#and it's even harder to get legal defense for this stuff. you need money and you need solid proof. oftentimes people have neither.

[sleepygaymerdisease]

im trying to respond to people on my post who have questions or are confused but theres just so many 😭 i dont know how to explain the intricacies of classism or how hard it is to get a lawyer to start and WIN a discrimination case. especially since i dont know australian laws. but like... this behavior, denying someone a job for their outfit, is really common across the world. classism is pervasive and it's dangerous and it costs people their lives. we would have to change the capitalist system, change policies across the globe, and work on our internalized classist beliefs for the rest of our lives.

[sharksa-shivers]

I have some lore for you uwu

Wanting to work more on the concept of "clients" or basically people that hire The Trio/demon fighters in general sooooo here's some stuff i've come up with. ------

*Considering the broader population doesn't believe in demons/monsters, the people who DO seek out demon fighters either absolutely 110% believe in demons/have seen them/dealt with them before ORRRRRRR the client will probs be a skeptic of some sort who's desperate af to have a problem solved and is willing to throw their beliefs out to have the issue fixed. (And it's usually the first one)

*The clients that believe (we're gonna focus on them) tend to believe in the supernaturals in general. And not just demons (see the ep idea where The Trio derps get bamboozled into ghost hunting by a client)

*Demon fighting tends to be an expensive sort of job, you can make alot doing it if you get good enough. You get paid more the better you are at it (The Trio tend to spilt the payments 3 ways but Sharky usually gets the most out of the payments since car + hotel bookings and whatnot. Max and Kristy tend to get a even amount/near even amount. And considering this as well as the fact the derpasses spend money ALOTTTT doing this and they're more beginners (albeit good af beginners) they tend not to get thousands usually, that's a rare one…)

*The Trio specifically try to make adjustments if somebody is too poor to afford their services. Kristy and Sharky feel like shit about that and Max is a fullblown leftie so you know his feels on poor people not being able to afford basic things to live (i feel like in the Kidnapped world, demon fighters would be 1000% doing an essential service since…Yknow, you're probably gonna fucking die if the issues not taken care of…)

*With The Trio, sometimes OH sets them up with clients (note the ones far as fuck away, that is 100% OH setting that kinda shit up lol) sometimes The Trio seek out clients if they're really strapped for cash (bullets and gas and all that shit gets very fucking expensive quick) and sometimes a client will be able to tell/know they're demon fighters and will seek them out/ask.

*The bulk of clients tend to be humans or anthros. Mers usually are able to deal with shit on their own unless there's special cases (maybe it's a dream demon or something else that's a bit harder to deal with…)and demons…Why the fuck would a demon call a demon fighter? Seems like a really bad fucking idea, even if it's demons who just wanna live and vibe. Bad idea…

*The Trio try their best not to kill demons since they're seen as a people and it's…Kind of fucking extreme to do that if they just need the shadowdemon to fuck off or whatever. Monsters are different but Kristy usually doesn't ever want to kill so she leaves that up to Sharky and Max whenever it's needed (Max thinks killing demons is fun and Sharky doesn't feel bad usually if it's a kill for self defense. Self defense and predation are the like…Only reasons Sharky ever feels comfortable taking life. In any other case, he's not gonna fuckin wanna…)

*Kristy tends to be the dealmaker, Max runs online shit and Sharky usually is the derp people recognize as a demon fighter first (with his swords and knives and stuff. Demon fighters are legally able to go around with weapons and shit if they got a license/are basic certified to handle those weapons.)

*Technically, all 3 derps have online stuff that you can look at and hire them with but Max is the main one who deals with those/Kristy and Sharky forward that shiz his way lol

*"Demon fighting is a thankless job" Yeahhhhh, kinda. Alotta people are assholes about it alot because of the nature of the job. It's expensive and can be destructive and deadly so alot of more asshole clients tend to be bitchy about it all. They might underpay you, yell at you or give you shit for fucking up stuff. The job also requires a fuckton of time and effort to get into so it's also a hassle…It's either "thankless" cuz clients are assholes and fuck you over/give you shit OR it's "thankless" cuz you spend so much fucking time, energy, risk to life and injuries and…Everything else that the job doesn't really seem appreciated in general no matter what.

*Legally in Shellside, you can demon fight as soon as you hit 13. (Most demon fighters are seafolk so this rule was put in place with that as the base. Humans aren't usually gonna be doing this shit BUT mers with strong magic they've had for a while/anthros with training and ocean survival skills will be. So yeah…) -------------------------- Ye, buncha shiz lol. Again, Clients=people in need of demon fighters. And The Trio are demon fighters so...Well, there ya go lol

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

Dog Tags

Billy Russo x Female!Reader

Request by @nebulastarr​ : Hey! Whenever requests open up again, could you do a Billy Russo x Reader where the reader liked Billy but doesn’t want to tell him because she thinks he won’t feel the same way

A/N: I was going to wait and get down to writing this once I was finished with my series... But this one has simply hit a little too close to home. I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I saw it and I ended up putting a lot of personal stuff in it so I’m sorry if it feels chaotic at times. Thank you for requesting, love, I hope it lives up to your expectations.    The Only Living Thing series will be back with its third part next week.  The song: Isak Danielson - Power

All you heard was an excited scream, that raised above all of the New York’s past-6-pm commotion, as a slender tall body smashed into you, locking you in a bone-crushing hug. You laughed happily, albeit feeling a little bit uncomfortable in Karen’s strong hold. You knew it didn’t seem that way, but Karen packed a wicked punch in those elegant arms of hers. Those self-defense sessions with Frankie boy that she’s been gushing about over the phone must have been finally paying off.

“Once I am done hugging you, I am so kicking your ass,” she breathed out into your hair as she squeezed you harder, as if reading your thoughts. “You’ve been ghosting me for what, a month now?”

You sighed guiltily as Karen pushed you slightly away, keeping her hands on your shoulders. You watched her as she studied your face, a creeping smile stinging at the corners of her mouth.

Grabbing one of her elbows, you groaned dramatically, pulling her towards the busy road. With your hands locked, you finally admitted:

“I did suck at communicating these past couple of weeks. Work’s been…. hectic”, the lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but this was the best explanation you’ve been able to come up with so far. “Please don’t kill me”.

Trying to keep up with your power walk, Karen let a bubbling laughter leave her lips.

“You’re not the one who should be worried then,” she gave you one of those bright trademark smiles of hers. “Next time I’m going to interview Russo, I’ll…”

You stuttered at her tirade as you walked, and of course it didn’t go by unnoticed. Karen was the best journalist you have ever met during your prominent career. She just sensed that sort of thing.

“I’m getting this ‘I-meant-to-tell-you-Karen-but-I-didn’t-and-now-you’ll-need-to-fight-it-out-of-me’ vibe”, she gave you a scrutinising look. “Want to maybe share whatever it is you’ve been not telling me before I go full interrogation mode on your plump backside?”

You rolled your eyes as you led her to a terrace-ringed Upper East Side high-rise, waving to the doorman through the glass doors. Jackson, a thirty-five year old ex-military with three kids and a labrador, gave you a brilliant smile as he hurried to open them for you.

“Good evening, Mrs Y/L/N!” He bowed his head in a stiff, very army-like manner. “A package arrived this afternoon for you, should I bring it up?”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Karen looking around, confusion written all over her face. You had a lot to catch up on.

“Don’t worry about it, Jax, just give it to me,” you didn’t mean to urge him, but you couldn’t wait to change out of your corporate attire into some comfortable old pyjamas and crack open a bottle of whiskey - that’s right, some habits did die hard. And to think you were a bubbles-kind of girl a year ago when you met him.

You could feel Karen’s blue eyes drill a hole in the back of your head as you took a small, envelope-sized package from Jackson’s hands.

It wasn’t until you both stepped into the elevator that Karen cleared her throat.

“When you said you’d rather have a girls’ night in, I asked Frank to pick me up from Queens, not from…here,” she spoke, her eyes skimming expensive red wood and mirrors. “Did you finally sleep with Russo and moved in with him?”

Whatever it was that Karen expected you to say to that, it definitely didn’t include you spitting out a roaring laugh, as you nearly dropped the package on the floor.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” you informed her after you finally restored your breath. “I left Anvil. And, well, Russo. At the end of last month”.

—

A half-bottle of whiskey for you and a bottle of white wine for Karen later, both of you were sprawled out on the lambskins thrown over the hardwood floor in your living room. Jazz music was seeping out of the speakers by the TV, a couple of Diptyque candles emitting a soft yellow glow.

You stared at the ceiling of your new living quarters, your mind a blur. As you folded your hands on your stomach, you felt Karen twitch as she bent her elbow and leaned her blond head on the palm of her hand, facing you.

“So let me get this straight,” she paused, narrowing her eyes. “After becoming the Forbes’ hottest CSO, concluding what can easily be described as deals of the century - especially the one with Anthony Stark aka Iron Man and his magnificent goatee…”

Involuntary, you giggled at this. This talk brought out some very dear memories that you wouldn’t trade for the world - the way Billy’s dark eyes shimmered in the dim lights of the opera house as he gave you a look that said you did it, ever the perfect team… Or the way he threw his arms around your frame, his long fingers sliding down your back… You knew you looked good in that dress, but the moment Billy saw you wearing it… You felt like the only girl in the world, the way his jaw dropped a tad, his lips opening up in awe…

Oookay, Y/N, can’t go there, your mind screamed at you as you wiped that dreamy smile off your face. Sitting down, you took your whiskey glass, and washed those memories away with a gulp of amber liquid.

Meanwhile, Karen ranted on.

“…you just quit?!”

She jumped to her feet all of the sudden, brushing her blond hair away from her face as she watched you excitedly.

“Jesus Christ, did Billy make a move?! He made a move on you, didn’t he?”

The urge to facepalm was fierce, almost overpowering, but you managed to resist. Slamming your empty glass against the floor harder than you intended, you gave her a bored look.

“No, Karen, why… Why in the world would you think that?” You sounded just a little short of desperate, so you cleared your throat. “I was his second-in-command, that wouldn’t have been appropriate…”

When you were done studying the flame, dancing within the glass walls of one of the nearby candles, you raised your eyes to meet Karen’s. She wore quite possibly the most blatant look of ‘you are shitting me’ on her face.  

“So you just quit?” she stared at you in disbelief, unblinking. “No explanations provided?”

“This wasn’t how it happened,” you said, hating the fact that you felt like you had to justify yourself. You brought your knees closer, hugging them tightly. “I…”

—

“…I’m here to see William Russo”. 


With a nonchalant gesture, you unbuttoned your Burberry coat, looking at a red-head secretary behind a desk that screamed power and status with every inch of its epic proportions.

Anvil was certainly new money. With all of those hedge funds injecting their cash into emerging companies, there was no shortage of these - entrepreneurial endeavours that didn’t last long.

You didn’t know that at the time, but you were going to make sure this one would.

“My name is Y/N Y/N/L,” you added, perching your sunglasses on top of your head. “He’s expecting me.”

The red-head gave you a polite smile before checking something on her Mac.

“Welcome, Miss Y/N/L,” she almost seemed shy, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before standing up. “Mr Russo is indeed waiting for you. If you would like to follow me, please”.

As the redhead led you through the training grounds, packed with fit men and women that looked like they walked straight outta Gym Shark ad, you did notice a couple of vagrant stares in your direction. You couldn’t blame them. You looked slightly out of place; more Vogue than the setting allowed for.

You quit your job as the COO of a global FinTech company just weeks ago, looking for a new challenge. It was an adventure of a lifetime, and while your ex-executive board had literally begged you to stay, once you’d decided something, no promise of a generous promotion could make you change your mind. While you absolutely loved your job, working for one of the most prominent online payment giants in the world, it felt like it was time for you to step down. Due to all the processes and wise investments you’d initiated, the company could make millions of profits without their CEO having so much as to lift a finger.

And you, well, you lived for the hustle. And that’s exactly what you were here for.

You still had your doubts about Anvil’s owner and acting CEO, though. William “Billy” Russo had already become a household name in the financial circles, albeit the company he was spearheading had little to do with the FinTech space. Some said he had the potential to succeed; others badmouthed him for being ruthless and balancing on the very edge of legal limits.

In short, the man had you intrigued. So the very moment he called and invited you to drop by Anvil to talk strategy, you knew you had to meet him.

See the beast for yourself, so to speak.

The first thing you noticed about William Russo as you walked into his office, spacious and entirely transparent, with its glass walls overlooking the training grounds, was experience, for the lack of a better word. It was etched into his every handsome feature, especially into his scruff strong-willed jaw. As he raised his gaze to meet yours upon the red-head’s announcement, his black eyes swallowing you whole, you realized no light reflected on their surface. There was a certain confidence to him as he raised from his chair, his white shirt straining some over his chest, long dark strands of hair falling onto his long eyelashes. This man meant business, as those black impenetrable eyes zeroed in on yours. He almost seemed too flawless - to spotless to be an ex-marine, stained with blood and murder.

All that Hallmark handsomeness was nothing but a cover.

Before William Russo had even got a chance to open his mouth, you were determined to find out what was lurking underneath.

“Mrs Y/L/N”, the hot-shot gave you a polite smile. “Thank you for coming”.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Russo”, you didn’t move an inch. He may have invited you for interview, but he wasn’t the only one with a long set of demands.

You briefly wondered if he knew that.

Before your thoughts could take you further, William Russo made his way to you, composed and calculated. He stopped by your side, albeit for a moment; rolling the sleeves of his shirt further up, he shot the red-head a charming smile (nothing like the one he gave you).

“Olivia, would you please bring a fresh pot of coffee to the conference room? Mrs Y/L/N and I have a lot to discuss”.

When he turned back to face you, you noted unconsciously that he was taller than you expected, the top of your head barely reaching his shoulders. The cool and composed look was back on his face as he motioned towards the doors.

“Would you like to follow me, Mrs…”

“Y/N”, you cut in with a slight raise of your chin. “I’d also prefer to call you William while I tear Anvil’s strategy down”.

His reaction didn’t disappoint. Some tension left his arms, his stung-up body relaxing just enough for a spark of mischief and curiosity flicker its way to his eyes’ surface.

A twinkle of a smile danced across his lips as he bit on the inside of his cheek, nodding ever so slightly in approval.

“It’s Billy”, he said, amusement echoing in his every word. "I don’t expect any leniency, Y/N”.

“Good”, you replied instantly, looking him straight into his eyes. “That’s not what I came here for”.

He nodded again.

And this time, there was liveliness in the quirk of his brow and a touch of insecurity in the corners of his mouth.

Now that was the man you could potentially work with.

