#pick and shovel laborer

[thelostexperiment]

(starter for @pick-and-shovel-laborer)

On the side of the road leading straight to Scrooge's money bin, there was a walled canopy tent with a short, slightly stout duck-woman in a green plaid kilt, playing bagpipes outside next to a sign that said– "free gold! Today only!" that wasn't there that morning.

Now, it was pretty obvious to anyone with more than two brain cells that this was too good to be true. In fact Glomgold had once set up a trap like this before so he could try to pretend to be Scrooge for a day (emphasis on tried). This seems almost the same as that one. Has Glomgold finally run out of original cockamamie schemes that he has to recycle old ones or is there something new about this?

There's only one way to find out...

[thelostexperiment]

(that's great news! I'll work on the starter for it right away.)

(@thelostexperiment )

“ ✏“

I thought of one of three plots between Scrooge and Collin that focus on his villainy more seriously, and is an adventure plot.

Collin had mostly repaired the intellige-ray gun, but the third eye diamond in the gun is still cracked and unpreparable by conventional means. He must find an ancient artifact, The Mending Macaque, to completely fix it.

Until then, the Ray's effect is halved and the gun glitches randomly, rendering its mind-control setting unreliable (it has a randomized time-limit before it stops working).

To find this artifact, he sets a trap for Scrooge (as the black buzzard) to coerce him by any means necessary into going on an adventure to retrieve it for him. Antics are bound to ensue.

((Sounds pretty interesting. I'm definitely up for this.))

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Blue Cross of Louisiana doesn’t give a shit about breast cancer

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE. More tour dates here.

A jury has ordered Blue Cross of Louisiana to pay $421m to a hospital specializing in a much sought-after type of breast reconstruction, primarily for cancer survivors. The insurer "preapproved" surgeries for thousands of patients, but then held back 92% of the payments it owed, with CEO Steven Udvarhelyi insisting that "authorization never says we’re going to pay you":

https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/25882446-steven-udvarhelyi-deposition/#document/p1/a2630959

In a characteristically brilliant and deep investigative story, Propublica's T Christian Miller explains how Blue Cross of Louisiana colluded with other Blue Cross franchises around the country to steal hundreds of millions of dollars by denying claims they'd already approved:

https://www.propublica.org/article/blue-cross-blue-shield-louisiana-insurance-lawsuit-breast-cancer-doctors

The hospital at the center of this controversy is the Center for Restorative Breast Surgery in New Orleans, founded by two surgeons, Frank DellaCroce and Scott Sullivan. DellaCroce and Sullivan are pioneers of an advanced form of breast reconstruction called "autologous tissue reconstruction," which eschews implants in favor of the patient's own fat to construct new breasts. While other surgeons perform this surgery, DellaCroce and Sullivan are acknowledged as national leaders, having invented many innovative techniques and trained many of the other surgeons who perform the procedure. As a result, patients travel from all over America to the Center for Restorative Breast Surgery.

DellaCroce and Sullivan's procedure is extremely precise and labor-intensive, and it comes at a high cost. Accordingly, patients seek pre-approval from their insurer before undergoing the procedure, and in Louisiana, that usually means calling up Blue Cross, the state's largest insurer. Despite pre-approving the procedure, Blue Cross of Louisiana has held back over 90% of the payments it owed to the hospital.

Rather than throwing their patients into the Blue Cross meat-grinder, DellaCroce and Sullivan carried the unpaid balance on its books, repeatedly suing Blue Cross for the unpaid amount. Finally, last week, the a jury ordered Blue Cross to pay $421m to the hospital (Blue Cross is appealing).

The case dragged Blue Cross's sleazy behavior – normally confined to bureaucratic memos and telephone denials – into the public, and boy is it ugly. Blue Cross's official excuse for denying the claims was that it was acting in the best interest of the millions of Louisianans it insures: DellaCroce and Sullivan are simply too expensive – it's not realistic for people in an insurance pool to expect that kind of care. However, Blue Cross executives repeatedly signed one-off, "single case agreements" so that their own wives could get the procedure from DellaCroce and Sullivan.

In addition to this argument, Blue Cross insisted that the fact that it had pre-approved all of these procedures did not oblige it to pay for them after the fact. Rather, an "approval" is a bureaucratic, heavily disclaimed term of art that means, maybe we'll pay for this and maybe we won't. In court, however, the company was forced to admit that an "approved" procedure has to be paid for in all but the most exceptional instances, for example, when the patient cancels their insurance between getting approved and going in for surgery.

The insurer also claimed that there were checks and balances to prevent arbitrary claims denials, but then Blue Cross executive VP Paula Shepherd acknowledged that "an appeal is not available to review an underpayment." As Miller writes, "The insurer simply issued an edict — the payment was correct."

Meanwhile, Blue Cross didn't just save money by denying the claims it had approved – it made money. Other Blue Cross organizations in different states would pay 16% kickbacks to the Louisiana Blue Cross, splitting the take every time it denied a payment.

All of this added up to means, motive and opportunity to engage in unbelievably sleazy – and fraudulent – behavior. Overall, Blue Cross paid $43m on $500m worth of invoices from the hospital. In 60% of claims, it paid nothing.

Blue Cross is one of the nation's largest health insurers, and Blue Cross's argument for stiffing this hospital is the argument for letting insurers buy one another up and grow to unimaginable scale. In David Dayen's amazing 2020 book Monopolized, he lays out the procession of America's morbid health care monopolization:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/29/fractal-bullshit/#dayenu

First, we allowed pharma companies to merge to monopoly, which gave them the power to screw hospitals with sky-high drug prices. So the hospitals defensively merged into regional monopolies with the power to negotiate those prices down, but this also gave them the power to overbill insurers. So the insurers also merged until they could resist the hospital chains' pricing power and force rates down.

And indeed, 97% of doctors and hospitals have a negotiated rate with Blue Cross of Louisiana (remember, it's the state's largest insurer). But DellaCroce and Sullivan haven't joined the Blue Cross network, because the rates the insurer offered wouldn't even cover the costs of the surgeries.

The theory that monopolies will defend us from other monopolies is a disastrous example of "the old lady who swallowed a fly" strategy. For the strategy to work, everyone has to be a monopolist, otherwise they'll get steamrollered – on their wages, their care, or their compensation.

And of course, patients don't get to merge to monopoly (that's what governments are for, and we know how Blue Cross feels about single payer care). Workers don't get to merge to monopoly either (that's what unions are for, and no one hates a union more than a health care monopolist).

Blue Cross's position – the position of the entire for-profit health industry – is that they should be able to grow as large as they can, at the expense of us, the patients. In other words, they are economic tumors – so no wonder they're on the side of breast cancer.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/12/pre-authorization/#is-not-a-guarantee-of-payment

[feminist-space]

Anti-mask policies and decision makers are using the momentum of anti-masking in the context of covid to also prevent people from accessing or using respirators to protect their breathing and lungs from other hazards -- things that were accepted in many industries as standard safety protocols before 2020.

"“During his first week, Complainant started coughing up black phlegm, his throat and tongue would burn, and he began having breathing problems due to excessive smoke and fumes from the cupola. He notified Sturgeon but nothing changed, and he was not provided a respirator.”

