#prison chaplain

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Prison pipe rites rules listed," Vancouver Sun. April 27, 1983. Page 14. --- Federal prison authorities say they are prepared to allow native Indian frisoners the right to hold their fous "pipe ceremonies under certain guidelines

Jack Stewart, regional communications manager for the Correctional Service of Canada, said the institution was not preventing the holding of the ceremonies. The Indians were objecting to the guidelines for holding their Services.

Stewart took issue with an article published in The Sun April 21 that said the prison administration had "balked in the grounds of security" from allowing the ceremonies. The report was on a fast by native prisoners protesting the Kent administration's position on pipe ceremonies.

Stewart said: "The native inmates at Kent Institution were granted permission by the warden in July, 1982, to hold pipe ceremonies and have not made a formal request to build a sweat lodge although they have been encouraged to discuss the matter with the chaplaincy at Kent Institution."

The guidelines require that one prisoner be designated the pipe carrier to look after the pipe and other religious materials in his cell. The materials include tobacco, pieces of leather, a ceremonial choker to bind the pipe bun die together, two small blankets to wrap the pipe, sweet grass, sage and clear plastic container, cedar and cedar pouches and six eagle feathers.

The guidelines included a requirement that the ceremonial materials be "searched" by prison staff at any time.

"Clearly, the administration is not balking at allowing the pipe ceremonies to take place. It is, in fact, the native Indian inmates who are balking because they consider the guidelines to be unacceptable." Stewart said.

Stewart noted that Federal Court of Canada Judge Allison A.M. Walsh had rejected an application from another prisoner, Gary Leroy Butler, for an injunction preventing him from being transferred to Edmonton. Butler had sought the injunction on grounds his rights and freedoms had been interfered with.

Judge Walsh had written in his decision: "It appears that plaintiff and his cousin, Darelle Butler, also an inmate of Kent Institution, have been active members of the Native Brotherhood at Kent, in connection with the arrangements for organizing and holding aboriginal religious ceremonies.

"Discussions with the authorities commenced in about July, 1982, and after various difficulties were over-come guidelines were set for the ceremony, and arrangements were made on the understanding that security would not be compromised in any way.

"A report by Miss (deputy warden) P.L.M. Lamothe indicates that on Jan. 12, 1983, an Indian spiritual workshop was held and apparently proceeded smoothly. A perusal of correspondence and material submitted in connection with the various affidavits indicates that the prison authorities are cooperating to the full in the Indians' desire to have their own form of religious rites. There is no suggestion that their religious rites are being interfered with.

Stewart also questioned a paragraph in the April 20 article that said University of B.C. law professor Michael Jackson got warden Stonoski to "tone down" some restrictions that prevented the pipe ceremonies from being held.

"At a meeting on April 19. Warden Stonoski and Prof. Jackson were discussing the wording of the guideline he had approved last year for pipe ceremonies and volunteered that he was open to discussing the guidelines with the native Indian inmate population to assess the validity of their complaints and he also stated that the guidelines on searches was incongruous and could be reworded. He did not say, as reported, that the requirement for searches was incongruous."

Stewart concludes. "In total, we feel that the administration and staff at Kent Institution have not been inflexible in dealing with the native Indian in mates on this issue and we continue to be approachable in our efforts to meet the religious and spiritual needs of the inmate population at Kent Institution.

Caption: JACK STEWART "administration not balking"

[jtwb768-babbles]

A Quiet Reformer: The Life and Legacy of Father Barnabas Barker, T.O.R.

There are those who enter the world to make noise, and then there are those who come to listen—who change the shape of things through gentleness, steadiness, and the kind of love that never demands credit. Father Barnabas Barker, T.O.R., belonged firmly in the second group. His name might not appear in many headlines. He never led a public protest or built a mega-ministry. But his impact,…

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF SAINT JOSEPH CAFASSO The Patron of Prisoners, Prison Chaplains and Those Who Condemned to Death Feast Day: June 23

"All the holiness, perfection, and profit of a person are found in the act of perfectly doing the will of God."

Joseph Cafasso, was born Giuseppe Cafasso, to peasants in Castelnuovo d'Asti as the third of four children on January 15, 1811 in the Kingdom of Sardinia. His sister Marianna (the fourth and last child) was later to become the mother of Giuseppe Allamano, the future founder of the Consolata Missionaries. Joseph had been born with a deformed spine which contributed to his short stature and frail constitution.

It was often said that no one who knew Joseph as a child ever could recall him having sinned, seeing him as a model individual. In his childhood and in order to achieve his dream, Cafasso felt called to become a priest and so commenced his ecclesial studies in Turin and Chieri.

During this period he came to know another native of the town - John Bosco, the future founder of the Salesians - whom he would later encourage and support in the work of caring for the street urchins in Turin giving them training in various trades. The two first met when Bosco was 14, but both soon became lifelong friends. On September 21, 1833, Joseph received his ordination to the priesthood in the archdiocesan cathedral.

He - at some point - became a professed member of the Third Order of Saint Francis. In his role as a teacher he never neglected his duties as a priest and often aided those students in poor circumstances when he would provide them with books and other things needed for them to complete their studies.

The priest was known for his practice of mortifications with the aim of becoming as frugal as possible. He never smoked nor did he drink things other than water alone. He never indulged in coffee nor things between his meals. He never complained about toothaches or headaches but bore his pain with remarkable resilience as a sign of his own personal cross.

He was once asked whether or not his constant work ever wore him out and he said: 'Our rest will be in Heaven.'

Joseph celebrated Mass each 4:30 am and was known for spending long hours in the confessional and chapel.

Joseph was also a noted confessor and spiritual director who guided people who would go on to found new religious institutions or congregations which would help the church to meet the needs of the whole world.

He was also known for his extensive work in the local prisons and served as the comforter of those condemned to death so much so that he was called 'The Priest of the Gallows.'

There was even one occasion when this small and weak priest seized an enormous inmate's beard and told him he would not let go until the man confessed. The inmate did so and wept as he confessed (not from Cafasso tugging at his beard) while giving praise to God as he left the confessional. There was also another occasion in which he escorted 60 converted inmates who had been condemned to the gallows. Most of them were hanged straight after confessing and receiving absolution and so Cafasso referred to them as 'hanged saints'.

