#Pablo Wealth

[caturnmoon]

Astrology Observations #2️⃣

⚠️POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS!! ED’s, Poverty, Abuse, Death⚠️

☢️Saturn in the 2nd house can highlight a scarcity mindset towards money, and values. Low self esteem is possible here, and so is the potential to experience poverty at some point in life. Dramatic financial losses. Also since Saturn rules restrictions and the second house is ruled by the throat and mouth, this can indicate a history with eating disorders. I myself have this placement and have a history with Annorexia.

☢️This placement can also get better with time and wisdom, as Saturn highlights naturally. With hard work and re-alignment of values (2nd house) this placement can indicate wealth, success, and a strong moral compass. Someone who know how to handle money quite efficiently.

☢️Lilith in the 2nd house can indicate sex work, and also unorthodox means of earning money in general. (Think Pablo Escobar)

☢️Neptune in the 1st house can indicate someone who can struggle with body dysmorphia. I personally have this placement and I can confirm that I struggle with seeing myself in the mirror like others do. Neptune rules illusions and in this case this affects the physical appearance and how you view yourself (1st house). Folks with this placement can also deal with a lot of projections from others onto them. People see them how they want to see them.

☢️Uranus in the 8th house can indicate sudden gains and losses as well. Either inheritance due to loss of someone or through handling the finances of another, like a partner. This can also indicate sudden abrupt deaths too.

☢️Cancer Mars isn’t necessarily the blubbering cry babies most people I see claim they are and I get really tired of it. Lol most professional athletes have heavy cancerian influence in their charts (Michael Jordan for example) and also in mars. Cancer mars is also fiercely protective of those the love and isn’t one to fuck with in a crisis. The crab is defensive and withdraws from threats cautiously and strategically when needed. Emotions aside. This placement indicates a survivalist who thrives in times of crisis.

☢️Whatever house you have your Pluto in is more personal to you than the sign, and can highlight where you experience the most transformation in your life.

☢️Honestly I personally look to houses more in general when looking for activity that’s unique to a persons actual life rather than the sign. Not that the signs don’t matter-they do-but I feel there’s waaaayyyyyy too much emphasis on signs at times in social media.

☢️Stelliums in signs can be significant and also in houses too. It can highlight an area of life ruled by either the sign or house that will be a major area of focus for you in this lifetime.

Until next time! 👽🖖🏼

[lifeonmarz-blog]

💰 Easiest Placements for wealth 💰

Creativity manifested into materials. These placements help creating abundance be more of a second nature. Rather through mentorship or investing time into particular interest.

Jupiter in the 2nd House

Mark Zuckerberg, Jay Z, Bill Gates, Selena Gomez, Madonna, Lee Van Cleef, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, William Shakespeare, Kylie Jenner, Julia Roberts, Donald Trump, Shakira, Justin Timberlake, Katy Perry, Celine Dion, Ivana Trump, Zendaya, Steve Ballmer (mircosoft)

Jupiter in the 8th House

Coco Chanel, Drake, Micheal Jackson, Tiger Woods, John F Kennedy, Joe Biden, Gigi Hadid, Janet Jackson, Al Capone, LeBron James, Pierre Balmain, Pink, Snoop Dogg, Ray Charles, Jennifer Lawrence. Naomi Campbell, Ellen DeGeneres, Eleanor Roosevelt, Ashanti, Mr Beast

Pluto in the 2nd House

Robert Downey Jr., Lauryn Hill, Cher, Robert Deniro, Johnny Depp, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Marilyn Manson, Michael B. Jordan, Usher, Bill Gates, Ari Fletcher, Phil Knight (nike)

Moon in the 2nd House

Elon Musk, Princess Diana, Pablo Escobar, Lee Iacocca, Blueface, Miuccia Prada, Lauren London, Drew Barrymore, Julia Roberts, Avril Lavigne, NBA Youngboy, Coco Chanel, Beyonce, AR AB, Raven Symone, Demi Moore, Kai Cenat, SZA, Kendall Jenner

Do you have any of these placements?

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned just how ruthless Pablo Escobar was.

Known as the "King of Cocaine," Pablo Escobar was a notorious Colombian drug lord who headed the Medellín Cartel. His ruthlessness and cunning tactics contributed to his rise as one of the wealthiest and most feared criminals in history. Throughout his reign, he showed no mercy to those who stood in his way, employing brutal tactics to maintain power and instill fear.

Escobar's rise to power began in the 1970s when he started smuggling cocaine into the United States. As his operations expanded, he eliminated rival drug traffickers and built alliances with powerful criminal organizations. He was responsible for a significant portion of the world's cocaine supply, which fueled his vast fortune and enabled him to construct an empire of terror.

One of the most ruthless aspects of Escobar's rule was his use of sicarios, or hitmen. These individuals were often recruited from poor neighborhoods and were fiercely loyal to him. They were responsible for carrying out assassinations, kidnappings, and acts of violence on behalf of the cartel. It's estimated that the Medellín Cartel was responsible for the deaths of thousands of people during its existence, including police officers, judges, politicians, and innocent civilians.

To maintain control and evade law enforcement, Escobar employed a strategy known as "plata o plomo," which translates to "silver or lead." This phrase meant that officials and others in positions of power were offered a choice: accept a bribe (silver) or face the consequences, usually in the form of violence or death (lead). Many who refused his bribes were brutally murdered, serving as a chilling reminder to others of the consequences of defiance.

One of the most significant displays of Escobar's ruthlessness occurred in the late 1980s when he waged war against the Colombian government. In an effort to avoid extradition to the United States, he unleashed a wave of terror that included bombings, assassinations, and kidnappings. The most notorious of these attacks was the bombing of Avianca Flight 203 in 1989, which killed all 107 passengers on board. The target was presidential candidate Cesar Gaviria, who was not on the flight, but the cartel showed no remorse for the loss of innocent lives.

Escobar was also known to hold lavish parties and indulge in extravagant displays of wealth. However, this opulence was built on the suffering of countless individuals who fell victim to the violence and addiction caused by his drug empire. Despite his brutal reputation, he was regarded as a Robin Hood figure by some in Colombia, as he provided housing and support for the poor in his hometown of Medellín.

[dreamy-selkie]

My Time at Sandrock: Pokemon Team (Bachelor Edition)

Bachelorette Version [LINK]