After not receiving a respirator, the lawsuit said the man went to the dispensary room and picked up a respirator himself.

He wore the respirator for the next week until the lawsuit said the safety supervisor saw him wearing it and “immediately became very upset; he rudely admonished the Complainant in front of his co-workers for wearing the respirator and demanded that he take it off immediately.”

According to the lawsuit, he told the safety supervisor he did not feel safe doing his job without it and was pulled into a meeting the next day where he was told he would not be allowed to wear a respirator.

...

After the meeting, the complaint said he was assigned to shovel gravel for the day before going home for the weekend at the end of his shift. On Monday, his employment was terminated.

The Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) opened an investigation into the company after learning of the alleged retaliation, and the DOL said in a statement that OSHA investigators with the Whistleblower’s Protection Program found the company violated federal protections by terminating the employee who exercised their protected rights to request protective equipment."

[spurbleu]

where the aster grows

neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

ch 2. impressions s. you threw a pail at your neighbor

You’ve got a good throw.

Perhaps not the first thing John should notice about the situation, given the fact he can feel the quiet familiarity of blood dripping down his temple, or the throb that follows its decent. But as you corner yourself by one of the labor tables, a road deer gasping for the air stolen by his entrance, it’s really the only thing he can think about.

“Who the hell are you?”

Guilt bubbles at the surface of his mouth, but it doesn’t take him long to remember himself. He’s no stranger to recoveries, and this entire first impression lacked any remnant of manners. But it’s never too late to find them.

He would also like to avoid meeting his end to a garden shovel, of all things.

John clears his throat, running a hand up the column of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you- my name is John Price; I live next door.” He’s got a voice for times like this- lowers it a half octave, baritone an inch slower than his usual cadence. Uses it for spooked civilians, or soldiers blinking back death. Wouldn’t call it comforting, but it’s close. Enough that after he uses it, your shoulders unhook themselves from the lobe of your ears.

He adds a slouch. A neutral position, drawing commonality between polar opposites. It’s as non-threatening as he’s able to look. “I’m Penny’s owner.”

Anxiety melts like molasses. Starts at your neck- stretching into a polite slouch. The aim of your arm dissolves by your side. Your breath slows, and for a moment so does time. Your eyes are blown wide, silting sunlight and the last bits of apprehension towards his stranger.

They are the brightest color in the room.

“P-Penny?”

He smiles. “The cat?”

As if on cue, a bolt of fur scampers to his boots- doing calculated twists between his ankles. He picks her up gently and scratches the spot behind her ear. “She lives part time in this store. With the owner when I’m gone. Must have snuck in here,” he holds her in front of his face with a stern expression, “been lookin’ for an hour. You devil.”

He steals a glance at you, past Penny’s head. The guilt swarms his throat for a second time, seeing your fear replaced with absolute mortification.  

“I- oh my god. You’re bleeding. I threw a pail at you.” Your face flushes. Cute. “I am so so sorry.”

John chuckles. “Don’t be. I made such a fuss opening the door I can imagine I scared you,” glad you have good aim sits on his tongue, but he bites it when he soothes his mouth into a gentle line. No need to soil the impression any further, now that he had just ironed out the broken silks.

“I don’t think I got your name...?”

A beat.

You offer it like its acid on your teeth. Spits it out with the last bits of terror, like a cavity that burns. But unlike the delivery, it’s soft. Curves along the line of your jaw, relaxes around your silhouette in a film that’s drunk on horizon’s champagne. Spills onto the white tiles of the floor by his feet.

Doesn’t even realize that he’s saying it back to you until he catches its last syllable on the back of his teeth. He blinks. “It’s…nice to meet you.”

John categorizes silence into two boxes.

Treasured. Costal nowhere. One in the morning. A city where all anyone does is sleep. The drag of his cigar. The pockets amid time and place that remain nameless. It gives a finite peace that John runs dry.

And then there’s this.

Stiff. Premeditates chaos. The quiet before a grenade, the cotton ears after. The hospital when someone dies, and the emptiness they leave behind. The death of conversation between a beautiful woman, and her impolite neighbor.

John will always put it out as quickly as possible.

“Well, I’ll get out of your h-“

“Let me help you.”

The silence fractures into small sounds. A wire snaps, wine cork pops, pin drops, among other fictions. The air that surrounds you beckons a peculiar clarity. Narrows when John sees you smile for the first time. What he did to earn it is beyond him. “Help me with what?”

You tap your temple. “Your head. I... You’re bleeding. I have an aid in the back,” the look he gives you must be telling, because then you say, “please.”

Christ.

“Alright.” Is all he can muster, albeit it comes out parched. You nod and scamper off to the back door.

Your absence allows him to soak the store in.

He’s been in plenty of times, so its layout isn’t alien. But he supposes that part of its charm is that it feels that way. Beyond familiarity. Every time he’s been in, he notices a new detail.

A freshly kilned pot. A corner section with seasonal flowers. You.

This time, he draws his focus to the carnations by the window. Red and alive, unfurls its buds with a grace he’s only ever seen in nature. He lets his hand come to lift the petals and smiles at himself.

He feels ridiculous, drawing so much depth from a flower, but its caretaker taught him the bizarre empathy.

The old woman would probably laugh at him.

“Uh…John, was it?”

He turns around, letting his hand fall back into his pocket. He doesn’t know why he feels caught, but the heat rises to his neck before he can stop it. “Yes.”

“Here,” You shove various gardening paraphernalia and metals from one of the work benches, push down to check its stability before stepping aside, “take a seat.”

The joke falls before he can stop it. “Aren’t we a little old to play doctor?”

Doesn’t regret it, because it makes you laugh. The hair on his neck rises, and he feels like a teen again, seeing a playboy for the first time. Since when did laughter have the same effect on him as cleavage?

Must have been sometime after 35.

He pulls himself onto the bench and grimaces when the oak whines. You snort. “Don’t worry. They hold anything.”

His eyes squint. “Didn’t you just check it?”

You bring your gaze down to grab an antiseptic wipe, a failed effort to hide your smile. “Nothing wrong with playing it safe.”

He hums. “Forgot I’m talking to the woman who throws pails at strangers.”

He flinches when you swipe chemicals across the cut. Undoubtedly to shut him up. “Maybe don’t break into your neighbors store.”

He rolls his eyes as you find a bandage. “I wouldn’t’ve if you weren’t holding my cat hostage.”

This gets you to step away. “Hostage? She was lounging in the window!”

“Clearly, she was trying to signal for help.”

A third, new silence bloats between you. He doesn’t have time to name it before it dissolves into eased laughter. You go back to applying the bandages while he vehemently ignores the soft feeling of your fingers against his face.

Kate’s words come back to him slowly. The same old song she’d been singing since she got married. Rhymes of settling down, making a home for himself, letting someone else take up the fight. He sees glimpses of these futilities every so often. Like he is now.

Niceties that fatten up the bones of his dreams and cushion the dull blow of walking into an empty home. Having someone there to wait for him. Normal. It bakes the room in a tenderness he can’t remember the last time he’s had.

But in the end, he knows none of this is real. Not in the ways Kate talks about.

Doesn’t stop him from noticing your barren ring finger, though.