—

Working with William Russo was anything but predictable. There were, however, certain patterns to his way of handling things. Whatever the trouble was, Billy was good at seeing the bigger picture - he was usually able to put things into perspective, but there were occasions when he refused to. You dare say that sometimes, you felt like he thought that money didn’t matter - like Anvil’s financial prosperity didn’t matter - as long as his team got not to risk their lives one extra time. You watched him turn down several lucrative deals that you’d busted your ass to put on his table, because it involved sending his men a little too far from home, in a place where he had no strings to pull whatsoever should anything go south. A part of you (the part that wasn’t frustrated as hell) admired him for that - it didn’t, however, stop you from disagreeing with him, time and again.

You may have never been to Iraq, and may have never known the horrors of sleeping with the bombs exploding a mere kilometer away, but you knew a game-changer when you saw it. There were risks involved, there was no arguing about that, but those were calculated, and those kind of deals could make Anvil jump straight to the top of the private military sector overnight.

William and you disagreed.

When William and you disagreed, no voice was raised, no blood was spilt, but Billy usually became distant, cold and just short of snappy when those conversations took place.


He only crossed the line once. 



You were three months into your job as Anvil’s Chief Strategy Officer when Mayhew happened.

The clock on your desk showed midnight as you paced in your office, on the phone with Rex Mayhew, the U.S. Ambassador in Cairo. A cat-and-mouse game between the Egyptian Armed Forces and the nefarious arms dealer group had become common knowledge since a week or so; the U.S. special forces got involved in the conflict when it’d been discovered that the arms were being transported onto American soil. Rex, an old friend from your Yale days, had let you in on the fact that General Richard Ravelin, in charge of the operation, was looking to reinforce his rangs with private military before “neutralising the threat”. This was a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity, with a potential governmental recognition in play… and Billy wanted to hear nothing of it.

You were exhausted and barely hanging in there; Billy was categorical and stubborn.

You’ve dropped the phone on your table promising Rex you were going to give him an answer in two hours, tops. Taking a deep breath, you walked out of your office, your bare feet thudding on the parquet floors of the corridor. When you reached Billy’s hideout, you found the man leaning against his desk with a glass of whiskey in his unnerved hand.

“Billy…” you spoke firmly, barely stepping through the doorway. “Rex…”

“Can go fuck himself”.

Oh, okay. No sugarcoating this. Alright.

You saw his lips barely touch the amber liquid as he slammed the glass against the surface of his desk.

“I said no, Y/N,” he wasn’t facing you anymore, leaning on his desk with his hands digging into the wood, his back tense. “Please just go home. Have a good night sleep. We will talk about this tomorrow.”

You could have sworn you felt your head starting to fume. This was the third time Billy Russo was shutting you down. For the third time he was making you feel like an incompetent fool when you were trying to do your goddamn job.

Why in hell would he hire you if whatever vision you had for Anvil didn’t match with his own?!

“You could at least say this to my face, Billy,” you spoke a bit harshly before you could stop yourself. “You know, to my tired and disappointed face, with a mouth that you have been shutting up every time it offers you a deal of the century”.

This sounded so much better in your head.  

“Why did you hire me?” you asked almost immediately, trying to soften the impact of the words that had already escaped. “If this isn’t the direction in which you want to take your company, maybe I should just…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Y/N, just fucking leave already!” Billy snapped like a branch that’s been holding too much weight, the sound of it dry and final.

…maybe I should just rethink the entire plan.  

There was no point in finishing that sentence now, was there?

“I was there long before you came along, so I’d think I know a shitstorm in the making when I see one!” Billy was looking at you alright, brushing his hair back, his eyes black and void.

You had wished It would have been new to you - looking in William Russo’s eyes and not seeing him there. But it wasn’t. He was back to his Hallmark version of a man, but instead of playing a hero, he was now putting on his villain guise.

“Let’s get something straight here,” he leaned back on his desk, crossing his arms on his chest, his black eyes narrowed. “While you were making your way to the top of a rich-ass cookie-cutter FinTech company, I was crawling in the dirt in Iraq under a downpour of the Trident D5LE missiles. While the closest thing you’ve come to havin’ your hands dirty was bribing an investor or two, I was fucking beheadin’ people under the direction of the CIA,” his words were cold, measured and rhythmic, like a round of bullets being fired on a range. “You know nothing of what’s it like to be in the middle of that kind of shit show, princess, so when I fucking say no, you listen. Is that clear?”

Bark. Sit. Roll over.

“Crystal. Sir.”, you finally broke the heavy silence hanging in the air, just barely resisting the urge to salute him. “I’ll see myself out.”

Biting the inside of your cheek like your life depended on it, once you turned your back on him, your first thought was don’t you dare cry on his account, bitch and then almost right away wait at least until you’re home.

You could have sworn you heard William call your name in a stranded voice, but you made sure to slam the door somewhat hard as you left his office so you could pretend you didn’t hear him.

If you were to face him now, with all that power and toughness he exuded… You would never admit it, even to yourself, but you’d just end up on the floor, huddled into a shivering little ball.

—

You were grateful that the next day after the shit went down with Mayhew fell on a Friday. When you stumbled into your apartment in Queens at almost one in the morning, you immediately shot an email to the HR department asking for a day off. Once that’d been done, you dialled Rex to decline his offer to introduce Anvil to general Ravelin, washed the makeup off your face and crawled into bed, hugging the second pillow close to your chest.

You didn’t cry, if that’s what you’re wondering.

As you rolled out of bed in the morning at around 8 am, you took a shower and grabbed a coffee from the kitchen before settling behind your home office desk with a heavy head. When you opened up the Keynote presentation with your strategy outlined for the H1, you couldn’t help but steal a glance at the iPhone you left on your couch last night.

You weren’t going to check if you had any missing calls.

There was nothing you had left to say to each other.

…with your chest hollow, you powered up the screen. There were no missed calls and no new messages.

It all looked like you had another strategy to build now. If Billy Russo thought that calling you a rich-ass princess that knew nothing of the world, all butterflies and rainbows, was going to make you resign, then man, was he in for a surprise.

You once heard one of his men compare you to a military convoy, when the guy thought you weren’t listening.

He had no idea.

You spent the morning refilling you coffee cup and rebuilding your H1 plan from scratch. After about eleven calls with the people you knew could get you a foot in the door of the offices of some government officials, billionaires and generals, after typing, deleting and typing again for 5 hours straight, by 2pm you had a solid game plan. You were pretty sure it would still need some tweaking from Castle, who essentially held the role of the Chief Operating Officer, dispatching men and women on missions and planning operations, and, well, from Billy Russo.

The Badass-ex-Sniper-turned-CEO himself.    

You kept the email short and to-the-point, sending the document over to Russo with Castle on copy, saying you’d be in the office to debrief on Monday. 

Refusing to check whether your email’d been opened, you slammed your MacBook shut.

The rest of the day rolled on uneventfully. You grabbed a coffee with the People Culture Officer from your previous company, who also happened to be one of your dearest friends; then you picked up your dry cleaners and did some shopping, cracking for a pair of new shoes in Saks Fifth Avenue.

Shoes were, indeed, your weakness.

By the time you got home, the tired sun was yawning, stretching its rays in one last effort before rolling into bed. Humming a Dua Lipa song under your breath, you were putting your new Jimmy Choo’s away when you suddenly heard your phone ring.

You didn’t even have to look at it to know who it was. 

You checked the time, however, noticing is was two minutes after the official end of the working day.

“Hi, Y/N”, Billy spoke, clearing his throat. “Are you… Um… Any chance you’re available to meet tonight? I would really appreciate it if you could give me fifteen minutes of your time. Please.”

It sounded like the real Billy Russo was back around. Insecure. Rugged. Imperfect.

“Can you pick me up?” you asked softly, “I’ll text you my address. There’s a pizza place just around the corner, I could use a free slice”, you circled the cold coffee cup you left on the counter with your finger. “Free as in you’re paying, Russo”.

A laugh that came somewhere from within caressed your ear.

“Uh, yes, I’m actually… Yeah, thanks. I’m leaving the office now,” even if he tried to hide it, a shocked surprise still seeped through the cracks in between the vowels.

You chuckled silently at his reaction.

“Just one more thing,” you ventured, placing the cup in the sink and making your way to the balcony - your small piece of heaven with a wooden chair, pillows and lavender. As you stepped outside, you put oyour free hand on the railing, just to feel the coolness of it, the evening air and the gentle flower smell stroking your skin. “What kind of car should I be on the lookout for?”

Billy hesitated, biting his bottom lip, running his nervous fingers through the thick strands of dark hair. The setting sun was hitting him just from the right angle, making his sculpted cheeks look like they were made of marble.

“A Rolls Royce Wraith”, he squirmed, rubbing his forehead, probably realising how lame and pretentious it sounded. “I’ll call you once I’m downstairs”.

“Uh-huh”, you smirked, leaning on the railing with your forearms.

You saw Russo pinch the bridge of his nose, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip again. 

Your small balcony provided quite a view, when you really thought about it.

“Don’t take too long”, you couldn’t help it, it really was stronger than you. “I’m starving”.

With a wide grin, you dropped the call and went back into your apartment.

You were planning to make him wait for ten extra minutes when he would finally “arrive”.

Just for the hell of it.

—

“That’s a lot of hot sauce for one pizza”, Billy commented, watching you spray your truffles and cheese generously with the piquant olive oil.

You gave him a mischievous smile.

“What can I say,” you shrugged, leaning back in your chair and licking the tip of your finger after you swept a drop of it from the top of the bottle. “I like them hot”.

That startled a laugh out of Billy as he eyed you with something in his irises looking a lot like awe.

Just when he was about to speak, a servant brought a glass of red wine for him and bottle of sparkling water for you.

You thanked the guy with a sweet smile, while Billy eyed him a bit coldly, obviously waiting for him to leave.

When the waiter had finally made himself scarce, Billy softly called your name.

You raised your eyes to meet him, struggling as hell to keep your stare vacant. (Which was hard to do with some foreign tightness in your throat).

“Before we dig in and I hope spend a nice evening as two friends, getting together on a Friday night”, he didn’t even blink? Was he blinking? You couldn’t tell, his black eyes swallowing you whole, again. “I want to apologise. I was completely out of line… It was unacceptable. You don’t need my validation, of course, but I still want you to know that you are doing a terrific job at Anvil, taking us to the heights I never even thought existed. It’s just… It’s hard for me sometimes to be a good CEO and someone who promised to take care of my men at the same time… Everything is happening so fast, I’m afraid to lose my footing.”

You reached out for his hand across the table before you could stop yourself. You didn’t take it, but your fingers brushed his ever so slightly before you realized what you were just about to do. Your eyes widened as you looked at him, searching for a reaction. 

Billy remained perfectly still, not taking his eyes off you.

You grabbed a napkin next to his wrist, pretending this was what you had meant to do all along. 

“We’ll get there, Billy”, you said, a small encouraging smile blooming on your lips. “We just need some tweaking”.

You weren’t sure if you were talking about strategy at this point anymore.

—

You had a great time at dinner.

(And a whole-hearted laugh as Billy finished your remainders of the truffle pizza, downing a litre of water to numb down the burning sensation in his throat afterwards).  

You talked about your respective lives, your ex-colleagues, your hopes for the future… You dared think this who the real Billy Russo was.

And he was incredible.

After the two of you were done with dinner, you offered him to come upstairs to your place and go through the new strategy together. He didn’t hesitate, although you could swear you’d seen something ambiguous flash in the depths of his dark eyes before he nodded.

(You must have imagined it.)

The two of you ended up sprawled out on your soft faux fur carpet talking game plan, bouncing ideas off each other. You watched Billy frown, as he rubbed his mouth with his long fingers, smile in excitement and shake his head in awe when you voiced your ideas - you felt proud and appreciated, and you wouldn’t trade the sensation for anything in the world.

A couple of hours later the two of you had finally decided that it was enough brainstorming for one night, and you rose to your feet to go and make Billy a coffee before he got behind the wheel. As you pushed the start button on your coffee machine, you heard him speak over the noise.

“You know I’ve done four tours - three in Iraq and one in Afghanistan”, you popped your head up, only to see him play absentmindedly with something on his chest. “And every time I’m considering a mission for Anvil, I find myself back in there again… A part of a death squad.”

You carefully picked up his cup of coffee and made your way back to him. You didn’t say a word as you leaned lower to hand it over to him, encouraging him to go on. 

Billy thanked you in a whisper before clearing his throat.

“Every time I have to send them somewhere, especially overseas, I force myself to stop and think… Is this really worth it? Is a fat check really worth putting the lives of my men and women in danger? And most importantly - you may think it’s stupid…” he avoided your gaze, staring into his coffee cup, a miserable smile on his lips. “I think, will it make a difference? If one of them dies on a mission, I have to at least know they made a difference… it’s selfish and it’s more about the peace of my own mind, but it is what it is, you know?”

When he looked up at you, his eyes were full, full to the brim. There was so much emotion in them, hatred, misery, hope, adoration, all whipped in a wild mix that was Billy Russo’s dark, velvet eyes.

“I carry these at all times,” the fingers of his free hand dropped to his chest, as he got a hold of something hanging around his neck. A necklace? “When in doubt, I just look at them - they help me remember where I’ve been and what I’ve done - and I just know if it’s worth it or not. The answer is usually no, by the way”.

He smiled again, the curve of his lips looking less haunted this time, as he sipped on his coffee.

Dog tags. Those were Russo’s dog tags.

“So they’re your reminder that, even being a badass CEO of a private military company”, you couldn’t help but feel some kind of zero gravity settling in your lower stomach as you saw him chuckle at your words. “…you still have a heart”.  

“How poetic”, Billy teased you without missing a beat, putting the empty cup on the floor next to him. “But yeah. Sort of, I guess”.

As you fell asleep that night, you dreamed about explosions, piquant olive oil and holding Billy Russo’s dog tags in your hand.

—

The time flew by after that. In 8-month time (after some tweaking) Billy Russo and you became a team. It sometimes felt like nothing could stop you, as long as you were together.

It should not have come as a surprise that the two of you earned yourselves a catchy nickname - at first, it was spoken solely behind your backs, but soon enough it became some kind of a title, more powerful than that of the CEO or the CSO.

Anvil’s men and women (and especially Frank - the fact that he invented the nickname secretly tickled him pink) - were now calling you Bonnie and Clyde. The ultimate partners in crime, against all odds, doing the impossible.

