#Whist/whistle

[marooncircus]

Let’s kill tonight

Show them all you’re not the ordinary type

[huariqueje]

Yellow and Blue   -  Jivan Lee ,  n/d.

American. b. ?   -

Oil on impasto on panel , 48 x 36 in.

[fuckyeahmotorik]

#1747

Molly Lewis - Lounge Lizard

"On the Lips", 2024

[dezinomania]

(via "The Whistle of Music" Scarf for Sale by DEZINOMANIA)

[anxiousangerball]

Look

Coworker

My friend

If you do not stop whistling the Battle Hymn of the Republic, I'm going to lose my shit and fuck things up, do not test me on this.

[fr-18]

Rompecorazones// Jenni.H

the game ticked slowly on. From the roar of celebrations in the 81' minute to the solemn faces around the stadium at the + 1' minute of extra time.

the stadium was bursting with joy after the first half, clearly Spain were dominating the game and it seemed already written in the stars for the spaniards to be going through to the semi finals.

until a through ball from Pelova was smoothly caught by van der Gragt which meant that spot in the semi's was anybody's to snatch up.

the spanish side clearly deflated as the replay of the goal played on the screen whilst The Netherlands celebrated.

the opportunity to regroup and ignite some fire into the girls was snatched up by vilda.

it was doubtful anyone was listening to a word coming out of his mouth, his decisions were normally what made Spain suffer.

you caught Jenni's eye in the huddle as she squirted the drink into her mouth. All you could do was give her a reassuring smile.

even if all you wanted to do was walk over to her and kiss her and tell her everything will be okay.

throughout all the criticism and mistreatment she had gone through she was still standing strong, ready to go again for possibly another 45 minutes.

You went back to sit on the bench as the game was starting again, but before you sat down Jenni had pulled you towards her and enveloped you in her arms.

"go" your whisper in her ear before pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

she nodded before releasing you and sprinted back onto the field.

sighing you flopped back into your seat and rubbed your palms over your face.

"ella es una chica fuerte, ella sabe lo que hacer." Alexia reassuringly whispered into your ear as she pulled you into her side."she is a strong girl, she knows what to do."

"Lo sé, solo me preocupo." you softly say before realising how it could come across to your Barcelona captain. "como hago con todos ustedes" you rushed out."i know, i just worry" "like i do about you all"

Alexia let out a chuckle whist squeezing you closer.

"tu preocupación por ella es un poco más profunda, ¿no?" the older women spoke into your ear as both your eyes were fixated on the game. "your worry for her runs a little deeper no?"

"quizas" you meekly spoke. “maybe”

Alexia left it at that as the both of you were called to start warming up.

the stadium became ear-deafening at the sight of alexia getting on the pitch.

you stood there waiting for your substitution and looked around the stadium, spaniards singing and shouting hoping to ignite a flame in their home team.

and that they did.

with 9 minutes left to play Salma slotted it into the goal with an assist from jenni.

instead of running over with the other girls to celebrate she made a bee-line towards you crushing you into a hug.

"we're so close" she whispered as she squeezed her eyes closed in hopes to not let her tears fall.

"9 más, entonces eso es todo" you said into her neck before walking with my arm around her waist leading her to our celebrating team."9 more, then that's it"

finally the whistle blew and all you were able to do was collapse onto the turf. sobbing into the dirt for a complete different reason than the dutch.

you'd done it and now it was on to your next challenge.

it wasn't long before you were being pulled up by recognisable, tattooed arms.

"we did it" you screamed.

history had been made today, you only wished there were different circumstances…

crying into your shoulder jenni only nodded, clearly she had been rendered speechless from the last 120minutes.

walking around the pitch with the team you couldn’t keep the smile off your face, not on the changing rooms after.

it being full with laughter in singing only meant your grin became toothier.

you weren’t involved in the horrendous yells your teammates called singing and it seemed neither was Alexia.

“you love her?” alexia whispered as she watched your eyes follow the tattooed women around the changing room.