“I think…I know why she got trapped.”

He glances at you as a response. Your shoulders have gotten noticeably heavy.

“My grandmother owned this place. She passed away last week.”

Oh.

“My dad must have closed up while she was in the hospital,” your voice breaks, before mending with a scoff, “he’s not very observant. Probably missed her,” she looks over her shoulder before scratching Penny’s cheek with a gentle somber, “glad there was an automatic feeder in the back.”

Despite being well acquainted with death, John Price never knows how to greet him.

Silence and wallowing are classics, but given the troughs under your eyes it would be both inappropriate and apathetic. He’d offer a cigar, but that’s only really been a hit with his soldiers, and he sincerely doubts you’d be the type grieve with tobacco.

So, he tries to picture your grandmother. A reflection of himself, 4 decades from now. Creased and warm. The way her cheeks folded around her smile. How her voice, too, was wrinkled. When she thanked him for lifting the new shipments or calling his cat Penny-girl. The subtle tremble of her hands, and youthful eyes that betrayed her age.

If grief is memory, that’s the best he can do. Looks harder, and he sees her resemblance in you.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he internally scolds himself for the cliché, but you seem to appreciate it, “I feel very lucky to have known her.”

That makes you smile. “Yeah, most people do.”

You clear your throat, and John doesn’t miss how you swipe your cheek with the back of your hand. He opens his mouth to say something, before reminding himself that he is still a stranger. No outstretched hand or comforting words take up the space a loved one leaves behind.

He’s observed this truth dozens of times, in spouses, parents, children. News about his own failings as a captain to bring someone home. Although it’s unwarranted in the claustrophobic place he sits in now, that same guilt capsizes when he sees you sniffle.

“Anyway,” you start, “I thought you should know, given the fact you were neighbors and…” you pick up Penny, who purrs in your arms, “apparently shared custody of her.”

He enjoys the sight of his cat in your arms more than he cares to admit.

“Thank you, I’m sure Penny will miss her,” he lips quirk, “she always did spoil her rotten.”

You pull Penny out from your embrace, so she faces you. “Don’t worry, I’ll spoil her just as much as Ma did.”

John does not mask his surprise. “Will you be staying?”

You turn to him, a genuine smile playing on your lips.

“Yes, with the shop and the house,” somewhere behind him, a flower unfurls itself from the final folds of its petals when you stretch out your hand, “I’m your new neighbor.”

Spring begins when he shakes it, and John has never been more afraid of anything in his life.

[jellyfishoreo1206]

Hector tries weed

okay so I was inspired by this art piece of Hector by @kiara66, and I NEEDED to write this out whdhbwjh

Reader is GN, but also wears makeup!

Possible spoilers for Date Everything!

Borders belong to @/thecutestgrotto

Characters: Hector, Freddy Yeti, Mitchell Linn, Beverly, Stefan Stovey, Curt & Rod, Rainey

Within the kitchen, the clings and clangs of pots and pans resonated throughout the household, along with an alluring aroma as it wafted through the halls. Though, there also seems to be another aroma intertwined along with the first…something a little skunky? The objects in the house held some curiosity for what their human is up too, for usually they keep their meals simple to keep the mess to a minimum.

So what’s the occasion? And what is that skunky smell?

“Do you think they’re having company over?” Freddy asks, glancing over at Mitchell as their human speeds to and fro from different areas of the kitchen—oven, stovetop, cabinets, fridge, sink. Mitchell hums, scratching his chin, “I’m not sure…but if there are people coming over, don’t you think they would’ve told us?” Stefan joins the conversation, a rare smile on his face, “Whatever it is, doesn’t matter! Look at them go, it’s like they flipped a switch!” The objects continue to watch on as their human seems to be finishing up on the food. But they noticed something seems to be a bit…off.

They seemed to be laughing every few minutes at random things or just out of nowhere, they seemed to be more loose and lighter in their demeanor, and their eyes are a little red! The objects don’t mind the first two, for it’s nice to see their human happy, but the last one? They can’t help but feel worried.

“Did they happen to drink anything?” 

“Don’t look at me! They’re completely sober!” Beverly pauses, before adding, “I think?”

“Then what is up with them?”

Unaware of the growing concern of the objects, you stand back to look at the final product of your high-induced labor. Oh you’re already getting giddy to dig. In. A smile making its way onto your face. Looking over at the strawberry themed ash-tray, you pick up the still lit blunt, bringing it to your lips and taking a deep breath in before slowly exhaling all the smoke. 

Your head felt fuzzy, but in the most amazing way possible. It felt as if you could walk on air.

“Aw yeahhhh, that’s some good shit right there.” You murmur to yourself, eyelids drooping slighting as you place the blunt in its rightful place.

Gathering all the plates (with some difficulty), you move over to the dining room, even putting on some music to get a cozy atmosphere going. The perfect afternoon to let all your worries melt away and allow you to just…exist in comfort. No one around, an amazing meal, and the perfect music for the occasion.

Just wonderful.

You begin to dig in, savoring each and every flavorful bite as it warms your whole entire being, filling you with happiness and joy. God, why didn’t you do this any sooner? This feels amazing! Maybe you could invite Sam over for your next session? That’s if she even wants to do a blunt. 

You hadn’t realized, but you began zoning out, staring into nowhere as you unconsciously shovelled the food into your mouth. 

“What’s up with the human?” Curt asks, eyeing the human curiously. Rod, not far behind, leans against Curt, eyes narrowing slightly, “And why are their eyes red?”

“Haven’t got a clue, baby! Now what kind of ackamarackus did they get into?” Rainey questions. Curt and Rod merely just watch in amusement, sharing a glance. As if they already knew...

Finishing up the last of your meal, sinking down in the seat, allowing your meal to settle within your stomach. Man, that was good! But you’re still a little hungry…meh, this meal will tide you over for a little longer before you make your next munchie cravings.

Looking around the dining room, you find your eyes land on the AC grate. Hmm, you wonder what Hector is doing…Wait, why wonder when you could go and speak with him?

Standing up and grabbing your ash-tray, you rush towards and up the stairs (almost slipping down the steps, sorry Stella), and into your room where the Dateviators rested upon your dresser. Giddily putting them on, you face your attention towards the grate, lighting up once you see the familiar hands and eyes of the vent-crawler.

Or, your wonderful and doting boyfriend.

“Hiiii Hector!” You greet after bringing a chair over and standing on it, so the very least you are eye-to-eye with him.

“Hello, my Heart,” He greets you warmly, eyes becoming softer once they see the joy present on your face, “How blessed it feels to be in your presence once more, basking in your bright light. Do tell, what has you so joyous today?” You could see the smile in his eyes as he takes in your image, committing it into his memory.

You take his hand into yours, gently brushing your thumb across the back of his hand. The change in his breathing and the warm air coming out of the grate ignites a mischievous smile from you, “Ah, well, a package I’ve been waiting on for a while came today!” You continue to caress his hand, even placing a bold kiss on the center of his palm. 

Leaving behind a lipstick stain. 

