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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. Your hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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leporinelou · 1 year ago

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billy’s mom waking him up while it’s still dark, whispering even though neil’s working the night shift. it’s a couple days before his tenth birthday and she’s telling him they’re going to have their very own adventure, just like the ones in billy’s books. she grabs an already packed suitcase from under billy’s bed and kisses him on the nose, tells him to get dressed quick. the two of them leave in an old beat up yellow bug that she managed to get for a third of the asking price and keep parked around the corner until now. they stay with friends and jump from place to place so neil can’t track them down. billy gets used to surfing couches and staying in motels.

he spends his tenth birthday in a diner, his mom gets him a big stack of pancakes and a milkshake with extra cherries. gets a candle out her pocket along with her silver lighter. sings happy birthday and pulls a face when the waitress frowns at them, just to make billy laugh. she sips at her coffee while billy tucks in. smiles when he holds some out with a “c’mon mama, share with me.”

billy thinks it’s neat. thinks it’s the best birthday he’s ever had.

they eventually end up with a place in california, a little bungalow near the coast and billy grows up with his mom. billy gets pretty shirts from the thrift store ‘cause his mama lets him do stuff like that. doesn’t call him a queer, doesn’t force a baseball bat into his hands whilst yelling at him for crying, for being a pussy. his mom lets him read and keep a journal and press flowers between the pages of the neverending story, she plays hendrix and dusty springfield and laughs when billy comes home from his friends’ house with his first piercing at thirteen. she doesn’t tear down his posters or yell when she finds him using her eyeliner.

and everything’s perfect. sort of.

they have bad days- billy’s mom has bad days. billy calls them gray days ‘cause that’s how the world looks when she’s like this. all her color gone. no singing-dancing in the kitchen or baking five different kinds of cake because she couldn’t decide which one was best, no last minute trips to the beach or sitting outside at night and telling billy about the stars. instead she’ll stay in bed, won’t go to work. she’ll stare at the wall blankly and look right through billy when he tries to talk to her. she won’t take the pills the doc gave her and billy doesn’t know what to do. never knows what to do. just chews at his lip until it bleeds, bites at his thumb until it’s red raw. he’ll get in the bed with her. lay beside her and just talk like she used to do with him when he had a nightmare. hum a song to her.

billy’s still pissed at the world just slightly less so. still has that anger and anxiousness simmering just below the surface and shows his teeth when cornered. he’s still hardened in a way that a kid shouldn’t be but. it’s different. there’s no neil. the only bloody noses he gets are at school, when he fights with the kids who call him a fag and a fairy, call his mom a basket case. he uses fists when they laugh and ask if she’s all there with a finger pointing at their heads, ask if billy will “catch the crazy.”

those are billy’s bad days. sitting in the principals office, icing his knuckles.

when he’s fifteen, billy manages to bag a job at the local auto repair by turning up every day and telling howie how good he’d be, that he knows cars and it’s all he wants to do and please please please. eyebrows pulled together, eyes puppy dog wide and hands clasped in front of him until howie grumbles, throws an oily rag at billy. says fine but billy’s gotta pay for anything he damages. someone brings in a chevy camaro and billy asks howie to let him help fix it up. does the begging again until howie laughs. says get a hold of yourself, kid, voice fond as he ruffles billy’s hair.

billy’s four months away from turning seventeen when the doorbell goes. he’s eating a sandwich and watching knight rider. he’s wearing the necklace his mom got him for his last birthday and- he answers the door. doesn’t think twice. freezes when he sees neil standing there. he looks different. hair a little shorter and more wrinkles. where billy’s gained weight, gained muscle, neil’s lost it. his eyes are a little sunken and he’s still got his wedding band on. he reeks of booze. billy has to remind himself to speak, just says “yeah?” his voice comes out small and neil smiles at him. smiles and billy feels this weird twist in his stomach ‘cause .. that’s his dad and he hasn’t seen him in years and it twists and twists and-

turns out. not much has changed. billy realises a little too late that neil will always be neil. they run again. have to leave everything behind. billy doesn’t get to say bye to his friends, to howie, to the car. they leave a lot of stuff behind and head in any direction away from neil. they both try to keep the mood light, take turns driving and play the tapes billy grabbed. they end up in indiana- hawkins. they stay at a motel until billy’s mom finds a place for dirt cheap. it has two bedrooms and a dingy bathroom, a living room slash kitchen and one hell of a damp problem. it’s dirt cheap for a reason.

