#Hogs and Pigs Report

[thegnomelord]

#23 with male reader and soap. After a mission m!reader helps him clean himself in the shower maybe because soap got injured on the field or just really sore. And he washes off the blood/dust/dirt and helps dry him off and it turns into something kinda fluffy. I just wanna play with this man's stupid mohawk so bad.

Honestly me too, I just see that strip of hair and get the urge to tug on it, completely forgetting the man's fictional 😅 Ended up writing washing his hair and showering together because hyperfixation lol Play the game HERE.

Prompt: Washing their hair

CW: NSFW but no sex, non sexual nudity, M reader, showering together, hair washing, just fluffy fluffy fluff.

As much as you care about Soap, you've got to admit he's a bit of a dumbass, a reckless dumbass to boot. You tell him to be careful and what does he do? End up falling out of a second story window and rolling down a good 60 feet down a muddy hill while chasing after a target. You hear him swear the entire way down from where you're tucked away safely behind the sight of your sniper rifle.

By the time you get back to base Johnny feels as miserable as he looks, covered in so much mud you can't see his skin and his entire back wreathed in dull throbbing pain, not to mention the numerous cuts and scraps. And that's on top of Price chewing him out about safety and Ghost and Gaz teasing him the entire flight back to base.

"Not a word lad," He growls, giving you the stink eye. "Price already yapped me ear off." Soap turns to his heel in an attempt to head to the communal showers, biting his lip to stop himself from swearing out god, king, and country when his muscles scream at him.

"Wasn't going to." You stop him, one firm hand tugging on his bulletproof vest so you don't jostle him too much, though even that has drops of mud splashing on your clothes. "Come on, you can shower in my room."

He looks at you skeptically, but it doesn't take much to sway his mind when you offer him simple comforts; privacy, warm hands to wash away the days pains, a warmer body to remind him he's alive. He follows you without a word, neither one of you caring about the mud you track— tomorrow's problems.

"Foooock." The groan comes deep from his bones, perfectly encapsulating all he feels as you methodically unclip his gear, taking the world's weight off his shoulders and dropping it haphazardly on the bathroom's tiled floor. "Feel like a fockin' hog," He frowns.

"Look like you rolled in a pig sty." You helpfully supplement, receiving a few words in Gaelic which you don't even attempt to understand, though the humor in his tone is crystal clear even when you take hold of the bottom of his shirt; the mud and grime had gone through every layer of clothing, leaving not a single inch of skin clean.

He attempts to raise his arms to help you, only to suddenly yell out a "Oh ye fockin' cunt!" when pain flares from his shoulder down the entire length of his spine. You swear you hear his spine crack at least a dozen times by the time you pull his shirt off his mud wet skin.

"You sound like an old geezer." You chuckle to lighten the mood, dropping to your knees to untie his shoelaces and take off his boots, then the rest of his clothes.

"Says the bloke who's left knee tells the weather." He bites back, a bit of teeth on display as he grimaces, another few curses leaving his lips when he has to lower his arm. "Or tries to, yer got as much accuracy as the bloody reporters on the telly."

"Starting to complain like one too," You add, not at all surprised when Soap proceeds to brush his muddy hand across your face. "Of you fucker," Your words gain a childish little giggle from him, and he lets you guide him into the shower.

Your bathroom's one of the few that has a tub in it —a relic of past tenants before the army remodeled the base into an actual military installation— you had to bribe Price with a lot of high quality cigars to get it, but every penny was worth it. There's a tap as well as a detachable showerhead up top that Johnny eagerly uses, turning the water hot and just standing under the stream while you disrobe.

The clean water turns muddy the second it hits his skin, brown muck swirling around your feet as you step into the tub behind him. "How's that sweetheart?" You ask, taking the soap bottle and squirting a heavy amount onto your hands, not bothering with a sponge and instead using your fingers to wash away the dirt on his skin.

"Heaven." Johnny sighs, his muscles fluttering beneath your hands, mud and blood washing away to reveal deep blooming bruises across his back. "Shite, that hits the spot." He leans against you, the slow but firm pressure of your fingers massaging the sore muscles around the blotchy bruises making him groan. You lean in to place gentle kisses on the darkest bruises, "So good fer me bonnie," he hums, using his arms the best he can to at least wash the mud off his face.

You two float in a sort of mindless space where nothing outside the shower matters, the sound of water running and Soap's occasional groan filling your ears, all your focus on the way your hands rub him down; from shoulders to his back, down to his feet and then back up to his face when he turns around.

Once the water runs clear again you turn off the shower and start the tap so the tub fills with enough water to keep him warm, maneuvering him to sit in the tub while you step out to dry yourself off and put on boxers.

"Don't need ta be pampered like a show mutt," He grumbles, the hot water easing the soreness in his frame and making his exhaustion prominent, Johnny's eyelids starting to droop despite his best efforts to stay awake.

"I know, but you hair's a damn crow's nest." You snort, running your fingers through the mess on his head and showing the gunk stuck on your fingers, hell, you even pull a damn twig out.

His eyes widen, "Well fock me," Soap grimaces, gives a bone deep sigh as you settle behind him, sitting partially on the tub. Cupping water in your palms you rub your fingers down the length of his mohawk, loosening the dirt sticking to the strands until rivulets of watery mud run down his neck.

"Maybe later." You both chuckle, squirting the shampoo Soap always loves to smell on you in your hand and lathering your palms up before bringing them back to his hair. Soap mumbles something, leaning his head into your hands whenever you scratch a particularly itchy spot on his scalp.

His head tips back as much as his aching shoulders let him, his eyes settling on your face. I got it made, he thinks to himself, desperately trying to keep his eyelids open so he can see how you focus on even a simple task like washing his hair. Every brush of your fingers across his dirty strands fills his chest with lingering warmth, every scratch of your nails across his scalp making his eyes droop just a bit more.

Johnny doesn't even notice the slight sting when you occasionally tug on a knot, your touch making his mind buzz pleasantly like the low background static of a TV on late nights, and Soap doesn't realize he's dosing off.

You notice how he leans against your leg, leaning over to see his eyes closed and chest steadily rising and falling. You let him sleep for a bit while you finish up cleaning his hair and then use the detachable shower head to wash the bubbly shampoo off.