“A-ah my Heart, you simply strive to see me flustered, don’t you?” The slight warble in his speech has a swell of pride bloom within your chest and a few chuckles to slip past your lips, “Indeed I do, you just have the cutest reactions when you are flustered!” More hot air comes from the grate, Hector averts his eyes out of nervousness. His hand was starting to become a little clammy, but you don’t mind one bit.

“You flatter me dearly…But you’ve yet answered my question.”

“Oh right! My weed delivery finally came!” Unfortunately you let go of his hand, but not without leaving one last kiss on the back, earning you another flustered reaction. 

A brief second of confusion overcomes his flustered state, eyes filled with curiosity “Weed? As in the…what was it called…the hard-to-get-rid-of plant?”

“No, as in the get-high-on-it plant.” 

“Ah, marijuana. I must say, I didn’t peg you as the type to do such activities.” He confessed, tilting his head in amusement.  Not like you could see said action.

A burst of laughter erupts from you, nearly losing your balance and falling off the chair. The sound wasn’t unwelcomed to Hector, but what caused such a reaction? You wiped a stray tear once your laughter calmed down, “Ohhh I’m sorry Hector, it’s-it’s just how sophisticated you sound!” You were quick to reassure him, “Not a bad thing, by the way.”

Hector finally puts together the pieces, “My heart, did you happen to consume some ‘weed’ earlier today?” He asks with mirth, being oh so bold to cup your face within his hands. You nod, a grin appearing on your face.

“Mhm! You wanna try?”

A pause. Then a quiet, “What?”

“You don’t have to, of course. Just an offer.” You turn your head slightly, nuzzling your nose into the palm of his hand, still-holding eye contact with the yearning vent-dweller. “Ah! No no no! You misunderstood!” He brings his palms back, wringing them together as he averts his gaze. “S-Simply surprised me is all!” 

Gently, you cup his hands, keeping them in place as a way of reassurance.

“...But, I have been curious about the effects.”

“Okay, since this is your first time, you need to breathe it in slowly. Like this!” You bring the blunt to your lips, breathing in the smoke slowly. Once you had your fill, you exhale all the remaining smoke, being sure to blow in the other direction as to not blow any smoke into Hector’s face. 

You turn to face him with a comforting smile, “Got it?” Hector’s eyes bob up and down, so you carefully pass the blunt into his awaiting hand. Said hand disappears into the grate, and you see the faint outline of a face when the lit end of the blunt brightens, before it darkens once more.

A few coughs came from the vent, streams of smoke curling in the air. He passed the blunt back to you, hands shaky as he attempted to calm down his coughs.

“You okay, sweetie?” You asked once they had finally settled, softly grasping his hand. “Yes, yes, merely caught off guard.” His voice was more strained, gravelly, but overwise seemed a-okay.

“How long does it take to settle in?”

“Usually like…30 minutes? It varies."

And just when the 30 minute mark passed, Hector was completely different. If anything, he was more affectionate. And relaxed.

“My Heart, your very being, your very mind, and your very soul are what make me bloom and flourish. They are what make me whole. I wish to be the one to make you laugh, to make you smile, to make every part of you just tingle whenever you hear my voice.” His eyes were almost closed with how droopy they were, you could already tell he was grinning so wide.

He continues, not missing a beat, “Your eyes remind me of the most precious jewels to ever exist possible in this world, for they shine, shine brighter than the stars themselves; Your lips, bright, plump, and so soft, ough. You simply make me swoon in the best ways possible.” His hands trace parts of your face, drawing random patterns into the skin as his gazes turns to one of pure love and adoration.

“Your cheeks, so full and rosy with life, even the roses envy you. I could just bite them, all soft and pliant underneath my teeth, as your cheeks become even more rosy and warm…would you like that my dear?” He nearly purrs out the sentence. Was it just you or was it getting hot in here?

“My, I have my own personal Shakespeare? I hit the jackpot.”

“I believe it was I who hit the jackpot, for you all are the greatest things rolled up into one big great thing.”

“You keep talking like that, I might just smooch you.” That earns you an airy giggle.

“I’ll hold you to it, my Heart~”

Can you guys tell how desperate I am for this man. THIS MAN!!! Borders belong to @/thecutestgrotto

[mytheoristavenue]

Dude I know you don't have any requests but if you ever feel up to it I would absolutely eat up a continuation of your creature x reader fic...perhaps they slowly fall for each other.

Hes just...he's so sweet and the way you write him makes me feral. I'm definitely going to check out your other works.

This is me letting you know that your target audience had been reached

Normally, I would politely decline or ignore requests, as I just don't enjoy doing them anymore for multiple reasons, but I wanted to address this one specifically. Hopefully this isn't too short!

For the sake of this story, let's pretend that the time between the events of the movie span over a longer period.

LF Creature x Reader - Compost

Summary: Creature helps you out in your garden.

Warnings: mentions of rot, bugs, worms, and dung, creature x reader, bisexual reader, reader has a crush on Lisa, continuation of Mutual Comfort, plot holes, not proofread, spelling/gramatical errors, calling Creature Ein

"You look different today," you noticed allowed, squatted over the flower bed, carefully dropping a marigold from your trowel and covering the roots with soil. "Little more alive."

The man behind you grunted in response, prompting you to glance at him over your shoulder. He seemed to have more color in his face, and his hair seemed less stringy. He lifted a discolored hand, and waved it around as if it were an explaination. You simply shrugged, not understanding the meaning, and went back to what you were doing.

"Regaurdless, I appreciate you helping me." you smiled, standing up and admiring your newly replanted marigolds. Another grunt in responce. "Now I need to mix up the compost pile. Mind pushing that wheel barrow over there?" you aske pointing to the object and then to the destination. Nodding, Creature made his way over.

Once he got behind the wheel barrow, however, he scrunched his face in disgust. "What?" you laughed, slumping your shoulders. "Too good for hard labor? He shook his head, letting go of thehandles and covering his nose. Finally, it clicked for you.

"Oh, come on, you big baby. It doesn't stink tha bad." you rolled your eyes, walking over to simply wheel it over yourself. Seeing you prepared to take matters into your own hands, Creature finally pulled himself up by the bootstraps, taking hold of the handles again and pushing it forward. "Its cow dung, if you were curious," you giggled, following him. "My dad has a friend that owns a far and he hooks me up with free manure for the garden."

Once again, Creature grimaced, turning up his nose. "Hey, Zomboy," you scolded playfully. "Your half rotted flest doesn't smell all that much better." He flashed you a hurt expression coupled with a somber groan, making you back peddle. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

Finally in front of the compost pile, you grabbed a nearby shovel and began to heave the dung onto the top, the smell never once bothering you. When you were finished, you stuck the shovel in the ground and rested a foot on it, hiking your knee up, and glued your hands to your hips, tired from a hard day's work.

"I don't know about you, but I think today is a good day for some lemonade." You sighed, beginning to walk back toward the house, Creature trailing behind you. "You like lemonade?" He nodded when you glanced back, prompting you to smile. "Go ahead and take a seat," you said, motioning to the patio set to his right. "I'll go get us some."