“i love her” you whisper more so to yourself, which means you take your eyes of Jenni.

“Ay Dios Mío, me encanta Jenni” as the words came out of your mouth the loud chatter seemed to of decreased. This meant everyone heard the personal words escape your mouth.“oh my god, i love jenni”

including the one women you didn’t want to know…

“eh me amas?” the women spoke as someone turned of the music.“huh, you love me?”

“maybe you should-” Alexia tried to usher you both out the room in hopes of saving you from at-least some embarrassment.

“no Ale” Jenni said as she pushed the other women’s off her.

“is it so hard to believe?” speaking in english made this easier as the majority of your team weren’t confident with the language.

“you can’t.” she says with a confused laugh.

you hadn’t looked up from the floor since Jenni had started to speak, too ashamed to see the faces of your teammates whilst you were so vulnerable.

“no i’m sorry, i can’t do this with you.” she shakes her head as she looks to Alexia who was stood beside you.

Alexia shook her head at her old partner in hopes she wouldn’t stamp on your heart in front of all your teammates.

“you understand that i am 11 years older then you yes? i don’t date people that were 12 years old when i debuted for Barcelona. I will not get bashed in the media for dating a 21 year old!” as she went on her voice rose until it all got too much and you broke down.

hearing her be so degrading and saying it so carelessly made you think that she wasn’t the person you looked up to anymore.

Jenni carried on with her reasons on why your feeling for her were so silly and idiotic, clearly not noticing the distress she was causing. a few of the other girls tried to get her to stop for your sake but she only shrugged them off. “ i will be retired by the time your at your prime. these feeling you have need to go, otherwise don’t talk to me. If you can’t grow up and push your feelings aside i don’t want anything to do with you”

the team were taken aback by the older women’s harsh words, clearly their english wasn’t as bad as you once thought.

“i’ll stay out your way Jenni, after the final you will never have to see me again. i promise you that.” Were the first words you had spoken.

you looked up at her, grabbed your things and walked out of the changing room.

you walked through the backs of the stadium until you found your destination.

you knocked on the door until it was opened by a not so friendly face, “umm is Vic in here?”

tbe women nodded and allowed you in.

“yn? what happened” the Dutch women quickly rose to her feet at the sight of your tear stained face.

“jenni. i told her”

[heavensong]

🏐🥰🏫 Little fanfic blurb under the cut ✌️

“Ughh… my back is killing me.” Principal Skinner groaned and clutched at his lower back, hoping the pressure there could alleviate some pain. When it ultimately did not, he opted to stand rigid and straight against the lockers so as to not agitate it further whist the crowd of students rushed past him. He spared the Simpson boy a weary glare as he rounded a corner, nearly colliding with him on his way back to class from the kickball field.

The hall emptied as quickly as it had filled, growing quiet save for the muffled sounds of chairs scraping and children chattering as they took their seats. Seymour gingerly stepped away from the lockers, a consistent ache permeating the muscles supporting his spine.

“Ye feeling a’right, Mr Skinner?”

He startled at the voice over his shoulder, tinged with a too-familiar accent. Wincing, Seymour turned to face her and tried to wipe the pained expression from his face.

“Ah, Ms. Macdougal. Yes, yes I’m fine. Just feeling a little stiff this morning.” He reached for his back again and couldn’t help his brows knitting together at the motion.

She frowned back, concern on her ruddy features. It was clear she’d just come from outside, kickball being on the schedule for gym that day, and her hair was frizzier than usual due to the wind and humidity. “Back pain, is it? Thas nae good… I c’n help wi’ it, if ye’d like?” Dierdre set her clipboard down on the tile and approached him, arms open.

“Oh, no no, I’ll be alright.” Seymour stuttered, a bit unsure of how to respond, though he didn’t back away.

“Aye, it won’t hurt. Promise!” The gym teacher rounded him, her broad back settling gently against his. She was warm from being out in the sun the last hour. “Jus’ trust me.”

“Ahh… o-okay.”

She hooked her arms around his elbows and pulled him close, pausing to take a deep breath. “Ready?”