The two of you also settled in an almost homely kind of routine. Ever since that Mayhew fiasco and the day that followed, Friday had become the non-spoken partners in crime day. What it meant in practice was exchanging Friday jokes on Anvil’s internal communications suite…

(Billy once attacked you with a “would you look at this, just found the actual footage of your interview @ Anvil”. Before you even got a chance to answer, he forwarded you a cheesy meme with two old women speaking to each other, one of them saying “We need someone who can do the job of two men”, and the other responding “oh, so it’s only a part-time job then”. When you shot him back a message asking whether he really considered himself an arthritic old woman, that seemed to have shut him up).

…grabbing a beer in a bar nearby…

(you sometimes invited your colleagues to join you, plus it was an unspoken rule that Frank and Karen were to be there as well)  

…you making fun of Billy Russo’s eating habits…

(It was honestly a nuisance to have a lunch with him. The list of things he refused to eat went on and on: no asian food, no food chain restaurants (even high-rated), no soups, no cheesecakes… He sure was settling well in that peaceful life he earned after spending all those tours living off canned food).

…and just overall enjoying each other’s company.

By the time the ninth month of your being Anvil’s CSO had rolled in, you couldn’t imagine not seeing Billy Russo every day. Not noticing him rolling his eyes at a smart-ass comment you or Frank made, or his orbs lighting up every time you told him the deal with that or this decision maker had gone through. You simply could not understand how you managed to live day in and day out, and think you were genuinely happy, before you actually met Billy. Everything before him just faded away somehow, your memories lost their colour and spike in comparison to the life you were living now. You kicked ass at your job, your career thrived, but most importantly, you were feeling like this was exactly where you were meant to be, braving the obstacles by Billy Russo’s side, knowing he would catch you should you fall.

He would, wouldn’t he?

It was your usual Friday night outing, the seven of you - Billy, Frank, Karen, Curtis, James from legal, Ashley from mine clearance and yourself - occupying your usual table at Whimsy, the bar that must have made 90% or their revenus off of Anvil’s folk. It was just around the corner from the headquarters, after all.  

The overall mood of the evening was rather nostalgic. It’d been four weeks since you’d lost a team member in a crossfire in Falluja, Iraq. After everything was said and done, his loss still hung heavy in the air, and it felt right to get one more drink in Jasper’s honour. The conversation flowed easily, even though the topics you’d spoken about were anything but.

“I remember how I felt when I lost Andy”, Ashley nursed her beer as she stared into the distance. “I just literally had the weight of the entire world on my shoulders, pinning me to the ground, I just couldn’t move on”, she finished her bottle in one go and motioned for the bartender to bring her another one. “Sometimes, I just ask myself, what would have I done if I’d known he was going to die the next day? Would I have stopped him from going? I think I would,” she thanked the bartender as he put the beer in front of her, her eyes a bit foggy. “Yeah, I definitely would have.”

Frank grasped Ashley’s shoulder and squeezed it hard in a comforting gesture; Karen gave her a tender look.

You didn’t know why your mind had gone there, but all of the sudden a memory of Billy sitting in his office chair, laughing his ass off at some offhand comment you’d made flashed before your eyes; it quickly got replaced by the recollection of his hand brushing against yours during the Zoom meeting you’ve had with general Warren Singer; then you remembered him putting his hand on the small of your back, staring daggers at some army brat wanting to join Anvil, eyeing you like a piece of meat (you learned later that day that the man’d been thrown out before having a chance to introduce himself); until finally, your brain stopped dead at the picture of Billy running his nervous fingers through his hair as he called you from his car, telling you he was only leaving the office.

What would you do if you knew he was going to die tomorrow?  

Your heart sunk at the thought as you gulped hard, ducking your head and staring at your hands folded in your lap.

A soft touch enveloping your elbow had you facing the man of the hour, his black eyes shimmering with concern.

“Are you okay?” he half-whispered, half-mouthed, not letting go of your hand.

No.

Nothing is okay, Billy.

I’m so happy that I met you, but you’re scaring the hell out of me.

I never wanted any form of eternity until now, I never saw the point…

So stay. Please, stay forever, and feel something for me, too.

“Yes. I’m fine,” you whispered back, staring into his eyes, hypnotised and helpless. You watched him turn away from you as if in slow motion, the warmth of his hand leaving nothing behind but emptiness in your bones.

“Here is to always telling the things that matter to the people who matter”, Billy spoke firmly, raising his beer. “Here’s to never missing a chance to open up to the people we love”.

Well, if this was his way of crossing the t's and putting the dots to the i’s regarding his feelings for you, he couldn’t have been clearer. 


As far as confessions of love went, this one was non-existent.

—

You tried, time and again, to convince yourself you had to go. You learned the hard way that your unrequited feelings were feeding on a sort of inadvertent parasitic relationship where every moment of your day depended on the level of Billy’s unintentional emotional indifference. Your days were spent questioning his every move - every look and every touch; until, the grown-ass woman that you were, you’d commanded yourself to stop second-guessing everything - stop feeling - and decided your best course of action would be… to work yourself into the ground.

If Billy ever noticed anything, he didn’t show it - your were still you, after all, working hard, laughing when he said something funny, calling him out on his bullshit when needed. He didn’t notice slight change in your eyes, when their icy surface cracked at every other compliment he threw in your direction (and there was no shortage of those). He didn’t realize the smile you gave him was different from those tightlipped signs of appreciation you gave to Anvil’s potential clients, he didn’t think twice about the reason for which you glowed around him, your every move softening, your every gesture emanating warmth.

Because Billy hadn’t really known you until you started to have feelings for him.

You knew this couldn’t go on forever. This entire situation was bound to result in some explosion of nuclear proportions, and then all hell would break loose. You needed to get yourself out of this situations, but you just… couldn’t. You couldn’t imagine your life without Billy Russo. You couldn’t leave him.

Even if being friends with him meant tearing yourself apart and suffering in silence. 



Long story short, you waited with fear in your bones for someone to walk into your life and to get you out. You’ve had no fight left in you to do it yourself.

Your salvation came in the form of a phone call on a Friday evening, when Billy was on a recruiting mission in California.

You were typing back a response to his cheeky message when the call cut in half-sentence.

Billy Russo: Please remind me to take you with me instead of Frank next time? He’s driving me insane trying to set me up with the ladies from the Organising Committee. Any ideas on how I can calm him the fuck down?

You: Sorry, Billy, but recruiting is out of my mission scope. As for the calm down part, try bondage maybe? :)

Billy Russo: I’m going to pretend you did not just suggest I engage in sexual practices with Frankie. Karen will have my balls.  

Billy Russo: But perhaps you’re right. Taking you with me is probably not a good idea. Wouldn’t want my new recruits’ brains to turn into mush because of how beautiful you are.

You: The flattery will….

“Hello? Y/N speaking”, you brought your phone close to your ear, your cheeks still a lovely shade of pink. If you were going to feel miserable when Billy came back, acting like nothing happened, you were sure going to make the best of that fuzzy feeling in your chest right now.

“Miss Y/N/L”, a smooth deep voice greeted you, and you could have sworn you’d heard it many times before. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

Frowning in an attempt to remember, you urged:

“No, not at all. How can I help you?” you stared into the screen of your Mac, wheels turning in your head as you silently catalogued all the men you were in discussions with regarding a deal. “I didn’t catch your name…”

“Oh, how rude of me”, the man chuckled but there was no mockery in his voice, more like self-depreciation. “Tony Stark, from Stark Industries”.

Your mind went blank. Did you hear his last words correctly?

“Uh… Mr. Stark”, you quickly got a hold of yourself - well, as quickly as you could. “I appreciate you reaching out to me directly. What can Anvil do for you?”

You did a pretty bang-up job trying to mask your amazement with polite cheerfulness, and Stark had caught on that.

Tony Stark just called your cellphone number. What in the world?…

“We don’t really do alien invasions”.

Ohyourgod, did you just say it out loud?!

His uproarious laughter took you by surprise, reverberating through your entire body. It took every ounce of your self-control not to giggle in response.

“That’s a good one, I love it”, Stark finally said, restoring his breath. “And the better question would be, Y/N - can I call you Y/N? - what you can do for me”.

Before your brain could take you into some naughty direction, freaking Iron Man cleared his throat.

“Okay, this came out wrong,” he admitted with a sense of self-irony. “I um… I’m looking for the Co-Chief Executive Officer for Stark Industries. Well, Virginia Potts is actually looking for a Co-CEO, I’m just her errand boy. And my missions apparently include recruiting…. Anyway,” it was a bit of a challenge to follow Anthony Stark’s train of thought, but you were also still shocked, so that could explain it. “…I think you are the perfect fit for the job”.

You just stared into the screen front of you, your breathing barely audible.

“Mrs Potts and I would love it if you could swing by the A-Tower, let’s say, on Thursday? You’ll be surprised, but I can also whip up a mean cup of coffee…”

Say something.

Fucking hell.

Say something!…

“Thursday sounds great,” you blurted out without thinking. “Let me just shuffle my schedule around… I could stop by after lunch?”

 Your hands were slightly shaking as you clicked on your mouse, opening your schedule window.

“Whatever works for you, Y/N”, you could hear Stark smile. “Not to sound like a creep, but I’ve been following your career for quite a while now, and I think that the work you've done in such a short span of time for Anvil is outstanding, even though you still don’t offer protection from alien invasions”.

That made you chuckle, pushing you halfway out of your stupor.

“I’ll put that on the list of things for us to consider”, you promised.

"Tell Mr. Russo I sent my best,” Stark added, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach. “I actually might have some ideas for how we could collaborate. Let's discuss this on Thursday, too, shall we?”

After you said your goodbyes, you fell back in your chair, dropping your iPhone on the table.

You: The flattery will….

...get you nowhere.

You never finished that message, leaving Russo on Read.

—

Starting with that evening, things were moving fast - too fast for you to keep track.

After a three-hour long coffee and the tour of the A-Tower, Virginia Potts, the acting CEO of the Stark Industries, had offered you the job - just like that - and asked you to come back to her executive assistant should you wish to take the job, with your salary expectations and the information about your notice period. You thanked her for her time and promised to get back to her as soon as you made your decision.

Virginia Potts was a brilliant woman; but running a company like Stark Industries while being equipped with a vagina was certainly no walk in the park. Sexism was still very much present within the Boards of the Tech Businesses. You understood perfectly well why she wanted a woman in her corner - it would have been a massive slap in the Board’s face, but it was also about having someone to lean on, who just understood.

In any other circumstances you would have peed your pants in excitement. It was an opportunity to work for Stark Industries - no, scratch that - it was an opportunity to step in as a Stark Industries co-CEO. The idea of it still made you dizzy.

…but as you looked at Virginia’s email sent to your personal address thanking you for stopping by, your eyes were swimming with tears.

You weren’t ready to leave Billy. 
You just couldn’t. 
You couldn’t leave him. 

There was no epic finale to your story. There was no big revelation, no closure, no moment of relief, no acceptance, nothing. Only a fat-ass what if.

And you didn’t know how to let go of a what if with Billy Russo.

And that was exactly why you had to do it.

You heard Billy come in the next Monday earlier than usual. He was positively humming Usher’s Yeah! quietly as he made his way past your office’s doors straight into his own.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. You’ve been psyching yourself up during the entire weekend, telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal, we wouldn’t even flinch when you were going to tell him.

You had to tell him.

As you stood up from your chair, straightening you skirt with the palms of your hands, you suddenly heard the footsteps coming back in your direction. You froze in place like a deer in headlights when Billy swung open the door to your office, a box of Pierre Hermé macarons in his hands.

Your goddamn favorite Pierre Hermé macarons.

“You’re here!” Billy’s warm smile illuminated the room. “So much for a surprise, huh?”

He shook the box carefully in the air. You stared at it, dumbfounded, every single thought leaving you.

You couldn’t breathe.

In the hazy morning light seeping through the windows of your office, Billy looked beautiful and dissolute, shirt open at the collar, longer strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

He was going to be the death of you. It really wasn’t fair.

“Billy, I have to tell you something.”

Was it you who spoke those words? They seemed distant and cold, so uncharacteristically detached.

Blood roared in your ears.

“What’s wrong?”

Billy’s reaction was instant. In three decisive steps he closed the distance that separated you, leaving the macarons on your desk. He stood still just mere inches away, and just like during your very first meeting, you had a fleeting thought cross your mind: you really were tiny next to him, the top of your head barely reaching his shoulders.

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, trying to keep your composure. He stared at you unblinking. He wasn’t touching you, but it felt like his eyes were looking straight into your soul, undressing you, blowing that wall you built around yourself into dust. They were taking you down, piece by piece, determined to see what you’d been keeping from him. 

Because, of course, he knew. He should have known something was going on. Hence the surprise this morning.

He had no idea what it was though.

“Maybe you should sit,” you said, making a physical effort to tear your eyes away from him, feigning sudden interest in the buttons of his shirt.



That chest…



…was going to be just fine. He didn’t feel the same way you did. He would just find someone else to fill your position. With brilliant women stalking him - in cooperative packs - that would not be a problem.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you”.

You squeezed your eyes shut as soon as his words reached your ears.

Fucking hell, you should have done that by phone. Or with other people around. You should have…

“You’re leaving”, you heard Billy repeat as his voice broke a little. He stepped away, burying his face in his hands as he dragged them down his jaw and neck, staring into the ceiling.

“Billy, listen, I…”

You were the one to close the space between the two of you this time, and before you could think too much into it… You threw your hands around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

The sensation struck you like a bolt of lightening when you felt his hands cross behind you back and pull you closer.

He smelled heavenly. Like a forest fire, a hint of smoke with oud and pine. You inhaled deep, deeper still, losing yourself in his comforting touch.

In his arms, just for a second there, you felt home.

“You… The company doesn’t need me anymore”, you nearly choked on words, screaming internally at yourself to keep the waterworks at bay. “It’s thriving, there’s not much else I can give you. My job here is done.”

I need to leave because your indifference is destroying me, and when I think I’m ready to let go, all it takes is one look from you, and I’m back to wanting you, to settling for anything you give me, like a goddamn fool.

“What the hell are you talking about, Y/N?!” Billy exclaimed, his hands grasping your shoulders as he distanced your bodies just enough for him to look into your eyes. “I nee- The company needs you! I was… You know, I was planning to make you the CEO of Anvil in a couple months time,” his smile, as earnest as it was, did not reach his eyes. “Yeah”, noticing your eyes go wide in shock,  he let his hands slide down your sides. “You’re so much better at it than I ever was. I was going to join Frank and just manage operations… under you”.

You just stared at him, dumbfounded, not feeling a stray tear escape your eye and rolling down your cheekbone.

“These are the tears of happiness, I hope”, Billy added, and you barely registered his touch as his thumb wiped the salty drop off. “Well, I guess Anvil will have to settle for the little old me. With my best girl going places."