"What is'it?" He mumbles when you gently shake him awake, eyelids fluttering open and shut.

"Need you to get up Johnny." You hum and it's laughable how easily he follows your instructions, needing a bit of help to stand up when his back still aches like hell, a shiver racing down his spine as the cold air of your bathroom nips at his skin. "Fock, do'ah look like a snowman?" He grumbles at the cold.

You chuckle instead of saying anything, silencing any other complaints with sweet kisses on his lips as you towel him dry.

Soon after you two are huddled under the covers, his body draped over yours and using your chest as a pillow. Your fingers card through his slightly damp hair, the soft brown strands like feathers against your skin and your touch making him sigh and melt against you.

"Hey lad?" He suddenly says, voice a gentle whisper; like he's about to reveal a secret kept from the world — something only meant for you.

"Yeah Johnny?" You ask, a few stars reflecting in his blue eyes from your window.

Your heart melts at the soft and goody smile he gives you, "Love you." he says, leaning his head into your hand that's in his hair.

You smile and lean your head to kiss him, "Love you too," You mutter against his lips, and when you pull away he's already drifted off to sleep like a babe, soft breath tickling your skin and arms possessively wrapped around your waist like you'll disappear.

But you catch the way he smiles in his sleep.

[ltwilliammowett]

The Sea Swine

The Sea Swine (a.k.a. Porcus Marinus) was the name given to a variety of sea-dwelling or mythological creatures throughout history. The earliest mention of a 'sea swine' can be traced to ancient Greece. In this context, the name has been interpreted to mean 'porpoise', as a porpoise and pig have similar round body shapes. However, this is disputed by some classical scholars who believe that the 'porcus' section of the name referred instead to grunts emitted from fish in question, not any physical similarities to the pig.

The creatures appeared in the Carta marina, and were depicted in accompanying wood carvings, as fantastical beasts with four dragon's feet and a single eye at the navel. The map placed the creatures as living in the waters south of Iceland.

Additional accounts from the 16th and 17th century delineated the sea swine from more mundane sea creatures. The animals were described as "headed like a Hog, toothed, and tusked like a Boar". The Sea Hogs were reported as travelling in packs with hundreds of individuals. Who hunted ships and sailors in such groups

However, contemporary naturalist John Ray was explicit in stating that the sea swine and porpoise were one and the same.

[arinzeture]

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

Song by Gil Scott-Heron

You will not be able to stay home, brother

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out

You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and

Skip out for beer during commercials

Because the revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox

In four parts without commercial interruptions

The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon

Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell

General Abrams and Spiro Agnew

To eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary

The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be brought to you by the

Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star

Natalie Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia

The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal

The revolution will not get rid of the nubs

The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner

Because the revolution will not be televised, brother

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May

Pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run

Or trying to slide that color TV into a stolen ambulance

NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32

Or report from 29 districts

The revolution will not be televised

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

Brothers on the instant replay

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

Brothers on the instant replay

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young

Being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process

There will be no slow motion or still lifes of Roy Wilkens

Strolling through Watts in a red, black and green

Liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving

For just the proper occasion

Green Acres, Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction

Will no longer be so damned relevant

And women will not care if Dick finally got down with Jane

On "Search for Tomorrow" because black people

Will be in the street looking for a brighter day

The revolution will not be televised

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock news

And no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists

And Jackie Onassis blowing her nose

The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb

Or Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell

Tom Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink or the Rare Earth

The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be right back

After a message about a white tornado, white lightning or white people

You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom

The tiger in your tank or the giant in your toilet bowl

The revolution will not go better with Coke

The revolution will not fight germs that may cause bad breath

The revolution will put you in the driver's seat

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised

Will not be televised, will not be televised

The revolution will be no re-run, brothers

The revolution will be live

[ghoastixx]

you know the episode where Sam is stuck in a time loop? What if Dean’s kid was stuck in a time loop and they had to witness their dad die over and over?

Let's Do The Time Warp Again

synopsis above

notes: This episode is literally one of my favorites because I love the trickster so much, so this is so fun???? Thank you so much. My inbox is always open!

Author's note: Just for the sake of how much I used from the actual episode in this, none of the material in this belongs to me.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The loud obnoxious song of a motel alarm clock woke you up from your sleep. Tuesday morning in a shitty little town at a hunt that made you want to laugh. Some Mystery Spot Gravity Falls bullshit.

"Rise and shine Sammy!" You heard your dad wake your uncle up as you yourself got up, starting your day. You were relatively quiet as you listened to your dad and uncle discuss the hunt. Your dad suggested breakfast, so you all piled into the Impala and headed to a small diner.

"Special of the day.. Pig N' A poke. What's that?" You dozed off a bit til it came time to order. You ordered a pancake. Still being tired, you kept to yourself as you awaited the food. The sound of a hot sauce bottle falling made you jump. Ultimately waking you up.

Breakfast was nice but the moment wouldn't last forever. You walked next to Sam and Dean as they discussed the Mystery Spot, occasionally putting your input. You stopped to wave at a golden retriever that was barking at passerby's, a blonde woman bumped into your dad, and movers were struggling to move a large desk inside a building. Seemed a lot was happening in this city street. Ultimately, you all decided to go to the Mystery Spot that night and look for anything tricky.

It was tackier then you could've imagined. You were pulled from your thoughts by a commotion. The owner had showed up, and he had a gun. Frozen in fear you tried to find a way out of this.

That's when he shot your father. You and your uncle bolted over, trying to stop the bleeding-

The loud obnoxious song of a motel alarm clock woke you up from your sleep. Tuesday morning in a shitty little town at a hunt that made you want to.. hold on. There your dad was, taunting Uncle Sam, lip syncing the song and bobbing around.

You tried to convince yourself this was just an awful case of deja vu as you all piled into the table at the diner to eat. This time you sat on the outside of your Uncle Sam.. You caught the hot sauce bottle when it fell.

You felt crazy as you walked down the street. The dog barking, the blonde woman, the movers with the desk, it all made you sick. You quickly suggested checking the mystery spot out now instead of later to try and get information. Your uncle and dad agree. Dean goes to cross the road when he is hit by a car. Once again, you and your uncle rush over to your father.