Joseph died on June 23, 1860 in Turin at the age of 49, and had died from pneumonia coupled with a stomach hemorrhage and complications from congenital medical issues. He bequeathed all he had in his will to the Little House of Divine Providence which was the religious order that Giuseppe Benedetto Cottolengo had founded some decades before.

Joseph is beatified by Pope Pius XI on May 3, 1925 and canonized by Ven. Pope Pius XII on June 22, 1947.

[tonreihe]

Sarah Jobe, Death Work: Prison Chaplaincy, Karl Barth, and Practicing Life in Prison (Th.D. thesis, Duke University, 2023)

[carmelitequotes]

Hermann Cohen served as chaplain to 5,300 POWs—bringing Christ to the sick and lost.

[david-sankey]

A time to kill? by National Library of Ireland on The Commons Via Flickr: A rather callous title on this Hogan Wilson photo - "Killing Time at the Prison"! An army chaplain with Mass servers lounging about casually smoking while some poor devil(s) await execution. We've probably found this a bit late as last year was the anniversary and a lot of detail resurfaced regarding the brutality on both sides in the Irish Civil War. What can we find on the trio? Photographer: W. D. Hogan Collection: Hogan Wilson Collection Date: Circa 1922 NLI Ref.: HOGW 146 You can also view this image, and many thousands of others, on the NLI’s catalogue at catalogue.nli.ie

[attiredpan]

Remembering that my grandfathers(?) trunk of stuff from WW2 is literally like right outside my room.

Like gramps you were a chaplain, meeting your college buddies in the middle of war torn France and being there with people in like their last moments and going through the horrors of war when did you have time to grab fucking artillery shells and bullets?

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Indian prisoner wins fight for religious rites," Vancouver Sun. December 30, 1981. Page 14. ---- By ROBERT SARTI A Protestant prison chaplain and an imprisoned native Indian spiritual leader have teamed up in a successful bid for permission to have traditional native religious services conducted on a regular basis behind bars at Oakalla Regional Correctional Centre.

Darrell (Dino) Butler, a prisoner in Oakalla's top-security South Wing, will conduct services in the wing, says Oakalla chaplain Rev. Ross Manthorpe.

And regular services in other units of the provincial institution in Burnaby will be scheduled in the new year for other native prisoners with the help of "pipe carriers, or visiting ministers," from the outside, he adds.

Mr. Manthorpe said in an inter-view the agreement with prison authorities was worked out after a long campaign by Butler for the right to keep his sacred pipe, grasses and other religious items in his cell.

Butler and his cousin Gary, both held in Oakalla without bail since last February to await trial for at-tempted murder of two police officers, mounted a 10-day fast just be-fore Christmas to reinforce their demand.

"It was a legitimate demand," said Mr. Manthorpe, noting that prisoners in federal institutions have regular access to religious ceremonies.

"Protestants and Catholics can keep a Bible in their cells. I don't see any difference."

"That's why I went to bat for them, but it took a lot of talking (to authorities). To be a good chaplain you have to be a bit of a con man."

Mr. Manthorpe said he had been holding the pipes 38-centimetre-long wooden shaft with a stone bowl - for safekeeping, and handing it over to Butler once a week for his use.

"I smoke it with them it's a fellowship kind of thing," he said.

"You know, I'm pretty hard-nosed after 12 years in here, but I've found it a very spiritual experience one of the best things that happens to me all week."

Mr. Manthorpe described Butler as "a deeply spiritual person" with the ability to inspire other native Indians with respect for their traditional culture and values.

"The interest in native religion has certainly grown since he has been here; the word has passed around," he said.

Butler said in an interview he conducted three services at Oakalla when he was held in other wings of the institution, with up to 12 native prisoners taking part.

"Many of the brothers had never been in a ceremony or witnessed one before," he said.

"That is because we were never allowed to learn our religion before. There was nothing of our culture left."

The two Butlers face trial Jan. 18 on nine charges stemming from an incident Feb. 23 during which shots were fired at a police car during a chase in East Vancouver.

Last August, they were successful in an action in B.C. Supreme Court to force the RCMP to release two medicine bundles, a blanket and other religious items.

[badbreed1111]

"Mildred Harnack was beheaded on Hitler’s direct order. Born in Milwaukee, she was 26 when she moved to Germany to pursue a PhD. As an American grad student in Berlin, she saw Germany swiftly progress from democracy to fascist dictatorship. She and her husband Arvid began holding secret meetings in their apartment. She recruited working-class Germans into the resistance, helped Jews escape, plotted acts of sabotage, and collaborated in writing leaflets that denounced Hitler and called for revolution.

"Mildred Harnack nicknamed their resistance group “the Circle.” The group was diverse: its members were Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, atheist. They were factory workers and office workers, students and professors, journalists and artists. Over 40% were women.

...

"The Gestapo arrested Mildred Harnack on Sept 7, 1942 and gave her group a name: the Rote Kapelle (Red Orchestra). Postwar testimonies and notes smuggled out of a Berlin women's prison describe the daily interrogations and torture that Mildred and others in the group endured.

"Mildred Harnack and 75 of her German coconspirators were forced to undergo a mass trial at the highest military court in Nazi Germany. A panel of 5 judges sentenced her to 6 years at a prison camp but Hitler overruled the decision and ordered her execution

"Before her execution Mildred spent the last hours of her life in a prison cell translating poems by Goethe. The title of my book ALL THE FREQUENT TROUBLES OF OUR DAYS is a line from one of them. A prison chaplain smuggled out the book of poems under the folds of his robe

"On February 16, 1943 at Plötzensee Prison in Berlin, Mildred Harnack was strapped to a guillotine and beheaded. According to all available records, she was the only American in the leadership of the German resistance to Hitler." 😯😏👇🏾

[waleriqww]

GRINDHOUSE

Part 1 Part 2

The memory of the two of you meeting when Jong Gun was in prison

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, I suggest you get in line. Hey Bobby, spit that candy out right now!” As you quietly walk beside the guard on your left, you make sure not to make eye contact with anything or anyone around you. You’ve already passed the third cell, and this godforsaken place reeks. Ignoring the stench that tickles your stomach is exhausting, and you’re close to cursing your profession as the bile threatens to rise. You keep swallowing frequently to stop yourself from vomiting in front of the guard beside you. It’s been more than two and a half years since you’ve seen a real mental hospital. During this time, you’ve been working in a clinic that barely qualifies as one it’s basically a cramped room. But even that hopeless, lightless space was a million times more bearable than this disgusting-smelling place. At least it gets aired out half an hour before appointments.