it’s above a shop in town and- it’s fine. their landlord is an asshole but they’re together and they’ve got a roof over their heads. billy’s enrolled at hawkins high and his mom gets a job at the laundromat. he tells her that he doesn’t need to go to school, that he could just work and help pay the bills but his mom won’t have any of it. says that she wishes she had finished school and that billy’s too clever to waste it. that he has potential.

billy knows the reason she dropped out of school was because she had him. he just nods, rests his head on her shoulder.

it’s billy’s first day at school and his mom drives him to make sure he actually goes. he gets out the car and tries to shake the nerves off. straightens up and puts on his act. plasters a fake smile on his face and it’s working, he’s got most of the girls swooning and the boys at least seem curious. billy looks around and his eyes land on a guy leaning up against a bmw. his hair’s coiffed to high heaven and he’s wearing a polo, preppy as fuck but- pretty. it’s one of the first things billy realises about him, all doe eyes and moles dotted just about everywhere. he’s got a smirk on his face. not aimed at billy but the guy beside him.

pretty-boy walks over to him and billy raises an eyebrow, plays it cool. he introduces himself as steve and billy gets the idea that he’s top dog at hawkins high, is immediately proved right when they step into the building. king steve, freckles calls him. billy laughs- catches steve looking at him when he does and feels his face get hot. steve just smiles wider, calls billy california and tells him to sit with them at lunch. billy tries to ignore the way steve’s smile makes him feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under his feet.

he nods and steve grins. tugs at one of billy’s curls.

says “i think you’re gonna like it here, california.”

#it got away from me i fear #billy has to live somewhere else at the start and then they move to california i don’t care he needs to be there with his mom for the #majority of the time he just has to #he Is california ! what else am i supposed to do here he needs it #makes hawkins that much worse #he’s best friends with argyle but he doesn’t get to say bye !#billy’s first kiss is with a girl but the second the one he counts is with a boy and his mama knows he’s gay also #probably argyle if we’re being real #my words #billy hargrove #billy’s mom #harringrove #cw slurs #cw mental illness #spinning in circles i just need mamas boy billy and king steve so bad #mamas boy billy & king steve

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justinspoliticalcorner · 5 months ago

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Greg Sargent at TNR:

There are still nearly two months to go before Donald Trump assumes the presidency again, but Republicans or GOP-adjacent industries have already begun to admit out loud that some of his most important policy promises could prove disastrous in their parts of the country. These folks don’t say this too directly, out of fear of offending the MAGA God King. Instead, they suggest gingerly that a slight rethink might be in order. But unpack what they’re saying, and you’ll see that they’re in effect acknowledging that some of Trump’s biggest campaign promises were basically scams.

In Georgia, for instance, some local Republicans are openly worried about Trump’s threat to roll back President Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act. The IRA is pouring hundreds of billions of dollars into incentives for the manufacture and purchase of green energy technologies, from electric vehicles to batteries to solar power. Trump endlessly derided this as the “green new scam” and pledged to repeal all uncommitted funds. But now The New York Times reports that Trump supporters like state Representative Beth Camp fear that repeal could destroy jobs related to new investments in green manufacturing plants in the state. Camp worries that this could leave factories in Georgia “sitting empty.” You heard that right: This Republican is declaring that Trump’s threatened actions could leave factories sitting empty.

[...]

Something similar is also already happening with Trump’s threat to deport millions of undocumented immigrants. Reuters reports that agriculture interests, which are heavily concentrated in GOP areas, are urging the incoming Trump administration to refrain from removing untold numbers of migrants working throughout the food supply chain, including in farming, dairy, and meatpacking.

Notably, GOP Representative John Duarte, who just lost his seat in the elections, explicitly tells Reuters that farming interests in his California district depend on undocumented immigrants—and that Trump should exempt many from removal. Duarte and industry representatives want more avenues created for migrants to work here legally—the precise opposite of what Trump promised. Now over to Texas. NPR reports that various industries there fear that mass deportations could cripple them, particularly in construction, where nearly 300,000 undocumented immigrants toiled as of 2022. Those workers enable the state to keep growing despite a native population that isn’t supplying a large enough workforce. Local analysts and executives want Trump to refrain from removing all these people or create new ways for them to work here legally. Even the Republican mayor of McKinney, Texas, is loudly sounding the alarm.