The loud obnoxious song of a motel alarm clock woke you up from your sleep. Tuesday morning in a shitty little town at a hunt that made you feel sick.

At the diner, you decide to come clean about this.

"I..think I'm stuck in a time-loop."

"Like ground hog's day?" your dad cut in

"Yes, exactly like ground hog day! Except whenever.."

"What?" Sam asked,

"Nothin'.."

Everything is the same, the dog, the woman, the movers, but this time the car doesn't hit Dean. You hold him back.

You waited in the motel as Dean and Sam went to investigate as you didn't really pass as a reporter.

A loud obnoxious song of a motel alarm clock woke you up from your sleep. Tuesday morning in a shitty little town at a hunt that was turning out to be longer than you wanted. You had no idea how to prevent your father's next inevitable death because you had no idea how he even died last.

At the diner, you explain your fears once again. All three Winchesters decide to do something different, so instead of a side of bacon, dean orders sausage.

Your father chokes.

Your father falls in the shower.

Your father eats bad taco meat.

Your father is electrocuted by a razor.

Every single time the stupid song brings you back to this constant nightmare and you find yourself back in the diner. You glare at the waitress. She's a horrible shot..

"What's got you so sour, kiddo?" Your dad asked, a smirk.

"This is my hundredth Tuesday in a row."

"Don't be ridiculous." They both say in synch. "You're being ridiculous... When Sam was six he used to look at the cowboy's on TV so I called him gay." Dean raised his brow as you matched exactly what he said. Sam threw his hands in the air.

You point to people, "the waitress frequents the archery. That man right there is drinking and driving. She is cheating on her husband. He gets his kicks off by dressing in a bunny costume." At this point the hot sauce falls and you catch it. Your uncle is speechless.

They are trying to think of anything as they walk down the street. You mess with the keys in your hand that you took of the guy who hits your dad with his car, suddenly your dad is headed in the opposite direction before he comes back with a missing poster. You and Sam go to chase the woman down while your dad stays behind with the dog.

A loud obnoxious song of a motel alarm clock goes off once again.

At the diner you're giving information to the older winchesters who are highly impressed in your sudden interest in research.

"Sounds like a pompous ass," Sam mutters,

"I don't know man, it's just desserts," Your dad responds. Your eyes wander to the man who's been eating pancakes everyday. He's ordered a different kind of syrup.. That's..that's never happened.

A loud obnoxious song of a motel alarm clock wakes you up from your sleep.. It's him.

You are quiet, eerily so, as your uncle pointed out. As soon as the man with the pancakes gets up to leave the diner, you're up and following him, which freaks your family out. The Winchester's catch up with you once you've got the man cornered in an ally, panicking when they notice the wooden stake you have pointed at his neck.

"I've finally figured it out- why I can't get out of this hellhole. Watching my dad die everyday. We've killed one of your kind before-" You spat,

"Y/N, back down, you sound crazy." Your dad tried to interfere, your uncle stoped him. That's when the man reveals himself as the trickster from the college months before.

"You didn't." He smiles "It's been fun killing your dad everyday, squirt. Though I wanted this to happen to your uncle, you were entertaining to watch. Maybe this'll teach you a lesson."

"A lesson? What kind of sick lesson are you talking about you bitch."

"That you can't save your father. Maybe this will teach you to let him go before you ruin yourself trying to save him. Now.. I would keep this up.. but I couldn't do that to a kid."

"Set it back! I don't wanna play this game anymore. I'll kill you I swear!" The trickster shrinks back a bit as you press the wooden stake further into his throat.

A slightly less obnoxious song wakes you from your sleep. Another morning in a terrifying town that makes you want to leave as soon as possible. It is Wednesday and everything will be okay...

Right?

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Grosser than Gross

Eric Raglin: report to the goop troop Shelley Lavigne: and we always stick together Raglin: yeah we're the goop troop Lavigne: best of friends forever Raglin: bop-a-loo bop boppa loo wop Lor Gislason: YEAH

Lor Gislason: bloop bloop time for goop King: excuse me lor you're actually supposed to say "submitted for the approval of the midnight society" Barker: no hang on Barker: this has a nice ring to it

Poe: oh clive you can't be serious David Cronenberg: i'm going to start saying that too Poe: you guys Poe: you can't just change the intro! Poe: we all agreed!

Barker: not to mention they have that great song Poe: that was just the goof troop theme song Poe: with the word "goof" replaced with "goop" Barker: was it? Poe: yes we Poe: we did the exact same joke the last time lor was here

Barker: it's a catchy song King: we should get a theme song! Poe: no we shouldn't King: i bet the rock bottom remainders could whip up a good- Poe: NO we shouldn't

Eric Raglin: better watch out, these stories are pretty gross King: what's gross? Raglin: grosser than gross King: what's grosser than gross? Raglin: Biting into an apple and finding a half a worm King: King: ew

Raglin: oink oink piggies here's some stories straight from the pig pen of depravity Raglin: the swine waller of decadence Raglin: the hog lagoon of disgustingness Raglin: like the 1980s Mad Scientist monster lab kit new from Mattel, these stories have been declared "too gross"

Raglin: you ever think about what would happen if you had really bad acne Raglin: like REALLY bad pus Shelley Lavigne: i have also been thinking about pus by coincidence Lor Gislason: bloop bloop me too King: boy you guys really love pus

Shelley Lavigne: what if there was a party in the heart of a deadly epidemic Poe: wait this is interesting Lavigne: a pox party Poe: sure go on Lavigne: and it was really horny Poe: uh Barker: yes go on

Lor Gislason: bloop bloop what if you made clothes out of baby skin? Gislason: like on an industrial scale? Gislason: bet they'd find some real weasel words to hide that reality King: you really think people would do all that? Agustina Bazterrica: no let him cook

Bazterrica: what if there was a world with cannibalism on an industrial scale CB Blanchard: people are always talking about the bad things about cannibalism Blanchard: capitalism Blanchard: and never about the good things about cannibalism Blanchard: that it's hot

[neonatenecromancer]

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised- Gill Scott Heron

You will not be able to stay home, brother You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip out for beer during commercials, because The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be televised The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox in four parts without commercial interruptions The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle And leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams, and Spiro Agnew To eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre And will not star Natalie Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal The revolution will not get rid of the nubs The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner, because The revolution will not be televised, brother

There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run Or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32 on report from 29 districts The revolution will not be televised

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers on the instant replay There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers on the instant replay There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process There will be no slow motion or still lifes of Roy Wilkins Strolling through Watts in a red, black, and green liberation jumpsuit that he has been saving for just the proper occasion

Green Acres, Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damn relevant And women will not care if Dick finally got down with Jane on Search for Tomorrow Because Black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day The revolution will not be televised

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock news and no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb or Francis Scott Keys Nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash, Engelbert Humperdinck, or The Rare Earth The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be right back after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, the tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl The revolution will not go better with Coke The revolution will not fight germs that may cause bad breath

The revolution will put you in the driver's seat The revolution will be no re-run, brothers The revolution will be live

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

By Gregg Gonsalves

Why are places like Stanford and Johns Hopkins hosting gatherings of well-known coronavirus cranks?