With Pokemon Indigo Disk being released I thought I might make a small Pokemon team for the bachelors and bachelorettes of the game; both will be posted separately and if anyone had other ideas as to what other Pokemon they would have don't hesitate to put them down. Buckle-up, this is a long one.

~~~

Arvio would probably have Pokemon that would have his energy, so the team I think he would have is an Scyther, Plusle, and Roserade; the trio especially would put up a performance to draw the attention of tourists over to By the Stairs. Scyther is based on the fact he uses dual weapons when MC spars, of course him and Amirah both would have the Plusle-Minum duo, and with Roserade I can see as his ace for various reasons; roses being a symbol of love while Arvio is a charmer being one of the big reasons.

Burgess is a kind-hearted pacifist and a devoter to the church, so to match his kindness I think his Pokemon team would be Togetic, Sylveon, and Blissey. Togetic's entry is that it only approaches those with a good heart, a top-perfect Pokemon, Sylveon would be his ace and its entry also says that it'll emit an aura that would erase hostility, and Blissey is a compassionate Pokemon that evolves through high friendship; I can definitely see Burgess raising it as a Happiny.

Ernest was a little tough, but I think he would have a Toxtricity (Amped form), Meowstic (Male ver.), and Alolan Persian. Both the Toxtricity and Meowstic, his ace, would match with his twin Luna, while the Alolan Persian is considered the symbol of wealth and it matches with his background.

Fang's team would definitely be Corviknight, Mimikyu, and Audino. Corviknight, his ace, is obviously based on his crow X, Mimikyu I can see Fang adopting from years back and Audino not only acts as his assistant but the Pokemon would also help soothe him when his PTSD would come around.

Justice was pretty easy as well, since he's for... well, justice, I picture him having noble and quite strong Pokemon; his team would Rapidash, Mabosstiff, and Pidgeot. Rapidash would definitely be based on his horse Truth, Mabosstiff, I can see as his ace, would be a Birthday gift from Vivi, and Pidgeot can be his eyes in the sky.

Logan was interesting to say the least, but I think he would have a team of Gogoat, Lucario, and Mightyena. Gogoat, his ace, is based on his companion Rambo, Lucario I see Logan adopting as a Riolu while on the first couple of weeks being on the run, and Mightyena while not only having canon hyena enemies in the game but one of its entries mentions that it obey only certain trainers that possess superior skill, which the Pokemon can see in him.

I admit I don't know much about Miguel, so it was a guessing game based on the wikia- with that I think his Pokemon team would be Luxray, Gallade, and Talonflame. His Pokemon team would match his calm and clever demeanor with Gallade as his ace.

With Owen working at the Blue Moon Saloon he would have at least a couple of Pokemon that would assist him, being Slurpuff, Centiskorch, and Indeedee (Male ver.). Slurpuff is a gift from his father when he first took over the saloon, each of Centiskorch's segmented body has coil-like heat that Owen can use whenever something happens to the oven, and of course he has an Indeedee to help wait tables before Grace came in. He probably won't have an ace since he believes all Pokemon are good Pokemon, but if I do give him one it would be Dusk Lycanroc.

Pablo's team would be Furfrou, Delcatty, and Smeargle. With Furfrou I can see Pablo having it as a guard Pokemon, Pablo's favorite trim would be the Heart trim, Delcatty is considered to have sublime fur which I think Pablo would love in a Pokemon, and Smeargle, his ace, matches with how Pablo is canonically an artist based on Arvio's questline.

Pen, of course, would have muscular and powerful Pokemon to match him in all aspect; so it would be no surprise that his team would have Palafin, Machamp, and Feraligatr. His aces are both Palafin and Machamp and he would be the trainer who would love double-battle.

Qi's team would be quite interesting, let me explain why: his team'll be Magnezone, Charjabug, and Minccino. Magnezone is his ace that he would have since back in Vega 5, Charjabug was a trade from Mint and refuses to evolve it when he finds out about Vikavolt, and Minccino it just happened to stumble upon his research center and saw it cleaning so he decided to keep it as a mini-assistant. Though I also imagine finding a Minior one night through a telescope and saw that it fell close to Sandrock premises and with the assistance of MC he kept it around as a memento.

And last but not least, Unsuur I can see as a Rock-type trainer only; his team would be Gigalith, Naclstack, and Graveler; Gigalith, his rockin' ace, being his gift from Justice when he became a Civil Corps memeber, and throughout his time caught the latter two- and eventually took in a Carbink that took an immediate liking to him and, of course, he named the little Carbink, Wilson.

[mcskullmun]

Short horror(ish) story, unfinished and unedited, under the cut. Enjoy:

He sits on the train, legs tucked up to an aching belly as the evening blurs outside a rain-peppered window. The soup he had sipped from a jagged can is long soured in his stomach; the journey almost endless if not for the rippling darkening of the sky. The tracks rumble hungrily; the boy draws his legs closer. His name is Pablo, and the camera in his backpack should not exist.

The people in grey coats hold halberds, bar the gates with the clatter of crossed steel. He tightens his grip on the leather straps of his navy-blue backpack, bowing his head. The train pulls away from the station, slipping into the darkness. Rain clouds roll over, collect as birds in a flock.

“Name,” they ask. “Age,” they ask. “And what is in your backpack?”

“Paul,” says Pablo. “Eighteen,” he lies. “And only my clothes and my blankets.”

He is going to meet his brother at the centre, he says. Young men all march to war, weary fights renewed even so late into the year. He wants to enlist, and has traveled far to do so. The grey guards lower their spears, mutter sighs of sad acceptance. Like water through the damn, opened to be drunk and used, the boys flow into war and out flows bloodshed, dead upon the ground lie porcelain faces. Sad storytellers forget that they too can be silent, caught in the firelight glow of a hundred eager ears. It echoes like a blackbirds bickering, a shame, a shame, a shame.

The door swings, creaking, cracking paint upon the walls stained in water and mud and blood in places. A flat belonging to a rich man, a man who sleeps in rags. He hides his face behind burned curtains, bare glass in a street of boarded up windows.

“What is your name,” he asks. “What is your age,” he asks. “And why is it in your backpack?”

“Pablo,” he says. “Fifteen,” he says. “You will understand,” he begs.

The face belonging to a painter, duck-egg blue a cowards colour and desertion in every paintstroke paint-stain about his clothes. Pablo eyes the painting through his face. His face that is not there. A self portrait hangs behind him, a man far more beautiful than its reality.

“You will understand the importance,” he begs. “You understand the price.”

The painter stills, sudden jerks of dexterous fingers, twitching digits and eyes that are see-through.

“Fish-eyes, black and dead set into my hollow face and hollow mind, I see a child, tell me child, why must I understand?”

Trembling hands hold a walnut box, a lense of glass curved as a fishes eye stares into the eyes of a dead man. A single click and he might lose his head. The painter laughs.

“You should burn it,” he cries. “Burn every painting in this detestable house, this hole of sorrow, sucking, leaching my very flesh.”

��You paint the war, watch sorrow seeing beauty,” he protests.

“I paint myself and my sins and my vices,” he spits, a smile that splits the face in twain, “I paint the soldiers that dread death more than a stained canvas. It hollows them like rotted apples.”

“Then I will let them die,” Pablo offers, a birds cry of sadness and purpose. “I will kill your painted soldiers.”

“Fifteen, foolish as a lamb, kill me if you wish. Prove that you will kill my painted soldiers.”

A stutter of a moment, flash held back by a single finger scarred and scared as a boy would be, knife poised above a chest.

The man begins to speak.

But the cracks that split his grinning face split grinning ears and eyes and hands, split the flesh like rotted fruit to which flies would scarcely swarm. His torso fell upon the floor, Pablo filled the doorway, the trembling camera in his hands. Upon the photograph there was blood. He would develop it perhaps, to see the dying man’s expression. The mirror of his eyes revealing where dead men went, in the days when heaven barricaded its gates.