He didn’t have a chance to respond before he was being tilted back over her frame. Dierdre bent forward, her whistle nearly brushing the floor, and a resounding “CRRRRKK!” filled the hallway, empty save for the two of them in this ridiculous stance. She delicately set him back onto his feet after a pause, and turned to face him, a bright and toothy grin on her face.

“Better?”

Seymour blinked, attempting to assess both his back and the thudding in his chest. Finally, he managed an awkward smile in return.

“Better.” He nodded.

And it was.

[satrs]

Can’t feel my face - bllk x fem!Reader N° 1

"UNDERGROUND... BOXING?"

she curiously questioned the red haired male next to her. "Mhm. It has gotten big in town now, you know? Fights with no rules nor consequences, building up a reputation, setting bets on fighters, all that dark aesthetic shit", he stated. Y/N threw a disapproving look in his direction, clearly not showing interest in that kind of stuff. "That's where all your money goes? Seriously? Plus, isn't that kind of stuff illegal?" Sae scoffed at her words, "well at least I don't throw my money away, but make more of it. Like, a lot," he explained. "And who cares if it's illegal? If no dumbass rats that whole stuff out to the police, it'll be fine. On top of that, it's all anonymous, you know. A lot of rich fucks sniff around there."

The young woman snickered at his answer, suspicious of the whole idea of underground boxing. Isn't there another way of earning money? At least a way that is legal? And to add the cherry on top, no rules or consequences while fighting? "I can't imagine how many guys get injured there. Or worse..." she muttered, blank and unimpressed turquoise starring back at her. "They don't die there, Y/N. If it's getting critical, the fight will be ended," he explained and went on, "It's not as bad as it sounds. Just join me tonight. It's nice to watch my money get bigger with each punch of my fighter. You will get your share too, but only because it's you."

Her ears peaked up at the mention of money, "What do you mean with your fighter? Do they get assigned to you or what?", she asked, still curious and skeptic of the whole ordeal. "Nah. You choose the one you're betting on. I always bet on my little demon," he said, getting a sour expression from the girl in return. "What the fuck? What type of role play shit are you on?", she bit back. Sae sighed at her silly joke, ignoring the smirk that adored her features. "It's not like that, weird ass. It's his nickname, 'the Demon' of the ring. He always wins and has over 30 K.O's. If you bet your shit on him, the money's safe, for sure.", he let a small smirk creep up his lips at the memories of his past bets that he set on that so called 'Demon', always coming home with full pockets.

"Hm", Y/N answered, a slight interest sparked in the whole thing, "Alright, I'll go with you." Sae flashed her his victorious smile, "You bet. I'll pick you up at ten."

                                                ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

"What the fuck is this?", the female questioned with annoyance, standing next to the male in front of a building that seemed to look like, "a fucking strip club?" The man snickered at her reaction, trying to explain the situation to the woman. " It's for the cover-up. The real shit happens downstairs." She motioned him to make the first move with her hand, "well then, after you. You better not leave me alone anywhere, I'll eat you alive." Sae took a few steps forward before turning his head towards her, "Gladly. Start at the bottom, will ya?", she rolled her eyes at his cringe comeback. "Whatever, move it."

The doors to the supposed basement of the strip club opened, revealing a big and lively space with different groups of people, rich looking men, dangerous looking ones and also various women sitting on their lap, gifting the men their full attention. At the center of the big establishment, there was a  boxing ring, a fight happening in it at the moment.

Two men, one a bit muscular and tanner than the other, were throwing a fist with immense strength at each other. Y/N flinched when the tanned man with antenna looking hair threw a critical punch at the other man, knocking him to the rough ground of the room, blood splashing out of his mouth and adoring his face with a crimson color. Another man with a whistle attached to his lips entered the ring, blowing into it and signaling the defeat of the injured man. The referee took several steps to the winner, raising both of their hands to signal his victory. The man received a lot of cheering screams and whistling for his win, flashing the crowd of people a victorious grin, showing off his pearly white fangs.