Today, Stanford University is holding an all-day gathering on the Covid pandemic, with its new president making opening remarks. It’s the second such meeting at a prestigious university in recent months, after Johns Hopkins hosted a “symposium on health policy” in September. They may seem fine on the surface, but both events should be a source of embarrassment for the institutions involved. (I have a personal stake in the former gathering: I’m spending my time this fall at Stanford with a group of wonderful, truly talented researchers, who I hope do not get sprayed with the stink of this misbegotten affair.)

While the organization and funding for these two meetings isn’t explicitly linked, the cast of characters at both are eerily similar. They each feature a collection of well-known Covid contrarians: those who, in the early days of the pandemic thought we should “let ’er rip” and get as many people infected as possible, with a performative nod to protecting the vulnerable; suggested that vaccine and mask mandates were somehow akin to Nazi totalitarianism; told us not to worry about variants (“variants, schmariants,” as one of them remarked months before Delta and Omicron blasted their way through the US); and said we’d have herd immunity by April 2021.

If you want just one piece of evidence about the kind of cranks we’re talking about, consider this: A late addition to the Stanford meeting is a senior editor of the Epoch Times, a far-right publication that not only dabbles in Covid conspiracies but is a frequent purveyor of climate change denialism.

While the organizers have tried to add a few reasonable voices to the meeting, it doesn’t change the overall thrust of these gatherings. As former Texas governor Ann Richards said, “You can put lipstick and earrings on a hog and call it Monique, but it’s still a pig.”

Health reporters like Michael Hiltzik at the Los Angeles Times blew the whistle on the Stanford conference in mid-September, and others who have focused on debunking the pseudoscience of this crew have written about the meetings on both coasts. The faculty at both institutions who are pushed for and are behind these convocations have defended them on the grounds of academic freedom—a defense that, in our current era of freakouts over “cancel culture,” neither Stanford or Hopkins would have had an easy time overcoming. Chalk one up to the contrarians for putting these schools in an impossible situation—though that still does not explain why Stanford’s president feels the need to personally show up today.

The architects of these meetings come with bags and bags of right-wing funding, some of it laundered through think tanks and other institutions. They have met with Trump officials in the White House and guided Florida Governor Ron DeSantis on Covid-19 policy. Some of them even got a shout-out from Bret Stephens at The New York Times last week.

They whine on and on about how terribly they’ve been treated, but, far from being persecuted, they are celebrated on the right, even if the mainstream members of their professions have, time and time again, considered their ideas and roundly rejected them on their merits.

My question is: Why host these meetings now and in these venues?

Some have suggested this is about “auditioning” for the next Trump administration as much as it is trying to rewrite the history of the pandemic. Both are in part probably true. But if you zoom out and think about these meetings in the context of the right’s war on higher education, I believe the purpose becomes clearer.

These Covid contrarians—who have found little support for their views among their peers—have decided that the science has been turned into “a dogmatic tool of oppression” for rejecting them. In their minds they are Galileos against the church, and now they are tilting their fury against the institutions themselves. This tack is of course reminiscent of the right’s attacks on the universities as bastions of woke, left-wing ideology, which either need to be reformed (by hiring more conservative faculty) or gutted and rebuilt to their liking (e.g., New College of Florida).

In this light, these two meetings are about establishing a beachhead—building credibility in what many of the organizers would consider the liberal bastions of academia. If you cannot convince your colleagues of the worth of your arguments, then you can cry out that you’re being discriminated against for simply having “differing views.” But things don’t work like that in science: we don’t teach intelligent design alongside evolution, or alternative theories of the cause of AIDS. Supporters of those discredited ideas would say we need to “teach the controversy” and not be dogmatic, but there is no controversy to be had: the preponderance of the evidence supports evolution and HIV as the cause of AIDS. Similarly, many of the Covid contrarians’ favorite claims have withered in the sunlight of scientific scrutiny.

But just as the Federalist Society has established influence over law schools and the judiciary, the Covid contrarians and their supporters would like to do the same for medicine and public health, by mainstreaming their views—both in academic settings and then in public policy—by sheer brute force. They won’t give up, and they have the money and resources to continue their campaigns. Should former president Trump regain the White House, their fortunes will rise and these threats to academic integrity, and to the public health itself (through adoption of their views in practice) will go into overdrive.

And for anyone who thinks this is all academic, in mid-September, the surgeon general of Florida recommended against the use of mRNA Covid vaccines, just as we’re heading into respiratory virus season, endangering the lives of the residents of the state with quackery and pseudoscience. Of course, it’s the same Covid contrarians who have organized these meetings, who have been advising the DeSantis administration for several years now on pandemic policy. Shame on them.

[handeaux]

Commuters Packed Cincinnati’s Old Streetcars, But The Rides Were Often Adventures

Although the city’s newspapers regularly cited unsafe conditions on the city’s streetcars , the trolleys were popular and heavily used by Cincinnati’s commuters. The hilltop neighborhoods would not have developed without mass transit. Even so, riding the streetcar included some unusual situations.

For instance, halitosis. The Cincinnati Enquirer [10 April 1898] reported that a delegation of women “whose sense of smell seems to have been abnormally developed” invaded the private offices of John Kilgour, president and general manager of the Cincinnati Consolidated Street Railway, to complain about the malodorous exhalations of his streetcar conductors.