“It’s really good that you came, Doctor. Director Choi hasn’t slept in two days Hey, for God’s sake, put your underwear back on, Aldo!”

When the guard suddenly turns around and yells, you pretend not to notice the tall, burly man walking unsteadily down the hall, completely naked from the waist down.

“Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right! Mr. Choi… This whole thing must’ve shaken him. He hasn’t slept in about two days. Neither have Sister Lee and the Chaplain. They think the boy is possessed by a demon. I’m not a religious person, but I’ve been praying for days. May the gods help us.” As you’re distracted by the man clawing at a wooden table with his nails, your attention shifts from the guard talking beside you. Your eyes involuntarily lock onto the man. His nails scrape the wooden surface with a grating sound, and blood drips from his nail beds down to his fingertips. But he doesn’t seem to feel the pain. He’s muttering to himself, shaking his head as if he forgets what he’s saying, then leaning harder onto the table and scratching more violently. Instinctively, your steps lead you to his table to stop him.

“Ms. Y/N, this way, please.”

The guard’s firm voice makes you pause. Your gaze shifts to him. The stern look on his face, his furrowed brows, is a clear warning: do not interfere. This is the kind of place where you can’t touch even a regular patient without permission. With that awareness, your eyes linger on the man once more. You sigh and return to the guard waiting a few steps away. You can’t even remember the last time you saw a real mental hospital. Let’s be honest you’ve never even treated a real psychiatric patient in your life. You’re a marriage and family therapist. Even your training was molded by a system too comfortable to care about actual patients. This job isn’t for you. And God knows, even you have no idea what the hell you’re doing here.

At the end of the cells, a wave of cold air hits your skin, making you shiver. This corridor doesn’t reek like the last one, which is good. The man next to you is saying something, but your mind is elsewhere. Report structure, next appointment… If you can get out of here without catching hepatitis, you should compile your report and set a time. But the first real thought that crosses your mind? Finding the friend who referred you to this hospital and murdering them.

“Director Choi is waiting inside, Ms. Y/N. Please, this way.”

You exchange a brief glance with the door ahead. Following the guard’s direction, you knock. You wait for a response, but the command you expect comes late. You turn to the guard, but he has already turned around and headed back toward the cells. Just as you open your mouth to call after him, a short “enter” comes from inside. You slowly open the door and slip inside. As your profession demands, you should appear confident—but your shoulders are already slumped. The room is stifling. Clearly a place that hasn’t seen sunlight in a long time. When you make eye contact with the man dozing with his head in his hands, you bow in greeting. He straightens immediately, adjusts his posture.

“Hello, sir. I’m Y/N. I was referred here,” you say.

His expression changes, and he smiles with satisfaction, reaching out with both hands to shake yours.

“Hello, Ms. Y/N. I’ve been expecting you. Please, have a seat.”

You sit where he gestures and observe the man standing. He’s tall, thin—maybe in his early fifties. He’s wearing a white shirt and classic dress pants that end at the ankles. He apologizes for a quick phone call, then asks for two coffees. He even pulls the phone away to ask how you take yours.

“I’m grateful you came, Ms. Y/N,” he says as he ends the call. “Believe me, thousands of patients have passed through these cells, but this… This is the first time I’ve seen anything like this.”

He rolls up his shirt sleeves to the wrists. You meet his eyes. With a tense smile, he pulls a file from the drawer. His voice, like his gestures, is tight. He takes a shaky breath and continues speaking.

“Three different specialists came. All three fled that room in a panic. This… how should I put it…”

He pauses for a moment.

“I haven’t used this word in years, but this is a terrifying case. You’re the best in your field—I’m not afraid to say it, Ms. Y/N. I haven’t slept in two days. I don’t know what it’s called in your profession, but I can say I was psychologically harassed. If I didn’t know he wasn’t a murderer… I’d think he put me in a hypnotic trance.”

“A hypnotic trance?” you ask curiously.

“Yes. A hypnotic trance. I don’t know what happened in that room. Nothing is clear. Not the conversations, not the expressions… You can’t imagine how hard I’ve tried to remember after that session, Ms. Y/N. But I can’t recall a thing. It’s like someone opened my head and stirred the inside with a spoon.”

His pupils are dilated, his voice trembling. He’s scared—seriously scared. You’re about to say something when a knock interrupts. A woman enters, sets the tray down, quietly places the coffee, and leaves.

“Inducing a hypnotic trance isn’t all that difficult, Mr. Choi. Don’t let that scare you. Anyone trained in the technique can do it. Controlling the brain takes effort, but the person you’re talking about must be very knowledgeable. Is there any issue with me speaking to him?”

As you place the coffee cup back down, Mr. Choi shakes his head.

“Your friend worked at this hospital. I know her well. I have no doubt you’re capable, but I hope this doesn’t overwhelm you, Ms. Y/N. The issues with that man’s mind are far more serious than anyone else in these cells.”

You nod and stand. The Director stands with you. He gestures, and you begin to walk with him. As you proceed down the corridor, heading away from the cells confuses you. Realizing he’s in a different section makes you furrow your brows. You pass through a door with a transparent curtain. At the end of the corridor is a locked room. As you approach, the tense aura presses on your gut, but you try to stay calm.

You continue until you stop in front of that locked door.

“This way,” says Director Choi. The guard trailing behind you steps closer with equally nervous steps. You try to maintain your composure as the tension clings to your skin. As the guard unlocks the cell, you hope he doesn’t fumble the job. When the door opens, Director Choi makes no move to enter. The guard turns and disappears. You frown and swallow involuntarily.

“His hands are cuffed. He hasn’t attacked anything yet.”

It sounds like he’s saying he doesn’t want to go in. You give a slight nod. You don’t want to go in either—not one bit.As you step inside, a tickle forms in your throat, but to avoid revealing your anxiety, you suppress the urge to cough, pressing your tongue to your palate. As the door opens, Mr. Choi stays behind, and you enter alone.

He’s right there in front of you. Head bowed, cuffed hands resting on the table. Strands of hair fall over his face, casting a shadow on his eyes. You can’t tell whether they’re open or closed probably closed. He’s wearing a plain shirt, buttoned all the way up to the crease on the sleeve. If not for the cuffs and the rumors, you could mistake him for someone high-ranking. Killers don’t wear neatly ironed clothes.