After a few minutes, you returned, slipping out the back door and into the yard, a glass in each hand, but your eyes lit up before you couven step off the patio. You quickly scurried over to set the glasses down, gushing over what he had. It was a lovely little hand picked bouquet, mostly consisting of wildflowers and weeds. In the short time you were gone, Creature had taken it upon himself to currate you a gift. "Ein..." you breathed, taking it from him and examining it. "You did this for me...?" you asked, oblivious to how silly the question was. He nodded with a timid smile, inviting you to sit with him.

After a moment, your heart dropped, realizing what you'd called him by. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry I called you that!" you fretted. "Lisa told me that was the last little bit of your name, I sholdv'e asked if you'd be kay with being called that."

He seemed to wave your worries off, shaking his head, signalling tha he wasn't bothered. He then bowed his head, something that confused you. "So you are okay with me calling you Ein?" He bowed again, and you were unable to keep the grin from spreading across your face. "Okay, Ein it is then. I suppose we couldn't have just called you 'Creature' forever, right?" He shrugged, as if he truly didn't care what his name ended up being. "Regardless, thank you for the flowers, they're beautiful."

The man couldn't help but stare as you admired the little nosegay, noting how eyes eyes lit up when you smiled and your nose scrunched when you laughed. He actually found himself so invested in observing you while sipping his lemonade that he choked a little when your eyes flitted back to him.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" you suddenly jumped up, patting his back as he coughed, hunched over. "Ein? Ein! Are you okay?" you panicked, patting a bit harder, and wondering if the heimlick would even work on a corpse. Luckily, that deemed to be unnessisary as he finally spat up whatever was clogging his airway.There on the table, squirmed a very long, slimy earthworm.

"I-Is...is that a worm?" you grimaced, entirely freaked out as you stared at it, eyes flickering back to his every few seconds. Creature was frozen in place, terrified he'd ruined a lovely moment between the two of you, and slapped his hand over the thing, shaking his head no. "You're telling me I didn't just watch you spit up a worm onto my dad's patio table? You're telling me if I move your hand, there's not gonna be a worm?"

Hesitantly, he shook his head with a nervous smile, resisting as hard as possible when you grabbed his hand to move it. Though you had no time to think about it then, you couldn't help but notice the way the stitches holding his hand on felt under your finger tips- definately an interesting sensation.

Finally, you managed to lift his hand up, still holding it, and proved yourself right, once again staring at the wiggly little thing on the table. With a sigh, and ignoring his protests, you reached down and lifted it into your palm. "Got anymore?"

Creature sheepishly shook his head and got up to follow you as you walked away. "Well, this little guy is going in my compost pile." you decided, pinching the worm out of your palm and setting it on top of the pile. "And if it has any buddies in there, they're welcome to the pile too." you smiled, grabbing his hand again.

"I like you," you confessed with a giggle. "A few little bugs aren't gonna scare me away."

I hope this was along the lines of what you were looking for! Sorry it was so rushed, it probably has a million errors, as my gramarly is suddenly not working!

[striderl]

Today's highlight: Styrofilm in Russia

... and the twins he's adopting.

Север (North) and Юг (South).

Reference below for more lore ->

Север (North) and Юг (South), inseparable twins born to a humble farming family in Southwest Russia. North, the elder by only two minutes, was gentle and considerate, with a love for herbs, flowers, and farm animals. South, her quiet yet fiercely loyal shadow — quick-tempered but always obedient to his sister’s guidance. He took on the heavier labor around the farm, never without his trusty shovel, a massive tool nearly as tall as him. North often teased that it was his Excalibur, but in truth, it meant more than that.

Their lives changed forever when they turned 12, barely reaching their teens. The Skibidis tore through the land, and their parents were lost to the descending chaos. The twins were forced to flee with the rest of the survivors with nothing but South’s shovel, a revolver, and some meager supplies they scavenged.

After weeks of hardship, they stumbled upon a survivor camp over three hundred miles from home. It seemed like a sanctuary, filled with other children who had suffered the same fate, offering them companionship and a fragile sense of normalcy. But, South couldn’t ignore the white-suited cameramen moving through the camp, conversing with the doctors, sometimes watching the twins with an eerie intensity. 

It was no surprise they stood out. Identical twins of opposite sexes were rare enough, but it was their capabilities that made them exceptional. Years of farm work had given them strength and resilience beyond their age. South, despite his temper, had an unshakable sense of duty, always looking out for the younger and weaker children —  more often than not, North had to step in before his shovel got involved. North, in contrast, was a bright and resourceful girl, a natural sharpshooter with her revolver.

Their talents didn’t go unnoticed. Some admired them. Others, however, saw them as a problem.

A year passed before the camp council made a chilling decision. Supplies were dwindling, and the children were deemed burdens rather than survivors. A deal was struck with the Russia Cameramen Division stationed in Khabarovsk: in exchange for two years’ worth of provisions, several children — including North and South — were handed over as test subjects.

The twins barely retained any lucid memories after they were taken — only flashes of metal, sterile rooms, the rustlings of white suits and lab coats. They awoke in the bodies of hulking war machines — foreign, metallic frames of large cameramen. 

South was devastated. His body, his freedom, and his humanity were stolen by those whom he had trusted. His grief turned to fury. Let's just say, the first unfortunate scientist cam that entered South’s detainment chamber didn’t come out in one piece.

North, ever the rational one, simply accepted their fate. If the scientists hadn’t intervened, they would have fallen to the Skibidis. But it didn’t mean she trusted them, but she played along — if only to keep South from tearing the place apart.

After rigorous disciplinary measures and military training, South learned to keep his rage in check in front of the high-ranking officers. It didn’t necessarily stop him from glaring daggers at every scientist cams he passed, or from picking fights with the other large cameramen. Despite standing at a mere 9’9”(2.9 m) compared to his towering comrades, he fought like a feral beast.

When the Astro Invasion began, the twins were deployed to the Russian frontlines. Their teamwork was seamless — South carved through close-range enemies with his shovel, while North provided support fire with her revolvers.

During a brutal battle, North was separated from South. A blast tore through her leg as she scrambled for cover. Before she could react, an Astro unit trained its cannon at her, and readied to open fire.

And then — salvation.

Styrofilm, the transferred cameraman scientist, and his assistant Polaroid, intervened. The girl was exhausted and terrified. Without thinking, she slung to Styro, the last bit of her composure crumbling. The war had drained her innocence, patience, and unwavering resolve.

Styrofilm, carried her back to the Russia Division’s base, listened to her story. He didn’t see a soldier in North, only a child who had been betrayed, exploited, and cast aside. 

He agreed to sign the petition to be their mentor and guardian.

But when North was finally reunited with South, her brother’s rage reignited at the sight of the white-suited cameraman.

Rage boiled over as he swung a fist at Styrofilm. But the scientist caught it with ease, Letting South vent his fury. The boy spilled accusations, hurled every ounce of pain and hatred toward the scientists that he had bottled up, at Styrofilm.

And Styro only listened.

Eventually, South’s fury burned itself out. North found the perfect opportunity to step in, pleading with him to trust Styrofilm. In the end, South relented — not because he trusted the scientist in front of him, but because he trusted her.

With Styrofilm and Polaroid stationed in Russia for the foreseeable future, Styro has plenty of time to bond with his two newly-acquired, traumatized kids. Whether he was ready for it or not, they were about to become the closest family outside of the Filming Industry.