Meanwhile, back in Georgia, Trump’s threat of mass deportations is awakening new awareness that undocumented immigrants drive industries like construction, landscaping, and agriculture, reports The Wall Street Journal. In Dalton, a town that backed Trump, fear is spreading that removals could “upend its economy and workforce.” At this point, someone will argue that all this confirms Trump’s arguments—that these industries and their representatives merely fear losing cheap migrant labor that enables them to avoid paying Americans higher wages. When JD Vance and Trump pushed their lie about Haitians eating pets in Springfield, Ohio, Vance insisted that he opposed the Haitian influx into Midwestern towns because they’re undercutting U.S. workers. But all these disparate examples of Republicans and GOP areas lamenting coming mass deportations suggest an alternate story, one detailed well by the Times’ Lydia DePillis. In the MAGA worldview, a large reserve of untapped native-born Americans in prime working age are languishing in joblessness throughout Trump country—and will stream into all these industries once migrants are removed en masse, boosting wages.

But DePillis documents that things like poor health and disability are more important drivers of unemployment among this subset of non-college working-age men. Besides, migrants living and working here don’t just perform labor that Americans will not. They also consume and boost demand, creating more jobs. As Paul Krugman puts it, in all these ways, migrant laborers are “complements” to U.S. workers. Importantly, that’s the argument that these Republicans and industries in GOP areas are really making when they lament mass deportations: Migrant labor isn’t displacing U.S. workers; it’s helping drive our post-Covid recovery and growth. This directly challenges Trump’s zero-sum worldview.

[...] Here’s another possibility: In the end, Trump’s deportation forces may selectively spare certain localities and industries from mass removals. Trump’s incoming “border czar,” Tom Homan, suggests this won’t happen. But a hallmark of MAGA is corruptly selective governance in the interests of MAGA nation and expressly against those who are designated MAGA’s enemies, U.S. citizens included. One can see mass deportations becoming a selective tool, in which blue localities are targeted for high-profile raids—even as Trump triumphantly rants that they are cesspools of “migrant crime” that he is pacifying with military-style force—while GOP-connected industries and Trump-allied Republicans tacitly secure some forbearance.

Donald Trump’s threats to green energy initiatives and resistance to his mass deportation proposals are facing headwinds against him, even from local Republicans who fear losses of jobs in their communities.

Even if Trump does get to implement his mass deportation policy, he’ll likely create several exemption carveouts (mainly for industries likely to favor him) and use selective enforcement (light touch for red states, heavy and punitive for blue states).

#Donald Trump #Mass Deportations #Immigration #Economy #Inflation Reduction Act #Undocumented Immigrants

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dertaglichedan · 8 months ago

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Meanwhile in Springfield Ohio..

"Can't Take It Anymore": Residents Of Springfield Ohio Beg For Help After 20,000 Haitians Overwhelm City, Eat Local Wildlife

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telesilla · 8 months ago

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Okay, thought exercise time here: let’s take JD Vance on good faith. Hear me out, on just one thing, we’re gonna assume he’s telling the utter truth. He’s not, this is racist garbage, but let’s try.

So some unknown number of Vance’s constituents from Springfield have called him and told him/his office about Haitian immigrants stealing their pets to eat them. These calls have to have been credible; people either offering doorbell cam footage or even just enough different accounts for Vance and his people to believe there’s a genuine problem in Springfield. So our first question must be about proof. What proof was offered to his office and what proof can his office pass on? Assuming his senate office operates normally and that he has competent people around him, it should be a simple matter to provide redacted call logs. At the very least we need to know how many calls were received, what proof was offered, and how credible the staff found the callers.

Next, who else are people from Springfield talking to about this? So far we’ve heard from the local police, the city manager, the mayor and the governor of the state, and they all say they have had no complaints. So the press needs to reach out and expand on that. Has anyone on the city commission been contacted? State level lawmakers? Has anyone complained to Congressman Warren Davidson who represents Springfield in the House? How about Vance’s Ohio senatorial colleague, Sharrod Brown? What about law enforcement beyond the Springfield police? Is there county level law enforcement like a sheriff’s office and were they informed? State police? The FBI? Homeland Security?

The question you ask Vance himself is very simple. “Senator Vance, when your constituents contacted you about crimes being committed in your state, what steps did you take? Did you encourage them to contact local law enforcement? Did you or your office offer to contact law enforcement on your constituents’ behalf? Did you inform any federal agencies such as the FBI or Homeland Security? In short, as an elected official, what did you do to deal with these criminal complaints from your constituents?”

To sum up, in our Good Faith Scenario, a sitting member of the United States Senate was informed of crimes being committed in his state and instead of reporting them to the proper authorities, his only response was to politicize it on social media.