You gave him a strained smile before you carefully wiped your cheeks, just taking a moment to look at him. To try and read him.

Billy Russo was a goddamn ceiling. Plain white, cool and unattainable. In all of your time working for him, you have never seen this Hallmark version of him before. Which one was it? 


Oh wait, you guessed you knew. The happy-for-you friend.

“So where are you going?” Billy asked, his eyes empty. “Who snatched you away from m- Anvil?”

The stutter was so subtle you barely noticed. You were finally tired of reading into shit.

“Stark Industries. I’ll be their co-CEO”.

—

Before you left Anvil you promised yourself you’d get the deal with Stark Industries up and running. There was no one in the world you trusted more in terms of security than Billy.

(The fact that you couldn’t keep your heart safe from him didn’t really count, did it?)

As a matter of fact, Billy and you were going to shake hands with Anthony Stark on the deal on your last night of being Anvil’s CSO. It was happening in The Metropolitan Opera and required both Billy and yourself to dress for the occasion. 

He promised to come pick you up at 6pm sharp; you were putting on the Jimmy Choo’s you’d bought a coulee months ago in Saks Fifth Avenue when you heard a low knock on your door.

Straightening up, you threw a quick glance at your reflection in the mirror. You decided to go with a long Marchesa black velvet gown with a rather deep V-line, a pair of long diamond earrings and an elegant half-up half-down hairdo, soft curls in the front framing your face.

“I’m coming”, you yelled out, picking up your leather jacket (because why the hell not) and your purse from the kitchen counter. Sharply opening the entrance door, you realized moments later that you didn’t even take time to prepare yourself for seeing William Russo in a tux.

If you weren’t already half in love with him, the sight before your eyes would have sealed the deal.

God-fucking-damn, like he needed any help being unforgettable.

With a black jacket thrown on a crisp white shirt with a couple of buttons undone and the tie hanging loosely around his neck, Billy was here to make a statement, to leave a mark. His hair was coiffed back in his usual style; honest to God, he looked like he just stepped out of the Man of the Year special GQ edition…

Just when your thoughts were about to switch to the way you must have looked next to him, ridiculous in your simplicity, like you refused to make an effort…

…Your eyes met his.

And the way he looked at you was so intense, his big black eyes with galaxies in them probing into yours, his strong jaw slack. There was beauty and tragedy reflecting in those orbs, but only just for a second - just for a second, he looked at you the way he probably looked at the sky he could never reach. Just for a second, he looked at you the way that made your heart beat twice as fast, like the world could crumble all around him and he still would not have blinked.

Would not have taken his eyes off you.

“Wow, Y/N, you look… You look beautiful”, he finally said. “I just can't spot a part of you that beats the other.”

Something in your chest exploded silently.

“Thank you, Billy,” you smiled at him - a genuine and happy smile, because you felt on top of the world with his adoring eyes on you. “You’re quite a catch yourself”.

Before you could scold yourself for your choice of words, you stepped out of your apartment and locked the door behind you.

“Shall we?” Billy offered his hand to you, without hesitation it seemed.

“We shall”, you replied instantly, slowly sliding your hand into the crook of his elbow.

And, just like always, you were going to enjoy it while it lasted.

—

The crowd in the opera was so posh, the looks all the women had been throwing you first made you question your choice of outfit. It’s after overhearing their conversations that you realized, the reason they stared daggers at you was the man that kept by your side no matter where you went.

Virginia and Anthony welcomed you at the buffet with sun-stained sincere smiles. After a short small talk, Anthony Stark informed you both that he had signed the contract earlier today, thus officially giving Anvil an exclusive security deal with Stark Industries. As of now, Anvil was the only company allowed on the Stark Industries’ premises in the quality of guards and protection officers.

The look Billy and you exchanged spoke volumes; while your eyes were sparkling with excitement though, screaming “we did it!!”, his bottomless black eyes were whispering “thanks to you”.

The four of you then shook hands and went through rounds of gratitude and appreciation; when a pleasant woman’s voice announced the imminent start of Onegin, inviting the guests to go to their seats. Virginia immediately took you hand, leading you straight into the Opera house, saying something about leaving men to finish their drinks. You threw Billy a laughing look over your shoulder, mouthing “come join me” before disappearing out of his sight.

“So on the scale of one to ten, how pissed at me are you, Mr. Russo?”

Billy turned his head sharply to a side, leaning on the high table, and spotted Anthony Stark himself, nursing a glass of whiskey. “For taking your queen away from you? Excuse the chess metaphor, but that woman”, Stark took a sip of his whiskey and savoured it before swallowing it down. “Is a goddamn queen.”

Billy chuckled, straightening up, digging his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“That, she is,” he whispered, his eyes still piercing the spot in the crowd where your smiling face was mere minutes ago.

—

When the opera ended, both Billy and you couldn’t be more relieved - because both of you hated it with passion.

Exchanging meaningful glances in the dark during the singers’ performances now and then, you had to bite your tongue in order to not just ask Billy if you could maybe sneak out. Russo proved to be more stoic than you, carefully covering your hand with his in what was meant to be a comforting gesture.

You didn’t look at him once after that, afraid to say or do something that would make him remove his hand.

How much more pathetic could you get?  

When the performance was over, Billy led you out of the opera house without saying a word, his hand hugging carefully the small of your back.

His silence was unnerving. You didn’t know what to make of it. Should you have shaken his hand off back in the darkness of the concert hall? Or should you have caressed it with your thumb?

Your mind was spinning in circles by the time he opened the door for you and you slid into the front passenger seat of his Rolls goddamn Royce.

When he got in the car and gripped his steering wheel, you reached out and placed your hand on his whitening knuckles.

“Billy,” you spoke softly, barely audibly. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he whispered back, turning his head to a side to face you. His black eyes stared into yours, looking hypnotised and helpless. “Everything is fine.”

It didn’t take a degree in Psychology to see that he was lying. You could feel his gaze on you as you turned away from him, taking your hand away at the same time.

Billy started the car. The revving engine filled the silence, loaded with the unsaid words.

—

“…he then walked me to my door, we exchanged our goodbyes. And that was it,” you finished lightly, looking back at Karen.

Her eyes were red as she stared at you, unblinking.

“Unbelievable…” she whispered. “So you never told him?…” her lips barely moved.

You sighed.

“Have you ever felt like you’re potentially in love with someone? Like, you don’t actually love him, you know you don’t, but one day you realise that you could? You realise just how easy it would be for you to fall in love with him? With all the teasing and the banter, the play hitting each other, calling each other names, just…. You start to pick up on little things - like if you listen closely, in every shut up, there’s a barely-there ring of I could love you.”

You shifted on the floor a little, and Karen watched your memories transport you somewhere else again. While physically your were here, in your apartment - with your fluttering eye-lashes, uneven breathing and loaded expression - mentally, you were somewhere else.

“….You probably don’t notice it at first, but your body is drawn to him. Every accidental or absentminded touch…” you continued quietly. “And there’s that twinkle in his eyes when he looks at you and it messes you up, because - what’s going on with you? What the hell does it even mean? Are you imagining shit? You’re trying to make sense.”



Karen didn’t interrupt, still staring at you as if she were seeing you for the first time

“I mean, he didn’t ask for any of it, you know?” you finally raised your foggy stare at Karen, as if searching for confirmation. “Maybe he just did something dumb one day, smiled at you or said something that seemed important and then all of the sudden you’re full on Looney Tunes, seeing stuff that isn’t there?”

Your words barely audible, you swallowed hard, before continuing.

“…I just kept looking at him with what ifs, and could haves, seeing all that goddamn potential. It’s so fucking twisted. Over-analyzing everything? Waiting for a sign?…” you chuckled bitterly all of the sudden. “…I was so fucking scared of reading too much into it, of crossing that line, because… It would be so easy!… Falling in love with him would have been so easy.”

Oh sweetheart, Karen’s eyes glowed with comfort as she reached out for your hand and squeezed it softly. But you already are in love with him. 



A loaded silence ripped through the air in your living room. The sound of an engine revving somewhere close squeezed its way through the slit of an opened window, and it seemed to break the trance.

Both Karen and you shuddered, and as you took in the realisation Karen’s eyes just bestowed upon you, you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“It’s pretty late,” Karen spoke up, reading you like an open book. She knew it was her cue to leave the stage. You needed time to process. “Frank is in a bar nearby with Curtis, let me just give him a call, okay, sweetheart?” she gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze. “You know where to find me when you need me”.

“Yes”, you responded, blinking tiredly. “Thank you so much for coming, Karen. I didn’t mean to unload on you like that…”

“Shut the hell up,” the blonde advised, raising her eyebrows. “But honestly, Y/N, please call me once you… come to terms with things, okay?”

You nodded.

When Karen left, leaving the sweet and pleasant smell of her perfume behind, you closed the door behind her and turned around, leaning on the cold wood and metal with your eyes closed.  

It’s been a month. This was supposed to pass by now. Billy was supposed to stop inviting himself into your dreams. You were supposed to heal.

You may have just realized you were in love with the man instead.

Letting out half a moan, half a groan, you peeled yourself from the door slowly, and brushed your hair back, wanting nothing more than to fall face-first into bed.

After you at least cleaned up a bit and put out the Dyptique candles, that is.

As your eyes scanned your living room in an attempt to asses the size of the job at hand, you stopped mid-way, zeroing in on the box Jax gave you earlier in the evening. It rested silently on the kitchen table.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you made your way to the kitchen area. Grabbing the package, you turned it around, looking for any indication of the sender.

The package wasn’t even stamped.

Curiosity getting the best of you, you took a moment to grab a knife from one of the drawers, and carefully swished it between the two cardboard sheets.

Flipping over the envelop, you heard something fall out of it before you could actually see it. A small sheet of paper floated in the air before falling on the surface, partially covering whatever fell out of the package.

Your heart squeezed the second your brain identified the object, attached to a worn silver chain.

With trembling fingers, you slid two metal pieces from under the paper, covering your mouth.

Finding their home in the palm of your hand, Billy’s dog tags shimmered in the dim candlelight.

Squeezing them in between your fingers, you grabbed the paper with your free hand, your eyes staring at one single sentence scribbled on its surface.

“You took my heart with you”.

[mc-doppomine]

Dunno why this came to mind...maybe calculating Jakurai’s deal here...Who knows but here I am imagining how much schooling these boys have gone through. 

As a note, I am not saying their schooling level as any jab to them. All people are different. Some would prefer going to school, some do not have the opportunity and some have other things to do. It really is many reasons why they would or wouldn’t go on. And I’m just guessing what I think they’ve done based off information we have of them. 

Buster Bros!!!

Ichiro I feel only completed compulsory school and some of high school. He was too busy supporting the orphanage and his brothers to really keep up with it. And considering Yorozuya Yamada is likely their only source of income, he hasn’t really gone back either. I don’t that particularly bothers Ichiro since while he wasn’t bad at school he wouldn’t say he liked it either. 

Jiro is at the age where he didn’t have to go to school anymore but Ichiro made him stay. As it was just better options for Jiro if he does finish school. He also doesn’t go to cram school as 1) he can’t stand school as is, 2) he likely goes to help Ichiro with the business and 3) there’s a chance they can’t afford to send him. Despite the latest drama tracks, I don’t see school being a point of contention between them even if Jiro doesn’t like school. I don’t see him pursuing a traditional higher education, if he even goes at all.

Saburo is still in compulsory school as far as I understand so it’s not really a question of if he goes. But obviously Ichiro would want him to stay. Especially him because he’s good at it and seems to like it. That and it might help Saburo’s social skills to have to be around kids his age. For the most of the same reasons, Saburo doesn’t do cram school either. If anything he probably could tutor if he didn’t get so easily frustrated with people. I do feel he could make it to the top schools when he gets older but I see an interest in going overseas for uni.

Mad Trigger Crew

Samatoki I don’t think went past compulsory schooling. He was too busy with yakuza stuff to really deal with school. I see him getting into a lot of fights over his background, namely badmouthing of his parents. He probably had Nemu stay though because he wanted her to have options. I think he’s really good with money even though he probably hasn’t had to worry about it for a long time

Jyuto I initially was gonna say did go to college but researching a little bit, he probably didn’t. He only would need to finish high school and pass exams. Which I feel he was prepared for. Like I think he’s been set on being a cop for a long time and worked for that. Which is why I’ll also go out on a limb and say that in high school this boy was a runner so he was also in shape for his training when he passed exams. I also think Jyuto was a good boy student.

Rio likely went into military service as soon as he could, which I believe is 18 over there. It’s a little harder to tell about how the service was since the world of hypmic is one that had another war, so it’s likely his time was busier than what it would be normally for someone in the navy. He absolutely could’ve gone to uni and come back to get a better rank but I don’t think Rio really cared about that aspect of it. (This man knows communications and some hacking, you cannot tell me he couldn’t have gone far) I will say he likely took advantage of his half-American status and is fluent in English as it would’ve been useful for joint exercises with the states. I think the dissolution of the navy really shot him in the foot but he’s just too resourceful to keep down with that.  

Fling Posse

Ramuda...obviously didn’t. And I don’t think his records would show anything. Like if it had to show anything, it would probably show him going to a super large school where it’s completely possible no one knows who the hell he was (because he was never there). And if he was based off someone, he likely had some of his credentials taken from them. He understand the culture of schooling though, I mean his style and personality does seem to draw girls high school age and older. 

Gentaro is pretty hard to imagine to be honest. I don’t see him enjoying his school life and being around classmates for an extended amount of time. And while I think he could’ve spent some time in academia in literary research, I also see him finding it way too stuffy for writing. But I think ultimately...he went to uni for a short time. For some reason I just don’t see him vibing with how the system is for it. 

Dice did not. I don’t think he finished high school although he could’ve if he wanted. But he probably avoids it because it’d be an easier way to keep track of him and run contrary to his stray sort of life style. 

Matenrou

Jakurai...is a doctor...I sure HOPE he went to school for his profession. So he studied some of the stuff you need for doctoring during his time as an assassin but he didn’t actually go into studying to be a doctor until he quit his killing at 23. He probably went into the national defense medical college, which seems to be 6 year program but you have an extra 2-3 years of compulsory service with it. I think he likely finished his compulsory service, at the latest, a year before the Dirty Dawg timeline. Or OR he faked his schooling and just knew the equivalent knowledge from his time as an assassin and was able to pass his exams and later studied whatever he lacked. He’s basically fully legally certified NOW, don’t worry...