"Demon, Demon!", the peopled cheered loudly, their screams ringing uncomfortably in Y/N's ears, causing her to turn her neck to take a glance at the man that accompanies her. Noticing her, he smirked down at her, leaning down, so she could hear him clearly over the loud screams and cheers. "That's him." He pointed at the victor. She had a slightly surprised face at the mention, Sae's previous words reminding her of the winner's identity.

Sae took a hold of her wrist, encouraging her to follow him along. "Ryusei!", Sae screamed over the loud crowds, earning the attention of the man in the ring. The confusion in his face soon replaced with joy at the sight of the familiar face. "Yo, Sae!", he answered him, making his way towards the both of them. Now standing in front of Sae and the woman, Y/N took the chance to admire the boxer's face. He had blond hair with pink ends, styled upwards. His tanned skin and pink orbs particularly stood out, not to mention his bronze skin that showcased his broad and well build frame, his torso bared naked for the eyes to see and admire. Her eyes went to his lower region, noting that he was only closed in black boxer pants with pink stripes on both sides.

"S' she your girl?", the tall man in front of her questioned, the cheering has now died down, pulling her out of her trance. "Nah. Found her upstairs," Sae said in a joking manner, earning a glare from the young female, "Shut your bitch ass up", she muttered, earning a laugh from both man. "She's feisty. I like her", the pink eyed man stated, flashing the woman a flirtatious smile. Sae flashed him a warning glare at that.

"Y/N, that's Shidou Ryusei, the main actor of this shithole. We know each other for some time now", Sae motioned his hand at Shidou. "Shidou, this is Y/N, a friend of mine. I brought her here." Shidou's intense stare made her nervous, so she decided to break the silence first, "Hey, nice fight." Shidou let out a small huff at that, tongue gliding over the lips, his now known smile returning again. "Yeah? Thanks ma'. So what's up? 'This first time in here, right?", he said, earning a nod from her. "Yeah, didn't expect the show here to be so...", she eyed the man up and down before continuing,"interesting." She said this with a flirtatious tone to her voice, causing the man to flash her a charming smile.

"You done flirting? You're in again in 20 minutes. Get your ass ready, Ryusei. I'm trying to make cash." Sae's monotone voice cut through the  tension, causing Shidou's attention to shift to the red haired male, giving him a look of annoyance. "Fuckin' cock blocker", he muttered under his breath, turning on his feet to move to the back of the event. At that, Sae let a small smile creep on his features, only him noticing.

Before leaving off, he turned his head into Y/N's direction, "See ya around, yeah Y/N?", he spoke to her, now it was her turn to flash him a smile. "We'll see", she shrugged, turning her head to look around the event, a smirk still adoring her beautiful features. Shidou spared her his last glance, eyeing her up and down in a seductive manner, before heading his merry way.

                                              ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Soooo hope you enjoyed it <3 !!

[dukeoftheblackstar]

@saengak ok but can Kel Dors whistle? Can Plo whistle?

I don't think he can but I'm down to selling my left lung just so the 104th boys pretend they can't whistle either because wholesome boys gonna be wholesome AF for Plo.

Plo Koon: Commander, you need not to lie for my sake. I'm quite alright. It's just whistli- Wolffe: Sorry, sir? Plo Koon: Whistli— Comet: What in blazes is whostleineg? Plo Koon: Whist— Boost: I think the General said whissing? Plo Koon: Whi— Sinker: He said whossing. Plo Koon: W— Warthog: *whistles* Plo Koon: *sighs*

[scarafvcker]

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Let me know

Girl, I'm gonna show you how to do it and we start real slow

You just put your lips together and you come real close

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Here we go

Look, I'm bettin' you like people

And I'm bettin' you love freak mode

And I'm bettin' you like girls

That give love to girls and stroke your little ego

I bet you I'm guilty, your honor (Honor)

That's just how we live in my genre (Genre)

Who in the hell done paved the road wider?