#politics #that’s the worse thing #they lie and it’s awful #but if they aren’t lying it’s still…awful #also really?#if i genuinely thought people around here #were doing horrific crimes #my first point of contact #would not be laphonza butler #or alex padilla #like beyond the cops #i have spoken to my city councilor more than once #i’d call her

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 2 months ago

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I apologize for my lack of updates with regards to my reviews as of late. Between my brother moving in, hectic work schedule, the upcoming baby, and general exhaustion, things have just been hard... and then on top of it all, I've been sick. Thankfully, I put out a call for guest reviewers, so here is who I got to fill in for me today! Give it up for Frank Grimes!

He's promised me the April 1st Psycho Analysis will be a fantastic, totally unbiased look at the worst and most sinister villain he could come up with! Without further ado, here is his review:

Psycho Analysis: Homer Simpson

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

It’s am honor to be writing an analysis where I can finally, finally reach an audience who might understand my plight! Homer Simpson is the proverbial town idiot of Springfield, beloved by many from the locals to his wife and children… But I see right through him! Homer Simpson is a fraud, a parasite, and a complete and utter bastardization of the American dream! And maybe the people of Springfield can’t see it, but I can! And now I’m going to show you the true evil of Homer, too!

Motivation/Goals: A man like Homer Simpson is far too simple, too idiotic to have any true motivations; he is merely a bumbling moron who trips into unwarranted greatness with no rhyme or reason. He’s nothing more than a leech, a parasite that sucks up all the good in the world at the expense of hard-working people like me!

Performance: The only performance Homer is capable of is somehow putting up a front to deceive those around him and convince them he has more wit and charisma than he actually does! He truly has everyone duped, from Mr. Burns to all his so-called friends! How anyone tolerates him is anyone’s guess!

...Wait, that’s not what this section is for? Who is Dan Castellanetta?

Final Fate: He just gets away with everything, no matter how awful the things he does are! Strangle his son? Endanger the town? Well, he’s Homer Simpson! He gets to get away with it all! What a sick joke!

Evilness: He’s too stupid to be evil. Can he even get a score when he’s completely oblivious to his own actions? It doesn’t make him a better man, but he’s just a symptom of everything wrong with America. I suppose to be completely fair, I’ll give him… 11/10. That is my completely fair and unbiased sore for this miserable man.

Final Thoughts & Score: Grrr… Homer Simpson… Just talking about him makes my blood boil. He really is the sum total of all that is wrong and unjust in this world. He’s a miserable, degenerate parasite leeching off of society while nice and noble men suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. It’s enough to… to drive a man MAD! MAD I SAY!

I can't stand it any longer. This whole analysis is insane. Insane, I tell you! Daahh! Aaah! I can be a psycho, too! Look at me! Hi, I'm a worthless villain, just like Homer Simpson! Give me a review! Ooh, I cut out the best scene and best quote sections, but nobody minds! I'm peeing on the seat. Give me a Psycho Analysis! Now I'm returning to the review without washing my hands. But it doesn't matter, because I'm Homer Simpson! I don't need to finish writing this, 'cause someone else will do it for me. D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!

MF: Uh, you okay guest reviewer?

Oh, hi, Mr. Ford. I'm the worst reviewer in the world. Time to go home to my mansion and eat my lobster. What's this? "Extremely High Voltage." Well, I don't need safety gloves, because I'm Homer Simp--

Tragically, Frank Grimes lost his life in a freak USB chord accident while in the middle of typing the end of this review. I have decided to leave everything he wrote, and also decided to honor his last request and analyze him.

Psycho Analysis: Frank Grimes

April Fool’s! Of course Homer isn’t truly a subject worthy of a Psycho Analysis, jerkass though he may be on occasion. However, Homer’s one-time enemy… There’s a discussion to be had about that guy.

Frank Grimes is a man who thinks he should have it all. He’s worked hard all his life, and he has nothing to show for it. Meanwhile the oafish Homer has it all, and... Ok, you read what Grimey wrote in his review. You get the idea. Now let me show you why Grimes, not Homer, is a perfect animated antagonist who deconstructs the nature of the very show he's in and leaves viewers with so much to chew on despite his one appearance.

Motivation/Goals: Grimey really just wants a good life, because lord has his life been dogshit up until meeting Homer. He worked his ass off and he has nothing to show for it, which is where the main conflict comes from as he views Homer as a lazy parasite undeserving of all of his success. He has a beautiful wife, three children, all sorts of accolades and adventures and yet he’s a fat, drunken. How is this fair? It’s why Grines eventually decides he’s going to be Homer’s enemy and works to undermine him.