“Welcome.”

You were lost in observing him. The closing door startles you. The soft chuckle filling the room unsettles you, and your feet freeze in place. You’re not sure if he’s noticed you watching, but you feel observed. You remain composed, take a few steps, and decide to approach the table. His tan hands twitch, then rub together. His head remains bowed, and it unsettles you more than it should. You try not to notice how fast your heart is racing.

“Not going to speak, Doctor?” he says in a layered voice. You place your hands on your legs and take a shaky breath. You don’t want to stutter. You choose your words carefully.

“I’m Y/N. They told me inside that you need help.”

He laughs. Nods slightly, then lifts his head to meet your eyes. Now you get a better look at his face. You encounter his irises, unusually white pupils, which, rather than adding to his intimidation, seem to be a distinctive element that sets him apart from everyone else. The shadows cast by his hair don’t hide the sharp lines of his features, the shape of his nose, his eyes, his lips you memorize them. He has a beautiful face. Killers are supposed to be dirty. His isn’t. You spot a small mole on his nose and a red scar between his eyes. He runs his tongue between his teeth a few times. You’re struck by the shape of his mouth. You pause. You really wonder, is he even a killer?

“I do need help, Doctor” he says. Tilts his head and watches you. He looks like a small child. He swallows. As he does, a pained expression crosses his face.

“There’s a bit of pain between my legs.”

A child? Forget that.

You ignore the dirty joke.

“Director Choi said you hypnotized him and controlled his mind. Do you have that kind of expertise?” you ask, flatly.

He looks around the room. When he purses his lips, your hands cling to your pants without thinking. He appears thoughtful, then looks back at you.

“Did I do that?” he asks curiously. His voice is childlike, but to you it’s just annoying. You don’t respond. You wait.

“As far as I know, there’s no legal restriction in our country on who can or can’t perform hypnosis.”

Despite your tension, you chuckle a joyless laugh.

“If you’re that knowledgeable, then you should also know that manipulating someone’s mind violates a physician’s professional boundaries” you say.

He leans in, closer to your face. You grip your pants tighter, hold your ground. You’re now face to face. His eyebrows are neat, lashes aligned. His face is sharp and symmetrical.

“Sweating from increased body heat, accelerated heart rate…” He smiles. You hadn’t noticed the sweat until he said it. His breath fans across your face, making him harder to ignore.

“You must be having naughty thoughts to be this excited, Doctor,” he says, grinning. Gets closer.

“Or… You’re not a real doctor.”

His breath grazes your face again before he pulls back. He leans into his chair, watching your stunned expression with amusement. You part your lips and release your grip on your pants.

He keeps watching. You avert your gaze. You try to calm yourself down before you slam the door and walk out.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Doctor?” he asks. You look at him again. He’s still watching. His lips are dry, cracked. That dry? They must not be giving him water.

“I’m not satisfied with the service, Doctor,” he says. He must’ve noticed where you were looking. You quickly meet his gaze again. There’s a warmth there it confuses you even more. You take a deep breath and reach for your bag. He eyes the bottle of water you pull out.

“But you still haven’t answered my question, Doctor.”

You stand, approach him. The closeness triggers him, he studies your every move. You’re tense, but not like when you first entered.

“I’m not obligated to answer personal questions. Especially if the person asking is my patient,” you say. You open the bottle and bring it to his lips. He doesn’t break eye contact as he drinks. A drop trickles down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. You swallow. His lips now have more color. But his damned eyes still haven’t left your face. Your hands tremble as you return the bottle to your bag. You clear your throat.

“How sweet of you to already claim me, Doctor,” he says. You frown, face him.

“You won’t answer personal questions with me that makes me your patient too, doesn’t it?”

Is that what he focused on? He must be obsessed with details. You read a little article somewhere about murderers being detail oriented and symmetry obsessed. Now it gives you goosebumps remembering it.

“If that’s what you’re fixated on, I don’t recall implying that I would treat you,” you say.

He clicks his tongue, the sound echoing in the room. He lifts his gaze, meets yours. Tilts his head slightly to the right, keeps watching.

“Pity, Doctor. I could’ve behaved for you.”

Of course he’s playing. You know if you don’t take this job, your friend will kill you. You know what’ll happen if you object once you’re out of here.

“I think that’s enough for today,” you say, standing. “I have a report to deliver to Mr. Choi.”

He must’ve gotten the message. He smirks. Watches your body as you stand.

“I like you, Doctor.”

As you walk down the corridor, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. You’ve just come out of a terrifying session. You breathe easier now than you did inside the room. You wipe the sweat off your neck and shoulders with a tissue from your pocket. When you find Director Choi’s office, he lifts his head from the papers and watches you with curiosity. You drop your bag and speak before reaching for the file.

“In our next session, I want the cuffs removed. Also, I request a pitcher and glass be left in the cell” you say sharply. While he stares at you in shock, your eyes catch the name written in bold ink on the file cover.

7552 – Park Jong Gun

I don't think anyone will read this story, but the fiction suddenly teleported into my mind, so instead of keeping it in my notes, I'm writing it here lol. sorry if I wrote something wrong

[loveerran]

Please make sure to click the article link and read the bios of these amazing women! Note the diversity in their life experiences.

I also want to point out that the church has endorsed its first female military chaplain, previously a role restricted to men and one which required two changes to official policy to make happen:

Being a chaplain traditionally involves some very specific duties, as noted in the church website's description:

Female Chaplains

Female Latter-day Saint chaplains may perform marriages, funerals, memorials, worship services, counseling, classes, and other needs of ministry. If services or ordinances are needed beyond the scope of one’s authority, the chaplain will facilitate the service taking place with authorized personnel. This protocol is also used for administration of the sacrament and priesthood blessings.

[sylestine-redacted]

Absolute filth (and only 3k of the current 8k written..lets see how it does). READ TAGS PLS. A bunch of mean black templars.

Part 2 here

f!reader x Black Templars

A/N: *covers face in shame but peeks through hands* don't judge meeeee

Cw: NSFW. noncon, bondage, voyeur/group watching, nipple clamps, humiliation, yandere chaplain

The Verdict

The chapel of penitent flesh was colder than it had any right to be.