There's only one Flo and one Rida

I'm a damn shame, order more champagne

Pulling them hamstrings, tryna put it on ya

Bet your lips spin back around, come up

Slow it down, baby, take a little longer

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Let me know

Girl, I'm gonna show you how to do it and we start real slow

You just put your lips together and you come real close

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Here we go

Whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Whist-whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Whist-whistle, baby, whistle, baby

It's like everywhere I go, my whistle ready to blow

Shawty don't even know, she can get in it for the low

Told me she not a pro, it's okay, it's under control

Show me soprano 'cause, girl, you can handle

Baby, we start slow, then you come up and park close

Girl, I'm the whistle man, my Bugatti the same notes

Show me your perfect pitch, you got it, my banjo

Talented with your lips like you blew out a candle

So amusing (Amusing)

Now you can make a whistle with the music (Music)

Hope you ain't got no issues, you can do it (Do it)

Even if it's no picture, never lose it (Lose it)

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Let me know

Girl, I'm gonna show you how to do it and we start real slow

You just put your lips together and you come real close

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Here we go

Whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Whist-whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Whist-whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Go on, girl, you can twerk it

Let me see you whistle while you work it

I'ma lay it back, don't stop it

'Cause I love it how you drop it, drop it, drop it on me

Now, shorty, make that whistle blow-ow-ow-ow

Yeah, baby, make that whistle blow-ow-ow

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Let me know

Girl, I'm gonna show you how to do it and we start real slow

You just put your lips together and you come real close

Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby? Here we go

Can you blow my whistle, baby?

Whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Can you blow my whistle, baby?

Whist-whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Can you blow my whistle, baby?

Whistle, baby, whistle, baby

Can you blow my whistle, baby?

Whist-whistle, baby, whistle, baby

honestly it’s a good song i’m not mad at this

[addsalwayssick]

what goes on in a gifted and talented kids head when spelling

•wednesday ok. Wed-nes-day

•sk-iss-orzs. scissors

•whist-all-ing. whistling

•pneumeotramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis- pneumeo-ultra-micro-scopic-silico-volcano-coniosis

[ronearoundblindly]

Steve x artist reader

During their break day these two will be in art challenge after art challenge nat and wanda watch whist the two sketching . Sure it creates an ambiance then bucky and sam watch while bucky bets steve would run out of paper before reader dose (can steve and reader be as a couple here)(freindly competiton?)

Mastery (warning for light language)

This is the most insane thing you've ever done, and that's coming from a group that fights aliens (sometimes).

Usually, it's paper and pencils. Usually, branching out means canvas and charcoal or--gasp-- colored pencils, which for reasons unknown Steve absolutely hates. It's so bad, he's like the cat and cucumber challenge: if a colored pencil ends up near him, he scatters like the devil's on him.

You have also absolutely scared him that way dozens of times on purpose, including that one time you littered his bedroom floor with them. He was screaming at you, standing on his bed as if you'd locked him in a minefield.

You got it on video, too. Bonus that he was in only boxers.

But this isn't quite usual.

The mission was long, drawn-out, and the worst mix of profound boredom waiting for something to happen and intense fighting suddenly.

The whole team is loopy, so the regular competition is cranked up to MAX.

You were all gone so long that no one had refreshed the art supplies, and after a few minutes of bemoaning what to do, Wanda tosses out the perfect instigator.

"You know, real masters can use anything to make art."

Steve made it to the fridge first, vaulting casually over the couch you two were laying on, and he tried to bogart all the condiments until you slapped a few bottles out of his grasp. Then he simply ran to one wall and you to the other.

A ketchup and mustard sunset later, using the juice from some pickles as thinner to a strawberry jam portrait of Natasha, you beam with pride until you step back and look at your boyfriend's wall.

Son of a bitch.

Mayonaise and black olive-haired Bucky is just as good. He must have snuck back into the kitchen because slices of uncooked bacon stripe the texture of Buck's vibranium arm.

You stick out your tongue, but the cheers and jears from your watching friends continue. It's inadvertently become a boys vs girls contest.

Fine. He wants to dance. Let's dance.

