addressing the various crises as well as their practicality and feasibility—might be better if we focus on all of them at the same time.”

In recent years, land trusts across the country have begun to reevaluate their historically narrow missions, which prioritize traditional land conservation, and to consider how they can better serve all members of their community. As workers at land trusts began to watch local residents and their own colleagues struggle to afford housing, this shift in priorities has increasingly led to more collaboration between conservation land trusts and affordable housing organizations. Kestrel received an anonymous donation specifically earmarked for such collaboration. 

“I think [the donor] was reading the tea leaves in this particular community,” Wamsely said. 

Conservation land trusts acquire and manage land or conservation easements, which are agreements between landowners and trusts, or governments, that put permanent protections on land. Some critics say this takes land needed for housing out of circulation, thus worsening a housing crisis that disproportionately impacts marginalized groups. Collaboration between conservation land trusts and affordable housing groups is sometimes difficult due to past disagreements and cultural differences between the two groups. 

Most of the housing options in Easthampton are large farm houses or old mill housing in poor condition, Mayor Nicole LaChapelle said. A report published in 2021 found that more than half the renters in the area are “cost burdened” and spend more than the recommended 30 percent of their income on housing, but longtime residents were hesitant to support developments that changed the city’s small-town feel. In order to maintain a sustainable local economy, LaChapelle’s administration knew it needed to look for new, innovative opportunities for affordable housing upon taking office, when Kestrel’s novel plan landed on her desk. 

Kestrel’s partner in this new mission is the Community Builders, a national nonprofit that develops and manages affordable housing. It already owns a senior living community adjacent to the parcel earmarked for this collaboration, allowing for intergenerational connection, in addition to the other benefits of the project.

Kestrel’s conservation acreage will protect forests, floodplains, and a tributary of the Connecticut River, while the Community Builders will develop 87 affordable rental units. The low-income housing tax credit will help finance the project, making the units affordable to people making 60 percent of the area’s median income or less. Residents will pay 30 percent of their monthly income for rent.

[deadpresidents]

The Elegant Mr. Arthur

It was about two hours after midnight on September 20, 1881, and not unusual for the resident of 123 Lexington Avenue in New York City to be awake at such a late hour or to have plenty of guests. In fact, he preferred to keep late hours, entertaining friends deep into the night with late-night dinner, drinks, and endless conversation. Yet, on this night, 123 Lexington Avenue was somber and the mood was grave. Just a few hours earlier -- at 11:30 PM -- a messenger knocked on the door of Vice President Chester Alan Arthur's Manhattan brownstone and handed Arthur a telegram. Surrounded by a few friends and colleagues, Arthur read that President James Garfield, just 49 years old and in office for almost exactly 200 days, had died at a beach cottage rough 60 miles away, in Elberon, New Jersey. Turning to his friends in his sitting room, Arthur said, "I hope -- my God, I do hope it is a mistake."

On July 2nd, President Garfield was shot twice and seriously wounded by Charles Guiteau as he walked through the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad Station in Washington, D.C. with Secretary of State James G. Blaine and Secretary of War Robert Todd Lincoln (son of Abraham Lincoln), en route to a speaking engagement at his alma mater, Williams College in Massachusetts. Guiteau was a disgruntled, disturbed, and delusional office-seeker who had been pleading for an appointment as consul to Paris despite an absence of diplomatic or political experience and a complete lack of qualifications. Hounding Garfield throughout the early months of an Administration that had just begun on March 4, 1881, Guiteau's constant harassment of the new President finally resulted in Secretary Blaine ordering Guiteau to never return to the White House again. Guiteau felt that he had been entitled to some office, particularly a high-profile ambassadorship, and was terribly upset that Garfield and his Cabinet members refused to consider his requests. Blaine's order to stay away drove Guiteau to purchase an ivory-handled .44 British Bulldog revolver (specifically chosen because Guiteau felt that particular firearm would look good in a museum) and he began stalking Garfield throughout Washington before finally shooting him in the rail station two days before Independence Day 1881. As police arrested him, Guiteau shouted, "I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts...Arthur is President now!"