Not by temperature—no, the ship's internal systems kept things stabilized—but by atmosphere. The air felt starved of warmth, pressed thin under the weight of judgment. Iron arches climbed the ceiling like the ribs of some titanic beast, and on every wall, purity seals fluttered in silence, blood-inked parchment whispering scripture to no one.

You knelt on bare ceramite flooring, naked but for the chains and the rune-branded collar digging into the soft hollow of your throat. Arms behind you, wrists locked. Knees wide apart, not by choice, but because the binding rod that ran between them forced it—meant to expose, display. Not comfort.

Before you stood the Chaplain. Behind him, twelve battle-brothers of the Black Templars, helmed and silent, standing like statues carved from hate. You felt their eyes, even through the black lenses. The way they looked at you—like a thing, a subject. An animal ready for slaughter. Or worse: ready for salvation.

The Chaplain raised his crozius and struck the floor once. The crack boomed like a thunderclap.

“You stand before the judgment of Dorn’s wrath,” he said, his voice a sermon made flesh. Gravel-dry. Stern as the grave. “You, who consorted with the profane. You, who bore flesh not in service of the God-Emperor, but in shame. You, who craved. Lust. Power. Touch.”

The word curled off his tongue like an accusation. Touch. You flinched.

He stepped forward. The floor trembled when he moved.

He came forward with the deliberation of a beast who’d already chosen his prey—no need to rush, no need to threaten. You were already caught. What came next wasn’t punishment. It was ritual. Litany. A practiced thing.

When he crouched in front of you, it was like the hull of the ship shifted to accommodate him.

The Chaplain’s armor creaked with old weight, servo-motors hissing low, quiet like breath from a dying throat. His cloak spilled forward across the stone, smelling of incense, gunmetal, and the faint stink of him. Old blood. Sanctified oils. You could feel the radiation of his power armor, its proximity, its sheer unnatural mass—like a mountain choosing to lean in.

His skull-helm stared directly into your face, close enough that your breath fogged against the smooth bone cheek of it.

Up close, it was worse.

The surface was worn—not pristine, not ceremonial. There were hairline fractures in the faux-bone. Bits of dried blood along the mouth. Teeth marks. You weren’t sure if they were decoration… or leftovers. Thin purity seals trailed from the back like ribbons, their script all but unreadable from here, but you could see the words “EXULTATION IN PENANCE” etched in high Gothic across the brow.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he watched. Helmet tilted slightly. Studying. Not as a man might study a prisoner—but the way a priest might study a relic before he shattered it to sanctify the crowd.

And then, gauntlet rising, he reached out. Not with violence. But with a slow, terrifying calm. Two fingers under your chin—metal touching bare skin—and he lifted your face up to his.

Like a lover. Like an executioner.

The vox crackled softly before his voice poured out, low and close and static-slick.

“I know what you dream of when you think no one listens.”

“Speak. Confess.”

His voice had weight. Not like a man, but like scripture. Like something forced into your head. You could feel the audience shift behind him, other Astartes leaning in slightly, hungering. Waiting for your words. For your fear.

The skull-helm regarded you with mechanical silence, a death’s head fitted with purity seals and etched with sigils older than the current crusade. You couldn’t see his eyes—but you felt them. Hungry. Patient.

“Speak,” he repeated, vox cracking with the command. “Confess.”

You didn’t. Not immediately.

The chains rattled as you lifted your chin without his hand, shoulders back despite their ache. The collar bit your skin as you met that hollow gaze, and the breath you took was sharp, deliberate—defiant.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, voice rough from dehydration. “Your ‘evidence’ is a fucking joke.”

There it was. The crackle. The ripple of movement behind him—one of the Astartes shifting his weight, another tightening fingers around the grip of his boltgun. But the Chaplain remained still.

“Lie not before the Throne,” he said at last. “You were witnessed. Your room was soaked in sigils. Warp-scent clung to your flesh. And your thoughts…” His voice deepened, modulator dipping to a near-growl. “Your thoughts were read.”

You hissed. “Then read them again. All of them.”

Another step. His armored boots struck sparks on the stone as he loomed closer, crozius held like a branding rod. He stood over you now, his cloak heavy with incense and ash, draping around your shoulders like smoke. The skull helm leaned in.

“I have,” he said.

You froze.

The silence turned thick—every breath from the crowd behind him became unbearable. The implications in his words—it wasn’t just this moment. He had touched your mind before. Sought out dreams. Or fantasies. Maybe you’d felt it and chalked it up to ship madness, the strange tension of living in the shadow of gods.

But he’d been there.

He knelt again. This time, slower. A performance. The crozius came down across your thigh, not to strike—but to rest, cold and heavy. His other hand moved to your face—not lifting now, but gripping. Hard. Thumb against your cheekbone. Fingers splayed. Not hurting you—yet—but the threat sat there, loaded.

“The tongue lies,” he said, low. “But the body cannot. Flesh betrays.”

He pressed his thumb just under your lip, smearing it down to your chin. The soft, obscene trail it left there… you hated that you felt it.

“Later,” he murmured, barely audible. “You will thank me for this purification.”

He rose again. Straightened. Turned to the crowd.

“The heretic will be corrected.”

There was no cheering. No applause. Just the hum of approval in the comms, the mechanical growl of Astartes accepting the order.

Two of them moved. You felt your bindings pulled tighter. Your legs dragged wider. A sigil was activated beneath you—burning-hot chains snapping into place across your ankles and upper thighs, pulling you down onto some kind of sanctified mount. Positioning you.

The Chaplain turned back, crozius in hand, voice a benediction dipped in filth.

“We begin with the mouth. The seat of lies. The font of defiance.”

You said nothing. That was your choice. That was your weapon.

He leaned in slowly, with the patience of a man who knew he'd already won. Not yet in deed—but in trajectory. As if the outcome wasn’t in question, just the time it would take to wear you down into the shape he wanted.

“Prepare the orifice,” he said aloud, as if reading from a checklist.

You heard motion behind you. More steps. Another brother brought a basin forward—filled with a viscous, transparent fluid that shimmered with faint sigils beneath the surface. It smelled sterile and electric, like burning ozone. A ritual lubricant. Or something worse.

You thrashed—instinctively, stupidly. The chains yanked tight. Your body arched against the restraint rod between your legs, iron biting into the backs of your knees. Laughter echoed softly from one of the Astartes behind their helm.

Not kind laughter. Something low. Interested.

The Chaplain didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge your struggle.