Jackpot, you find a beet in the veggie drawer, slicing it quickly into various chunky sticks, and return to your wall. The bleeding red acts sorta kinda like charcoal and maybe slightly like watercolor, but damn, Wanda looks amazing in all her magical glory.

Pesto sauce Hulk isn't your best effort, but whatever.

Glancing over, Steve's stepping away with an elated grin. Dammit, he cannot win.

You march over when you see Wanda, Nat, Bucky, and Sam all staring in awe.

But...But what the hell? There's nothing there!

The tubes of white creams from the medicine cabinet scatter the floor at his feet as you approach.

"Damn, cap," Sam whistles. "That's...that's som'hin."

When you align with the onlookers behind Steve, it becomes clear. The eggshell white wall has shiny itch cream and matte toothpaste atop it in the pattern of Falcon himself, Exo-7 suit's wings outstretched in all their glory, googles on, head high and heroic.

"Awwww, what," you whine. "That's hardly fair."

"He's had a bit more practice than you, doll." Bucky is smug in his team's victory.'

Steve turns and closes the distance between you, hands covered in all sorts just like yours, and he cups your face.

"How 'bout we call this one a draw, eh?"

Nat snorts behind you. "Worst dad jokes ever."

The group groans when Steve kisses you gently, forcing you to breathe in the scent of things-that-should-not-mix through your nose. It's all the prize you hoped for, the only one you ever seem to want now.

The ding of the elevator rouses you from your hindbrain.

"What the ever-loving fuck have you done?!" Tony stands agape at the mess, tilting his head nearly over 90 degrees just to make out all the different pictures.

Wanda clears her throat. "We've been watching masters at work," she says with a smile.

[Light Masterlist; Main Masterlist]

[aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg]

December 8th: in which Verne is bored and compares indigenous to animals twice

The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the “grand trunk” led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there.

Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand.

During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River.

It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion’s lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil.

Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha.

The one hundred and first meridian was passed.

Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one—not even the dummy—complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands.

Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, “I should play a diamond.”

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor.

Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once.

“Ah! it’s you, is it, Englishman?” cried the colonel; “it’s you who are going to play a spade!”

“And who plays it,” replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades.

“Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds,” replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone.

He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, “You don’t understand anything about whist.”

“Perhaps I do, as well as another,” said Phileas Fogg, rising.

“You have only to try, son of John Bull,” replied the colonel.

Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg’s arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, “You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!”

“Mr. Fix,” said Mr. Fogg, “pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it.”

“When and where you will,” replied the American, “and with whatever weapon you choose.”

Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. “Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, “I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” replied Colonel Proctor.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg, very politely, “after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England.”

“Really!”

“Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?”

“Why not ten years hence?”

“I say six months,” returned Phileas Fogg; “and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly.”

“All this is an evasion,” cried Stamp Proctor. “Now or never!”

“Very good. You are going to New York?”

“No.”

“To Chicago?”

“No.”

“To Omaha?”

“What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?”

“No,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“It’s the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg. “I will stop at Plum Creek.”

“And I guess you’ll stay there too,” added the American insolently.

“Who knows?” replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness.

At eleven o’clock the locomotive’s whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death.

The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, “You can’t get off, gentlemen!”

“Why not?” asked the colonel.

“We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop.”

“But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman.”

“I am sorry,” said the conductor; “but we shall be off at once. There’s the bell ringing now.”

The train started.

“I’m really very sorry, gentlemen,” said the conductor. “Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?”

“That wouldn’t be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman,” said the colonel, in a jeering tone.

“It would be perfectly so,” replied Phileas Fogg.

“Well, we are really in America,” thought Passepartout, “and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!”

So muttering, he followed his master.

The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform.

The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car.

Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars.

Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux.

This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop.

The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots.

The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity.

The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour.

Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats.

It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond.

The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, “Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!”

“It shall be stopped,” said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car.

“Stay, monsieur,” cried Passepartout; “I will go.”

Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train.

There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed.

Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station.

The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped.