Performance: Many were considered for the role of Grimes—from Nicolas Cage to Michael Douglas, whose character in Falling Down was a big inspiration for Grimey—but ultimately it had to go to Hank Azaria, because to sell the rage and frustration of Grimes you’d need extensive knowledge of the show. And really, who could do better than the guy who plays about half the cast? This is one of his absolute best performances, which really is saying a lot when the dude plays Moe, Comic Book Guy, Disco Stu, and a dozen other iconic characters.

Final Fate: Much like at the end of his own review, Grimey snaps due to the pressure of being a “sane” man in an insane world. He runs wild through the power plant, acting as he imagines Homer does, and then he sees some live wires and, well… He finds out the hard way that refusing to accept cartoon logic means you don’t get to benefit from it, and not being the main character affords you no special privileges.

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Evilness: Can you believe it? April Fool’s is where I’m debuting the new take on this scale. I realized a ten point scale is a bit much for this more minor score, and muddies things a bit, so I’m toning it down to five points. 1 is for jerks and bullies; 2 is for malicious assholes; 3 is for straight-up villains; 4 is for utterly sick and twisted fucks; and 5 is for complete monsters. And of course there will be halfway points between the numbers for villains between the two, you know, like a 2.5 is that transition between a guy who tries to cripple his coworker out of spite and an actual supervillain.

Grimes is kind of tricky in this sense. I don’t really think he’s outright evil, but he’s definitely not a zero; he’s sympathetic to a degree, but he is also a douchebag who berates Homer even when he’s going out of his way to be nice and accommodating. The lengths he goes to are pretty insane, but he seems to want to humiliate Homer more than actually harm him. I’d say he’s a 1.5/5, almost graduating into being a malicious asshole, but ultimately the only person he ends up harming is himself.

Best Scene: I think his two standout scenes are his aforementioned death scene, and the scene where he goes on his rant against Homer at dinner.

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Final Thoughts & Score: Grimes is one of the most fascinating antagonists in the whole of The Simpsons, and truly the pinnacle of what a one-shot character should be.

“Homer’s Enemy” is a deconstruction of the very foundations of the cartoon, with Frank Grimes being exactly what happens if a normal person from our world was forced to live in a cartoonish sitcom world like Springfield. Because of this, there are a about a dozen ways to interpret the episode, the themes, and Frank himself. You can take away from Grimes the obvious moral that you shouldn’t let envy consume you and turn you into a worse person, or you could see it as a warning against taking things at face value (Grimes is envious of Homer’s ‘perfect’ life… the one where for every cool success story there is a marriage crises or panda rape). You can see him as the end result of what a life of self-pity and feeling you’re owed something better can lead to, or perhaps you can see him as the poster child for “Hard work hardly works” and that no matter how hard you push yourself or how much you suffer it won’t really matter. And that’s not even getting into whether Grimes himself is actually a tragic character who suffers because he refuses to play by the stupid rules of the universe… or whether he’s an arrogant jackass who is unbelievably stupid for refusing to play by the stupid rules of the universe. There’s a lot of ways you can take everything here, and none are more or less valid than the rest.

My personal take is that he is a victim of his own creation. He is indeed a logical person, he’s a normal guy, but he refuses to go with the flow and accept the weirdness around him. At any point he could’ve simply accepted Homer’s friendship, he could’ve just given in to the antics, and his life might have actually taken a turn for the better. But he’s a realistically sane man in an utterly insane comedy world, and his outright refusal to change leads to him breaking down and accidentally committing suicide. I do feel bad for him, but I ultimately think he’s kind of an asshole too. He is characterized by a disgusting level of envy and bitterness, mad that someone else has what he believes he deserves and is owed because he’s a “hard worker”… and yet, he never once showcases why he would deserve anything. He’s a spiteful asshat the whole episode! Why would he deserve anything other than an embarrassing death!

Ol’ Grimey is one of my favorite characters from The Simpsons because he’s just so remarkably complex and interesting, a vessel to deconstruct the very show itself. As an antagonist, I’ll have to give him a 7.5/10 though. He’s a great character fulfilling great narrative functions, but ultimately he’s still just an incredibly memorable one-shot antagonist who is arrogant and stupid to a lethal degree.