“Only last week about 20 Cumminsville ladies rode into town with a conductor who had eaten onions for dinner, and so soon as they landed in the city they adjourned in a body to Mr. Kilgour’s office. Many ladies of Mt. Auburn are kicking, while a great many more who live in Clifton are up in arms. Walnut Hills has sent in her petitions, but from all sides the kicks and the petitions are from ladies, and all are down on onions as used by the street car conductors.”

The Enquirer, hopefully tongue-in-cheek, offered a variety of remedies for onion-hungry conductors including salting his onions with chloride of lime, strapping a horse sponge soaked in carbolic acid and asafetida to his mouth, and ingesting onion-heavy dishes such as Hamburg steak in capsule form. (It is not surprising that breath mints – not yet a common thing – are not mentioned here, but it is odd that cloves – on-hand at every saloon in town – are not listed as an option.)

While the society ladies petitioned the streetcar company for pleasanter olfactory experiences, younger women blamed courtship hurdles on the streetcar schedule. Many young men back then lived in town but courted fair maids out in the tonier suburbs up the Millcreek Valley. The city’s streetcars ran late enough to get their dates back home to Glendale and Wyoming, but not late enough to convey the ardent swains back to town. According to the Cincinnati Post [16 October 1902]:

“Maidens of the Mill Creek Valley are making a strenuous effort to secure better street car accommodations for the young men from the city who take them to theaters. At present these young men have to walk anywhere from seven to 14 miles to the city, according to the part of the Mill Creek Valley in which the girl lives, and a long, lonesome promenade by night has proved enough to take the keen edge off many an incipient and promising love affair.”

According to the Post, parents were mum on the issue and those who did voice an opinion thought the streetcars ran late enough as it was.

Meanwhile, the folks who rode the streetcars during the normal business hours had regular trials of their own, among them Cincinnati’s beloved totem, the pig. The Commercial Tribune [13 February 1898] reported a situation in which a fattened hog on the way to the slaughterhouse decided to delay the inevitable by napping under the wheels of a streetcar, causing a delay of some minutes.

“But why growl, and fuss, and fume, and blame the Consolidated? It can’t help it. It might make a thousand laws against pigs getting under the car, but every now and then a pig would break the rules.”

The Commercial Tribune described a situation in which a horseshoe, cast off by some farmer’s dray, settled into the groove in which one of the city’s cable car’s lines ran. Cars backed up for blocks as gripmen and conductors and then passengers and passersby attempted to remove the blockade or offered advice on how to make it disappear.

Coal deliveries regularly brought streetcar service to a standstill. The Commercial Tribune opined that basic geometry dictated that coal wagons and streetcars did not mix:

“Take the great big lumbering coal wagons. It is all they can do to turn around in a narrow street. When they dump a load of coal something more than half a street is needed. It matters not to the driver that a loaded street car is coming with forty or fifty passengers, some of whom will be docked if they are late. He must get that coal off.”

Cincinnati has always loved a parade, but parades played hob with streetcar schedules. The Commercial Tribune dreaded the disruption the Grand Army of the Republic reunion in 1898 would inflict on the city’s transit system.

“When the veterans are here this summer there will be a blockade that will be a blockade unless arrangements are made in the line of march to permit some of the [streetcar] lines to continue in operation. If 40,000 veterans are to be in line, and this is by no means improbable, it means a winding mass of humanity that will cross every line of cars near and far, a line that will be hours passing any given point.”

Even when the streetcar routes ran smoothly, commuters complained about the outrageous fares charged by the streetcar companies. When Cincinnati charged five cents for a ticket and a penny extra for a transfer, Columbus, Cleveland and other cities offered eight tickets for a quarter, with free transfers.

Complicating matters, Cincinnati had multiple transit companies operating with totally different fare structures. The big player in town was the Cincinnati Street Railway Company, owned by the Kilgour family, followed by George Kerper’s Consolidated Lines based around the Mount Adams Incline, the Mount Auburn Cable Line, the Main Street Line and other players. A mourner wishing to place flowers on the grave of a loved one in Spring Grove Cemetery had to pay a ten-cent fare to ride an electric trolley to the end of that line at Knowlton’s Corner, and then pay an additional ten cents to ride a horse-drawn trolley out to the cemetery.

Overcrowding was a perennial issue. The Cincinnati Post – possibly exaggerating – recorded 117 passengers stuffing one struggling car. An editorial cartoon recommended that the transit company directors should be drafted to personally pull one of the overloaded cars.

Many of the streetcars were “open,” meaning they were not enclosed at all and even those cars fully encapsulated with windows had open platforms at the front and rear of each car on which overflow passengers had to stand. A Cincinnati Post cartoonist advised commuters to bring their own pot-bellied stoves along for the ride.

The “modern” trolley cars introduced in the 1920s must have seemed like celestial chariots to Cincinnati’s long-suffering strap-hangers.

[madamlaydebug]

"The Revolution Will Not Be Televised"

By: GIL SCOTT-HERON

You will not be able to stay home, brother.

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.

You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and

skip out for beer during commercials,

Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox

In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.

The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon

blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John

Mitchell, General Abrams and Mendel Rivers to eat

hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the

Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie

Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.

The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.

The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.

The revolution will not make you look five pounds

thinner, the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays

pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,

or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.

NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32

on reports from 29 districts.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being

run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.

There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy

Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and

Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving

For just the right occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville

Junction will no longer be so god damned relevant, and

women will not care if Dick finally screwed

Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people

will be in the street looking for a brighter day.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock

news and no pictures of hairy armed women

liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.

The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb or

Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom

Jones, Johnny Cash or Englebert Humperdink.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back

after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.

You will not have to worry about a dove in your

bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.

The revolution will not go better with Coke.

The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.

The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,

will not be televised, will not be televised.

The revolution will be no re-run brothers;

The revolution will be live.

[midnightscxre]

Plump lips pressed in a thin line, coal black eyelashes hiding the pine-green color when the eyes narrowed. Usual stone cold surface always gave at least a small crack, solid proof of a shaken composure, something only he could accomplish. Something she despised. . . and in the same time adored. Dollface -- one word, and the great wall of indifference became a pathetic castle of sand.