Instead, he reached for your jaw again—this time, less gently. His gloved thumb crushed your cheek inward while his fingers pressed into the hinge of your jaw, prying it open.

You snapped your teeth.

You aimed to bite.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Your teeth met armor, clacked uselessly against the ridged plating of his fingers.

He only held you there, squeezing tighter. Enough to make your gums ache, your lips burn at the corners. And then—he pushed in.

Two fingers. Thick. Coated with oil. They slid between your lips, slow and steady, filling your mouth without pause or question. You gagged as they brushed the back of your throat, your neck jerking involuntarily.

He didn't pull away.

“Still the tongue,” he said, voice deep and thunder-sure. “Let the flesh receive correction.”

You made a sound—muffled and furious. You tried to speak around the intrusion, to spit, curse, something. But all you managed was a wet, humiliated choke.

One of the Astartes shifted in response. You heard the click of armor plates, the scrape of boots against the sanctified stone. They were watching you drool. Watching your jaw stretch. Watching the Chaplain work his fingers into your mouth like he was measuring the shape of your shame.

He twisted his hand—gently, cruelly—so the tips of his fingers hooked behind your cheek, pulling.

The corners of your mouth tore open wider. Pain prickled at the seams of your lips. Your teeth bared in a grotesque, involuntary smile.

And then, with mock solemnity, the Chaplain whispered, “Recite.”

---

Your jaw ached. Your lips trembled around the stretch. His fingers hooked cruelly, not moving, just holding—making you wear the expression he wanted. A parody of penance. A smile that wasn’t yours.

Saliva pooled beneath your tongue. Your throat worked around the intrusion. He waited.

“Recite.”

You stared into the hollow sockets of his skull-helm, gagging once—sharp, ungraceful—and managed to rasp out:

“Fuck you.”

The words hit the air like blood in holy water—blasphemy spat directly into the face of faith.

Behind him, a few of the watching Astartes stiffened. One stepped forward—but the Chaplain raised a single hand. Not yet.

His fingers didn’t leave your mouth.

But they did press in deeper.

You gasped around them, choking again, and he leaned in low—closer now, as if the vox alone couldn’t carry the weight of what he needed you to feel.

“You will not speak again,” he said, almost soft. “Not until it is time to beg.”

Then, slowly, he withdrew—a string of spit trailing from your bottom lip to his gauntlet as he pulled free, the wet sound echoing indecently through the high chamber.

You sagged in the chains, furious, humiliated, heart hammering. The rod between your legs dug harder. Your face burned.

But you said nothing.

And that silence—your new weapon, your only defense—he noticed it.

The skull tilted as if amused. And he stepped back without another word.

The other Astartes began to move around you. Preparing. Adjusting restraints. Bringing tools. The ritual would continue.

But the Chaplain remained still, staring.

He was enjoying this.

You could feel it.

---

You couldn't track how many of them moved. They made no sound but the clink of armored boots and the low thrum of liturgical cant. Your limbs were held wide, body suspended by chains and sanctified iron, knees pinned open, back arched to expose the full map of your front—your chest, your belly, the dampening crease between your legs. Spread like a heretical offering. Like meat.

The Chaplain remained still behind his helm. A black altar watching its own sermon.

One Astartes approached with a basin of oil, blessed in rites you didn’t recognize. It smelled of incense, blood, and scorched metal. He dipped his fingers into it—gloved, massive—and stepped behind you.

You braced.

The first touch was just at your throat. A warm slick line of pressure, drawn from collarbone to sternum like a priest anointing the dead. He didn’t speak. None of them did. Only the low drone of whispered prayer filled the air—thirteen voices, speaking in synch, not for you, but over you.

Another hand followed.

It smeared the oil beneath your breasts. Across your ribcage. Palms so broad they nearly spanned your waist. They moved with methodical slowness, pausing deliberately near every sensitive edge—but never touching them directly. Your nipples stiffened from the cold air and the scent of the oil, and they noticed. One gloved knuckle brushed—just enough to tease, to not satisfy—and kept moving.

You jerked against the chains.

Laughter. Quiet, predatory. The kind that made your gut coil.

Another line of oil was dragged along the inside of your thigh—just under the point of aching heat. You trembled. Still untouched. Still waiting. And that waiting hurt. Your body tried to follow the trail, hips twitching against the restraints, instinct clawing at reason. You hated it. Hated how your breath hitched. Hated the pulse beginning to throb deep between your legs.

“Note the reaction,” one voice said, flat and clinical.

“Affirmative,” another replied. “Response consistent with corruption.”

You bared your teeth. Silent. You wouldn’t give them the sound. Not yet.

The Chaplain moved.

One step.

Two.

He came to your side and lowered himself again, slow and sure, vox still live with his breath. The skull-mask turned toward you, close enough that the lenses reflected your own stretched, humiliated expression.

He reached out—not to your sex. Not even your breasts.

His gauntlet came to your cheek, fingers dragging along the spit-wet corner of your mouth. He pressed against your lips. Not forcing inside—yet—but suggesting.

“Your body thirsts for the profane,” he said. “But the Emperor sees truth through the skin.”

His thumb smeared down to your chin.

And then, with sickening gentleness, he said, “Let us peel it back.”

Another motion behind you. Cold clamps—ritual instruments—were locked onto your nipples. The pain flared immediate and sharp, dancing the line between agony and arousal. They didn’t adjust. Didn’t check for comfort. The chain connecting them dangled down your chest, swaying with every breath.

You made a noise then. A stifled gasp, caught in your throat.

The Chaplain heard it.

So did the others.

“She weakens,” one Astartes said. “The flesh speaks.”

“No,” the Chaplain corrected. His voice dropped low—reverent. “The flesh prays.”

Your pulse thundered.

And below your navel—heat.

You knew it. They knew it.

One of them leaned in, the breath from his rebreather against your inner thigh, gauntlet spreading your lips without entering. Not yet. Just the exposure. The feel of air on wet skin. The humiliating stickiness of arousal made plain.

“She is ready,” the Chaplain said.

But he didn’t give the order to proceed.

He just stood there, watching you burn in your own skin. Letting every drop of slick betray you while nothing filled it.

You trembled, useless and on display, the chains creaking as your hips flinched toward a touch that never came. Heat flushed under your skin like fever, dripping oil and sweat across your chest and inner thighs. Your nipples throbbed in their clamps. Your mouth burned with the ghost of his fingers. Your cunt—traitorous—ached with shameful pulse.