But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them.

Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was impossible to tell.

There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail.

Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm. But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda’s cheeks.

All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south, along the banks of Republican River.

Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner, ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? “I will find him, living or dead,” said he quietly to Aouda.

“Ah, Mr.—Mr. Fogg!” cried she, clasping his hands and covering them with tears.

“Living,” added Mr. Fogg, “if we do not lose a moment.”

Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he thought, “It is my duty,” he did not hesitate.

The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station, should the Sioux attack it.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to the captain, “three passengers have disappeared.”

“Dead?” asked the captain.

“Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do you propose to pursue the Sioux?”

“That’s a serious thing to do, sir,” returned the captain. “These Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort unprotected.”

“The lives of three men are in question, sir,” said Phileas Fogg.

“Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?”

“I don’t know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so.”

“Nobody here,” returned the other, “has a right to teach me my duty.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg, coldly. “I will go alone.”

“You, sir!” cried Fix, coming up; “you go alone in pursuit of the Indians?”

“Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish—him to whom every one present owes his life? I shall go.”

“No, sir, you shall not go alone,” cried the captain, touched in spite of himself. “No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!” he added, turning to the soldiers.

The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head.

“Thanks, captain,” said Mr. Fogg.

“Will you let me go with you?” asked Fix.

“Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me—”

A sudden pallor overspread the detective’s face. Separate himself from the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and, despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look.

“I will stay,” said he.

A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman’s hand, and, having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the soldiers, “My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you, if we save the prisoners.”

It was then a little past noon.

Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all without hesitation, from duty, in silence.

Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness.

“I have been an idiot!” he thought, “and this man will see it. He has gone, and won’t come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him? Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!”

So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all; but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon, under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced.

Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station, and pursue his journey homeward in peace.

Towards two o’clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due till the next day. The mystery was soon explained.

The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles, was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress.

He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was which was whistling in the mist.

The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly interrupted.

Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station, and asked the conductor, “Are you going to start?”

“At once, madam.”

“But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers—”

“I cannot interrupt the trip,” replied the conductor. “We are already three hours behind time.”

“And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?”

“To-morrow evening, madam.”

“To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait—”

“It is impossible,” responded the conductor. “If you wish to go, please get in.”

“I will not go,” said Aouda.

Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start, and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled him. He wished to struggle on to the end.

Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started, and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the densely falling snow.

The detective had remained behind.

Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room, going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her, and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain.

Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm.

[lowcallyfruity]

can u blow my whiste baby whistle baby

As soon as I saw the notif I was prepared

[fandomgamersimp]

Important Topic - CoD and dog whistles

Before I begin - there are going to be mentions of mental and physical abuse, as well as a discussion of neo-nazi messages, so please beware. It's, in my opinion, important to the topic I'll be discussing and it is a crucial one to understand everything in its fullest, but don't force yourself to read anything you're not in the headspace for.

So, for context: one of many Ghost cosplayers I follow, FINN (he/they), on TikTok did a live a while ago with his friends. Among many comments, I saw one saying something along the lines of "cool nazi masks you all have, but go off I guess". And not only was I appaled that someone would call them that without proof, it also showed me that, most probably, many don't fully understand this topic- the cosplayers themselves most likely didn't see it due to all comments scrolling fast (though they could just pretend not to in order to not bring negative energy), and people did correct that person, but I feel like, if you are in the CoD fandom, there is unfortunately a chance that you may see that pop up here and there, and I want people to make sure they themselves understand the difference, and have the proper arguments to explain it; not to mention recognize when something may be an actual neo-nazi profile that you should be on alert around.

Let me also mention that I am in no way a specialist in the field, and everything I know comes from a person called the History Wizard (he/she/they) - they have an account on both Instagram, and Tiktok- highly recommend it if you want to further expand your knowledge with far more historical context he provides, she also have a playlist on dogwhistles on TT. I'm just here to provide you with main differences, and one dog whistle in particular.