But, Arthur wasn't President; not yet at least. Garfield was a physically robust man and relatively young in comparison to most Presidents. Although one bullet had lodged in Garfield's spine, the other bullet grazed his arm and caused no significant damage. While it appeared that he was gravely immediately following the shooting, Garfield's vital signs soon started to improve and the American people began to get their hopes up about a full recovery. A vigil of sorts was underway as President Garfield convalesced in the White House, and his doctors issued regular bulletins updating his condition. Garfield's doctors also poked and prodded with unsterilized instruments and dirty fingers to attempt to locate the bullet still inside of the President's body. Had they left it alone, Garfield almost certainly would have survived; his wounds were significantly less dangerous than those survived by Ronald Reagan 100 years later. However, the unnecessary poking and prodding resulted in a serious infection that ravaged Garfield's body, weakened his heart, and left the muscular, 215-pound President emaciated and weighing less than 135 pounds. After fighting for his life in the sweltering summer heat of Washington, on September 6th it was finally decided to transport Garfield to a cottage on the Jersey Shore in hopes that he could benefit from the fresh ocean air. Sadly, it was too late. The infections were accompanied by blood poisoning and pneumonia, among other ailments. On September 19th, at 10:35 PM, Garfield suffered a massive heart attack and was pronounced dead. In the 79 days since he had been shot, Garfield had lost over 80 pounds and the 49-year-old President's dark brown hair and beard had turned a ghastly white color. An hour later, the messenger arrived at 123 Lexington Avenue.

•••

The Vice Presidency was a stretch. Chet Arthur of New York as Vice President? When offered the Republican Vice Presidential nomination by James Garfield in 1880, Chester Arthur was urged by his political mentor, the leader of the Stalwart branch of the Republican Party, Senator Roscoe Conkling of New York, to decline the appointment. Arthur, a man who had never spent a day in Congress or been elected to any office at any level, couldn't turn down such an unexpected opportunity. He accepted the nomination and was elected alongside Garfield in November 1880, but most of the country (rightfully) saw Arthur as the poster boy for a machine politician elevated by the spoils system. The Vice Presidency was certainly a stretch for Chester Arthur, but President of the United States? That was an almost frightening thought to a nation still recovering from Civil War and desperately seeking civil service reform, especially now that a disgruntled office-seeker has assassinated the President. The idea of Arthur as President left a lot of Americans worried -- some because Arthur's political background was as the powerful and somewhat shady Collector of the Port of New York, appointed during the controversial Administration of President Ulysses S. Grant and eventually fired by President Rutherford B. Hayes during a housecleaning of corrupt institutions; and some because James Garfield's murderer had claimed to be a Stalwart and, by his own words, insinuated that Garfield's shooting might be a conspiracy on behalf of Arthur's faction of the divided Republican Party.

Chester Arthur was a creature of the era known as the "Gilded Age" and was the symbolic mascot for the widespread corruption of the 1870's due to his position at the Port of New York. Born in Vermont in 1829, Arthur was the son of a preacher and grew up mostly in upstate New York, graduated from Schenectady's Union College in 1848, briefly taught school was studying law, and was admitted to the bar in 1854. As his law practice grew in the 1850's, Arthur immersed himself in New York Republican politics yet never ran for office. A political appointee to the New York State Militia, he found himself serving during the Civil War and his superb organizational skills led to quick promotions all the way to quartermaster general in 1862, a position which carried the rank of brigadier. As a political appointee to the militia, however, Arthur served at the pleasure of the Governor of New York and was forced to resign in 1862 when a Democratic Governor took office. Returning to New York City, Arthur resumed his law practice and political gamesmanship. More appointments came his way as he supported Republican candidates throughout the state and worked on national campaigns such as President Lincoln's 1864 bid for re-election and Ulysses S. Grant's 1868 Presidential campaign.