And they saw everything.

“She’s dripping again,” one voice reported, cold and amused. “Marking the floor like a feral bitch.”

Another stepped closer. You heard the click of something metallic. The hiss of a scanner.

“Confirmed. Viscous discharge. Muscular contractions in the pelvic floor. She is rutting the air.”

A third voice, older, vox rasping like a sermon broadcast through rust: “The corruption of the womb runs deep.”

They weren’t speaking to you.

They were documenting you.

Your body was no longer yours. It belonged to the litany now—catalogued and analyzed, judged with clinical precision.

“She’s trying to press down. Look—there. The cunt lips are parting. Desperate to be filled.”

The shame landed like slaps. Each word drove heat up your throat. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from making a sound, jaw tight, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

And that silence?

They noticed.

The Chaplain stepped closer. He loomed—death in the shape of zeal. The skull-mask was inches from your face now, his breath filtered through the vox in rhythmic, mechanical pulls. He crouched, gauntlet reaching, and again his fingers dragged along your lips—wet now with drool and breath and his mark.

“She endures. Still trying to keep her dignity.” He pressed harder, prying your lips open with his thumb. “Tell me, little heretic: is silence your last prayer? Or your final weapon?”

He pushed two fingers back into your mouth.

Harder this time.

You choked immediately. Saliva welled up fast, spilling down your chin. He twisted his wrist cruelly, dragging the corners of your mouth wider, hooking in deep—baring your teeth in that grotesque, forced grin.

“Smile for them,” he whispered. “Show them what disobedience looks like.”

You couldn’t stop the moan. It slipped past your gagged throat, low and shaking, coated in shame. Your thighs trembled again—and that’s when they noticed the newest betrayal:

Another drip. Slick. Wet. Audible.

“She just soaked the chain.”

Another chuckled, low and mocking: “Imagine the stench. Like a breeding pen. You think she’s done this before?”

“Please,” one said flatly. “She’s trained herself for it.”

They laughed.

It wasn’t cruel laughter—not in the way men laugh. It was the laughter of gods looking down at a creature writhing in its own filth. Detached. Disappointed.

The Chaplain withdrew his fingers with a slow, wet pop. Spit clung in strings from your lips, catching the light. He smeared it across your cheek, down your jawline, marking you like a child’s painting—crude and unmistakable.

Then he leaned close, his voice soft and vicious.

“You are not to be cleansed yet. You are to be witnessed.”

The chains above you groaned again as another line was drawn taut, your back stretched just a little farther, the arch in your spine exaggerated. Your nipples—already purpled in the clamps—jutted forward, trembling, vulnerable. The chain that linked them dragged downward, swaying with every involuntary breath, every twitch of want you tried to crush.

And the Chaplain watched. Hands behind his back. The skull-mask still and merciless.

“She shows signs of receptivity,” he said. “Test the severity of the affliction.”

Two Astartes stepped forward.

You didn’t see what they brought until the cold bit down.

A sanctified rod—coated in the same blessed oil—was pressed lengthwise between your breasts. Not hard. Just enough to smear the oil lower, down to your navel, and then back up. Teasing, agonizing, skirting the clamps.

Then—

One of them reached between your thighs.

Not to penetrate.

But to take hold of the clamp chain.

He tugged.

A sudden, sharp jolt lanced through your chest. Your breath seized. You cried out—finally, the sound escaping—and your hips jerked, instinctive and uncoordinated. The pain was blinding, but beneath it—worse—was the flare of something else. Something deeper. Hotter.

“Ah. There it is,” the Chaplain said.

The Astartes tugged again, rhythmically now. Just enough to make you whimper, to make your back twist, to make your mouth open involuntarily with every pull. Saliva slipped from your lips, drooling down your chest, mixing with the oil on your skin.

“She responds positively to the pain stimulus,” one of them noted, voice low, fascinated.

“Disgusting,” another said. “And predictable.”

They kept pulling.

You moaned—choked, raw, helpless. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to give them the sound, but it broke from you, strangled and high, drawn from your lungs like a confession.

More laughter. This time sharper.

“Listen to her,” someone muttered. “She wants this. Filthy little sermon slut.”

“She’s weeping,” another said.

And you were. Face streaked with drool and salt. Eyes glassy. Not broken. Not yet. But something was shifting. You felt it. The ragged edge of need crawling up through your shame.

The Chaplain knelt again.

He reached up—and with one gloved finger, traced a line of tears from your cheek to your jaw.

“This is the sound of blasphemy made flesh,” he said. “Wring it from her. Make the flesh speak its verse.”

----------------blasphemously continues----------

Ough yeah ... it gets worse... wanna see?

(・ε・)

Tagged: @justfreakynothingelse (heheh my first take on black templar humiliation - if this isn't your cup of tea I will tag you in the next [slightly less ridiculous] interpretation)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some French Loans in Middle English

Loan Word - vocabulary borrowings

Borrow - to introduce a word (or some other linguistic feature) from one language or dialect into another

Administration authority, bailiff, baron, chamberlain, chancellor, constable, coroner, council, court, crown, duke, empire, exchequer, government, liberty, majesty, manor, mayor, messenger, minister, noble, palace, parliament, peasant, prince, realm, reign, revenue, royal, servant, sir, sovereign, squire, statute, tax, traitor, treason, treasurer, treaty, tyrant, vassal, warden

Law accuse, adultery, advocate, arrest, arson, assault, assize, attorney, bail, bar, blame, chattels, convict, crime, decree, depose, estate, evidence, executor, felon, fine, fraud, heir, indictment, inquest, jail, judge, jury, justice, larceny, legacy, libel, pardon, perjury, plaintiff, plea, prison, punishment, sue, summons, trespass, verdict, warrant

Religion abbey, anoint, baptism, cardinal, cathedral, chant, chaplain, charity, clergy, communion, confess, convent, creator, crucifix, divine, faith, friar, heresy, homily, immortality, incense, mercy, miracle, novice, ordain, parson, penance, prayer, prelate, priory, religion, repent, sacrament, sacrilege, saint, salvation, saviour, schism, sermon, solemn, temptation, theology, trinity, vicar, virgin, virtue