I think he’d score higher if he was built up over multiple episodes, but that would defeat the point and also dilute how good “Homer’s Enemy” is. It’s a 10/10 episode in my book, and Grimes is a 10/10 character, but I don’t know if I can justify ranking him higher because he's just not actually evil. Like this is still Psycho Analysis, I kind of have to factor evilness in even if it also has a distinct score now. Frank just isn't bad enough to sit alongside guys like Sideshow Bob. At any rate, he's better than his crappy son.

Lame character from one of the most mid Sideshow Bob episodes. 2/10, I'm not dignifying this crap with a full review.

#psycho analysis #The Simpsons #Homer Simpson #dan castellaneta #frank grimes #hank azaria #Youtube

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wilwheaton · 8 months ago

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Vance, who previously declared, inaccurately, that “reports now show” people had their pets “eaten” by illegal immigrants, posted to X, formerly Twitter, that he was standing by his false claim because he “received many inquiries from actual residents of Springfield” asking about the rumors. “It’s possible, of course, that all of these rumors will turn out to be false,” he conceded, before calling on his supporters to “Keep the cat memes flowing” regardless. Vance was confronted about that stance on CNN after the debate Wednesday night. “If someone calls your office and says they saw Bigfoot, that doesn’t mean they saw Bigfoot,” Kaitlan Collins told the senator. “You have a sense of responsibility as a running mate, and he certainly does as the candidate to not promote false information, right?” Inquiries are certainly not evidence. Local Ohio officials said they have been getting calls about the rumors for months. But unlike Vance, instead of fanning the flames, they looked into the claims and found them to be meritless. As Clark County Park District executive director Leann Castillo told The New York Times, they “have absolutely no evidence of this happening.”

The Cat-Eating Hysteria is a Flashing Red Light For November’s Election

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delicatuscii-wasbella102 · 8 months ago

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So, I have just watched the Harris/Trump debate and the one thing that stood out to me was that Harris talked of the future, helping the country, building it up for the people. Were as Trump espoused fear, he knows that that is a great control mechanism and throws it around like confetti. Trumps statement about Haitian immigrants "eating pets" Fact Checked: A Springfield spokesperson said the city has received no such reports, and Springfield police told a local news outlet the department has received no reports of pets being stolen and eaten. Trump: "But the governor before, he said, ‘The baby will be born, and we will decide what to do with the baby.’" Fact Checked: Former Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam, never said he would sanction the execution of newborns Trump: "It was a fraud, just like their number of 818,000 jobs that they said they created turned out to be a fraud." Fact Checked: Economists across the ideological spectrum reject Trump’s claim. The process is an annual effort to fine-tune initial data that the agency acknowledges is imperfect. Trump: "Millions and millions of people … are pouring into our country monthly. Where it's, I believe 21 million people." Fact Checked: Encounters aren’t the same as admissions. Encounters represent events, so one person who tries to cross the border twice counts as two encounters. Also, not everyone encountered is let into the country. The Department of Homeland Security estimates about 4 million encounters have led to expulsions or removals. Trump: The U.S. "left $85 billion worth of brand new, beautiful military equipment behind" in Afghanistan Fact Checked: An independent inspector general report told Congress that about $7 billion of U.S.-funded equipment remained in Afghanistan, According to the report, "the U.S. military removed or destroyed nearly all major equipment used by U.S. troops in Afghanistan throughout the drawdown period in 2021." Trump: Under Biden and Harris, the U.S. had "the worst inflation we've ever had." Fact Checked: The highest year-over-year inflation rate on Biden’s watch was around 9% in summer 2022. That was the highest in about 40 years. So the majority of what he said was a lie, no surprises there

#trump2024 #kamala harris 2024

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foreverlogical · 8 months ago

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False rumors about Haitian immigrants eating pets that were boosed by Donald Trump and JD Vance are threatening to unravel Springfield, Ohio.

#donald trump #trump #us news #us politics #politics #republicans #gop

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mariacallous · 8 months ago

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Ever since the televised debate between Vice President Kamala Harris and former President Donald Trump on Sept. 10, Springfield, Ohio, has become an epicenter for ferocious anti-immigrant attacks. As he struggled to regain his footing against the vice president, Trump dredged up disproved claims promoted by his running mate, J.D. Vance, who said that Haitian immigrants in Springfield were eating dogs and cats.