In 1871, President Grant appointed Arthur as Collector of customs at the Port of New York, which gave Arthur responsibility for about 75% of the nation's customs duties and was one of the most powerful patronage positions available in the United States government. Arthur used his office to efficiently raise money for Republican campaigns and candidates, supporting President Grant's 1872 re-election campaign by seeking contributions from his employees at the customhouse. In 1876, Arthur championed his political mentor, Roscoe Conkling, for the Republican Presidential nomination, but supported Rutherford B. Hayes in the general election, once again using the employees at the customhouse to help raise money to finance the successful Republican campaign. However, once Hayes was elected, the new President made it clear that he was serious about civil service reform and that meant reforming Arthur's customhouse, too. In 1877, Arthur testified before the Jay Commission, which was formed to investigate charges of corruption and eventually recommended that President Hayes reduce the workforce of the customhouse and eliminate the corrupt elements that had worked there for so long. Due to Arthur's longtime support of the Republican Party, President Hayes offered him an appointment as consul in Paris in order to quietly remove him from the Port of New York. When Arthur refused the appointment, the President fired him and Arthur resumed his law practice in New York City (Hayes intended to replace Arthur with Theodore Roosevelt, Sr. -- father of the future President -- but Conkling felt insulted by Hayes's termination of Arthur and worked to kill Roosevelt's appointment during his Senate confirmation ).

When Arthur headed to the 1880 Republican National Convention at the Interstate Exposition Building in Chicago, it was as a New York delegate supporting the aspirations of former President Ulysses S. Grant who was coming out of retirement to seek an unprecedented third term. However, neither of the front-runners for the nomination -- Grant and Senator James G. Blaine of Maine -- could capture enough votes from delegates to clinch the nomination. After thirty-five ballots, Blaine and another prospective candidate, John Sherman of Ohio, threw their support behind a dark horse candidate -- Ohio Congressman James A. Garfield. On the next ballot, Garfield clinched the nomination and reached out to the opposing wing of the Republican Party for his Vice Presidential choice. The first choice, Levi P. Morton of New York (who would later serve as President Benjamin Harrison's Vice President) declined Garfield's offer, and Arthur -- who had never previously held an elective office -- excitedly accepted, much to the chagrin of his angry political mentor, Roscoe Conkling. Not confident in Garfield's chances for election, Conkling told Arthur, "You should drop it as you would a red hot shot from the forge." Arthur replied, "There is something else to be said," and Conkling asked in disbelief, "What, sir, you think of accepting?" Despite the complaints and anger of Conkling, Arthur told him, "The office of Vice President is a greater honor than I have ever dreamed of attaining. I shall accept. In a calmer moment you will look at this differently."

Following the election, Arthur prepared to settle into the quiet role of Vice President during the 19th Century. The Vice President of the United States has only one real Constitutional responsibility -- to preside over the Senate, and even that responsibility is normally delegated to Senators who rotate as presiding officer almost daily. The powerful or even influential American Vice Presidency is a fairly recent evolution, not even 50 years old. While some Vice Presidents were relied upon for advice or counsel or given larger duties than others, most Vice Presidents were so far removed from the Executive Branch that they were not only kept out of the decision-making process but also kept in the dark about certain information. For example, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt died towards the end of World War II in April 1945 and was succeeded by his Vice President, Harry S. Truman, the new President Truman had to be quickly briefed about the existence of the Manhattan Project to develop atomic weaponry. The first Vice President to have an office in the White House was Walter Mondale and that didn't occur until 1977, so in 1881, a Vice President was expected to preside over the Senate on special occasions, cast a tie-breaking vote when necessary, and be available to take the oath of office if the President happened to die or resign.