Hifumi I just can’t see going past high school. Like I’ve always seen the incident happening in his last year of high school and it made it difficult for him to even finish. And considering he claimed in the first Matenrou drama track that he didn’t find a way to live with his phobia until he was 20...I don’t think he went. Not that he would’ve been interested in it. Hifumi is interested in what he likes and wouldn’t want to put the effort either way. I don’t think he really cares and he has more than enough skills (and money) to do just about whatever he wants.

Doppo likely went to uni. He couldn’t get into the real prestigious schools and knew he couldn’t so just went for wherever he could get into rather than wait to test again. I feel like his degree is in either accounting or business. I think he had a part-time while in school to pay for it since it seems like his family might not be as well off or he didn’t want to burden his parents (in a passing conversation I think he mentioned paying for his brother’s exams or schooling). For some reason I also can see him having a minor in biology because I see him either knowing a lot about plants or knowing a lot about marine life. What kind of person just thinking of a water flea for like a small creature?

Dotsuitare Hompo

Sasara I feel like he didn’t go past high school. Not that he couldn’t. Just that he didn’t find a need to? Not when he was set on going into comedy. Like it was either make it or be trapped with his family. And he was hard noooope. 

Rosho....is a teacher? I sure HOPE he went for his teaching certificate. I don’t think he was going to initially and might not have while he was doing the comedy game with Sasara? Their time line is a little fuzzy, I haven’t found the indicator of if Rosho and Sasara disbanded before he went to MCD or after. If it was before, then yes he went to school after they disbanded. If not, then he was in school while doing the manzai thing. So yeah dual major of mathematics (or statistics) and education (he didn’t need both but I have faith in him).

Rei most definitely went to fucking uni. This bastard would let you think he didn’t but he did. He’s probably a fucking doctor or just shy of it. Drives me mad. Why am I sure? Because if Rei is behind the hypnosis mics. As in the designer and/or inventor of it, he is a scientist or engineer of some type. I see him having a degree in either biotechnology or neuroscience. I learn towards the latter because I feel like he also got a minor in psychology (or y’know what, business is possible too for a minor). Just to mess with people.

Bad Ass Temple

Kuko I feel was the same as Ichiro in that he went to high school but not necessarily finishing it. I don’t believe he would’ve had to...if anything he’s gone back to his teachings at his temple. Yet it seems he doesn’t do that either so I’m not sure. I just don’t think he did anything past high school. 

Jyushi I think he might’ve just finished high school? I don’t know if he was just finishing or he’s soon to be doing exams. But I think he’s going to finish regardless. Y’know I feel like Jyushi would’ve liked going to uni. I can’t think of what he’d go to school for though! Would it be adding too much work to a passion if he did something with music theory? 

Hitoya...is a lawyer? So yeah? And you have to wonder if Hitoya is a masochist or loves to learn or what have you. Because he was in medical school WITH Jakurai. And then when they part ways, he quits and then goes into LAW. Are you kidding me? Hitoya, Hitoya please...I looked it up, he HAS to be a masochist! Law in Japan is super hard to get into! It has one of the most difficult bar exams to exist! What are you doing, man??? Although...I think Hitoya is still fairly new as a lawyer though because him starting when I assume Jakurai started school at 23, would have him only being fully practicing for 5 years. And that’s assuming he dropped out the first year and not later...which would only shrink he years outside. Unless whatever he got for his bachelors was applicable for law too (behavioral science?)...either way, yes he’s done it and he sure does do a lot to beat a guy that doesn’t even know they’re competing. 

[platypanthewriter]

The Prince and the Pauper (who drives an Uber) Ch. 6

(Prince Steve flees his wedding, and asks his Uber driver to take him bowling...and on a date.  WIP)  Part One | Two | Three | Four | Five

Billy’s phone rang seconds after the bell did, and he sat his books back down, checking to see whether it was Max’s school, and she’d finally decked that one kid that kept—but it wasn’t, it was Steve’s bowling picture, and Billy grabbed his books awkwardly and ducked around the people coming in for the next class, tucking his phone against his shoulder.  “Steve,” he said.

“Tell me I’m not a moron,” Steve said.  He sounded like he’d been running.  

“You are a moron,” Billy said absently, crouching against the corridor wall to stuff his notebook and textbook into his bag.  There was silence on the other end, and he bit his lip, considering.  “I mean, uh.”

“...you’re such a help,” Steve said dryly.

“You’re into me,” Billy told him, and Steve groaned.

“No, that’s smart.”

“Then you’re smart!  Ha,” Billy said, smirking, and Steve laughed, and blew air through his cheeks.

“...I have to sign a treaty today,” he said softly.  “I had everyone else read it, all the smart people, but—but if it’s wrong, it’s still my fault.”

“Hey, hey,” Billy said, frowning.  Somebody banged into him from behind, and he realized he’d stopped dead in the middle of the hallway.  “Your Royalship—”

“This is why the people should elect their leaders,” Steve groaned, his voice hoarse.  “I failed debate class!  I—I’ve been reading so much about taxes, and—and water rights—the letters are blurring, and I don’t think I know any more than I did yesterd—”

“Breathe,” Billy told him, walking as fast as he could to the open balcony, and a blast of heat.  “Babe.  Breathe for me.”  Steve took a shaky breath, and Billy bit his lips together hard against the need to curse himself for being such a fucking cunt.  “Shit,” Billy whispered, and Steve started snickering.  “You—you’re not a moron,” Billy admitted.

“I’m trying not to be,” Steve said softly.  “Y’know they say royalty’s all inbred.  Maybe that’s my problem, I probably have dumb royal braincells—”

Billy rolled his eyes.  His skin shone with sweat already, and he let his eyes close against the glare.  “Shut up, you’re not a moron.  Did somebody say something shitty to you?  ‘Cause I’ll fight ‘em.”

“I think if you punched the Minister of Agriculture, he’d die,” Steve said, laughing, with a sniffle.  “He’s like a hundred years old.”

“Sounds like it’s time for me to punch him,” Billy growled, and smiled, listening to Steve giggle.  “You tell me and I’m on a plane.”

“Maybe I should,” Steve said.  “I’d get to see you.”

Billy shut his eyes tightly against the burst of fondness that rose and heated his cheeks, and when he could, laughed.  “If you need me, I’ll figure it out,” he promised.

“I’ll be all right,” Steve said.  “I just—” he sighed.  “There just—there are some regulations that...somebody’s telling me they’re for safety, and we can’t let the corporations get away with, you know, giving people botulism—”

“Sounds pretty legit,” Billy nodded, biting his lip.

“But I’ve got somebody else saying it’s actually this new unnecessary process that wastes a bunch of food, and it’s just a way to drive the smaller growers out by making them adopt all this mechanical stuff—”

“...which one does that guy say?” Billy asked, leaning his elbows on the cement edge of the balcony.  “The one that called you a moron.”

“Oh, he didn’t, he wouldn’t say it,” Steve laughed, sounding disheartened.  “He just—”

“Do whatever he doesn’t want,” Billy hissed, and Steve’s laugh turned more genuine.  

“No, no, he’s, uh, he is conservative, but he...he means well,” Steve sighed.  “I don’t—”

“Okay,” Billy considered.  “Who’s the most onboard with your unionizing?”

“What?” 

“That isn’t patronizing at all.  There somebody like that?”

“Ah,” Steve was quiet for a long moment, and Billy watched a lady down below unlock her car, climb in and roll down the windows, burn herself on the steering wheel, and scramble out to stand in the shade.  “Maybe,” Steve said in a small voice.  “But that’s got nothing to do with—” 

“Go see what they think.  They might at least know who’s in it for profits.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve said.  “I lo—” he cut off, clearing his throat.  “I’m so glad I met you, Billy Hargrove.”

Billy’s heart was pounding with what he’d thought Steve was about to say, and he drew a slow breath, wide-eyed.  “I’m pretty fucking happy I met you too,” he said back, feeling a little choked.  

“Miss you,” Steve whispered, and Billy laughed, wanting to cry.  

“Get your posh ass back here then,” he said.  

 The next day when he got home there were no lights on in any of the windows in the whole complex, and no porch lights.  In the light of the street lamps over the parking area, he could see extension cords going in through the windows in half the apartments, like they’d all suddenly forgotten about fire hazards, and blankets stuffed in the gaps.  He usually sat in the car for a minute, finishing out a song, and soaking in the last of the AC before he had to walk through the late night heat to their apartment building, but he slammed the door and stumbled in the darkness of the street door to the apartment stairs.  When he ran around and up, there were no lights on in the hallways, and the heat was so thick it had weight.  He unlocked the door by the light of his phone, and yelled for his sister, walking into what felt like a refrigerator.

“It’s fine,” came her voice, shouting through a door, and then closer.  “The landlord didn’t pay the electricity bill,” she said, in a familiar voice that meant she was grimacing.  “I, uh, I got some dry ice like the um, like, uh, it’s in the freezer and fridge.”

“What,” said Billy, finding her in the dim light from the digital display on the A/C unit plugged in in the middle of the kitchen, and awkwardly touching her shoulder.  “Where’d this thing come from?  Max.  Tell me what’s going on.  How long has the power been off.”

“Uh,” she said again, making a face, and then folding her arms.  “I thought...you were working late tonight.”

“...did you think I wouldn’t notice there were no lights when I came in?!” he hissed, stalking away to sit wrong-way-round on a kitchen chair, and lean his head on his arms.  

“No!”  She waved her hands, an orangey grey blur in the darkness.  “No, no, uh—it’s—um.  I just—”

The power came on in a chorus of hums from the fridge and the overhead fluorescent lights, and the usual AC clicked on over the window with a wheeze.  “...they got it back on,” he breathed, his shoulders dropping.  “Do—do we have to pay the—is the money just gone, the money we paid for utilities?  I can’t afford to—”

“Legally,” Max said, stepping forward to touch his elbow, “—it’s on him.  It’s not on us.  We won’t have to move, unless he pays for us to move.”

“What?” Billy asked, lifting his head, but Max’s phone rang, and she waved him away as she answered.

“...yeah, it’s back on,” she said, glancing back at Billy, and grimacing again.  “Um, yeah.  Thank you.  Yeah, that’s all—no, we’re okay.  It’s only been off a few hours!  No, we’re—we’re really—thank you.  Oh, really?”  She snorted.  “What happens to people who live in her buildings, then?  Oh.  Haha, sounds like she deserves it.  Thank you.  Wha—?”  She listened for a few minutes, as Billy’s suspicions heightened, and then laughed again, sounding a little disbelieving.  “Oh.  Oh, no, um, the air conditioner’s great, I can box it back up for—oh.  Uh, really?”  Her brows drew together as she stared at it, and Billy registered the box it had come in, sitting to the side.

“Shit,” he whispered, quietly, into his sleeves, and waited for his step-sister to get off the phone.  She bit her lips together, avoiding his eyes, and he cleared his throat.  “They turned the power off,” he prompted her, and she nodded.  “...and you called Steve.”

She nodded again, hunching her shoulders.

“He’s in charge of a country—”

“Yeah, I thought maybe he knew some lawyers,” she hissed back, and Billy's stomach went into freefall.

“You asked him to hire lawyers,” he whispered, registering that as a kid, she’d thrown down the only defense she had access to.  “—and he sent over an AC unit, jesus.  ...why didn’t you let me handle it?  Why didn’t—you didn’t even call me—”

“You were working!” she yelled.  “You were working all last night—"

"The power was off yesterday?!" he shouted back, "—there's a heat advisory—there are people collapsing out there—"

"You were at school all morning," she screamed back.  "—I thought—I thought you’d be gone all night—” 

Billy flinched at her volume, his eyes burning.  “Sorry!  Jesus, Max, I’m—I’m fucking sorry, okay, but you can’t just—”

“I couldn’t even make cup noodles,” she shouted, sounding like she wanted to cry herself, and Billy clenched his fists around the back of the chair, instead of running back downstairs to work more hours, or stomping off to sleep in his room.  

“I have to work!” he yelled back.  “I could have brought you some food, you didn’t even call me—”

“You said you trusted him!” she said, a little more quietly, her clenched fists shaking, and Billy remembered the look she had, her jaw set, too wary to look at him.  He remembered it from living at home, and felt worse.  

“I did say that,” he said numbly.  “...fine.”  She flinched back as he stood, and he froze, his eyes blurring with tears.  “Sorry you had to...do that,” he said through gritted teeth.  “I—I’ll call the—them, so next bullshit she tries, you don’t have to...deal with it.”

“I dealt with it fine,” she muttered, and Billy’s hands strained on the back of the chair until it creaked.  

“...sorry,” he whispered, turning away to his room.  

“Shut up!” she yelled after him, and Billy shouted back a  “You shut up!” before he slammed the door, and sank down against it, and fumbled his phone out.  He’d dialed before he realized it was two am in Greece, and he frantically shut it off, letting his head thump back against the door, and then thumping it harder a second and third time.  

He stopped as his phone rang with Prince Charming’s song from Snow White.

“Sorry,” he answered, in a weird uneven hiss, and cleared his throat.  “I’m so fucking sorry, now I fucking woke you up, I’m such a fucking moron—useless—asshole—”

“Billy,” Steve said, authoritative, and Billy sat up straighter, closing his eyes and clenching his fingers in his jeans.

“Y-yeah,” he whispered.  He wondered whether it was worth apologizing again, and tried not to sniffle as he felt his tears spill over down his cheeks.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, and Billy let out a sob before he buried it in his sleeves.

“Of-of course I’m okay,” he laughed hoarsely.  “My sister called my boyfriend ‘cause she knew I was useless, and he—he probably skipped a fucking—UN meeting or some shit—probably peace-talking with Iran right now and we’ll go to war because my air conditioning got turned off, and I’m so fucking useless my sister called you—”

“Billy.  Billy,” Steve said again, in the calm voice Billy associated with his kinder teachers.  “It was forty-nine degrees there, malaka, I checked online.  And it took like thirty seconds, I just told my PA to make a call—”

“Shit, I probably owe you a million dollars in—in legal fees,” Billy realized aloud, letting his head thud back against the door again as he turned the number 49 in his head. He couldn’t make sense of it until he remembered with a shaky huff of laughter that Steve was a prince where they used celsius.  “Jesus,” he whispered.

“You—no you don’t,” Steve huffed.  “What the hell are you—Billy.”  He sighed, and Billy pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, sighing into the warm fabric of his sleeves.  “You don’t owe me anything, you don’t—” Steve started again, sounding annoyed, and Billy waited, shutting his eyes tighter.  “I’m not that important, love, you’re not going to cause a war.”

“What,” Billy breathed, his comprehension stalling out in the middle.

“You can always call me,” Steve told him, breathing a little faster, and Billy pictured him pacing around his gold-and-marble room, walking over his bed in huge steps like it was steep terrain, and scrabbling at his hair.  Billy took a slow breath, listening, as Steve repeated. “I love you.  You can always call me.”