The painter possessed a box of fine things, wealth that curls as fast as paper paintings in the flames. The street has only boarded windows, white paint melts with the glass. Pablo photographs the fire until the house is not there. The rain falls on an empty square. Mice’s feet patter over broken-mirror puddles that distort, contort naturally as once a painter had. The camera is around his neck, dull as death’s sythe.

[filmforager]

Robot Dreams: Review

To Chrome with Love

A story about a dog and his robot companion seems more fit for a children’s Saturday cartoon than a full-length film. But in the moving Robot Dreams, director Pablo Berger uses this initial concept to explore some surprisingly adult themes. What if, in a world where animals roamed New York City, a dog buys a robot friend to cure his loneliness? The results are gently funny and genuinely profound.

Based on the graphic novel from Sara Varon, the story is fairly simple. It’s also, apart from a few grunts and gasps, completely silent, using expressions and grunts to convey a wealth of emotion. In 1980s New York, we follow the lonely Dog (voiced in gasps and yelps by Ivan Labanda), who purchases a robot friend after seeing an ad on TV. So begins an epic love story in the Big Apple, soundtracked by Earth, Wind and Fire’s hit song September. But when a technical fault leaves Robot stuck on a beach, Dog is forced to adjust to life without his new partner.

While Dog experiences the pains of modern dating, Robot poignantly dreams of his freedom, and takes in a family of songbirds. That’s not even the most random scene in the film. Like Zootopia, Varon’s animal-filled world is full of funny hidden details and interludes. An Octopus in the subway delivers a spontaneous drum solo, two menacing ant-eaters challenge Dog to a sled race down the slopes, and a warthog hilariously washes a car. The bold choice to make the film silent is one that pays off massively, with Alfonso de Vilallonga’s affecting score filling in the blanks.

As well as being entertaining and well-animated, the film plunges unexpected emotional depths. The story of Dog and Robot’s relationship aches with sadness, and you’ll root for them to somehow make it work. It feels like an animated version of La La Land, exploring what it means to discover new rhythms and versions of yourself in a new partner. Not bad for a film about a dog and a robot.

A sweet and imaginative film that is way more touching than a cartoon about a dog and a robot has any right to be.

★★★★

[infodailyblog]

Do you know about Pablo Escobar White House?

Title: The Unraveling Myth: Pablo Escobar and the Alleged White House Connection

Introduction:

Pablo Escobar, the infamous Colombian drug lord, is a name that resonates with notoriety and intrigue. While his criminal empire and life of excess have been well-documented, a persistent rumor continues to circulate in certain circles – the alleged connection between Pablo Escobar and the White House. In this article, we delve into the fascinating tale that suggests a nexus between the drug lord and the heart of American political power.

Pablo Escobar: A Brief Overview:

Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria, born on December 1, 1949, rose to prominence as the head of the Medellín Cartel, one of the most powerful drug cartels in history. Operating during the late 20th century, Escobar became infamous for his involvement in the cocaine trade, amassing immense wealth and power while leaving a trail of violence and corruption in his wake.

The White House Connection:

The alleged connection between Pablo Escobar and the White House is a narrative that has captured the imagination of conspiracy theorists and true-crime enthusiasts alike. According to some accounts, the drug lord purportedly had ties to high-ranking officials within the U.S. government, suggesting a level of collusion that went beyond the typical narrative of law enforcement battling drug traffickers.

While concrete evidence supporting this claim is notably lacking, the speculation gained traction during the 1980s when the war on drugs reached its zenith. As the U.S. government intensified efforts to combat drug trafficking, rumors of covert dealings and unholy alliances between Escobar's cartel and influential figures in the political landscape began to circulate.

The Plausibility Question:

Critics argue that the alleged Pablo Escobar White House connection lacks credibility, pointing to the absence of solid evidence and the dubious nature of the sources propagating the story. It is essential to approach such claims with a critical eye, especially given the propensity for conspiracy theories to thrive in the absence of verifiable facts.

The Legacy of Escobar:

Regardless of the veracity of the White House connection, there is no denying the impact Pablo Escobar had on the landscape of international drug trafficking and the socio-political climate of Colombia. His life and crimes have inspired countless books, movies, and documentaries, cementing his legacy as a figure of both terror and fascination.

Conclusion:

The alleged connection between Pablo Escobar and the White House remains an intriguing footnote in the complex narrative of the drug lord's life. While the story lacks conclusive evidence, it serves as a testament to the enduring allure of conspiracy theories and the shadows that often shroud the lives of infamous individuals. As with many tales of this nature, separating fact from fiction requires a discerning eye and a commitment to unraveling the truth from the layers of myth that surround figures like Pablo Escobar.

Click given link to read more:

[arielhopepeace]

This is a Javier Peña and Harry Styles (again lol) short story for all my fellow Pedro Pascal lovers 💕 This one isn’t gonna be as sweet as the Joel one. Y/N’s life kinda sucks lmfao. I will be posting the trigger warnings since some of the content is sensitive! This was a story suggestion by my best friend who doesn’t have a tumblr otherwise I’d tag her lol. BUT I will be coming out with another Joel story after this one so, feel free to follow me if you’d like to read that when it comes out!

As always, enjoy ❤️

Part two is here

Part three is here

Final part is here

Part One

18+ only

Tw: prostitution, abusive father, mention of drugs, mention of death, extreme violence, guns, murder, abuse in general, mention of sexual assault, implied smut (there’s gonna be a lot of this, she’s a prostitute 😬)

I’d also like to quickly say that I’ll never ever write sexual assault into my stories. It’s just a topic that is too sensitive for me, and for many others out there. There are mentions of it because men are sick and twisted in this world, but I will never describe it happening, or have it happen to y/n. Just a heads up on that ❤️ Anyway, onto the story to escape reality…

4,200 words

There's nothing that I love more than the scenery of Columbia; the beaches, mountains, forests. For the last few months that I've lived here with my father, I've always felt melancholy about the fact that I wasn't born in this beautiful country.

The move was a necessary change in order for my dad to be more successful with his business ventures. I despise the man, but he's filthy rich due to running with the narcos of Medellin. Of course he's never given me anything from his wealth, and instead has pawned me off to be a prostitute for extra income.

I tried my best to fight him on it, but to no avail. You can't argue with a powerful, dangerous man like him. All it does is get me badly beaten. He doesn't like to hit me often since it's bad for business, as he likes to say. Men don't generally like to sleep with women who are all battered and bruised. They think I'll carry some sort of emotional baggage and try to cling to them for security.

Truthfully, I'm very numb to all of it; the beatings, the sex, the disgusting clients, everything. There's no point in me feeling bad for myself. After all, I'm still the daughter of an important drug dealer who works for the drug dealer of Colombia, Pablo Escobar. Nobody would dare to hurt me, since it could possibly end up with them "disappearing". I don't think my father would ever kill someone for my sake, though. But I know he has for his.

It's been a difficult transition since I know hardly any Spanish, and that is the only language anyone speaks here. There's been countless encounters where I've been left feeling imbecilic and witless. My father never bothered to teach me the language, but hired his own personal tutor in order to better conduct business. This way, nobody will be able to talk about anything right in front of his face without him being able to understand. He never wants to be made a fool of.

The house my father lives in is incredibly opulent and pristine. It's just outside of Medellin, sitting on an emerald hill overlooking a vast crystal blue lake that shines brilliantly in the sun. Anytime I'm there for a visit, it makes me wish I lived in that damned mansion. Instead, I have to live in a shitty apartment in the more run-down side of town.