The false allegation, as New York Times columnist Lydia Polgreen argued, tapped into some of the worst nativist sentiment. “There is a long and grim tradition of demonizing Haitians in the United States,” Polgreen wrote, pointing to how the claim revolved around two cherished elements of life, food and pets. Polgreen argued that the situation is a reminder of the threat a second Trump term would pose. “In his elevation of something akin to blood libel against a group of blameless legal immigrants who came to America from their strife-torn nation in search of a better life through hard work… he has proved himself a dangerous and malevolent figure.” Indeed, anti-Haitian sentiment is deeply rooted in American culture, dating back to the Haitian revolution of 1791-1804, when there was a strong reaction against the overthrow of French rule. This rhetoric has frequently included accusations of animal consumption, as well as cannabalism.

As polls demonstrate that immigration remains a top concern for many American voters, Trump’s rhetoric in recent weeks has only become more toxic. At a rally on Long Island, New York, he warned his adoring crowd: “They’re coming from the Congo. They’re coming from Africa. They’re coming from the Middle East. They’re coming from all over the world—Asia. A lot of it coming from Asia. What’s happening to our country is we’re just destroying the fabric of life in our country. We’re not going to take it any longer. You got to get rid of these people. Give me a shot.”

Besides circulating a dangerous and toxic set of illiberal ideas that has caused Ohio officials to station guards at the Springfield schools and prompted two local colleges to go remote, Trump’s narrative erases the city’s real lesson for the United States: how immigrants are revitalizing decaying economic areas that have been left behind for decades.

Like places in many other so-called Rust Belt states, Springfield had been a city that struggled as the new high tech, financial service-centered economy took hold in the 1990s. But now, Springfield is booming. The recent history of the city shows not why immigrants are a threat to existing populations, but why they are part of the solution to economic decline and malaise.

This has been the history of immigration in the United States since the founding, and it remains just as important today as ever before.

For much of the 20th century, Springfield, Ohio, located about 45 miles from Columbus, was one of the thriving small cities of the Midwestern United States. Manufacturing had been at the heart of the economy since the late 19th century. In 1902, when the companies that produced Champion harvesters joined with several other brands in the merger that created International Harvester Co., more jobs and money came to the community with the production of agricultural machinery.

In addition to International Harvester, the local economy benefited from the presence of the Kelly-Springfield Tire Company, Crowell-Collier Publishing Company, and several other businesses. Though it was certainly not New York, Chicago, or Columbus, Springfield embodied the kind of bustling small city that was at heart of the American Century.

But like many of these cities, the area suffered greatly in the late 20th and early 21st centuries as factories closed and jobs went overseas. Between 1970 and 2020, the population fell from more than 80,000 to less than 60,000.

When Newsweek magazine sought in 1983 to capture for readers what was happening in this increasingly economically desolate section of the country, it zeroed in on Springfield; the editors said it had once been a “dream city.” The magazine published a lengthy special that used the city to tell a bigger story about national decline, and its findings were bleak. Crowell-Collier had closed its plant decades earlier, while International Harvester was reeling amid the recession. Concluding with a pessimistic message, the authors wrote: “The times have not been hospitable to dreaming.”

As he campaigned in 2015, Trump’s anti-immigration and pro-tariff agenda seemed to promise relief.

But while help finally arrived, it came from a very different direction. In 2016, through various incentives, state officials persuaded Topre, a major Japanese company that produced auto parts, to invest millions of dollars to construct a manufacturing plant that would eventually create hundreds of local jobs. In the coming years, numerous other companies followed Topre’s lead.

Attracted by the low cost of living and thriving community, somewhere between 12,000 and 20,000 Haitian immigrants would move to Springfield in the following years. The pace picked up after the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, when there were not enough workers in many industries. Employers lured Haitians by advertising good jobs and a decent standard of living. Companies paid for immigration lawyers, translators, and set up online portals to smooth the transition.

The Haitian immigrants, who arrived legally with temporary protected status or humanitarian parole, settled in. They quickly proved to be a valued workforce that allowed the economy to continue prospering. They boosted the once thinned-out population and brought new cultural energy to the community.

McGregor Metal plant’s CEO told NPR that he had depended on about three dozen immigrants to fill the jobs at his factory, which produces steel parts, to make the shop floor work. At the Dole Foods factory, Haitian labor has also been vital. Earning paychecks also means taxes.

The false allegations swerving around Haitian immigrants ignore all of this demand. The fearmongering grows out of a common “they keep coming” myth about immigration, as Harvard University historian Erika Lee argued in Myth America, that wipes away the nation’s own role in “coercing, recruiting, cajoling, and incentivizing foreigners to come to the country to serve its own economic needs.”