Military ambush, archer, army, barbican, battle, besiege, captain, combat, defend, enemy, garrison, guard, hauberk, lance, lieutenant, moat, navy, peace, portcullis, retreat, sergeant, siege, soldier, spy, vanquish

Food and drink appetite, bacon, beef, biscuit, clove, confection, cream, cruet, date, dinner, feast, fig, fruit, fry, grape, gravy, gruel, herb, jelly, lemon, lettuce, mackerel, mince, mustard, mutton, olive, orange, oyster, pigeon, plate, pork, poultry, raisin, repast, roast, salad, salmon, sardine, saucer, sausage, sole, spice, stew, sturgeon, sugar, supper, tart, taste, toast, treacle, tripe, veal, venison, vinegar

Fashion apparel, attire, boots, brooch, buckle, button, cape, chemise, cloak, collar, diamond, dress, embroidery, emerald, ermine, fashion, frock, fur, garment, garter, gown, jewel, lace, mitten, ornament, pearl, petticoat, pleat, robe, satin, taffeta, tassel, train, veil, wardrobe

part 1/2 ⚜ Source ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Notes & References

[reality-detective]

🔥THE NINTH CIRCLE: SATANIC RITUALS IN THE VATICAN EXPOSED🔥

OVER 50,000 CHILDREN MISSING. A trial held at the Brussels Common Law Court saw five judges and 27 jurors from six countries review evidence pointing to an international child sacrifice cult — The Ninth Circle. Victims: children from Canada, the U.S., Europe, and Argentina. Suspects: Popes, royals, and judges.

Pope Francis RAPED children. Eight eyewitnesses confirmed it under oath. He allegedly drank newborn blood during satanic rites in Holland and Belgium between 2009-2010. As a Jesuit Bishop in Argentina, he helped traffic children of political prisoners into a Vatican-run child exploitation network.

Sealed Vatican documents were presented in court. One dated Dec 25, 1967, titled Magisterial Privilege, stated EVERY Pope must commit ritual sacrifice of newborns to gain “spiritual power.” These blood rituals, ongoing since 1773, were allegedly designed to ensure Papal political dominance.

Former Pope Ratzinger (Benedict XVI) was implicated in the same rituals — even traced back to the Nazi Ravensbruck death camp, where he served as a chaplain’s assistant. Vatican records show he was a Knight of Darkness, participating in child sacrifices since at least 1962.

Children were raped, mutilated, and slaughtered on stone altars. Testimonies describe baby parts being consumed by robed elites. This isn’t ancient history — this is the operating system of the Jesuits, the Vatican, and the Crown.

Named participants include:

Pope Francis,

Joseph Ratzinger,

Jesuit General Adolfo Pachon,

Archbishop Justin Welby,

Prince Philip,

Dutch and Belgian royals,

UK Justice Judge Fulford,

Bilderberg founder Prince Bernhard.

40+ mass grave sites have been uncovered across Canadian residential schools — tied to the Catholic Church, the Crown, and Anglican institutions. Government-backed archaeologists were FORCED to shut down excavations after remains were uncovered.

Ask yourself: Why are these monsters exempt from justice? Why does the Vatican hold global power?

Because they drink blood. They kill children. And they’re protected.

THEY FEAR THE STORM THAT’S COMING.

EXPOSE THEM ALL.

NO MERCY. 🤔

- Benjamin Fulfford

[girlactionfigure]

The photograph below of the 1945 Shavuot prayer service in the liberated Buchenwald camp hangs in Yad Vashem’s Holocaust History Museum. Leading the service is Rabbi Herschel Schacter, a Jewish chaplain who was among the American liberators of Buchenwald.

Upon arriving at Buchenwald, the young Rabbi realized these prisoners were frightened of his uniform, which for them had been a symbol of oppression, he shouted out to them in Yiddish: “Yidden, ihr zeit frei–Jews, you are free!”

Outside the barracks, Rabbi Schacter was appalled by the horrific sights he encountered. His shock and dismay grew as he discovered piles of corpses awaiting cremation, and the deplorable state of physical and mental health among the surviving prisoners.

It was there that he encountered an 8-year-old survivor, ��Lulek’ Lau, who warily watched the Rabbi from behind the tangled bodies of the dead. Rabbi Schacter picked up the little boy in his arms, and asked him how old he was.

“I’m certainly older than you” the young boy replied.

“Older than me?” asked Rabbi Schacter, startled… “What makes you think so?”

“Because you cry and laugh as a child, while I have forgotten how to laugh, and I can’t even cry... So tell me, which of us is older?” ‘Lulek’ responded.

Rabbi Schacter stayed in the liberated camp to aid in the physical and mental recovery of the living prisoners and to renew Jewish life and traditions, including celebrating the impending Jewish holiday of Shavuot. Seated in the front row of the Shavuot prayers was 8-year-old ‘Lulek’ Lau (pictured below).

One month later ‘Lulek’ immigrated to the land of Israel. He would grow up to become the Chief Rabbi of Israel, Chairman of the Yad Vashem Council, and a leading voice for Holocaust remembrance and education worldwide: Rabbi Israel Meir Lau.

Grandchildren of Holocaust Survivors

[vague-humanoid]

MOBILE, Ala. – On July 21, 2023, Agolia Moore was already in bed when the chaplain at the Limestone Correctional Facility in Harvest called to inform her that her youngest son, Kelvin Moore, had died from a fentanyl overdose. He was 43.

Agolia Moore was devastated by the news. She had spoken with her son that evening and couldn’t believe he died just 90 minutes after they’d gotten off the phone. Then, the chaplain asked her a question that made her even more suspicious about her son’s death.

“He said, ‘Who’s over him?’ ” Agolia Moore, 82, said when I met with her in Mobile. “I said, ‘I am. I’m his mother.’ I said, ‘He has no wife. No kids. I am over him.’ ”

Six days later, Moore’s body was delivered to his hometown, which is about 350 miles from the prison. Because he died while in custody, Moore’s body was first sent to the University of Alabama at Birmingham, which conducts autopsies for the Alabama Department of Corrections.

But when Moore’s remains arrived in Mobile, the family’s mortician discovered that someone had taken out most of his internal organs.

@chrisdornerfanclub prisons are dealing inmate organs now, again

“It’s a systematic abuse situation,” Faraino said. “UAB has been taking the organs of incarcerated people without family consent for years now, and we have a handful of families that have come forward who discovered that their loved ones were returned without their organs.