My place is close to one of the whorehouses where I like to sometimes find clients. Usually, I'll dress nicely with a provocative touch and head to a bar, fishing for men whose eyes linger on my breasts. The proposition I set is only said with my body, and once the man understands that I can't speak Spanish, not much else needs to be said, anyway. I'll say my price before we leave, choosing a number I'm comfortable with charging and pronouncing.

I have yet to find someone who refuses to pay, or is unnecessarily rough. It's a relief, because that was one of my biggest concerns going into this. My dad doesn't think that my job has any danger, but he also couldn't give two shits about me, it seems.

There's a slight sense of giddy elation that courses through me, knowing that I'm able to take the day to myself. All I want to do is go to the clinic to do my weekly health check, and then to my father's lakeside house to bask in the sun while he's away for a while today.

He always has to be made aware of my company, just in case he were conducting business and I startled one of his ruthless peers. They all know what I look like, and a few have even solicited sex from me before, but I'd rather be cautious about it than get shot for showing up unannounced.

Once the clinic gives me yet another clean bill of health, I go on my way to my dad's mansion. The warm air whips my hair around the car from the open windows, allowing me to breathe in the crisp feeling of summer. It trails goosebumps of satisfaction along my skin, a smile splitting my face as I giggle lightly to myself.

There aren't many moments when I'm truly happy, but being alone on the drive to my dad's is definitely one of them.

  To my dismay, my father is home, his smooth, lavish car parked at the top of his gated cobblestone driveway. He was supposed to be out all day, but I'm sure he'll explain why he's here so early.

I step out of my run-down sedan, closing the creaking, rusted door shut with a slight slam. My breathing is a bit more shaky as I approach the front door, not really wanting to face my dad today. He knew I was coming, though, so he shouldn't be mad, right?

The living room is relatively quiet as I enter, being greeted by one of the maids in the foyer.

"Dad?" I call out, hoping he doesn't answer me.

His raised voice echoes through the halls, my high heels taking me clicking down the marbled pathway, the walls are so tall it feels like they could swallow me whole at any moment. There's some profane Spanish coming from my dad's office, and I inwardly kick myself as I push the ajar door to it open slowly, not knowing if he's going to scream at me for this.

He has his front turned towards the countless amount of books that he never touches, an obvious strain in his irate tone. The large, gray mobile phone is pressed to his ear, the antennae shining silver above his head by several inches.

My eyes widen as he turns to me, my body immediately cowering in fear as he takes in my presence. He ends the call, gripping the phone so tightly in his fist, I'm worried he'll crack it.

"Hey, y/n," he says quickly. "What have I said about being in here when I'm on calls?"

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "I just wanted you to know that I was here. I'm sorry," I apologize again. All I ever do is apologize to this man when really I want to punch him.

He holds up a large, murderous hand, shaking it side to side. "It's fine," he snaps. "You do what you have to, I don't care. Just leave me be. Got it?"

Without his eyes meeting mine for even a second, I nod, scurrying down the halls as fast as I can without breaking an ankle in my heels. I'm once again greeted by the warmth of the air and sun, surprisingly able to breathe better out here than I was inside.

"You're here," a British voice says beside me.

My head turns to see the charming, dashing Harry, my father's right hand man. "Oh, hi, Harry." I spot the gun sticking out of his belt, making me swallow hard.

He stuffs his ring-clad fingers into his powder blue suit pockets, a small smile settled onto his pink lips. "What are you doing here today?"

I point to the lake over the hill. "Gonna sun tan for a while. Need to not look so—gringa."

Harry chuckles lightly. "I think your skin is perfect as it is."

His words make my cheeks feel hot, and I turn my face away briefly. "Thank you."

"How's business? Anybody need correcting, darling?" he asks with a hint on concern.

I've only known Harry for about a month, and he's been nothing but lovely since I met him. He's always had a bit of protectiveness towards me and I'm not sure why. We've done nothing but have conversations with each other, and he worships my father, a man who seemingly can't stand me. Maybe he feels like he needs to protect me just because he's obsessed with my dad. That reminder always turns me off to him, even if his dreamy looks and refreshing accent do the exact opposite.

"No," I shake my head. "Not everybody knows who I am, but those that do are very—respectful."

"If there's ever a time when somebody isn't," he lifts his suit jacket to flash the grip of his pistol, "you'll tell me, yeah?"

"Yes," I nod. "Thank you."

Harry tosses me a dimply grin, his teeth neat and white. "No need to thank me, y/n. You should always be respected."

I go to tell him that I'm respected by everyone except for my father, but I refrain. Do I think Harry would ever hurt me? Probably not. But that one percent of uncertainty is enough for me to keep my mouth shut.

When I'm settled near the lake, I strip off my dress, kicking my heels to the side shortly after. Being laid out in only my matching black bra and thong with the sun licking my skin is more euphoric than any sex I've had in Colombia.

The men haven't really interested me in the slightest. Of course there's been the few attractive ones who have approached me, but even if it feels good, it's not often that I'm pushed past that delicious precipice. I've yet to have a client who cared about my pleasure, but they're not paying for mine. They're paying for theirs and theirs alone.

My eyes are closed as I relax my shoulders into the grass, allowing my body to be consumed by the intense rays. Being here with nothing but the sound of nature puts me so much at ease that I sometimes fall asleep. The birds that sing their songs proudly above are all giving me unique, individual lullabies, and I love every single one.

The distant sound of shouting makes me sit up, looking up towards the house for any indication on what could be happening. I abandon my dress and heels, my pulse immediately rising from the anticipation of what is unfolding at the top of the hill.

My body freezes as I see several men on their knees in front of my father with Harry standing beside him. He has his pistol tucked underneath both of his hands that are crossed over his front. My dad has his large pistol pointed at one of the men's heads.

Even if I spoke Spanish, there's no way I'd be able to tell what they're saying. They're too far away. I do my best to stay out of sight as I move in closer, creeping behind a shrub that lines the pool, giving it a green privacy gate.

I jump involuntarily at the sound of a single bullet being emptied from the chamber, one of the men falling back into a puddle of his own blood and brain matter.

My sweaty palm flings to my mouth, tears unable to escape from the shock I feel in my body. Of course I know that my father kills people, but I've never actually seen him do it.

He presses the barrel to the next man's forehead who is speaking with a trembling voice to my cold-faced dad. It's eerie how he has no empathy or emotion, only wrath and strategy. I've been convinced that he's a psychopath since I was a kid, but now I truly believe it.

There were nights before my mom died that they'd argue, and he'd slap her around like he does to me. It always made me furious, but what the hell is a kid supposed to do in that situation? The only thing I could do was imagine I was somewhere else that was far away, like a tropical island.

But here I reside in a tropical land, not at all living the way I'd imagine when I was a child. This is hell simply being disguised by pretty packaging and a sparkly bow.

The next man falls back after a shot, the third one not even being interrogated before my father shoots him dead, tucking his gun into the back waistband of his pants. A few men begin to get to work moving the bodies as my dad walks away, Harry looking down at them.

He shifts as if he's thinking, his own gun being wedged between his hip and his pants. I fall to my bare knees onto the soft blades of grass, curling up behind the bush as I hold myself tightly, still not having shed a single tear. Why can't I cry for the dead? Am I as psychotic as my father?