Legal immigrants didn’t only provide labor in Springfield, but also boosted the vitality of downtown. Caribbean food trucks and restaurants brought new energy to sleepy streets. Haitian Flag Day became a popular annual event. On Sundays, the prayers and song from the St. Raphael Church, where there has been a regular afternoon Haitian Creole Mass, filled the air. Until recent months, immigrants were understood locally to be integral to the fact that Springfield was standing strong once again. CultureFest, recently canceled because of safety threats, has been a well-attended annual two-day celebration of the city’s vibrant and diverse cultural offerings.

During an interview with NBC News, one Springfield pastor said, “The real story is that for 80 years we were a shrinking city, and now we’re growing.”

With growing populations come problems. These are not imagined and have received ample coverage. As the population climbed back to previous numbers as a result of immigration and a more prosperous economy, emergency services, health care centers, schools, and city services were strained. As the housing stock declined, rent increased. It often became more difficult to secure appointments to key government offices and schools, which—once under threat of shutting down when the population was disappearing—were now trying to keep up with growing student bodies.

Tensions spilled over last year when an 11-year-old boy was killed in a school bus crash that involved a Haitian immigrant. The tragic death unleashed the type of nativist vitriol that Trump has helped to elevate to the highest levels of political power.

These kinds of problems, however, grew out of success, not crisis. They require commonsense, rational government solutions—not the kind of wall-building and deportation measures that would rob the city of a Haitian population that has brought it back to life. Federal support, for instance, could help shore up basic services. New measures to assist with affordable housing could bring down costs for homeowners and renters.

None of these policies would be easy to achieve, and they require spending, but they are well worth it. Rather than offering elixirs that would end up hurting the very communities they promise to save, including the white working-class residents who the Republican Party has depended on, rational policies that address the actual issues can strengthen the infrastructure of cities such as Springfield and allow them to remain great.

One of the most striking developments of recent years has been the way that a far-right nativist rhetoric has taken over the way that Americans discuss immigration.

While Republicans champion the imperative of exclusion and warn of the dangers of replacement, too many Democrats have responded in a defensive fashion by accepting the conservative terms of the debate. During that Sept. 10 debate, Harris’s main response to a question on the topic was to remind voters that Trump had convinced congressional Republicans to vote against a harsh bipartisan border bill. Harris promised that if she was president, she would sign the bill. Trump vacillated. This fit a recent pattern where Democrats have been scrambling to the center, if not to the right of center, to try to win back support on this issue.

Nathan Clark, the father of the 11-year-old who died in the crash in Springfield, recently blasted the Republicans trying to capitalize on his son’s death, which he reminded a Springfield City Commission was an “accident” rather than a “murder.”

Begging the GOP to stop, Clark said: “They can vomit all the hate they want about illegal immigrants, the border crisis, and even untrue claims about fluffy pets being ravaged and eaten by community members. However, they are not allowed, nor have they ever been allowed, to mention Aiden Clark from Springfield, Ohio.”

Regardless of the politics, Americans need politicians to also keep reminding the electorate of what great things immigration has done and continues to do for the nation. And there is no better place to start than Springfield, Ohio.

Writing in the New York Times, Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine, a Republican who was born in the city, put pen to paper to remind readers that “the city hit tough times in the 1980s and 1990s, falling into serious decline as manufacturing, rail commerce and good-paying jobs dwindled. Now, however, Springfield is having a resurgence in manufacturing and job creation. Some of that is thanks to the dramatic influx of Haitian migrants who have arrived in the city over the past three years to fill jobs. They are there legally. They are there to work.”

After praising the immigrants for their character and value, DeWine reported how one business owner in the city had informed the governor that “his business would not have been able to stay open after the pandemic but for the Haitians who filled the jobs.”

There is a lesson here for all other communities seeking to do the same. Rather than villainizing newcomers, it might be better—as so many Republicans have done until recent years—to concentrate on policies that would help to integrate legal immigrants who arrive to blighted areas seeking to work, spend, and play. Not long ago, when George W. Bush was president, a substantial number of Republicans and Democrats worked together on a grand bargain that would combine rationalizing the immigration system, including creating a legal path to citizenship for millions of people already in the United States, with tougher border and deportation policies.

Over the past decade, the first part of that bargain has disappeared. Most Republicans focused on the second part of the deal, while many Democrats abandoned hope for the first. Springfield is an important reminder that the politics of exclusion will erode the very people who have been a backbone to the nation’s economy and culture.

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