[searchingforserendipity25]

garak fades into obscurity. a shed and a garden that feeds half the neighborhood.

door open, always, less in welcome than to stop the walls from closing in - but people come inside, too.

-

the hungry, generally. other gardeners, come to pick up shovels and seeds. some of them can't stand to look him in the eye, some of them stagger blind to the world, caught in memory and half-blind to the world.

orphans, widows. old victims with old grievances, sometimes. we are the new cardassia, growing from the dust, glimmer the propaganda-screens in the squares. united we build. some people even believe it.

there is nothing else to believe in. they eat together, the neighbors of tain's old district, and share old stories: poetry and theater, cruel orders, disappearances.

people come to the slantwise shadow of the small room, with its rich smells, the piles of good soil and samples of tubers bred to grow on the radioactive soil. they come to find good work, they come to find answers.

my brother, they say. my daughter, my lover, what did you do to them? the last parmak, asking for their cousin kelas. the last - oh, cardassia is full of them, made up of them, their last-names, long generations turned to a remnant. he is only to blame for some of it; but to be a culprit in any part of cardassia's diminished is worse than any other sin.

he gives them red bush tea, coordinates for secret labor camps and torture chambers, answers. true answers all, especially the lies. no one murders him, not even in the dark of a dust storm. united we build, join together for the future. they take the food from his garden and go.

when, three years after the end of the war, the notice comes for a public trial, he packs a bag with old tailor's scissors and makes ready.

because this is the new cardassia, there is no execution. because this is cardassia, punishment is precise, measured, and symmetrical. beautiful, for a mind inclined to find such things beautiful.

we are the new cardassia, growing from the dust, and we seek to build from the ground up on good foundations, castellan ghemor says.

'but of course,' elim garak says. he does not look like a torturer, in his gardener's apron and working braid, dust and soil beneath the nails of his expressive hands; but then, torturers rarely do. 'there is no place for old rot, i tell my apprentices so every time. i am gratified to be exiled, if the court allows it to be a benefit to cardassia.'

this is the new cardassia: most trials are not recorded and projected on town squares, but some are. why not give a last decent show?

people need examples to follow, the guilty most of all; even professor lang had agreed, when he first proposed the idea, though she hadn't much liked it at first. tain's son regretful in shackles is a fine fiction, the better still for being true

he leaves the shed door open, instructions on how to continue cultivating the hardiest crops, and a small pot on her desk. small tight buds nearly ready for flowering, the first edosian orchids of new cardassia.

and then? and then to the stars again, a handful of sickly soil sewn into a secret pocket, scissors in another.

there is a small hole in a floating husk of steel waiting, a shop no one ever leased again, the front windows drawn closed by curtains like a theater house waiting for the new season's farces to start.

if that is peculiar bad luck for the bustling promenade, it might just be that the head of the infirmary across the hall didn't much like the notion of new neighbors changing his usual sights.

sentiment, rank sentiment. on new cardassia, amidst the wreckage, some have started to sing poems to it, to sing it without fear.

half-blind with memory, it is difficult to return, a blinding strangeness that dilates time for the first weeks. there is food on the table and company with it, there is someone in the landing bay, there are patterns to cut and lines to wind and unwind, match together.

kira's voice is distinctive and so is the ringing of her steps, bashir leans his cheek against his fist when he's tired and at ease, quark pours drinks with the same habitual flair.

in uncertain times, it is good that some things remain, cleave together, persist. one day he looks across the lunch table, and is even fairly certain of when to place himself. his secret pocket weighting him down, bad soil but enough to feed on.

-

bolts of fabric gathering dust, a bother to wash and terribly out of fashion - but fashion does tend to come around, cyclical as the desert winds.

he will find a use for those old scraps, garak of garak's clothiers. men like him always do.

[preygeteatenbypredsmix]

@pick-and-shovel-laborer

"Yes, but that's( about) her clean. What about her muddy like this?"

(//)(')Send me ★ + a name of another muse / character in my muse's canon and they'll talk about their relationship with them(')

"★ + Muddy!Judy Hopps:

*"

[*Mun's note: Explanation: Let's (assum)(pr)e(tend) (h)(Scroog)e (eventually )met and/or knows (h)(')er( eventually), or that he(')( ha)s at least heard (of )or knows OF (')(e)m]

[*Mun's note: Explanation: Yes, he('(D)(D)) just/JUST say a photo. I don't know hO(W)(w)( HE'D( IT)), BUT HE'd]

Well I’ll just say she’s a good cop who I have a lot of respect for. In fact I’d go so far as to say she’s more competent than 99% of the Duckburg police force.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Kickstarting a new Martin Hench novel about the dawn of enshittification

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/07/weird-pcs/#a-mormon-bishop-an-orthodox-rabbi-and-a-catholic-priest-walk-into-a-personal-computing-revolution

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by @wilwheaton:

http://martinhench.com

This is the third Hench novel, following on from the nationally bestselling The Bezzle (2024) and Red Team Blues (2023). I wrote Red Team Blues with a funny conceit: what if I wrote the final volume of a beloved, long-running series, without writing the rest of the series? Turns out, the answer is: "Your editor will buy a whole bunch more books in the series!"

My solution to this happy conundrum? Write the Hench books out of chronological order. After all, Marty Hench is a financial hacker who's been in Silicon Valley since the days of the first PCs, so he's been there for all the weird scams tech bros have dreamed up since Jobs and Woz were laboring in their garage over the Apple I. He's the Zelig of high-tech fraud! Look hard at any computing-related scandal and you'll find Marty Hench in the picture, quietly and competently unraveling the scheme, dodging lawsuits and bullets with equal aplomb.

Which brings me to Picks and Shovels. In this volume, we travel back to Marty's first job, in the 1980s – the weird and heroic era of the PC. Marty ended up in the Bay Area after he flunked out of an MIT computer science degree (he was too busy programming computers to do his classwork), and earning his CPA at a community college.

Silicon Valley in the early eighties was wild: Reaganomics stalked the land, the AIDS crisis was in full swing, the Dead Kennedys played every weekend, and man were the PCs ever weird. This was before the industry crystalized into Mac vs PC, back when no one knew what they were supposed to look like, who was supposed to use them, and what they were for.

Marty's first job is working for one of the weirder companies: Fidelity Computing. They sound like a joke: a computer company run by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest and an orthodox rabbi. But the joke's on their customers, because Fidelity Computing is a scam: a pyramid sales cult that exploits religious affinities to sell junk PCs that are designed to lock customers in and squeeze them for every dime. A Fidelity printer only works with Fidelity printer paper (they've gimmicked the sprockets on the tractor-feed). A Fidelity floppy drive only accepts Fidelity floppies (every disk is sold with a single, scratched-out sector and the drives check for an error on that sector every time they run).

Marty figures out he's working for the bad guys when they ask him to destroy Computing Freedom, a scrappy rival startup founded by three women who've escaped from Fidelity Computing's cult: a queer orthodox woman who's been kicked out of her family; a radical nun who's thrown in with the Liberation Theology movement in opposing America's Dirty Wars; and a Mormon woman who's quit the church in disgust at its opposition to the Equal Rights Amendment. The women of Computing Freedom have a (ahem) holy mission: to free every Fidelity customer from the prison they were lured into.