As I stand to walk away back towards my things at the bottom of the hill, a voice stops me in my tracks, my body freezing in place as if Medusa herself has turned me to stone.

"Y/n?" Harry comes into my view. "What are you doing up here?"

Panic. The only thing I can do right now is panic.

"Please don't hurt me," my voice wavers. "I'm sorry."

His green eyes soften, his hands stretching out towards me. His palms graze my arms, my eyes squeezing shut from fear. "Hey, I'd never hurt you. Look at me," he says gently.

Reluctantly, my eyes flip up to his, meeting his delicate gaze. "I heard yelling so I came up here. I didn't mean to see anything."

"Shh," he coos calmly. "Let me walk you back down to the lake."

With reluctant, frozen feet, I begin to tread down the hill with Harry's hand gingerly gripping the crease of my arm. I'm not sure why I feel so terrified of him right now. He's obviously killed people before, too, but I'm just the most concerned about him killing me. What if he tells my father that I was snooping? I don't know what he'd do to me.

My dress and heels lay lifeless beside the lake, my eyes fixed on them instead of the tall man beside me.

"Please don't tell my dad," I plead quietly. "I don't know what he'd do to me, Harry."

Harry tilts my chin up, giving me a comforting smile. "I never saw you, darling."

"Who were they?" I ask softly.

"Rats," he answers firmly with a furrowed brow. "They were giving information to the DEA that just got into the country. You know it's serious if America is getting involved."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Will you be caught?"

"Not if we're smart."

"Okay." My arms wrap around my midsection. "Thank you for your discretion."

Harry chuckles, nodding. "I'll always protect you."

My brows furrow. "Even against my father?"

He stands gazing at me for a moment before letting out a small sigh. "It depends on the circumstances."

Fuck, that's disappointing.

"Right," I nod, picking up my dress. "I think I'm gonna head out. I've had enough of the cartel for today."

Harry grazes my face with the side of his finger, the cool metal of his ring electrifying me. "Please know that I want to protect you from everybody, including your dad. It's just in certain situations, my hands would be tied."

"Like if I was a rat?"

He nods. "Exactly. I'd lose my head too if I protected you."

"I'd never do that, though. I know better."

Harry leans in and presses a delicate peck to my cheek. "I know, darling. You're too lovely."

"Why are you so nice to me?"

He beams, stroking my hair and tucking it behind my ear. "I like you, y/n. You're fucking beautiful and incredibly bright. I love any time that we talk."

Butterflies settle into the pit of my stomach, making my face turn hot. "And you don't care that I'm a prostitute?"

Harry shakes his head. "You didn't ask to be one in the first place."

I sigh as I sit down beside the lake, looking at the glimmering water. "I begged not to be, but he just—"

Harry rests beside me, tossing his arm around my shoulders. "I know. I'm sorry I can't protect you in those moments, either."

"I'm used to not having protection, Harry. It's fine."

He sighs, gently easing my head to rest on his shoulder as we both gaze at the water. My body relaxes in his embrace, my face turning to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. Harry lifts my head up by my chin, quickly and suddenly capturing my lips against his, making me gasp in my throat.

It's not at all that I'm opposed to this, but rather it was extremely unexpected.

"What are you doing?" I ask, his hands on my waist.

He pulls away, his eyes having darkened. "Do you want me to stop?"

With a small smirk I shake my head, pushing my head forward for more of his delectable lips.

We lay on the field naked and breathless, my legs shaky and weak from my orgasm, and my body glistening with sweat just like Harry's. I had no idea that today would turn out like this, but I can't say that I'm disappointed.

I gaze up at him from his tattooed chest, his golden cross necklace buried in his sprinkling of chest hair. He peers down at me, smiling as he pulls me up for another sweet kiss.

"I have to go," he says softly. "He'll be wondering where I went."

"Okay," I answer quietly, sitting up.

Harry slides on his briefs and pants, handing me my things with a gentle grin. "Let me walk you to your car."

Once we're both fully dressed, we make our way up the hill, Harry's hand in mine the whole way. He's being rather romantic about it which is not at all something I'm used to. And he actually made me have an orgasm, another thing that isn't ever achieved for me.

He pulls me in for a swift kiss, his hand at the small of my back as I giggle, my fingers twisting into his soft brown curls.

"Oh," he says quickly as if remembering something. Harry pulls out his wallet and hands me a thousand dollars all splayed out, a bashful smile on his face. "I don't want to take advantage of you, y/n. Please take it."

"That's way too much, Harry. And also, clients don't ever make me orgasm."

He chuckles, pulling me in for another kiss. "Consider me the best client, then."

Reluctantly, I take the money, shaking my head. "This is the most I've ever been paid for one session."

"God, I'd give you more if you wouldn't make fun of me."

I laugh, shaking my head. "You're sweet. You didn't have to pay me."

He pulls my hand up to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "I wanted to."

With one last glance to the handsome British man, I get into my car, Harry giving me a small wave as I drive away, his figure disappearing in my rear view mirror.

The encounter with him has left me feeling giddy and excited. Not only was he thoughtful towards me, but also just thoroughly romantic the entire time. I wasn't expecting Harry to ever become a client, but god, I'll look forward to the next time that I see him.

Later on, I decide to head to a bar near my house, just wanting to get a couple of drinks in my system for the night. I'm definitely not interested in anybody soliciting me since it's my day off, and I'm hoping nobody does.

I'm perched on a barstool, ordering myself a drink by only saying the names of the alcohols since I don't know how to make it more complex of a request. I've had to acquire the taste of neat tequila and vodka, which now I don't mind. The buzz comes on fast and it doesn't require me to know any Spanish of any kind.

A man sits beside me, saying something in Spanish to which I ignore, pretending as if he's not talking to me.

Then, in perfect English, he says, "No Spanish then, huh?"

With surprise and shock fixed onto my face, I turn to look at the man beside me. He has tanned skin and soft brown eyes with a dashing smile that sports a black mustache above it. His hair is also a slightly shaggy, shiny black that is flipped to the middle of his forehead. He's truly very attractive, but I really wanted to take the night off.

"No," I laugh slightly. "Hardly any."

The man chuckles as he sips his drink, a lit cigarette in the other hand. "Then what are you doing in a Spanish-speaking country?"

I wiggle in my seat, not wanting to give him any information about myself. "I could ask the same thing about you. You don't sound like you're from here."

"I'm not," he beams. "I was born in Chile, but then moved to America shortly after."

"And what are you doing in Colombia?" I ask with my head propped up on my hand.

"Vacation. I'm here with a few friends."

My head turns around to scan the bar. "Are they here now?"

"No, they're at their hotels with their wives."

"And you don't have a wife?" I laugh.

"No. It's hard to with my job."

My brows raise. "Oh, yeah? And what exactly is your job?"

"Would you be impressed if I told you I'm a pilot?" he chuckles with an arched black brow.

"Very," I giggle, "but only if that's the truth."

"And why would I lie?" he asks as he leans in, his voice low.

"Fine, Mr. Pilot. You wouldn't mind paying for my drinks then, would you?"

"Not in the slightest."

I giggle, shaking his hand as I stand off my barstool. "Then you have a good night."

With a victorious smile on my face, I leave the bar, making my way back to my apartment that isn't too far away. I thought it'd be better to walk rather than drive in case I drink too much, which in this case I haven't. Maybe a little tipsy, sure, but not enough to be impaired while driving.

There's a brief moment where I think I hear someone behind me, but I turn and nobody is there, making me shrug it off. I come up to the next alleyway, instinctively turning to look down it to find it empty. Perhaps it's the alcohol or the unsettled feeling that nighttime gives me, but I can't help but feel like I'm being followed.

I make it back to my apartment safely, climbing up the stairs in the building with groans of disapproval, my feet aching from my heels. At my door, I push the key in, being greeted by my shitty apartment that still somehow envelops me with a sense of comfort.