A small bandage to her pride knowing such small things affect him as using the gifted blade, but no matter how furious the scarlet haired woman was, handsome face she loved clearly ravaged by lack of rest and inner demons, showing themselves in the redness of his eyes poked at her like hot poker. Yet, the ego, the pride, the disgusting need to be on top of an argument, which in her eyes was big as an elephant, no matter that in reality it was smaller than a mouse, made the tongue to dance with another vexing answer.

" I don't see why it's irking you, Danny, the last time I checked, we were both single birds, no need for jealousy. "

How ironic, how hilarious the statemant was, when they always were, and always will be, fueled by jealousy to the point where the reason for it will bleed, suffer and finally be buried nameless, all because one of them felt the need to protect what was theirs, and only theirs. " Speaking off. . . saw the papers. A pig? Really? I know you had fetishes but fucking a hog is digusting even for you. Was the swine's head on her head supposed to be scary? Maybe if she took the mask off, she would accomplish the desired look much more easily. " Only one article from some moronic reporter that combined Amanda's and Danny's attack was enough for Clare to lose her entire cool. Redhead though she knew the feeling of hatred well, but learning about the pig headed bitch made her discover a whole knew level of loathing.

" Even a blind, drunk, mentally challenged idiot would find you considering your sloppy work. " she bit back with the venom still pumping through her because of remembering the ' pig (potential) problem. Pushing the tempting hourglass shape off the wall, Clare fearlessly devoured the distance between them, stepping maybe a few feet away. A snort, then a mocking chuckle. " Egoistical, sure, but I don't recall giving you compliments. Last time I checked, monster was one of my favorite pet names. And as I said, it is hard not to see you when your blood trails could even be found by boy scouts. "

Keeping the intense stare, she mindlessly crushed the rest of the candy in her hand from the hard grip she had on them. "  The bitch is striking too close to my lab. So I suggest you do something about it before I have her bacon cut into tiny little pieces, melt it in acid and slip the rest in your breakfast. "  

No matter the anger gnawing at her, the consuming fury and jealousy, the heart screamed with yearning at his presence, and she knew why -- no matter how far, no matter how long, they were always destined to end back next to each other.

@feral-fuqboi-danny

( HAHAHAH NO SHIT, BUT IT’S SO DELICIOUS)

[nyktomorphia]

Previously in the Night Land bestiary: Night Hounds, Giants, Silent Ones, 14-Legged Beast, Doorways in the Night, Slug.

Brute-men are one of the many abhuman variants, predictably combining human and [rand_animal] features into a grotesque appearance, and I'm really only separating them until I inevitably run out of things to say about them. The brute-men stand out, however, because the Night Land is not their only appearance in William Hope Hodgson's bibliography. (I know I've made several jokes at the expense of The Night Land's writing style, but the rest of his work is much more readable.)

First, there's Carnacki the Ghost-Finder, Hodgson's occult detective series and an early prototype of the subgenre that includes everything from Twin Peaks to Scooby-Doo. While J. S. Le Fanu's Dr. Martin Hesselius came first (by several decades), Thomas Carnacki is notable for the fact that he doesn't know whether a case is preternatural or mundane until he puzzles it out along with the reader. One of Carnacki's later adventures begins with a client reporting nightmares of squealing pigs, whom Carnacki is concerned to find is acting increasingly porcine himself. Carnacki's sleep experiments turn unexpectedly perilous when they reveal his client's dreams are being pushed ajar by the Hog, a primordial Outer Monstrosity using them to crawl its way back into the world.

Closer to The Night Land is The House on the Borderland, another novel framed as a found document. The narrator is an aged recluse, who lives with his sister in an old haunted house on a cliff, which begins giving him visions... transported across unfathomable depths of space, he finds his house again, jade-green and colossal in a dim red landscape but otherwise identical. Surrounding it is an arena or crater surrounded by a circle of mountains. Among these mountains are the ancient shapes of human and alien gods, immobile and immortal. Beyond the mountains is an endless plain of silence. In the sky above is a sun as black as the night sky, illuminating this place with a corona of dim red flames. And outside the house are pig-faced beast-men, peering inside and probing the locks and hunting him when they become aware of his presence. They are still outside his house when his vision ends.

Remembering that the Night Land is also a vast dark landscape, where the Last Redoubt is surrounded by mountains and the titanic Watchers which creep glacially towards it... among its other features is a place called the House of Silence, an ornate mansion that glows from within. (Its doors are unlocked, and its windows open, and no movement is ever seen inside. No one has ever emerged.) Although the Borderland is at the end of space and the Night Land at the end of time, their parallels are obvious, but their significance uncertain. And the swine-things haunt them both.

[enchi-elm]

Apfelessig rewatches Turn

S01E06: Mr. Culpeper

0:00 Blogging this one for the sole reason that I finally, finally found a copy on DVD at the library and can now finally watch on my own time, with no internet connection or ads, an episode of a show in one long uninterrupted stream with no buffering.

0:08 Could it be?? My beloved??

2:44 What about a fic entirely from Sackett's POV

3:58 "It confirms Captain Gamble's account." Oh? Surely not *the* Gamble? There must have been a captain with that name on the Continental side. Okay, I've got a Captain Robert Gamble from the 8th Virginia Regiment and later, in 1779, the 2nd Virginia Regiment. I've also got a Journal from the Continental Congress noting the resolved motion "that the Board of War be directed to inquire into the conduct of Captain Gamble, since he was made prisoner of war, and report to Congress." I guess he reported on the prisoner treatment conditions for POWs?

5:36 Seems harsh for some spoons and apparel. I feel like this thing was frequent in Sgt. Martin's accounts.

6:13 Ben. You getting promoted?

7:45 Sackett's much more tight with Washington than I remember.

8:24 ... ... I think that species of pig is even period accurate. ...Is a hog different from a pig.

9:43 Sackett KING XD did you just interrupt a general

11:26 ...Suppose you could have left Abe there. Something about this guy, I don't remember what he was up to.

13:37 "I want you to feel safe here and perhaps find reason to smile." I think. Like. Even then, this was a smarmy line from Andre. Like, I don't know if we're supposed to be going "oh, he's so generous to Abigail" because certainly I'm thinking "she's not gonna feel safe you twat"

16:12 Love love love love this conversation between Rogers and Akinbode.