Like most 19th Century Vice Presidents, Chester Arthur didn't even spend much time in Washington, and he was returning to his regular home in New York City on July 2, 1881 when he stepped off a steamship with Roscoe Conkling and was told that President Garfield had been shot. In fact, the first message that Arthur received erroneously reported that Garfield was already dead and at the request of Garfield's Cabinet, the stunned Vice President immediately returned to Washington, D.C. to proceed with the next steps necessary for maintaining the continuity of government. When Arthur arrived in Washington, President Garfield's condition had improved and his recovery continued to show signs of promise as the Vice President and the nation prayed for him and held vigil throughout the summer. Shaken by rumors that he and his "Stalwart" wing of the Republican Party conspired to assassinate Garfield, Arthur returned home to New York City, hesitant to invite criticism that his continued presence in Washington was merely an eager deathwatch so that he could grab power.

Garfield clung to life for eighty excruciating days with doctors probing him in an effort to remove the bullet in his body, causing infections and leaving the President suffering from blood poisoning which led him to hallucinate at times. The Navy helped rig together an early form of air conditioning in Garfield's White House sickroom in order to give him relief from Washington's stifling summer conditions. When Garfield was taken by train to New Jersey in early-September, it was clear to many that the long vigil was nearly over. More infections set in, along with pneumonia and painful spasms of angina. When the messenger arrived at 123 Lexington Avenue just before midnight on September 20, 1881 to inform Arthur that President Garfield had died just 60 miles away, the new President wasn't surprised, but he also wasn't quite prepared. The nation worried about the lifetime political operative stepping into the position vacated by the promising President assassinated before he could enact the civil service reforms promised in his Inaugural Address. What would Arthur -- the quintessential patronage politician -- do as President? Nobody knew, but Chester Alan Arthur had an idea.

•••

It was fitting that Arthur was surrounded by friends when he took the oath of office at his home in Manhattan at 2:15 AM on September 20, 1881. Arthur's beautiful wife, Nell, died of pneumonia in January 1880 and he was inconsolable for months, regretting for the rest of the life the fact that she never saw his election as Vice President or ascendancy to the Presidency. People who knew Arthur stated that he clearly never fully recovered from her death, and that as a "deeply emotional...romantic person," it was no surprise that he ordered that fresh flowers were placed before her portrait in the White House every day while he was President.

Chester Arthur had a lot of friends. That's what happens when you control as many patronage positions as Arthur controlled for as long as Arthur controlled them. But it wasn't just his political position that gained him friends. Arthur was a great storyteller, a man who loved to hunt and fish, kind, easy-going, charming, graceful, and smooth. During his life he was nicknamed "Elegant Arthur" and is considered one of the most stylish of Presidents. Photographs of Presidents from the 19th Century show us men no different than statues. They dressed the same, they looked the same, and when portrayed in the black and white photos of the time, we feel no differently when we see their pictures than when we see a slab of marble carved in their image. Arthur leaps out of his photographs, however. He was a very large man for his era, standing 6'2" and weighing around 220 pounds during his Presidency. Large muttonchops connected to a bushy mustache and his close-cropped, wavy brown hair seemed to pull back his forehead and place more emphasis on expressive black eyes that easily reflected his moods. While it seems that most Presidents of the 19th Century wore the same boring black suit and black tie like a uniform, Arthur's ties are patterned, his jewelry is visible, collars are crisp, handkerchiefs are folded creatively, and his lapels shine as if they were polished along with his shoes. We see photographs of Arthur in fashionable overcoats, a wide variety of hats, and he employed a personal valet who helped the President change clothes for every occasion and multiple times a day -- he was said to have over 80 pairs of pants.

Most apparent of all is that Arthur was a gentleman -- an interesting man with superb social skills and fastidious manners. Even as one of the top operatives in New York's Republican political machine of the corrupt 1870's, he was nicknamed the "Gentleman Boss." As President, he brought entertainment back to the White House -- something that had been missing on a large scale since before the Civil War twenty years earlier. One of his recent predecessors, Rutherford B. Hayes, was one of the few critics of this development, stating that there was "nothing like it before in the Executive Mansion -- liquor, snobbery, and worse." Arthur also redecorated the White House, hiring Louis Comfort Tiffany to help with the design. To help raise money for the redecoration, Arthur basically held a White House yard sale. On the lawn of the mansion, twenty-four wagons full of history (including a pair of Abraham Lincoln's pants that were left behind in a closet) were sold to citizens. To some, the items were priceless; to President Arthur, they were ugly and a man like Chester Arthur did not live in an ugly home. Several weeks after Garfield died, Arthur got his first look at his new home and quickly stated, "I will not live in a house like this." He didn't end up moving into the White House until three months into his Presidency.