Even though it's a rather run-down section of town, and a less than adequate building, I still feel the most at ease here.

My tight dress slides off my body with a gentle tug, slipping on a nightgown before I tuck myself into bed. My mind flicks back to Harry being thrust inside of me, and his beautiful face twisted with pleasure. It causes me to clench around nothing just from the memory of him, and I know that he's going to be my new addiction.

As I shut my eyes, there's a knock on my apartment door to which I groan. Who the hell is here this late at night? With a wobbly, tired and tipsy walk to my front door, I pull it open, a man bursting inside suddenly.

"What the fuck?" I ask, watching as I can now make out the man to be one of my father's associates, José. "What are you doing here?"

"We were raided," he says with his back turned to me, holding several keys of cocaine in his arms. "I'm hiding this here."

"What? No the fuck you're not!" I shout.

José pulls his gun out and draws it on me, making my hands fly up immediately. "How about you shut your stupid bitch mouth and listen to me?"

"I'm gonna tell my dad—"

He scoffs, stuffing the cocaine beneath my couch cushions. "Who do you think cleared me to come here? Ever think that maybe your dad just doesn't give a shit about you?"

My emotions are once again held at bay. Why the fuck can't I cry?

"Just please hurry up and get out."

He finishes hiding the rest of the powder, finally lowering his gun. "You're lucky I don't fuck you right here for being such a bitch."

I swallow, my eyes staying on the floor as I decide to not answer him.

"Don't act like you wouldn't love it," he laughs. "It's your job to be a whore." José gives me a rough smack across my face, making me fall to the floor as I grip it. "Be happy that's all I'm doing before I leave." He slams my apartment door.

For a bit after he leaves, I'm sat against my living room wall gripping my cheek that throbs with a stinging pain. This isn't a feeling I'm unfamiliar with. The burn in my face only reminds me that I really am worthless here, and nothing more than a prostitute with no life worth living.

****

[imgeekgirlfan]

Renegada♱

Taglist: @707otto @juxt4p0siti0n (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )

Pairings:  Amado Carrillo Fuentes x f!reader(Latina Reader) x Walt Breslin  [From Narcos: Mexico TV Series]

Content Rating : Mature 18+  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Synopsis : You were utterly surprised when you discovered that the incoming call was from Amado Carrillo Fuentes, the man who is the primary target of yours.

AN : I will ask you the same question Amado asked, "Do you miss me?" I know I've been absent, but I won't abandon this fanfic, Because I have already finished writing this story (in the Thai language). but the translation takes a considerable amount of time, coupled with busy work, which made me disappear for a while. But don't worry, I assure you I will continue translating until it's completed. And I will create a Masterlist soon, so you can follow each chapter more conveniently.

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𝙍𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙙𝙖♱ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

➡  Previous : Next

[3]ᅳ 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐚𝐫 ✟

Once upon a time, Steve Murphy, a DEA agent from Colombia, was the mastermind behind the takedown of Pablo Escobar. He had likened drug traffickers to cockroaches—filthy, hard-to-kill, and constantly multiplying. But in your eyes, you believed that these drug dealers were akin to Hydra, the mythical Greek monster. Whenever Hercules would cut off one of its heads, two new ones would sprout in its place, symbolizing the endless cycle of the drug trade in Mexico.

It's true that Amado Carrillo Fuentes still holds the number one spot at the moment, but that doesn't mean that other drug lord groups are powerless. When the main head that controlled everything was eliminated from the equation, such as Miguel Angel Félix Gallardo, it only made these drug lords more influential and crazed, ready to do anything to maintain their authority and expand their dominance as far as possible.

The war on drugs continued unabated, and whenever someone stood out, they became an inevitable target.  This was what was happening to Amado, because it wasn't just DEA agents who wanted to bring him down; other rival drug cartels also desired to witness his downfall.

"The Arellano family is making their move," Julio says, pointing to a picture of a family pinned amidst a wealth of information on a large board in the conference room of Mexico's Police Office. "We've received reports of an attempt to assassinate Amado at a restaurant in Juarez. Additionally, there have been reports of burning and destruction at El Chapo's warehouse in Sinaloa."

Bill hastily raised his hand with enthusiasm, and when the leader nodded, he immediately expressed his opinion: "I think they're struggling desperately at the last straw. Maybe they're causing some disturbances for others to stumble upon, but they can't do much more than that.'

Bill spoke accurately. The Arellano family's power has been declining significantly. They used to be much grander, much like the Corleone family in 'The Godfather. Drug trafficking is the business of this prominent family, led by the eldest brother, Benjamin Arellano, accompanied by numerous brothers and sisters. However, the most striking and notorious person in the Mexican underworld would be Ramón Arellano, the youngest brother of the family, who stands out as a truly bloodthirsty and insane

Ramón Arellano often received assignments from his older siblings involving violent tasks, and it was certain that he had a hand in the assassination attempts on Amado.

"But I don't think the Arellanos initiated this," you countered, causing all eyes in the conference room to turn towards you.

"Why do you think that way, officer?" Julio asked, inquisitive.

"The agreement between Amado and the Cali Cartel is directly related to the cocaine issue. This is because all drug dealers in Mexico are merely intermediaries. They don't produce cocaine themselves. What Amado did to Colombia almost entirely severed their control over the cocaine trade in Mexico. That's the reason Arellano is struggling to maintain their position." You presented your thoughts, supported by the information you had personally researched over the past few days. " What's still keeping Arellano from collapsing is the territory they possess. Baja California is a borderland adjacent to two crucial states in America. We know it's the easiest route to smuggle drugs into the U.S. Whoever wants to traffic drugs on that side has to pay a toll to Arellano. However, Amado chose to transport cocaine by plane instead, and El Chapo believed that Arellano had lost power, so he refused to pay the toll. This angered them and led to a decision to retaliate. It's also to send a message to other gangs not to mess with Arellano."

Up to this point, your gaze had grown more serious than before. "Prepare yourselves, gentlemen, because the drug war is going to be much more intense than ever before."

It was a sign of change, much like the shifting weather in Mexico, and indicative of the many other changes to come in the future.

On a scorching Tuesday afternoon, you opened the door and hurriedly jumped out of the taxi after paying the fare. The street was lined with parked police cars, and right in front of you were two familiar men. Bill and Walt seemed to have arrived on the scene earlier than you. They were both standing, arms crossed, staring up at the hanging bridge above them. Their faces struggled to cope with what was up there.

It was the bodies of three men, wrapped and hanging by their necks from the suspension bridge.

"I hope you've had breakfast because you probably won't eat anything for the rest of the day," Bill commented with a slight smile. You managed a half-smile in return, not wanting to reveal to him that you'd only had coffee from yesterday's midday until now.

"We've checked. These three are part of the Arellano gang, the same group that attempted to kill Amado a few days ago." Walt turned to lock eyes with you, exhaling a long breath. "You hit the nail on the head."

You averted his eyes briefly before raising your hand to rub your temple. feeling the rising wave of nausea from your stomach to your throat. It had nothing to do with the gruesome sight you've just witnessed. When your profession forces you to encounter horror regularly, that sensation has already faded away. But the unease you feel now is due to having only slept for three hours last night.  And considering the events of today, it seemed like tonight would be same as well