Marty may be young and inexperienced, but he can spot a rebel alliance from a light year away and he knows what side he wants to be on. He joins the women in their mission, and we're deep into a computing war that quickly turns into a shooting war. Turns out the Reverend Sirs of Fidelity Computer aren't just scammers – they're mobbed up, and willing to turn to lethal violence to defend their racket.

This is a rollicking crime thriller, a science fiction novel about the dawn of the computing revolution. It's an archaeological expedition to uncover the fossil record of the first emergence of enshittification, a phenomenon that was born with the PC and its evil twin, the Reagan Revolution.

The book comes out on Feb 15 in hardcover and ebook from Macmillan (US/Canada) and Bloomsbury (UK), but neither publisher is doing the audiobook. That's my department.

Why? Well, I love audiobooks, and I especially love the audiobooks for this series, because they're read by the incredible Wil Wheaton, hands down my favorite audiobook narrator. But that's not why I retain my audiobook rights and produce my own audiobooks. I do that because Amazon's Audible service refuses to carry any of my audiobooks.

Here's how that works: Audible is a division of Amazon, and they've illegally obtained a monopoly over the audiobook market, controlling more than 90% of audiobook sales in many genres. That means that if your book isn't for sale on Audible, it might as well not exist.

But Amazon won't let you sell your books on Audible unless you let them wrap those books in "digital rights management," a kind of encryption that locks them to Audible's authorized players. Under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, it's a felony punishable with a 5-year sentence and a $500k fine to supply you with a tool to remove an audiobook from Audible and play it on a rival app. That applies even if the person who gives you the tool is the creator of the book!

You read that right: if I make an audiobook and then give you the tools to move it out of Amazon's walled garden, I could go to prison for five years! That's a stiffer sentence than you'd face if you were to just pirate the audiobook. It's a harsher penalty than you'd get for shoplifting the book on CD from a truck-stop. It's more draconian than the penalty for hijacking the truck that delivers the CDs!

Amazon knows that every time you buy an audiobook from Audible, you increase the cost you'll have to pay if you switch to a competitor. They use that fact to give readers a worse deal (last year they tried out ads in audiobooks!). But the people who really suffer under this arrangement are the writers, whom Amazon abuses with abandon, knowing they can't afford to leave the service because their readers are locked into it. That's why Amazon felt they could get away with stealing $100 million from indie audiobook creators (and yup, they got away with it):

https://www.audiblegate.com/about

Which is why none of my books can be sold with DRM. And that means that Audible won't carry any of them.

For more than a decade, I've been making my own audiobooks, in partnership with the wonderful studio Skyboat Media and their brilliant director, Gabrielle de Cuir:

https://skyboatmedia.com/

I pay fantastic narrators a fair wage for their work, then I pay John Taylor Williams, the engineer who masters my podcasts, to edit the books and compose bed music for the intro and outro. Then I sell the books at every store in the world – except Audible and Apple, who both have mandatory DRM. Because fuck DRM.

Paying everyone a fair wage is expensive. It's worth it: the books are great. But even though my books are sold at many stores online, being frozen out of Audible means that the sales barely register.

That's why I do these Kickstarter campaigns, to pre-sell thousands of audiobooks in advance of the release. I've done six of these now, and each one was a huge success, inspiring others to strike out on their own, sometimes with spectacular results:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/entertainment/books/2022/04/01/brandon-sanderson-kickstarter-41-million-new-books/7243531001/

Today, I've launched the Kickstarter for Picks and Shovels. I'm selling the audiobook and ebook in DRM-form, without any "terms of service" or "license agreement." That means they're just like a print book: you buy them, you own them. You can read them on any equipment you choose to. You can sell them, give them away, or lend them to friends. Rather than making you submit to 20,000 words of insulting legalese, all I ask of you is that you don't violate copyright law. I trust you!

Speaking of print books: I'm also pre-selling the hardcover of Picks and Shovels and the paperbacks of The Bezzle and Red Team Blues, the other two Marty Hench books. I'll even sign and personalize them for you!

http://martinhench.com

I'm also offering five chances to commission your own Marty Hench story – pick your favorite high-tech finance scam from the past 40 years of tech history, and I'll have Marty bust it in a custom short story. Once the story is published, I'll make sure you get credit. Check out these two cool Little Brother stories my previous Kickstarter backers commissioned:

Spill

https://reactormag.com/spill-cory-doctorow/

Vigilant

https://reactormag.com/vigilant-cory-doctorow/

I'm heading out on tour this winter and spring with the book. I'll be in LA, San Francisco, San Diego, Burbank, Bloomington, Chicago, Richmond VA, Toronto, NYC, Boston, Austin, DC, Baltimore, Seattle, and other dates still added. I've got an incredible roster of conversation partners lined up, too: John Hodgman, Charlie Jane Anders, Dan Savage, Ken Liu, Peter Sagal, Wil Wheaton, and others.

I hope you'll check out this book, and come out to see me on tour and say hi. Before I go, I want to leave you with some words of advance praise for Picks and Shovels:

I hugely enjoyed Picks and Shovels. Cory Doctorow’s reconstruction of the age is note perfect: the detail, the atmosphere, ethos, flavour and smell of the age is perfectly conveyed. I love Marty and Art and all the main characters. The hope and the thrill that marks the opening section. The superb way he tells the story of the rise of Silicon Valley (to use the lazy metonym), inserting the stories of Shockley, IBM vs US Government, the rise of MS – all without turning journalistic or preachy.

The seeds of enshittification are all there… even in the sunlight of that time the shadows are lengthening. AIDS of course, and the coming scum tide of VCs. In Orwellian terms, the pigs are already rising up on two feet and starting to wear trousers. All that hope, all those ideals…

I love too the thesis that San Francisco always has failed and always will fail her suitors.

Despite cultural entropy, enshittification, corruption, greed and all the betrayals there’s a core of hope and honour in the story too.

-Stephen Fry

Cory Doctorow writes as few authors do, with tech world savvy and real world moral clarity. A true storyteller for our times.

-John Scalzi

A crackling, page-turning tumble into an unexpected underworld of queer coders, Mission burritos, and hacker nuns. You will fall in love with the righteous underdogs of Computing Freedom—and feel right at home in the holy place Doctorow has built for them far from Silicon Valley’s grabby, greedy hands."

-Claire Evans, editor of Motherboard Future, author of Broad Band: The Untold Story of the Women Who Made the Internet.

"Wonderful…evokes the hacker spirit of the early personal computer era—and shows how the battle for software freedom is eternal."

-Steven Levy, author of Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution and Facebook: The Inside Story.

What could be better than a Martin Hench thriller set in 1980s San Francisco that mixes punk rock romance with Lotus spreadsheets, dot matrix printers and religious orders? You'll eat this up – I sure did.

-Tim Wu, Special Assistant to the President for Technology and Competition Policy, author of The Master Switch: The Rise and Fall of Information Empires

Captures the look and feel of the PC era. Cory Doctorow draws a portrait of a Silicon Valley and San Francisco before the tech bros showed up — a startup world driven as much by open source ideals as venture capital gold.