•••

After taking the oath of office at home in Manhattan in the early hours of September 20, 1881, now-President Arthur proceeded to Washington, D.C., stopping in Long Branch, New Jersey to pay respects to the late President Garfield and his grieving family. Once Arthur succeeded to the Presidency upon Garfield's death, there was no Vice President, no president pro tempore of the Senate, and no Speaker of the House because Congress had not elected its leadership yet, thus, there was no Constitutional line of succession. If something had happened to Arthur at that moment, the United States would have faced an unprecedented Constitutional crisis. As his first act as President, Arthur immediately called the Senate into session in order to select their leadership positions and place someone in the line of succession. Upon arriving in Washington, Attorney General Wayne MacVeagh suggested that Arthur take a second oath of office and he did so at the U.S. Capitol on September 22nd in the presence of Garfield's Cabinet, members of Congress, Supreme Court Justices, and former Presidents Grant and Hayes.

Americans worried about the former machine politician's integrity were transformed quickly as Chester Arthur underwent somewhat of a transformation himself. Widely considered a lapdog of New York's Roscoe Conkling, Arthur broke ranks with the party boss and pushed for the same civil service reform championed by James Garfield prior to the assassination. Arthur's former associates in the New York Republican Party were disappointed when he declined their requests for political favors. One former colleague sadly reported, "He isn't 'Chet' Arthur anymore. He's the President." Arthur found that the transformation was almost automatic and out of his control, noting that "Since I came here I have learned that Chester A. Arthur is one man and the President of the United States is another." His old benefactor, Conkling, was one critic of the new President, complaining "I have but one annoyance with the Administration of President Arthur and that is, in contrast with it, the Administration of Hayes becomes respectable, if not heroic." Arthur signed the Pendleton Act in 1883 which created a modern civil service system and eliminated the spoils system that had long dominated American politics. The reform, which Conkling called "snivel service" was the final break between the longtime friends and colleagues.

To the American people, the great surprise of the Arthur Administration was the fact that it was clean, honest, and efficient. Arthur helped lift the gloomy moods that had shadowed Washington through the Civil War, Lincoln's assassination, Andrew Johnson's Impeachment, Reconstruction, the corruption of the Gilded Age, and Garfield's assassination. His popularity rose throughout his term and most critics focused on his lavish entertainment or the fact that he was notoriously late for meetings and seemed bored or lethargic at times. He often procrastinated -- as a White House clerk once said, "President Arthur never did today what he could put off until tomorrow." Still, most Americans were happy with President Arthur and echoed the thoughts of Mark Twain who said, "I am but one in 55 million; still, in the opinion of those one-fifty-five-millionth of the country's population, it would be hard to better President Arthur's Administration."

He was bored, though. President Arthur didn't like being President. He enjoyed the entertaining dinners that he could throw and loved public events or ceremonies that allowed him to meet the people of the United States, but the desk work was tedious and he wasn't interested in policy. Arthur stayed up late and seemed to vacation often, which perplexed many people because it was said that he was constantly exhausted. What they didn't know was that from almost the time he became President, Chester Arthur was dying. In 1882, he was diagnosed with Bright's disease, a fatal kidney ailment at the time. Despite reports that he was suffering from the disease, Arthur hid it from the public, desperately protecting his privacy, as always. Arthur's distaste for the Presidency probably stemmed in part from depression triggered by the Bright's disease. At times, Arthur suffered from debilitating illness and it was always covered with a story about the President catching a cold during a fishing trip or spending too much time in the sun while hunting. In a letter to his son Alan in 1883, the President confided, "I have been so ill that I have hardly been able to dispose of the...business before me."