"Are you alright?" Walt was the first to notice the abnormality. He quickly stepped closer and grabbed your arm. "I'll take you in my car. I'll drop you off at the apartment."

"I'm fine, really. It's just a bit too sunny," you declined, knowing well that Walt wouldn't believe your words. But he didn't push further.

You, along with the other two DEA agents, continued to watch the Mexican police slowly lower the bodies from the bridge in a rush. A small crowd had gathered around the area; some glanced curiously, but most just passed by in silence, unfazed, without a hint of alarm, shock, or fear on their faces.

For the locals, this was just another routine day in Mexico.

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The loud ringing of a mobile phone repeatedly woke you up from your deep sleep. You found yourself sprawled on a blood-red couch that wasn't your own, and the overall state of the room differed drastically from your familiar living space. You observed the cleanliness and order, realizing that this was Walt's apartment. He lived in the same apartment complex as you but on a different floor. Walt had invited you over for dinner at his place to discuss and plan ahead. Due to the accumulated fatigue and the substantial meal you had just eaten, following a day fueled by nothing but coffee, you dozed off before you could even engage in a work conversation with Walt.

Your bleary eyes shifted towards the open window and saw that the sky had darkened. You couldn't spot any signs of the room's owner. You assumed he might be out for some errands or working outside, deliberately choosing not to disturb you. Shifting your weight, you propped yourself up from the couch, sitting up once again. A yawn erupted while you reached for the phone on the table, picking it up and placing it against your ear without paying much attention to see who was calling.

The voice that came through the line brushed away the remaining drowsiness that clung to you.

"I hope I'm not bothering you." No introduction, no greeting But you knew very well who was on the line. You quickly roused yourself from the couch. "Amado?"

"Glad you remember," Amado chuckled. "I thought you might have forgotten about me."

Not a chance; how could you forget the man who was your main target?

You searched urgently for a notepad and pen, one hand keeping the phone pressed to your ear. "I assumed you might have forgotten me instead, since you never got back to me."

That night in Cuba was not just a casual conversation. You knew things were getting serious when Amado requested your phone number.  You decided to give him a backup phone number without telling anyone, not yet sure about his intentions

You hoped he would call. You also hoped he wouldn't call.

But in the end, he did call, and you were fine with it.

"Did you miss me?" Amado's voice sounded strangely teasing.

You stayed quiet for a moment, weighing your words carefully before responding, "I've been more worried about you."

He didn't reply immediately, seeming lost in his own thoughts just as you were. You heard a long exhale at the other end of the line.  "You're the first person to say you're worried about me."

It wasn't an exaggeration, not in the slightest. Anyone else would want this man dead, and as a CIA agent, you knew that well. However, it was still odd and surreal to hear these words spoken directly from the weary voice on the line.

Was it pity or empathy you were feeling? You couldn't quite determine it either.

"Are you okay?" you asked, a natural question, not prying too much.

"Be blunt.  It can't be worse than this," he replied evenly. "But this is my choice; I've decided."

You muttered, your mouth running ahead of you, "But can't it change?"

"What do you mean?"

"I change my mind every day. I think we don't have just one choice in life."

It was oddly profound that the CIA was now giving advice to a criminal like this.

You weren't sure exactly what you were doing, whether you were trying to comfort him or convince him to turn back to the good side. Of course, that was an impossibility.

Nevertheless, you chose to let the silence work, imagining how he was dealing with all of this. To be scared, to be angry, or to just see it as another day in Mexico like any other person in this country.

But you were wrong about all of that.

Turning points in many people's lives often start with something. And in this case, that assassination was the turning point in Amado's life.

And when you uttered the words "change," it made him realize the reality of his situation.

Miguel and Pablo, the two biggest drug lords of this century, had reached the peak of their lives, only to meet a disgraceful end—either death or prison. That was the destiny for anyone who dabbled in the dark business.

Their grand mistake was believing they had so much power and time that they never thought about the ending.

All of this made Amado different from both of them.

He was at his peak, creating his own glorious era, driven by the yearning to create something grand. And now he knew that an end had to come someday. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. Or years from now.

He knew. And he had decided to prepare himself to face it.

Which had become a turning point in your life as well.

"Camila, there's something I want to ask you."

For a moment, your heart skipped a beat. He used that tone as if he was about to break some bad news you didn't want to hear. But sometimes, this might be the best for everyone. And that was what you thought after hearing his next sentence.

"I want you to come with me."

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[pharaoh-khan]

I’m axis Mundi Pharaɸh Kh🖖🏽𓈖 feng shui 𓇽 𓀔 𓇴 Lord thee mundane/golden egg thee lonely 𓇽 Heeru Yu𓆄 thee real Saint Nick net worth/♾ Pablo Tony Montana thee origin or the limelight thee Midae Jospeh with the robe of many colors followed in Egypt thee reason for the bright color exotic cars thee epitome of youth thee infinite wealth American Topolino Dream thee slim suit Simba with Zayn Drake and The Weeknd

[lymphomalass]

Do you believe the arts (visual, written, music, film and TV, etc) can change the world…?

I think I’m seeing it happen right in front of me… and it’s awe-inspiring!

I think the writers, producers, directors and actors of the ITV true drama “Mr Bates v The Post Office” are making just this happen as they provoke public outrage at a story all about balancing ledgers and financial systems… As a qualified accountant, I know this is an outstanding creative achievement!

Sometimes artists do try to change the society they live in. Pablo Picasso’s 1937 painting “Guernica” – which represents the tragedies of war and the suffering it inflicts upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians - is one example. At about 16:30 on Monday, 26 April 1937, warplanes of the German Condor Legion, commanded by Colonel Wolfram von Richthofen, bombed Guernica for about two hours. On completion, Picasso’s response to the atrocity was displayed around the world in a brief tour, becoming famous and widely acclaimed. This tour helped bring the Spanish Civil War to the world's attention.

Many of the others I’ve looked at - bearing the description of “art that literally changed the world” - changed the arts rather than fundamentally benefitting large numbers of people’s lives, something that makes those involved in the “The Bates” program’s achievement all the greater. That team have called out in a compelling way a collapse of justice, and so a collapse of part of our society. They have changed the welfare and life chances of more than 700 sub-postmasters, convicted of theft after the faulty accounting system Horizon showed money was going missing around the UK.

I may be an idealist, but I believe visual artists can change the lives of other individuals, giving them images that are special to them, that can lift their spirits and give them comfort in difficult times. That’s what I aim to do.

In the UK, we’re nations who are good at the arts: taking a blank piece of paper, silence or an unknown character and injecting life into it. Our creativity is one way we’ve created wealth. Just think of Harry Potter…!

I believe great art finds a way to tell the deeper truths within its creativity. So maybe now it’s time for some of us to think bigger, like the “Mr Bates” team, to change society for the better with our art…

What do you think…?

Thanks!

Sam aka LymphomaLass xx

[cadyrocks]

"Weird: The Al Yankovic Story" is a bonafide masterpiece. A glorious parody of hagiographic biopics, we follow Al through a fictionalized version of his life and rise to stardom. At every turn, the degree to which it is fictionalized gets weirder and more extreme, until, without meaning to spoil too much, it reaches a glorious extravaganza of action and violence.