-John Markoff, Pulitzer-winning tech columnist for the New York Times and author of What the Doormouse Said: How the Sixties Counterculture Shaped the Personal Computer Industry

You won't put this book down – it's too much fun. I was there when it all began. Doctorow's characters and their story are real.

-Dan'l Lewin, CEO and President of the Computer History Museum

[dourdogfish]

Butch because I just shoveled my neighbors sidewalk after working a 10 hour labor shift.

Butch because I carry gloves and toe warmers in my car to give out to those who need.

Butch because I carried a woman’s bags of salt to her car so she didn’t need to.

Butch I’ll leave my steel toed snow boots outside, so you’ll feel safer.

Butch because I always wake up early so I can clear the snow off my mom’s car.

Butch because my mom will never need to pick up a shovel again.

Butch because you’ll have to cut me down before I’d let you carry everything inside during this storm alone.

Butch because I’ll spend all day out in the cold if I’m creating warmth for my community, my neighbors, my people, my family, my coworkers, my friends, and my lovers.

[zyuu-fusil]

RT OC: Hermine von Valancius

A brief introduction of my RT! I'm still working on some details about her story.

(Commission by @.AraXi on Mihuashi)

Basic Info

Name: Hermine von Valancius

Gender: Female (She/Her)

Race: Human

Age: 28 (Standard year)

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Archetype: Officer - Master Tactician

Origin: Noble - Former Planet Governor - Bastard

Homeworld: Hive World

Background

Hermine struggled to grow up in the slums of a peripheral Hive World before she became the youngest Rogue Trader of the Koronus Expanse. Her mother got pregnant accidentally after getting called up by a nobleman. The unexpected child created substantial burden to her, wearing her out with poverty and illness. Before she died, she told Hermine who her father was. Therefore, after several weeks, the girl appeared in the middle of her father's study without warning, and threatened to expose the scandal, which would be deadly for this nobleman surviving on his wife's family. Out of fear, and probably limited guilt, her father bribed an officer of the Administratum, forging documents to prove her noble birth, and sent her to a distant planet as the governor. Therefore, he got rid of the trouble once for all.

During the years as a planet governor, Hermine showed the traits of a noble, which meant extravagance and indolence. On the barren land of this Mining World, she built up a luxurious government house, where she enjoyed herself together with other nobles, and left most work to her officers. Long-term harsh labor and oppression eventually caused a rebellion in workers, who broke in her mansion with picks and shovels in their hands, only to get their heads blown out by Hermine. Next, the governor appearing to be incapable led the campaign herself and ended the rebellion efficiently and ruthlessly, restoring order in the shortest time. Ever since then, no one dared to challenge her governance anymore, until the men of Theodora von Valancius suddenly appeared and brought her to a voidship light-years away. That was when Hermine learnt that she had become a candidate of the dynasty's heir.

[theoriginalmarke]

STAMMERING SUNDAY SUMMATIONS

Yesterday felt like a wasted day. I had things I wanted to get done and the only one that really got done was the laundry.

I don't know if it was the heat, or exhaustion catching up to me, or the anxiety sneaking up on me. I thought I had left it behind in Utah, but every so often from the corner of my eye I catch it spying on me. Anxiety is a sneaky bastard.

I did spray some weed killer before it got to hot yesterday. Last year I had cleared out a corner of the yard that was nothing but tangled vines, weeds, and assorted detritus. It is now growing back with a vengeance.

At some point I'll have to go back out with the loppers, gloves, and a shovel and remove a lot of it by hand, but I'm hoping the weed killer will handle a lot of the work for me. I'm a year older now and all of that physical labor feels daunting. My back has actually aged five years in that year.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to try and wake up and do things before the laziness gets here again.

I love you, baby. You are the bestest of pick-me-ups. MWAH!

Y'all have a great day.

[renny-mayflower]

Oops I wrote again,,, whole lotta text lol

Gray stood frozen, watching Vineria work. She plunged her shovel deep into the earth and, with a grunt of effort, dislodged a chunk of dirt, stones and other minerals. Gray's eyes darted around involuntarily, his grip tightening on the Spirit Cube, as if at any moment another Sprunki would catch them in the act.

"Hurry up, Vineria...!" Gray urged, locking his gaze back onto his now partner-in-crime.

"I'm trying," She groaned, "It's not easy digging a bigass hole to hide a body in."

It wasn't until several minutes later that Vineria pulled back, shovel at her side as she harbored deep, labored breaths.

"That should be deep enough," She said blankly.

Trembling, Gray stepped forward. The hole was just big enough for him to fit the Spirit Cube snugly inside. He stepped back again, hands newly empty. Vineria picked the shovel up again, her aching muscles protesting the movement as she began to cover the grave. By sunrise, the evidence was buried.

Wenda was no more.

[the-dragon-hearted]

"M'Lord! M'Lord... I bring word from the mines!"

"The mines? Very well old friend, what did you find? And why are you... underdressed?"

"That's the issue, m'lord... I ventured forth into the mines but foolishly forgot to switch my glider for my chestplate. I was slain by a pack of undead. I awoke in the bed I hath placed next to yours -"

"Next to mine!?"

"Besides the point. I lost a fair amount of diamonds and all my belongings."

"Very well - we shall revisit the bed issue at a later date. Do you require assistance in regaining that which you lost in the dark and terrible mines?"

"Indeed m'lord, but... there is more."

"More?"

"I ventured forth with my replacement armor, you see. I ventured back into the mines slaying all manner of arachnids, undead, and whatever else lingers in those dark corners. I found my old grave and all my loot... when I saw it..."

"What did you see?"

"One of the undead, m'lord. It's taken my armor."

"Your armor!?"

"Yes. And it slew me again."

"Your armor forged from the finest diamond and then lined with the metals plucked from hell!?"

"The deepest pit of hell itself, m'lord."

"The armor you've covered with thorns and laid with protective runes!?"

"The very same."

"How armored is it?"

"From its feet to the tip of its rotten head. All I owned it now flaunts."

"Well... I can see the problem. Fear not. I shall bring my smiting axe and we will vanquish this foul creature -"

"There is more, m'lord."

"What do you mean more?"

"The undead... they've picked up my weapon."

"... Your tools."

"My weapons."

"Your weapon. Singular."

"No, my lord. There was a horde of them, and of that ferocious group, four survived and three now carry the fruit of my labor."

"The armored one included?"

"Indeed."

"What manner of tool did the armored one pluck from your corpse?"

"..."

"Old friend, what did you arm our foe with."

"M'Lord, I fear that of all the tools to pick, he allotted the axe and shovel to his allies. He holds my sacred blade."

"Your blade."

"Indeed."

"Your fire aspect, sharpness five, hell-blessed blade, dark as the night and fierce as the heavens?"

"The very same. It has knockback as well."

"Why does it have -"

"Besides the point, m'lord."

"Well... You've made us quite the foe, old friend. Do not despair; take these iron parcels, string up your bow, we must take this foe from afar. Your thorny enchantments will not kill me faster than my arrows will kill it."

"There is... there is one more thing, m'lord."

"What?"

"The zombie, m'lord..."

"What is it?"

"It was a child."

"... Dear god."

"I fear God was able to flee faster than I could."