Despite his popularity, Republican leaders opposed Arthur's nomination as President in his own right in 1884. The man who opposed it most, however, was the President himself, who stated "I do not want to be re-elected." Not only was he disinterested in a second term, but he knew very well that there was a possibility he might not even survive to the end of his current term. He did, and after attending the inauguration of his successor, Grover Cleveland, on March 4, 1885, Arthur returned home to New York City where his health rapidly declined. The former President was aware that he was dying and made plans for a relatively quiet retirement, deciding to practice law, but doing very little work due to his health. When asked about his future, Arthur said, "There doesn't seem anything for an ex-President to do but to go out in the country and raise big pumpkins." On November 16, 1886, Arthur suffered a stroke that paralyzed his left side. Gravely ill, he called his son to his bedside the day before his death and had all of his public and private papers stuffed into trash cans and burned. On November 18, 1886, the 57-year-old former President died in the same place he became President just five years earlier, 123 Lexington Avenue in New York City. After a quiet funeral at the Church of Heavenly Rest on Fifth Avenue in New York, Arthur's remains were buried next to his beloved wife at Rural Cemetery in Albany, New York.

•••

When President Arthur had many of his personal papers burned prior to his death, he eliminated one of the best sources of information for future historians. With a thin resume and a fairly uneventful Presidency, there wasn't much public information about his career, either. This leaves us with very little to remember Chester Alan Arthur by. Research on his life -- particularly his personal life -- is difficult, and Arthur would have appreciated that. During his Presidency, leaders of the temperance movement called on Arthur and urged him to follow the non-alcoholic lifestyle led by President Hayes and his teetotaler wife, who was known as "Lemonade Lucy."

Arthur's response: "Madam, I may be President of the United States, but my private life is nobody's damn business."

And so it isn't.

[runwayrunway]

I was recently surprised to see this livery while boarding, and snapped a pic. Apparently enough people asked the crew questions to the effect of "Why is the plane yellow?" as we were boarding that the captain explained it during his take off announcements. Turns out we were on 'New Mexico One' (N8655D).

Maybe they were worried they accidentally got on a Spirit flight. Happens to the best of us. (Also, knowing pilots I think there's a legitimate chance he was excited about it himself and would have brought it up no matter what.)

This is your girl! This is actually New Mexico 1.2.0 - the New Mexico One livery is the fifth Southwest state livery, and one of the first special liveries they had full stop.

Southwest Airlines has had a lot of special liveries. The documentation is incomplete, but they have a timeline for them up to 2013 publicly available. It turns out there were at least three Shamu jets (unfortunately I cannot find the purported pictures of Herb Kelleher in a penguin suit), and that my guess was right - their first state-themed livery was a Texas one to commemorate their origin as an intrastate carrier.

Since then, they've released quite a few more in honor of some of their more-served or milestone states. The states with special liveries are Arizona; California; Colorado; Florida; Hawai'i; Illinois; Louisiana; Maryland; Missouri; Nevada; New Mexico; Tennessee; and of course Texas. These really vary in level of detail and inspiration, and I definitely have no desire or plans to do a massive joint post on them all. That is thirteen liveries. But there's one or two that have been hanging out on the distant fringes of my interest and one (Colorado One) has already been requested, so if anyone particularly wants to see any of them covered just know I am treating them as full, separate, self-contained liveries even though they're technically sort of a set. It just doesn't make any sense to do it any other way.

(I never want to see a Massachusetts One. The concept is actively repellant to me.)