“Shit.  I thought—” Billy took another deep, shaky breath, trying to focus his thoughts as he wiped more tears off his cheeks and relaxed, sliding sideways to curl up on his side against the foot of the door.  “I get another chance still, huh?”

“...you thought I’d...dump you,” Steve said slowly.

“But you didn’t,” Billy laughed, giggling with relief.  “Shit.  God.  You don’t—you don’t have to say shit like that, I’m not—I’m fine, jesus.  Jesus.”

“Why’re you laughing?” Steve asked, and Billy laughed harder, wiping his eyes.  

“Can’t believe you’re okay with this,” Billy whispered.  “I figured—”

“You can ask for help,” Steve interrupted, and Billy smiled wider, curling around his phone.

“You just wanna strip show later, right?” he whispered, keeping his voice flirty when he wanted to snicker.  

“...I seriously don’t know whether you’re kidding,” Steve said, and Billy sighed, pushing himself to your feet.  

“...d’you want me to be?”

“I flubbed it and told you I loved you because you sounded upset, and you haven’t said anything, and now you’re laughing at me,” Steve growled, but he sounded a little whiny, and Billy wanted to wrap him in a soft sweatshirt again, and then unwrap him entirely, and kiss every square inch of his body.  

“Uhhh,” he said to break the silence, his face heating as he thought of humiliating ways to reply.  

“I’m going back to bed,” Steve sighed, and Billy spun to pace in his little room, hoping—like an idiot—that they were pacing in synch.

“No, no, wait,” he mumbled, then groaned.  “I—I heard you, I thought—” he trailed off, and the silence lengthened.  Finally, Billy forced out “What did you mean?”

“What?!” Steve laughed.

“What does that even—”

“Billy—”

“No, look, we—we fucked, right,” Billy said, waving his hand in a decisive chopping motion.

“...we fucked,” Steve said, real quiet, and Billy dropped to lay across his bed, staring at the ceiling.  

“We fucked.  A couple times.  And—and now I call you sometimes when you’re flipping your shit—”

“Or when you are,” Steve put in, and Billy pulled the blanket over his head, groaning.  

“I don’t—I didn’t that much, jesus.  I flipped out a couple times, you—” Billy spoke louder, over Steve’s sputtering, “—you call me when I’m freaking out, asshole, you know you do that, Max fucking tells you, I didn’t ask for that, I don’t—”

“Why does this sound like I’m accused of a crime,” Steve muttered, and Billy stopped with his mouth still open, then closed it.

“No,” he said, thinking.  “No, I didn’t—I don’t mean that, I mean...I just mean—you can’t—”

“I can’t what?” Steve asked.

“You can’t fall in love with a hot Uber driver you meet for like...a week,” Billy sighed.  “Just because I told you some like...jokes.  A couple times.”

“Billy.  I have known you for months,” Steve told him, with the carefully articulated syllables of someone trying to sound patient.

“We haven’t even been able to talk much—”

“We talk nearly every day!” Steve laughed, sounding upset, and Billy’s eyes widened as he bit his lips, considering.  

“...no,” he said quietly, laughing.  “No fucking way.”

“...I’m going to hang up,” Steve said, and Billy sat up under the blanket.

“No, no, wait, you can’t—I’m not—it’s just—”

“I’m tired,” Steve told him, sounding kind of sad, and Billy scrambled for something to say.

“No, there hasn’t been a musical number,” he said, curling around his phone again to concentrate on Steve’s voice as he waited to see whether his prince would laugh.  

“...what?!” Steve asked.  “The hell are you—”

“I can fall for you,” Billy told him, feeling like the five short words took all his oxygen.  “I—I can.  F-fall in...but y-you’re a prince.  Th-there hasn’t been a musical number.”

“...you saying you’re in love with me?” Steve asked, and Billy wanted to hide, his pounding heart telling him to say it, or Steve would be hurt, but also not to, because Billy Hargrove’s love wasn’t valuable enough to take up somebody’s time.  

“...you tromped right the fuck into my—my heart when you tried to buy a plush winged buffalo,” Billy admitted, realizing he sounded a little pissed, which was truthful enough.  “And I don’t need a fucking musical number.  Even—even if you hadn’t called, y’know.  Gotten in touch.  Every time I hear your voice you’re a little more in here.  I—I wake up thinking maybe I’ll hear from my prince today, try to—try to think of funny shit to say so you’ll keep calling…”

Steve made a noise like he was trying to laugh underwater.

“I reread your texts all the time when I need…” Billy trailed off, and took another deep breath.  “You’re like a—a goddamn air freshener, I look at you and I—I listen to your dumb voice and it—everything’s—better,” he forced out.  “Had to stop calling just to listen to your voicemail,” he admitted quietly.  “‘Cause you kept calling me back.  No matter what time it was, you’d call me back, and—and asking what—I-I there wasn’t anything I wanted, I just wanted...you.”

“Please keep calling my voicemail,” Steve laughed, sniffling.  “I thought I scared you off, or—or maybe you were trying to leave bad news.  How come you only call when you think I won’t answer?!  I’ll always answer—”

“Don’t tell me this shit,” Billy hissed, “—I’ll take you up on this crap, I will, you’ll get fifty calls a day because I had to leave class—I was thinking about your dumb face today and I kept smiling at the professor and she thought I was high—”

“No!” Steve shouted back, laughing.  “No, keep doing it!  I want you thinking about me, you can—you can always—just call and tell me—”

Billy stuck out his tongue and blew loudly.  “Oh, yeah,” he snorted.  “Prince Steven, I’m horny.  Ignore that—that ambassador, and watch me take my shirt off, your majesty—”

“Let me get somewhere I can unzip my slacks,” Steve laughed, and Billy snorted so hard he choked, coughing.  “Make some requests, maybe.”

“What d’you wanna request?” Billy asked, letting his voice come out husky.  “I’m in bed, by the way.  Bring it on.”

“You got time?” Steve asked, and Billy could hear his smile.  “I want video of you saying you love me.”

“Fuck you,” Billy mumbled, wide-eyed.  “What the shit—”

“I’ll call you from somewhere public,” Steve whispered.  “Somewhere nobody can hear me, but everyone can see me, and I’ll talk you off.”

“Holy shit,” Billy breathed.

“Send me video of you in a hoodie,” Steve said.  “Tell me you love me,” and Billy’s face heated enough to be the sole cause of the current heat advisory.  

“No!” he hissed back, muffled, because he’d buried his face in the pillow.  He was fairly sure it’d combust.  “Fuck you!  No!”

“Don’t you want me telling you how to touch yourself in my sash and uniform,” Steve whispered, snickering.  “I’ll wear my crown.  You know you want me to—”

“Oh my god,” Billy wheezed.  “Now I do.  What fucking kink even is that?!”

“I’ll go out on some palace balcony,” Steve said.  “Maybe I’ll wave.  While you’re squirming around with your hand on your dick.  I’ll say stuff like ‘god, you sound amazing, babe,’ and ‘good job’.”  

“...you motivational speaker,” Billy muttered, meaning it to insult.  

“Do I get my video?”

“I don’t know, how good a job d’I have to do to hear it,” Billy shot back, then realized what he said, and buried his face again.

“...you wanna hear you did a good job?” Steve asked, and Billy mumbled ‘damn it, damn it, damn it’ into his pillow.  “I can’t tell you you did a good job on my video until I get it, but I know you will,” he said, and Billy shivered.

“I was just kidding—” he tried to interrupt, but Steve just got louder.

“—you do such a good job with your sister, you’re amazing, taking classes and working, you’re not even twenty years old—”  Billy groaned incoherently into his pillow, but Steve didn’t stop.  “You always know what to say because you listen to me, like you listen to Max, you’re so good at that, you’re so good for me—”

Billy squirmed, shifting in his jeans, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing his eyes would stop burning.  

“I could have ended up in anyone’s car,” said Steve, “—I was—I was upset, and I didn’t know what I was doing, and—you—you were really good to me,” he mumbled, starting to sound embarrassed himself.  “Say something.”

Billy took a deep, slow breath.  “—walked in today and I thought—I realized Max got you to call us lawyers and I…” his breath gave out, and he shut his eyes tightly, pressing his lips together.  Steve took a breath, but stayed quiet.  “Thought you—thought you’d leave me hangin’,” Billy whispered, laughing.  “Last, uh, last straw, this American slut dickhead who keeps taking you for more money.”

“I want to help,” Steve told him, hoarsely.  “Billy.  I want to help you.”  

“You don’t have to!” Billy said, smiling into the middle distance, his eyes stinging with tears.  “It’s not—that’s not what you’re for, your highness, you don’t always have to help.”

“I want to,” Steve huffed.

“You’d be perfect already if you were poor and stingy,” Billy told him, narrowing his eyes.  “Stop overachieving.  The hell am I supposed to say ‘love you’ to somebody like you.  Whole universe just popped up an error window.”

“No, it didn’t,” Steve breathed, and Billy could hear him beaming through the phone.  “Fuck do you mean musical number.  You saying I have to write you a song?  Because I—”

“No,” Billy interrupted, his eyes widening in horror.  “No, I’m giving you shit, because you’re a prince—”

“Perform in karaoke?  Should I rent some big venue, Billy?”

“No, no, no no no,” Billy sat up in bed, staring at the wall.  “What?!  No!”

“Tough crowd,” Steve said, laughing like a shithead, and Billy tried to resist snickering, his eyes widening in dread.

“No, no, it was a joke, you dumb fuck—”

“I’ll have to do both—”

“How do you even—” Billy roared, and Steve snickered.

“I better go get started,” he said, sing-songing it.  “Did you know I can play the guitar?”

“Of course you fucking can,” Billy breathed.  “You’re amazing.  Stop, stop this right now—”

“Gonna write you a love song—” Steve sang, and to Billy’s horrified and charmed embarrassment, it sounded good.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

Steve made a kissy noise into the phone.  “Love you too, babe.  That’s just for practise, of course, ‘til I get that song done!  Just keep saying I love you.  Gotta get it right.  Love you, love you, love you!  Am I saying it right?  It’s hard for princes to say these things without singing—”

“Shut up,” Billy croaked, like a frog.

“I need a rhyming dictionary for our musical number,” Steve sang, snickering, and Billy growled.  “Maybe I’ll work my way up from limericks.  Dick limericks.  To dick sonnets.  To dick epics—”

Billy hung up on him.

My other Harringrove stuff

[kapitaali]

The New Hippies

THE NEW HIPPIES: The work abolition movement, anarcho-primitivism and biodynamism as ways to combat climate change

Essay for the course LOGS13b The Strategic Role of Responsibility in Business by Teppo Saari

Introduction

The course LOGS13b The Strategic Role of Responsibility in Business had the students think about and discuss the various ethical dimensions in business, moral dilemmas and choices to be made that a decision maker in business world come across every day.

This essay is motivated by our case study with a headline ’Investors urge European companies to include climate risks in accounts’ (Financial Times 2020). In this essay I will explore values and ethical principles that I see as the solutions to our case study and climate change in general. This is not to say that I could stand up for them in business world. Ironically, my main thread and leitmotif here is the untransformational nature of capitalism and business world. Thus, standing up to the values I will discuss here means doing less business, not more.

This essay is divided in three parts: problem – reaction – solution. These three parts will talk about the chosen values and ethical principles. They are by no means new: pragmatism – The Golden Rule – parsimony & naturality. They just seem to be in conflict with our modern way of living.

Thinking pragmatically about the problem

As part of our course assignment, we got to read about a group of investors managing trillions of dollars worth of assets who urged European companies to include climate risks in their accounts (Financial Times 2020). Scientists have warned us for decades, that pumping extreme amounts of CO2 into our atmosphere will result in melting of the polar ice caps (Mitchell 1989; Jones & Henderson-Sellers 1990), which will raise the sea level and drown some of the coastal cities (Peters & Darling 1985). Finally, capitalists are acting responsibly!

It would seem that capitalists actually cared for the planet and not just their profits. Or would it? Maybe they are scared of losing their future profits, and this kind of media escapade would bring back public trust and confidence in the system. It would be a sign that capitalists can act transparently, openly, accountably, respecting others (O’Leary 1993). But is changing the allocation in your investment portfolio really a sign of empathy? Would there be other ways to better express empathy in business?

Shareholders are interested in the risk their assets are facing, not necessarily in the welfare of the people. Investors acting virtuously can be just virtue-signaling or pleasing other elements in the society to take off media pressure and negative PR from them in a conformist way (Collinson 2003). Maybe they are just greenwashing their own conscience. Why is George Soros’ climate buzz astroturfing industrial complex (Morningstar 2019a) financing Greta Thunberg to do public PR campaigns targeting the youth? Maybe there is money in it. It is unlikely that it would have been dubbed ”A 100 trillion dollar storytelling campaign” without some particularly good reasons (Morningstar 2019b).

But there is something else in it too than just money: power and control. The person who gets to limit choices gets to dictate what kind of choices remain. And if a person has that kind of foreknowledge, then that person can be two steps ahead of us. And being two steps ahead of us means securing future profits. Including climate risks in accounts will imply controls. Controls are imposed on accounts, but ultimately it will mean controls imposed on people and their daily activities. Workers are the ones who will naturally suffer the consequences of management decisions. In this case management decisions are ’urged’ externally, from the owners’ part. After all, it is the corporations that are producing most of the climate change effects, in terms of pollution and greenhouse gases (Griffin 2017). People doing their jobs, working everyday, producing things but also at the same time producing climate effects. I would still love to hear politicians use more terms such as ”pollution” when talking about these issues. For it is unclear how reducing carbon emissions will reduce overall pollution that is also a contributor in the destruction of our environment (see eg. Bodo & Gimah 2020; Oelofse et al. 2007). Issues like microplastics, holes in the ozone layer, biodiversity loss, acid rains and soil degradation need to be talked about just as much, if not more so.

The problem is simple: too much economic activity producing too much climate impact, mostly pollution and greenhouse gases. Solving the Grand Challenge (Konstantinou & Muller 2020) of our time is harder if we wish to keep the fabric of our society intact. There’s a clear need for dialogue among stakeholders (Gardiner 1996), but how is it a dialogue if people are not actually listened to and don’t get to say how things will progress in society? What I am proposing is a meme-like solution that has the greater impact the more people adopt it. My solution is: stop working. Produce less. Stop supporting systems and mechanisms that produce climate effects. Stop supporting the mechanisms that don’t listen to your voice. Disconnect from the Matrix. Working a dayjob is one of these mechanisms. Although many people have realized the benefits of working from home (Kost 2020), a lot more needs to be done. Remote work is not available to everyone. Not all jobs are remote work.