The movie was produced in part by Funny Or Die, and I guess they'll live another day, because Weird is very, very funny. Along with the typical silliness and absurdity you'd expect from a movie like this, it's also riddled with hilarious in-jokes and references to Al's career and to famous moments in rock history that provide a deeper layer to the comedy. That said, even if you know very little about those moments, the surface-level jokes more than carry the film. It's a laugh a minute basically from minute one.

The movie uses Al's music in pitch-perfect ways. We get to see (a highly fictionalized version of) him writing and performing some of the big hits of his career, and these scenes are consistently incredible. I took away a new appreciation for every one of those songs - the moment he whips out "I Love Rocky Road" feels downright transcendant.

Daniel Radcliffe as Weird Al Yankovic is inspired casting. I didn't get it, and then I saw the movie, and I immediately got it within two scenes of him showing up on screen. He perfectly fits the weird, geeky nature of Weird Al, but has no problem rolling with the punches as the fame gets to him and he spirals wildly out of control. Absolutely perfect for the kind of larger than life vibe this movie is going for. I'm not gonna lie, I'm a sucker for Radcliffe (if you haven't seen Guns Akimbo, you should see Guns Akimbo) but he is impeccable in this. As is Riann Wilson giving an aptly demented turn as Doctor Demento. Evan Rachel Wood's Madonna is another gloriously ridiculous performance.

More generally, name a quirky actor or musician you love seeing in movies, and odds are they have a cameo here. Jack Black's turn as Wolf Man Jack is of particular note, in case you needed a reminder that Jack Black is an extremely sexy man who effortlessly owns every scene he's in. Small part, but the charisma on display... Woof. Also, Patton Oswalt shows up for a cameo. I just love seeing that guy in movies.

The lighting and cinematography also deserves special mention. It's all lit and shot in ways to make things look larger than life and surreal, with bright, flashy colors. It's not realistic, but it's not supposed to be. The overall vibe is incredibly effective.

This isn't a perfect movie. There are plot beats involving Al's family that, while needed for the story arc, don't mesh well with the rest of the tone or pace. The way it handles certain beats, while hilarious, are kinda problematic (most notably, it does Madonna pretty dirty and she was not consulted). But when I think about the movie, I don't think of that. I think of the absurdly funny and cathartic "My Bologna" scene, or how much of an incredible heel Madonna is. I think of Pablo Escobar. I think of the wealth of obscenely funny one-liners.

Weird is a comedy treasure. The end credits song notes that it's "technically eligible for Oscar consideration", and frankly, just give Weird Al Yankovic a fucking Oscar, he deserves it. If you like comedy, Daniel Radcliffe, Weird Al, or classic rock history, you owe it to yourself to catch this one.

[alfredsonger]

Roberto Suarez Gomez reigned from power and wealth and still paved the way for Pablo EscobarIf you're a true crime fanatic, you won't want to miss this podcast! We'll take you on a journey through some of the most chilling cases in history and try to shed light on what really happened. Roberto Suárez Gómez, also known as the King of Cocaine, was a Bolivian drug lord and trafficker who played a major role in the expansion of cocaine trafficking in Bolivia. In his prime, Suárez made $400 million annually, was one of the major suppliers of the Medellín Cartel as well as the leader of the largest Bolivian drug empire, and was considered to be the biggest cocaine producer in the world. Born to a prominent family, Suárez entered the drug trade and made millions from cocaine in the 1970s and 1980s. He is known for financing the 1980 coup d'état, known as the "Cocaine Coup", and was a major supplier of cocaine for various criminal organizations. Suárez was arrested in 1988 and sentenced to 15 years in prison, but was released after serving half his sentence. He died on July 20, 2000, from a heart attack.

[chloefashionthroughtime]

Coco Chanel:

Coco Chanel is well-known for her timeless designs, signature suits, and little black dresses. She developed her first perfume in the 1920s and later introduced the Chanel suit and the little black dress, with a focus on designing garments that were more comfortable for women. She became a fashion star recognised for her basic yet classy ensembles mixed with wonderful accessories, such as many strands of pearls. Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel was born on August 19, 1883, in Saumur, France. Her early years were far from glamorous. Chanel was placed in an orphanage by her father, a peddler, when she was 12 years old, following the death of her mother. Chanel was reared by nuns who taught her how to sew, which led to her life's profession. Her moniker stemmed from a very different job. During her brief singing career, Chanel was known as "Coco" at bars in Vichy and Moulins. Chanel met Etienne Balsan, who promised to help her establish a millinery company in Paris, when she was about 20 years old. She soon abandoned him in favour of one of his wealthy pals, Arthur "Boy" Capel. Both men played important roles in Chanel's first fashion endeavour. Chanel began selling hats in her first boutique on Paris's Rue Cambon in 1910. She then expanded her business to include stores in Deauville and Biarritz, as well as clothing manufacturing. On a chilly day, she fashioned a garment out of an old jersey for her first taste of fashion triumph. In response to the numerous inquiries about where she obtained the outfit, she volunteered to make one for them. "My wealth is founded on the old shirt I wore in Deauville because it was cold," she once told author Paul Morand. Chanel rose to prominence in the intellectual and artistic communities of Paris. She worked with Jean Cocteau and Pablo Picasso on garments for the Ballets Russes and his play Orphée.

In the 1920s, Chanel elevated her booming firm to new heights. She created her debut perfume, Chanel No. 5, which was the first to contain a designer’s name. Perfume “is the invisible, memorable, ultimate accessory of fashion. . . . that signals your entrance and prolongs your departure,” Chanel once remarked. The scent was in reality also sponsored by department store owner Théophile Bader and industrialists Pierre and Paul Wertheimer, with Chanel forging a strong acquaintance with Pierre. A agreement was subsequently arranged where the Wertheimer corporation would take in 70 percent of Chanel No. 5 earnings for making the perfume at their plants, with Bader receiving 20 percent and Chanel herself only receiving 10 percent. Over the years, with No. 5 being a significant source of cash, she continually sued to have the terms of the arrangement renegotiated. In 1925, Chanel designed the now renowned Chanel suit with collarless jacket and well-fitted skirt. Her designs were groundbreaking for the time—borrowing features of men’s apparel and prioritising comfort above the limits of then-popular trends. She helped ladies wave goodbye to the days of corsets and other restricting clothes.

This video gives a brief history of the french fashion designer Coco Chanel and her biography. It continues to go in more depth with experts and historians adding their own knowledge and details to the video allowing more information to be learnt. I choose this specific video as I like to listen to historians and experts views but also see the pictures and garments from the designer Coco Chanel.

Referencing:

Biography.com Editors. (2014). Coco Chanel Biography. [Online]. The Biography.com website. Last Updated: 10 December 2021. Available at: https://www.biography.com/fashion-designer/coco-chanel#:~:text=Who%20Was%20Coco%20Chanel%3F,were%20m [Accessed 11 December 2022].

[jayconner-raisingprivatemoney]

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Pablo Villa-Martinez was born in California and raised in Texas, he is the youngest of 7. He attended Texas Tech University and graduated in 2016. He went on to work in the Electric Utility industry where he designed Electric Utility overhead and underground structures while also Project Managing, where he helped many customers obtain electricity. He was in the electric utility industry for 10 years until he discovered real estate.

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[fairbiography]

Pablo Francisco Bio, Age, Height, Net Worth, Wife, TV Shows

Pablo Francisco Bio Pablo Francisco is an American comedian, actor, and impressionist known for his unique and energetic stand-up comedy style. Age Pablo Francisco was born on March 5, 1974. As of July 2024, he is 50 years old. Height Pablo Francisco stands at 5 feet 10 inches (178 cm) tall. Net Worth Pablo Francisco’s net worth is estimated to be around $5 million. He has amassed this wealth…