Most of Southwest's special liveries have 'one' at the end, like Air Force One, you know, it's the famous plane, Air Force One, they made a film about it with Harrison Ford in. I do think hypothetically the implication of 'New Mexico One' would be a plane transporting the governor of New Mexico, but, well, that's their name scheme.

image: Southwest Airlines

This is the original New Mexico One, N781WN. Thanks to the information Southwest provides on its website for once I know the exact date a livery was debuted - 18th September, 2000. I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that this picture is younger than me, because it looks incredibly crunchy and vintage, like it couldn't have been taken later than 1985. I have a Polaroid SX-70 that was kept in working condition by a relative and it takes cleaner-looking pictures. It must have been taken very early on in the livery's lifetime because when Canyon Blue was introduced the tailfin was updated to match. As with all Southwest's special liveries - the tailfins remain untouched from the default.

image: Eddie Maloney

The initial iteration with the mustard-yellow and red tail looks very nice, seamless with the main body. Although the placement of the name on the fin is quite subdued and against the ethos of the low-cost carrier it is in the case of special liveries useful, making the interaction of the wordmark with the main design a non-issue. Part of me really wishes that they'd kept the old colors for longer or maybe even done custom schemes for the stripes on each of their special liveries, because the blue looks pretty out-of-place on the New Mexico livery. I'll be completely honest, I also think the older, more angular shape of the stripes suits the similarly geometric bulk of the design while the modern incarnation - the haphazardly placed little wordmark with no natural home on the tail, the fin which looks like it was removed from a wholly different plane - is just sort of generally worse than the original state. The use of a minimally-altered tailfin with a crammed-on wordmark does seem to be something about which Southwest is unwilling to negotiate, though, and I guess that's what I'm going to have to live with.

(...generally, I do have to live with all the liveries I discuss here, until the magical day that someone at a massive company decides that the opinions of a blog with under 1,000 followers are something they want to capitulate to.)

The basis of the livery is extremely straightforward. It's...the flag of New Mexico. This is a fantastic starting point. The New Mexico flag is my favorite of the US states' - though, to be fair, that's damning by faint praise in the extreme. Just based on the sorts of people I've met I feel like at least a few followers of this blog will have particularly vivid opinions about vexillology, but it doesn't take someone with the level of investment I have in liveries to know that most US state flags are just absurdly poorly designed. New Mexico's flag is not just acceptable but good.

Yellow and red aren't uncommon colors in flags, but the complete absence of very popular choices like blue and white definitely is striking. Unlike many US state flags, which are morasses of complex and jumbled iconography, it contains only one image - the sun symbol of the indigenous Zia (Tsi’ya) Pueblo group. Unfortunately, not only was the design not suggested by Zia individuals but it was used without the group's knowledge or consent, and there has been an ongoing discussion about this being properly acknowledged by the state - a good summary, albeit from 2012, is this El Palacio article written by the Zia Pueblo administrator.

I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Southwest actually did consult the Zia, including administrator and author of the above article Peter Pino. A contemporary news release from Southwest even discusses Zia children performing a Crow Dance as part of the ceremony. I was able to find a photograph of this in a blog post by a Southwest employee.

So safe to say people were pretty excited about this livery! Southwest's state liveries tend to be pretty beloved by the people from said state, as far as I can tell.

N781WN was retired earlier this year and sometime in the late summer the livery was repainted onto N8655D. The livery is largely unchanged except for the fact that it's on a longer plane now.

Anyway, I like New Mexico One. Not terribly much happens here in the way of detail so there's not much to say about it but I like the way it's placed at a sort of angle instead of just smacked in the middle of the plane directly above the wings or something. The fact that there's some yellow and red in the tail prevents it from looking as bad as it could (and definitely does on other state liveries) even though I kind of really genuinely dislike the wordmark placement like a lot. I'm not sure how they could have done it better. I just think if you're making it that small and out-of-the-way you could honestly just go without. Not like there's even one other plane flying around with this livery.

Why is the inside of the winglets totally bare? I can't be the only one that thinks that's strange, can I?

I'll give her a C+. I think there's a pretty low ceiling on how good a livery that's just the flag of New Mexico can be, and Southwest did a job I would call 'correct' - they didn't really mess anything up and they didn't have some sort of brain explosion that let them create a design more captivating than putting a good flag onto an airplane but leaving the tail Southwest colors. This is a good special livery and it seems like a nice little tribute to New Mexico, and it's always nice to see a beloved old livery be preserved on a new airframe. Congratulations to the people of New Mexico, particularly the Zia, on a pretty neat commemorative livery.