Bob Black (2021) in his texts has advocated for the total and complete abolition of work. Stopping working naturally does not mean stopping doing things, it will merely mean stopping working a job, a concept which itself is a social construct. Black’s theses are simple but powerful. Working is the source of all ills, it is not compatible with ludic life (allthemore so in 2021), it is forced labour and compulsory production, it is replete with indignities called ”discipline”: ”surveillance, rotework, imposed work tempos, production quotas, punching -in and -out, etc”. Black does not only describe the negative ontological aspects of working, he goes deeper and invokes many familiar names of Greek philosophers:

Both Plato and Xenophon attribute to Socrates and obviously share with him an awareness of the destructive effects of work on the worker as a citizen and a human being. Herodotus identified contempt for work as an attribute of the classical Greeks at the zenith of their culture. To take only one Roman example, Cicero said that “whoever gives his labor for money sells himself and puts himself in the rank of slaves.” His candor is now rare, but contemporary primitive societies which we are wont to look down upon have provided spokesmen who have enlightened Western anthropologists. The Kapauku of West Irian, according to Posposil, have a conception of balance in life and accordingly work only every other day, the day of rest designed “to regain the lost power and health.” Our ancestors, even as late as the eighteenth century when they were far along the path to our present predicament, at least were aware of what we have forgotten, the underside of industrialization. Their religious devotion to “St. Monday” — thus establishing a de facto five-day week 150–200 years before its legal consecration — was the despair of the earliest factory owners. They took a long time in submitting to the tyranny of the bell, predecessor of the time clock. In fact it was necessary for a generation or two to replace adult males with women accustomed to obedience and children who could be molded to fit industrial needs. Even the exploited peasants of the ancient regime wrested substantial time back from their landlord’s work. According to Lafargue, a fourth of the French peasants’ calendar was devoted to Sundays and holidays, and Chayanov’s figures from villages in Czarist Russia — hardly a progressive society — likewise show a fourth or fifth of peasants’ days devoted to repose. Controlling for productivity, we are obviously far behind these backward societies. The exploited muzhiks would wonder why any of us are working at all. So should we.

Black notes that only ”a small and diminishing fraction of work serves any useful purpose independent of the defense and reproduction of the work-system and its political and legal appendages”. In similar vein, the late but great David Graeber saw the futility of most work. Calling this phenomenon ’bullshit jobs’ (Graeber 2018), Graeber sets out to describe what many of us are familiar with: we do useless things to make ourselves feel useful. Because modern society legitimizes itself with having people ’do’ stuff and not ’be’ a certain person. How can you (objectively) measure being? You can’t. But doing, that you can measure. This measurement then qualifies you as a member of society: productive, doing your part (an idiom that is a perfect example how you can’t escape the doing paradigm on a societal level). Graeber’s definition of a bullshit job is: if the position were eliminated, it would make no discernible difference in the world. In many cases these types of jobs are found to be supporting some kind of buraucracy, reporting, assisting decision makers, etc. Our current Matrix has its ways of creating more of these with the clever marketing concept called ’value’ (Petrescu 2019). They don’t make a difference, they create value.

Why would you want to overload the world by doing things that you nor most everyone else see no point in? Why would you waste your time doing pointless things? The easy answer to these questions is ’subsistence’. But there are many other ways to live on this planet. If you keep doing what the society tells you is acceptable or convenient, you will shut your eyes from the problem at hand: climate change.

Legitimizing anarcho-naturism as a solution with The Golden Rule

Our responsibility is to ourselves. We can not properly be held responsible for anything else. Yet the system of representational democracy does just this, holds us collectively responsible for many things, borrows money from creditors with our names on the loan collectively and then makes us pay for the loans. The way this Matrix works is yet another reason to disconnect from it. Or at least stop supporting it as much as possible.

The Golden Rule states: ”Treat others as you want to be treated” (Gensler 2013). From the perspective of climate change, it can first seem curious why you would quit your job and head for the hills. After all, we are facing a global issue here. There are people in need for help and I am running away? But I would see it as a way to get around our predicament. The Golden Rule can be also interpreted in Kantian way as the categorical imperative, particularly its first formulation: ”Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law”. This formulation is somewhat more proactive in nature. It talks about acting, doing things, and doing things is what is appreciated in our society, even when your goal is to exit the society.

Why exit the society? Is it enough to just quit your job and find something else to do, something that is more fulfilling and not bullshit? What an excellent question. Long before the advent of smart phones and 5G and DNA-vaccines, this question had been brought up to the table. In the 1800s, people were realizing the negative impact industrialization was having on society at large. People were rooted out from their family homes in the countryside, forced to move to a large city to look for a job, crammed into small apartments with dozens of other workers, coerced into working long and hard days at factories to make a living. The lowly misery of these people attracted the attention of a certain Friedrich Engels, who felt their situation was not adequate to make up for the suffering they had gone through. He meticulously described the working conditions of the English working class in his ”The Condition of the Working Class in England” (2003 [1845]), originally published in German. Sociology as a science was established by Karl Marx, Max Weber and Emile Durkheim to study these changes. Slowly but surely, the influx of people into cities started to cause issues, something that mayors and other municipal representatives had to start taking care of. Planning and zoning were given a lot more attention, since the earlier modus operandi of old European cities had been rather laissez faire (Sutcliffe 1980).

Against this backdrop of massive societal change, people started to question the changes and their direction. Are we really nothing more than slaves, just working in a different environment? Slavery might not be the right word or context here. Many people believe to be free, govern themselves and their property, and yet their daily actions and options to choose from seem to be eerily limited. They have only so many choices, most of which seem somehow related to running their errands. A more appropriate term, with all its connotations, here would be the Greek word ananke, ”force, constraint, necessity”. Like a force of nature, progress towards modernity necessitates that people leave their family homes and go work in large factories, compulsively manufacturing endless amounts of products, some of which are necessary, others merely decorations, and some just pointless.

Many names in 19th century New England worked upon a vision for the future society at a time when unprecedented changes were taking place and the standard of living was rising faster than ever before. The Transcendental Club was a group of New England authors, philosophers, socialists, politicians and intellectuals of the early-to-mid-19th century which gave rise to Transcendentalism, the first notable American intellectual movement. Transcendentalist believe in the inherent goodness of people and nature, but that society and its institutions — particularly organized religion and political parties — corrupt the purity of the individual. (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy 2003; Sacks 2003.) Transcendentalism is a unique mix of European Romanticism, German (particularly Kantian) philosophy, and American Christianity. The impact of this movement can still be seen in the many flavours of American anarchist and radical Christian movements.

Out of the ranks of Transcendentalists rose a couple of names that can be viewed as the progenitors of modern anarcho-primitivism and natur(al)ist anarchy. Ralph Waldo Emerson was the central figure of the Transcendental Club, who together with Henry David Thoreau critiqued the contemporary society for its ”unthinking conformity” and advocated for “an original relation to the universe” (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy 2003). Emerson’s Nature (2009 [1836]) poetically embellishes our view of the natural world, while Thoreau’s Walden; or, Life in the Woods (1995 [1854]) is a call for civil disobedience and revolt against the modern world. Another influential natur(al)ist writer has been Leo Tolstoi whose name is frequently mentioned by anarchists. Tolstoi himself was a Christian and pacifist, and his writings have inspired Christian anarcho-pacifism that views the state as ”immoral and unsupportable because of its connection with military power” (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy 2017).

Before the Transcendentalist movement, Europe experienced similar trend in philosophy with Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s natural philosophy. Rousseau touched upon many subjects: freedom, free will, authority, nature, morality, societal inequality, representation and government. Like Transcendentalists, Rousseau held a belief that human beings are good by nature but are rendered corrupt by society. ”Rousseau clearly states that morality is not a natural feature of human life, so in whatever sense it is that human beings are good by nature, it is not the moral sense that the casual reader would ordinarily assume” (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy 2010). Rousseau’s work is relevant to many of the social movements that currently fight against COVID restrictions, vaccination agenda, building of 5G antenna towers next to where people live, polluting the environment, systemic poverty and general disconnection from the natural world. Rousseau, although regarded as a philosopher, saw philosophy itself negatively, and to him philosophers were ”the post-hoc rationalizers of self-interest, as apologists for various forms of tyranny, and as playing a role in the alienation of the modern individual from humanity’s natural impulse to compassion” (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy 2010).

Rousseau’s days did not see capitalism as we see it now. It was later Marx (influenced by Hegel, who in turn was influenced by Rousseau) that put together a treatise that considers the societal change we have seen ever since from industrialism and circulation of capital. But Rousseau’s thoughts about the social contract (1968 [1762]), “child-centered” education (Rousseau 2010), and inequality (Graeber & Wengrow 2018; Rousseau 2008) are still relevant today. Especially when we are faced with many societal forces that are contradictory in nature, each of them pushing us into certain direction, demanding our attention, wanting us to change our beliefs about that one particular aspect that connects with other aspects and forms the Matrix of our reality.

We are once again facing a similar situation as the people did back in the days of the first industrial revolution. Now the industrial revolution has reached its fourth cycle, unimaginatively called ”Industry 4.0” (Marr 2018; WEF 2021), where machines are starting to become autonomous and talk to each other. I used to think technology was cool, and went to work for Google. But at Google I learned that technology is not cool, after all. Not until technology becomes completely open source, it will be used by massive conglomerates to build autonomous weapons systems (Cassella 2018; Johnson 2018) and the industry will keep paying ethics researchers to keep writing arguments for them (Charters 2020). Even though I could work for an industry that, given the current trajectory, will be among the biggest producers of CO 2 in the future Vidal 2017), the idea that I would work for an industry that sees weaponizing their products as the grandest idea of mankind’s future is still gnawing.

Because, it is all just business (Huesemann & Huesemann 2011):

One of the functions of critical science is to create awareness of the underlying values, and the political and financial interests which are currently determining the course of science and technology in industrialized society. This exposure of the value-laden character of science and technology is done with the goal of emancipating both people and the environment from domination and exploitation by powerful interests. The ultimate objective is to redirect science and technology to support both ordinary people and the environment, instead of causing suffering through oppression and exploitation by dominant elites. Furthermore, by exposing the myth of the value-neutrality of science and technology, critical science attempts to awaken working scientists and engineers to the social, political, and ethical implications of their work, making it impossible or, at the very least, uncomfortable for them to ignore the wider context and corresponding responsibilities of their professional activities.

It all seems to be connected with state imperialism and the military-industrial(-intelligence) complex. Lenin’s statement (2008 [1916]) equating capitalism with imperialism still prevails this day: ”imperialist wars are absolutely inevitable under such an economic system, as long as private property in the means of production exists”. The conditions change, but the war machine keeps on churning (soon with autonomous weapons!), with wealthy but crooky investors financing projects that are even more dystopian (Byrne 2013). We may remember what president Dwight D. Eisenhower said about the military- industrial complex (NPR 2011):

”In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists, and will persist.”

It is exactly these kinds of doomsday scenarios that inspire people like Theodore John ”The Unabomber” Kaczynski. Kaczynski, famous for sending mail bombs to various university professors around the US, holds a doctoral degree in mathematics. (Wikipedia 2021.) Kaczynski was bullied as a child, and it has been suggested that he was part of an MKULTRA experiment in college (The Week 2017). Kaczynski did not send his bombs haphazardly. He wrote long theoretical pieces to justify his actions, most of them being thematically anarcho-primitivist. In 1995, after sending several bombs to university personnel and business executives in 1978-1995, he said to ”desist from terrorism” if he got his text published in media outlets.

In his Industrial Society and Its Future (Kaczynski 1995), a 35 thousand word essay published in The Washington Post, which the FBI gave the name ”Unabomber manifesto”, Kaczynski attributes many our societal ills to ”leftism”. In the manifesto Kaczynski details how two psychological tendencies, “feelings of inferiority” and “oversocialization”, form the basis of ”the psychology of modern leftism”. Feelings of inferiority are taken to mean the whole spectrum of negative feelings about self: low self-esteem, feelings of powerlessness, guilt, self-hatred etc. Oversocialization is the process of socialization taken to extreme levels:

24. Psychologists use the term “socialization” to designate the process by which children are trained to think and act as society demands. A person is said to be well socialized if he believes in and obeys the moral code of his society and fits in well as a functioning part of that society. It may seem senseless to say that many leftists are over-socialized, since the leftist is perceived as a rebel. Nevertheless, the position can be defended. Many leftists are not such rebels as they seem.

25. The moral code of our society is so demanding that no one can think, feel and act in a completely moral way. For example, we are not supposed to hate anyone, yet almost everyone hates somebody at some time or other, whether he admits it to himself or not. Some people are so highly socialized that the attempt to think, feel and act morally imposes a severe burden on them. In order to avoid feelings of guilt, they continually have to deceive themselves about their own motives and find moral explanations for feelings and actions that in reality have a nonmoral origin. We use the term “oversocialized” to describe such people.

Kaczynski goes on to describe how this oversocialization causes a person to feel guilt and shame for their actions, especially in the context of performing as society expects them to perform. He writes how this concept of oversocialization is used to determine ”the direction of modern leftism”. Further on, Kaczynski describes how modern man needs goals to strive for, to not run the risk of developing serious psychological problems. This goalsetting activity he denotes ”power process”. But these goals can be real or artificial. Setting a goal is “surrogate activity” if the person devotes much time and energy to attaining it, does not attain it, and still feels seriously deprived. It is just a goal for goalsetting’s sake, the unfulfilled other side of the coin of power process. Kaczynski then connects these concepts to the many societal ills (excessive density of population, isolation of man from nature, excessive rapidity of social change and the breakdown of natural small-scale communities such as the extended family, the village or the tribe) by describing how modern society, with all its marketing and advertising creating artificial needs, disrupts the power process, mankind’s search for itself and meaning-making in life. He sees social hierarchies and the need to climb up them, the ”keeping up with the Joneses”, as surrogate activity.

”Because of the constant pressure that the system exerts to modify human behavior, there is a gradual increase in the number of people who cannot or will not adjust to society’s requirements: welfare leeches, youth gang members, cultists, anti-government rebels, radical environmentalist saboteurs, dropouts and resisters of various kinds”. This gradual increase, then, the system tries to ’solve’ by using propaganda, ”to make people WANT the decisions that have been made for them”. In regards to technology, the ”bad” parts cannot be separated from the ”good”, and thus we are constantly facing the dilemma between technology and freedom, new technology being introduced all the time, and new regulations being introduced to curb the negative effects of the technology and at the same time stripping us of our freedoms. Kaczynski concludes, that revolution is easier than reforming the system.