17:19 "Failure! Death!" Love you, Sackett

18:20 "Please tell me you're using encryption. My God. They told me you were a graduate of Yale."

19:26 Okay, good point, Scott.

21:00 What was this guy's plan? Ohhhh right this whole mess, oh oh oh. Oh oh, no, Abe, shut up shut up

23:55 "Yes, exactly why [Abe, my friend] trusts me to protect him." Ben, tell me, when did you plan to start doing that exactly

23:57 "Only that which is concealed is protected." <3

24:55 Iconic meeting between Andre and Simcoe.

26:26 I suppose this whole Abe-and-the-rogue-soldier bit is interesting in that--well, it's not on the frontier, it's the road into New York so...still on Long Island. But there's enough empty stretch for someone to be hiding for six months, passing themselves off as whoever they need to, yet unable to cross a checkpoint.

30:46 I'm supposed to feel sorry for him because he, like, represents the Continental Army, but ... meh. I...might have shaped that differently.

32:35 "This man's a liar." Oh, Simcoe. XD "You pale fool."

35:08 Hmm... There's a fic here, between Ben and Sackett and Washington.

36:10 Come on, Aldis, whup his ass!

36:44 Is he using a bit of capoeira, there? Sure looks like it. Totally appropriate, no? It was a martial art developed and disguised as a dance so the enslaved persons could practice it secretly.

38:04 Rogers speaks Abenaki BUT STILL WON'T TELL ME WHO THAT MAN IS.

39:18 Washington, probably: Sackett, give me that hard-boiled egg, I need it for a dramatic moment with Ben.

41:31 Eyyyyy congrats Ben. Now the hard work starts.

42:28 AWASOS. AWASOS. HIS NAME IS AWASOS. I had to get that from the CREDITS. Can't find any historical basis for him specifically though it looks like Rogers tangled with the Abenaki a bunch in the French and Indian War. (By 'tangled a bunch' I mean 'massacred an entire Abenaki village' by command of the British.) Why and how Awasos became his second-in-command in the show, I honestly don't remember. I hope they explain it!

[wowwowwowsmuglotus]

Top 6 Games That Need a Dreamcast Port

The Sega Dreamcast, despite its short lifespan, remains one of the most beloved consoles of all time due to its ahead-of-its-time hardware, innovative online capabilities, and a strong library of diverse titles. However, many games from the Dreamcast era—or even earlier—never made it to the system but would have flourished with its hardware and cult audience. Here are six standout games that deserve a Dreamcast port:

1. Sim Theme Park

Originally released by Bullfrog Productions, Sim Theme Park, also known as Theme Park World in PAL regions, offered a charming, management-focused experience that combined creativity with chaos. Its 3D engine and stylized visual style would have felt right at home on the Dreamcast, especially with the console's support for mouse peripherals. Players could build their dream amusement parks, ride their own rollercoasters, and micromanage staff and guests. The VMU could even be used for guest stats or financial mini-reports.

2. Deus Ex

Deus Ex, the genre-defining immersive sim from Ion Storm, had a bold vision and deep gameplay that blended RPG mechanics with stealth and shooter elements. A Dreamcast port would have brought cerebral gameplay and cyberpunk conspiracy to the console realm. With some graphical optimization, the game’s slow-paced, strategic structure could have worked well on the system, and its futuristic themes would pair beautifully with the Dreamcast’s aesthetic.

3. Hogs of War

This cult classic combined turn-based strategy with crude British humor in a 3D battlefield of anthropomorphic pigs. Its quirky tone and strategic gameplay would have appealed to fans of Worms World Party, which was successful on Dreamcast. The system could have easily handled Hogs of War's stylized visuals and dynamic maps, and its local multiplayer would have made it a sleeper hit in dorm rooms and retro gaming nights.

4. Albert Odyssey: Legend of Eldean

One of the Saturn’s overlooked RPGs, Albert Odyssey offered lush hand-drawn graphics, a sweeping orchestral soundtrack, and classic turn-based combat. As the Dreamcast struggled to get as many high-quality JRPGs as its competitors, bringing Albert Odyssey over—even as an enhanced port—could have helped fill that gap. Its anime art style and traditional gameplay would have made it a great companion to Grandia II or Skies of Arcadia.

5. Gothic (2001)

Gothic, developed by Piranha Bytes, is a sprawling 3D action RPG that offered players an immersive open-world experience years before the format became mainstream. Set within a prison colony surrounded by a magical barrier, the game featured a gritty atmosphere, faction-based progression, and a learning curve that rewarded exploration and patience. Porting Gothic to the Dreamcast would have introduced a deep, nonlinear Western RPG to a console that was starved for such experiences. The game’s emphasis on atmosphere, emergent interactions, and player freedom would have pushed the Dreamcast’s capabilities in exciting ways—especially considering its decent 3D rendering power and capacity for large save files via VMU or backup memory.

6. Banjo-Tooie

Banjo-Tooie, the sequel to Banjo-Kazooie, is a 3D platformer that expanded on its predecessor's formula with larger worlds, more complex puzzles, and an even deeper narrative. The game introduced a wide variety of moves and abilities, a rich cast of characters, and vast levels to explore. It’s a game that encourages both exploration and problem-solving, offering hours of content through its detailed environments and collectible items.

[firstoccupier]

Tackling the Outbreak: The Philippine Government's Response to African Swine Fever and Vaccination Debate

By: WPS News Staff Baybay City, Leyte, Philippines | February 23, 2025 The fight against African Swine Fever (ASF) in the Philippines has been a tough journey over the last few years, affecting both hog raisers and government officials. ASF is a disease that almost always kills infected pigs, causing big troubles in the pork industry. The first reports of ASF came in late 2019. The disease…

[whitepolaris]

Phantom Panthers & Mysterious Cats

Officials still maintain that there are no big cats left in Indiana, that hunters reportedly killed the last one in 1851. So why do people still report seeing panthers and cougars roaming the state, and why do many of these sightings involve black panthers-a breed of big cat that has never been known to exist in Indiana, or even North America, at all?

The panthers have appeared at regular intervals (or "flaps") and then disappear without a trace. Legends and folklore have traced their appearance to wrecked circus trains and escapees from local zoos, and this may account for some of them. But is that the whole answers? Many people still wonder where these massive animals came from. And why they keep showing up in Indiana!