The two most important features of when and what something is a dog whistle are: 1. Context in which they appear 2. Plausible deniability

The dog whistle that my case talks about refers to the fact that all the CoD cosplayers on the mentioned live wore Simon's mask, specifically this one (or a very similar one):

And I think the person who thought they were neo-nazi masks likely mistook it for this

What if someone asks you "how one is a neo-nazi dog whistle, and one isn't? How do you know they just cosplay, not using a dog whistle?" You circle back to the features of a dog whistle I pointed out earlier.

First, context. Simon's mask can't really be in itself a dog whistle just because it has a design of a skull on it- because it has no context of neo-nazi ideology or white supremacy involded with it, and it also has a different context for itself to begin with. Now, why Simon wears this mask is up for discussion as far as I've seen. He was tortured and abused both physically and mentally by someone wearing a skull mask, for example - so maybe this is his way of dealing with trauma, maybe he simply picked it up from his abuser (like Kaneki from Tokyo Ghoul cracking his fingers). He is also known for being incredibly hard to detect while on mission- just like an evasive ghost. Maybe he just wants to scare his enemies. I've also seen people theorising that it may be hiding scars and facial deformities, or the fact that no one really saw his actual face- just like according to some stories, you can't really see a ghost. At the end of it, Simon does have his own context for wearing this mask, and it's not related nor it's meant to be interpreted as something involving neo-nazism and white supremacy- there is no context for it.

Unlike the actual dog whiste- which will also involve our second feature that is plausible deniability.

It appears in specific context, not pop up out of thin air for no reason. A dog whistle is meant to be a stealthy/coded message that is saying from one bigot to another "I'm one of you" while also showing other bigots which people to target with their hate speech - for example, you may see a comment section of someone who openly talks about being Jewish or even "looks Jewish" to them (because remember that hate doesn't run on logic) spammed with "Never Lose Your Smile". That is the context by which you can decide whether you're dealing with a nazi or not. Jewish creators, someone with a star of David in their profile, or someone who fits their stereotypical view of how Jewish people look, talk and act, with profile filled with a comment like this. But someone may say "yeah, sure, this one is worded really weirdly, but it sounds nice enough". That's when you tell them about plausible deniability. A white supremacist can easily snake their way out - that's what makes it a dog whistle. Cosplayers of Ghost don't need it, because there isn't really anything to hide away/ escape from. If a message is way too obvious/ too clear and there is no possible double meaning in it, it is not a dog whistle.

Context and plausible deniability are very important factors, that's why I want you to remember them. Just because those cosplayers were wearing skull masks, it doesn't mean they are nazis. Anyone wearing a skull mask is not automatically a white supremacist. You can't really decide whether someone is a nazi or not without doing further research on them- their political views, their profile, what they comment on other people's posts etc.

Those people who did a live had an entirely different context for wearing those masks - they were simply cosplaying Simon Riley. Just like Simon has his own reason and context for wearing his mask. Plausible deniability is also still important - because it is dangerous. It gives bigots a way to seem innocent - but it should further push you and other people thinking someone might be a nazi that you need further research and background. I also think it's safe to say that the live lacked it- because FINN and their friends did not need any form of deniability. They just cosplayed, they had fun on live. That's it. Actual white supremacists/nazis appear in certain context while also hiding from any form of repercussions behind plausible deniability. I hope I really drove this point across.

If you lack context and something is far too obvious with its message, it is not a dog whistle. If something appears outside of the background of harmful ideologies, with its own seperate story/context, you're most likely not dealing with an actual white supremacist.

I hope you got what I'm trying to say and that you'll be prepared in case you'd see those out in the wild. Apologies for the messiness, but again I'm not really a specialist in this field, nor my thoughts organised much to be honest. I just wanted to let it out there.

Also I hope this much was obvious, but my profile is in no way, shape or form a safe space for bigots, and this counts antisemitic people. Go to a therapist, not on my profile- you are not welcomed here.

[askaigeneratdjax]

*Puts a blanket over you and plays a slowed down calm version of Whistle by Flo Rida

-Whisting Josh Hutcherson Anon

:)