Early Panther Sightings

Phantom big cat in Indiana date back as far as 1877. In that year, a young woman named Mary Crane was viciously mauled by one of these creatures near Rising Sun. The predator escaped by left six-inch pawprints at the scene.

Thirty years later, in 1908, residents of Gibson and Pike counties worried about a panther that was being spotted in the area. Hunters tried to track it through the swamps, but the only "creature" they managed to capture was a hobo who had been camping out in the woods.

Then in July 1947, residents of Foutain City began reporting wild, unearthly screaming that was frightening their cattle at night. A policeman named Louis Daniels saw a large cat while out with his family for a drive near Centerville. He described it as "the strangest, most vicious-looking thing . . . long front legs, a large head with small pointed ears, and small glittering eyes. We all remarked that it was the most ferocious, evil-looking thing we had ever seen." This even would be the precursor of a major panther flap in 1948, which became known as the Year of Varmint.

1948: Vintage Cat Flap

The big cat, or some other unseen predator, returned in July 1948. It killed seven hogs on the farm of Dorten Moore, who arranged a stakeout with three sheriff's deputies in case the thing returned. The panther returned did not come back to Moore's farm but struck at neighbor Harold Erskine's farm instead. That night, Erskine heard some strange screams and found another slaughtered pig. Another farmer caught a glimpse of the creature as it chased him from his own barn.

On August 1, 1948, conservation officer Charles Cornelius and game warden Clifford Fath spotted a large cat on a country road. Fath was driving when he saw the "varmint" sitting in the middle of the road, and he swerved to avoid it. The cat, which the men guessed weighed as much as three hundred pounds, charged Fath's car, slamming into the side of it and then escaping into the woods. The officers summoned assistance and tracked the animal with dogs. After a long chase, they managed to tree the cat and open fire on it through the canopy of leaves overhead. Somehow, the cat escaped.

On the evening of August 5, two married couples land their children were fishing in a pool below Elkhorn Falls, south of Richmond, when a huge cat emerged from the woods. One of the men ran to a nearby home and called the police. The cat was gone by the time Deputy Jack Witherby arrived, but he examined the tracks left behind. he said, with some assurance, "They are like nothing I have ever seen before."

It got even weirder two days later when brothers Arthur and Howard Turner saw two large cats on their farm near Richmond. The larger cat was brown, with a shaggy mane, and the smaller cat was black. Arthur Turner shot at them with his rifle, but the cats escaped without injury. The animals did leave tracks behind, but the Turners' hunting dogs refused to follow them.

On August 11, James Leo found a huge black cat sitting on the back porch of his home in Penneville, just west of Richmond. He ran into the house to get a knife with which to defend himself, but when he came back out, the panther was gone. He called the police to report the incident and, later that night, called them again to report that he had shot at "varmint" from his bedroom window. He told the police dispatcher, "I know I hit him but I'm too scared to go out and see what I hit." Officers investigated but found no cat, tracks, or blood at the scene.

On August 22, more livestock was killed at the farm of Orris Tate near Sand Creek. He found a series of five-inch pawprints surrounding a fatally mailed pig. Six days later, "something" attacked Henry Foreman Jr. while he was cutting tobacco on his farm near Peppertown. The animal ripped Foreman's clothing and gashed one arm. It fled before the farmer could get a good look at it, but he noticed that it was a dark yellow in color. This incident parked more sightings in the immediate area, but search parties turned up no clues.

The last sighting in 1948 occurred on September 11. Two men repairing a barn roof saw an unknown animal "about the size of a wolf with yellow spots" wandering out in a field. It left without menacing the men or the nearby livestock.

More Recent Big Cat Sightings

A number of big cat sightings occurred toward the end of the twentieth century and have continued into recent times. In late September 2003, a black panther was reported near Albion. Those who spotted the creature-but failed to capture or photography it-included several law-enforcement officers, a police dispatcher, and a number of townspeople.

In May 2005, during a phantom panther flap in Monroe County, Kristina Vosburgh saw a large black cat cross Tapp Road in front of her car. She said that it looked a lot like a Cougar, except that it was black. She said, "I know that it's almost impossible for a cougar to be in Bloomington, but that's what it looked like."

In early July 2005, another woman spotted a sleek black car in broad daylight. The creature was pacing along a rural roadway in Elkhart County. The witness reported: "It was completely black . . . and I watched it for a few minutes until it strolled out of sight toward the woods. I was glad it stayed in the road and didn't veer from its path to bother the horses."

Livestock belonging to Sherry Rohan of Whitehall were not so lucky. On January 31, 2006, a black cat that was larger than her German Shepherd invaded her pigpen and killed seven hogs. More animals were mauled and threatened in Monroe County in March 2006. An unseen animal savaged three of Susan Pauly's dogs, killing an adult Labrador retriever. State Department of Natural Resources officials blamed the incident on coyotes of wild dogs, but locals were already talking about a black panther. An employee of the Grandview Elementary School, located near Morgan-Monroe State Forest, recently tried to videotape a large black panther as it crossed her backyard. Unfortunately, her batteries failed and she was unable to record any evidence of its presence.

We're Not Lion about This

Scores of residents accept the idea that black panthers often turn up within the state, but if these same people were asked to believe that an African lion once terrorized Indiana, would they be so open-minded? According to accounts from 1962, a lion did turn up here, and for a brief time, it was the terror of the region.

In June of that year, three years before Monument City was flooded to create the Salamonie Reservoir, a local farmer named Ed Moorman survived an attack by a cat that he and other witnesses claimed was an "African lioness." After two more sightings, Moorman summoned Sheriff Harry Walter, whose deputies discovered nothing.

On January 25, Moorman found then of his pigs slaughtered and their hearts and livers devoured. Moorman called the sheriff again, but the search proved fruitless once more.

Other locals, who claimed to have heard "bloodcurdling howls" in the night, theorized that the lion was an escapee from some unnamed zoo or circus, but no big cats were reported missing anywhere in the Midwest.

Ed Moorman, along with other armed men, was present when the cat made its last appearance a short time later near Huntington. Unfortunately, two cameramen from an Indianapolis television station spooked the lion and it disappeared once more.