Later, Kaczynski released another of his anti-technological theses. In Anti-Tech Revolution: Why and How (2015) Kaczynski presents a ”comprehensive historical analysis explaining the futility of social control and the catastrophic influence of technological growth on human social and planetary ecological systems.” This time Kaczynski talks more about how to start an anti-tech movement and how to keep it going. The text reads like a mathemathical proof of sorts, it presents ”rules”, ”propositions” and ”postulates” why the technological system will destroy itself (eg. Russell’s Paradox resulting in chaos in a highly complex, tightly coupled system) and why a successful anti-tech movement needs clear goals to avoid some of the errors revolutionary movements have made, which are elaborated in the book. Violence is not offered as a solution in the book, it is seen more like a mishap of sorts, a suboptimal outcome of a revolutionary movement. But it talks about power. Kaczynski got to learn the hard way how the feeling of powerlessness breeds desperate actions that would have been otherwise unnecessary. The book also talks about climate change and related issues, from a mathematic systems theoretical point of view.

Institutions that are in the business of social engineering and behavioral modification, such as the Tavistock Institute in the UK or the CIA in the US, would have us believe that Kaczynski’s actions were ”defences against anxiety” that can be seen as ”withdrawal, informal organization, reactive individualism and scapegoating” (Hills et al. 2020), and to some extent this is true. But Kaczynski interprets the actions of these institutions stemming from technological progress in our society Kaczynski 1995):

117. In any technologically advanced society the individual’s fate MUST depend on decisions that he personally cannot influence to any great extent. A technological society cannot be broken down into small, autonomous communities, because production depends on the cooperation of very large numbers of people and machines. Such a society MUST be highly organized and decisions HAVE TO be made that affect very large numbers of people.

This uniformity of a large hierarchical modern society then forces its will on people (Kaczynski 1995):

119. The system does not and cannot exist to satisfy human needs. Instead, it is human behavior that has to be modified to fit the needs of the system. This has nothing to do with the political or social ideology that may pretend to guide the technological system. It is not the fault of capitalism and it is not the fault of socialism. It is the fault of technology, because the system is guided not by ideology but by technical necessity.

We have once again encountered ananke, necessity. Now, if we consider ourselves as the lonely decision makers in this society, what could we do? We can try and fight fire with fire, but such fights end up producing only pain and casualties (Taylor 2013). Anarcho-naturists and anarcho-pacifists understand that (unnecessary) fighting in most cases does not work. Sometimes fighting is warranted, but it is beyond the scope of this essay to examine those cases. Sending bombs to people’s offices may get you some attention and even make somebody quote your manifesto in an essay, but it is not solving the issue, something which the Unabomber addressed in his later texts. If working a job indirectly supports the military-industrial complex NewScientist 2011), what good does it do? The military-industrial complex is the biggest source of pollution in the world (The Conversation 2019; Acedo 2015), detaching yourself from this complex is imperative. Even if they would manage to convince us with their psyops that they are willing to change and that climate change is an important issue (Ahmed 2014), it would still be the biggest polluter that is controlling the conversation. It has even been suggested that they are behind this climate buzz (Light 2014). Is your job doing that much good in society that it outweighs the cons? If I need to act responsibly, but cannot fight the system nor conform, while at the same time keeping in mind our looming climate disaster, the only reasonable and peaceful response is to exit the system altogether.

Biodynamism’s naturality and parsimony

Owning responsibility and transforming the world implies taking some kind of action. We have already seen how feelings of powerlessness and lack of self-worth can lead to destructive actions. But there are an unlimited amount of actions that can be taken, that are not based in feelings of powerlessness but empowerment.

Exiting society might sound like a lonely project, and some people might rightfully feel lonely when all their peers still want to live in the illusion. But it does not have to be so. A lot of soul-searching needs to be done, and that is usually done in privacy, focusing upon oneself, but beyond that there are ways how to go off-grid and drastically reduce your carbon emissions.

One of the key concepts that will be our guiding principle here is degrowth (Paulson 2017), which ties into values such as organicity, naturality and parsimony. We will want to have less production of artificial things, and more organic and natural things. By artificial we mean long supply chains and many phases of production with modern high technology that produce a large amount of climate effects. By natural we mean using primitive technology, mostly all-natural or recycled materials and something that can be produced even alone, given enough time. Primitive technology does not exclude electricity, it just means producing it differently.

Rudolf Steiner, Austrian philosopher, social reformer, architect, and theosophist, the founder of Anthroposophy and a great reformer of science in matters of spirit, started the first intentional form of organic farming, known as biodynamic agriculture, after he had given a series of lectures on the topic in the last year of his life. (Paull 2011.) Steiner had many spiritual experiences during his life, which lead him to start the Anthroposophy movement. He wanted to apply the scientific process into spiritual realm, inquiring it as it would be as real as our material world. Inquiring this spiritual world helped him access knowledge he claims to not have been access otherwise (Steiner 2011 [1918]). Anthroposophist self-inquiry can be seen as Foucauldian ”technology of the self” that ”provide an intervention mechanism on the part of active subjects, injecting an element of contingency to everyday encounters and alleviating the determinist effect that technologies of power would have otherwise” (Skinner 2012).

Steiner’s thoughts about agriculture are still relevant (Paull 2011):

In 1924 Steiner commented that, “Nowadays people simply think that a certain amount of nitrogen is needed for plant growth, and they imagine it makes no difference how it’s prepared or where it comes from” Steiner, 1924b, pp.9-10). He made the point that, “In the course of this materialistic age of ours, we’ve lost the knowledge of what it takes to continue to care for the natural world” (Steiner, 1924b, p.10).

Our current system seems to think exactly in this way, that if we just compensate our wreaked havoc by investing in ’green’ technology (Elegant 2019), it will all be ok and rainbows in the sky. But it will not. No one is even double checking if the companies that say that they are now carbon neutral actually proactively try to make our world greener. They can just buy a renewable energy company and say now we are green and do nothing else. Some would argue that going ’carbon neutral’ like these massive corporations are doing it is not the way to do it: “’green’ infrastructures are creating conflict and ecological degradation and are the material expression of climate catastrophe” (Dunlap 2020).

Steinerian biodynamism ”encompasses practices of composting, mixed farming systems with use of animal manures, crop rotations, care for animal welfare, looking at the farm as an organism/entity and local distribution systems, all of which contribute toward the protection of the environment, safeguard biodiversity and improve livelihoods of farmers” (Turinek et al. 2009). While modern biodynamic studies focus on agroecological factors such as nutrient cycles, soil characteristics, and nutritional quality (Reganold 1995; Droogers & Bouma 1996), Steiner himself was quite metaphysical in his lectures and paid attention to details such as kingdoms of nature, planetary influences, biorhythms, incarnated and environmental ethers, and the Zodiac (Steiner 2004 [1958]; Nastati 2009).

By shifting to more natural ways of living, we may help Gaia (Lovelock 1991; Singh 2007) heal in many other ways than just reduce our climate emissions. By realizing that we are actually living on the skin of a fairly large and complex organism, we will stop treating it as a plain source of material resources, and start bonding with it, tune into its consciousness and establish two-way communication, just like the natives have done in America.

The way of the natives ought to be our current way, since there is no reason why the natives could not guard the lands they have before. One of the greatest fears of people speaking for private property rights is that managing resources collectively would mean exhausting them. There is no Tragedy of Commons. Just because you are materially poor does not mean that you are any less competent steward of land and wealth, as proposed by Elinor Oström (2009). Acting for climate is not an investment allocation problem. The natives need their land back so that they could do their best to fight the destruction of our ecosystem. The Outokumpu supply chain in Brazilian rainforests, Elon Musk and Bolivian lithium mines, Papua New Guinea indigenous conflict, mining in Lapland in traditional Sami herding areas, Australian uranium mining in indigenous lands… these are all pointless conflicts.

There are also many other ways of staying grounded and in touch with nature, while at the same time cultivating sovereignty. Many of these things revolve around feeding the most immediate community next to you. They reflect ideas such as mutuality, solidarity, organicity, and naturality. Permaculture is a term coined by David Holmgren to describe ”an approach to land management and philosophy that adopts arrangements observed in flourishing natural ecosystems. It includes a set of design principles derived using whole systems thinking. It uses these principles in fields such as regenerative agriculture, rewilding, and community resilience” (Wikipedia: Permaculture 2021). Permaculture has many branches including ecological design, ecological engineering, regenerative design, environmental design, and construction. It also includes integrated water resources management that develops sustainable architecture, and regenerative and self-maintained habitat and agricultural systems modeled from natural ecosystems (Holmgren Desing Services 2007).

Earthships are 100% sustainable homes that are both energy efficient and modern. Earthsips are built with natural and repurposed (recycled) materials, they heat and cool themselves without electric heat, they use solar energy to power electric appliances, they collect all of their water from rain and snowmelt, they re-use their sewage water to fertilize plants, and there’s an indoor garden that grows food in vertical growing spaces (Reynolds 2021). Ecovillages are a ”human-scale, full-featured settlement, in which human activities are harmlessly integrated into the natural world in a way that is supportive of healthy human development and can be successfully continued into the indefinite future” (Gilman & Gilman 1991).

Clifford Harper had a set of drawings imagining an alternative in his book Radical Technology (Harper & Boyle 1976). In them, he shows many of the ideas that were themes in the German garden city movement in the beginning of 20th century (Bollerey & Hartmann 1980), such as collectivised gardens, autonomous housing estates, and community workshops. The book introduces us ’radical technology’, which spans basically all of the concepts we have discussed up to this point: organic agriculture, biodynamic agriculture, vegetarianism, hydroponics, soft energy, insulation, low-cost housing, tree houses, shanty houses, ’folk-built’ houses using traditional methods, houses built from subsoil, self-built houses, housing associations, solar dwellings, domestic paper-making, carpentry, scrap reclamation, printing, community & pirate radio, collectivised gardens, collective workshops for clothesmaking, shoe repair, pottery, household decoration and repairs, autonomous housing estates, autonomous rural villages, etc.

These concepts, while they seem simple, are still empowering, they are meant to let people enjoy they fruits of their labour. Last but certainly not least is the concept that all of these things fall under, alternative (or, appropriate) technology. Alternative technologies are those ”which offer genuine alternatives to the large-scale, complex, centralized, high-energy life forms which dominate the modern age” (Winner 1979). Alternative technologies seek to solve the problems technocentric thinking has caused in society: technical scale and economic concentration, level of complexity or simplicity best suited to technical operations of various kinds, division of labor and its alleged necessity, social and technical hierarchy as it relates to the design of technological systems, and self-sufficiency and interdependence regarding the lives of individuals and communities. Many of these solutions have been developed in Africa, where problems have had to be solved, but resources have been scarce in actuality.

Appropriate technology holds great promise in ways that are currently underappreciated in our society (Huesemann & Huesemann 2011):

As has been mentioned repeatedly throughout this book, the primary goal of technology in our current economic system is to increase material affluence and to generate profits for the wealthy by controlling and exploiting both people and the environment. In view of the reality of interconnectedness, this is neither environmentally sustainable nor socially desirable. In this chapter we discuss how to design technologies which reflect the values of environmental sustainability and social appropriateness. We also emphasize the importance of heeding the precautionary principle in order to prevent unintended consequences, as well as the need for participatory design in order to ensure greater democratic control of technology. Finally, as a specific example of an environmentally sustainable and socially appropriate technology, we discuss the positive contribution of local, organic, small-scale agriculture.

Conclusion

This essay has presented the reader with ramblings of a person who is familiar with Critical Theory, who would like to build a stronger connection to nature, and who is having a major identity crisis in life. I have expressed, albeit feebly, my will to emancipate myself, to exit the Matrix. In Finnish they would say ”Sota ei yhtä miestä kaipaa”, and in George S. Patton’s words this expression would be ”Hell, they won’t miss me, just one man in thousands.”

In this essay I seem to have extensively quoted the Unabomber manifesto. This is not to say that Kaczynski had exceptionally good motives or justifications for his actions. He killed many people and is in prison now. Kaczynski’s ideas are not unique. Quoting his manifesto serves merely to prove one point: he is the product of his environment. Mental illness is no longer a taboo and things have progressed somewhat since Kaczynski’s days. It could be argued that Kaczynski’s writings were just projection of his own feelings of shame and guilt he had gone through. But his mental condition, should he be diagnosed with one (Amador & Reshmi 2000), does not invalidate the things he’s written. In many ways his writings are now more relevant than ever. When we have tech billionaires talking about inserting neuralinks into your brain and downloading thoughts straight from the headquarters, we can really see the manifesto dots connecting.

I wish it would have been just the mental load caused by a ’surrogate activity’ of keeping up with the Joneses that was the cause of all this, but no, it’s the real deal now. When we have corporate executives and federal commissions defending autonomous weapons systems and saying building such systems is a ’moral imperative’ (Gershgorn 2021), you know we have reached peak civilization. It’s all downhill from now on. All participation in society will support this moral imperative, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it. While many would get back to nature for reasons of convenience, such as better health, Rousseau himself would have gotten back to nature ”to feel God in nature” (LaFreniere 1990). It is this kind of humanist transcendentalism (not transhumanism) that we will need again, to realize what we have done to our planet, to realize what needs to be done to abolish the war machine consuming it, and to make ourselves whole again.

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https://kapitaali.com/the-new-hippies/

[clockworkgraystairs]

Everything I didn’t ask for #3

JURDAN FIGHT CLUB AU

Rating M

Warnings: slight violence (?) Mentions of blood.

After discovering Jude is one of the main fighters, Cardan tries to process what on earth is going on.

In the meantime, worrying about gettin out of that job alive.

Chapters: 1   2   3   4   5 [coming soon]

EIDAF Masterlist            General Masterlist             AO3

Tags: @dontfwithlibrarians @flowersinvegas @jurdanhell @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @demydreamer-otaku-and-book-lover @sensitivehighlord @judexcardanxgreenbriar @thesirenwashere @absolute-dissapointment​ 

[if i forgot to tag someone i’m sorry! and please let me know]

AFTER

Cardan remained kneeled next to the unconscious girl. His eyes wide and still locked to Jude’s. Around them the crowd still roared, but for him it was just blurred background noise.

He felt words trapped in his throat. The urge to tell her something. Anything. 

Jude. What the fuck is going on? What are you doing here? Are you ok? You need a doctor.

Nothing came out.

She didn’t say anything either. She kept looking down at him with that odd expression. It was as if the mischievous and teasing girl from before had vanished. In front of him was a fighter, with a look that promised pain for whoever stood in her way.

A hand on his back snapped his attention back. 

“Move, Cardan.” Locke reaching for the girl on the floor. “We need to get her out of here.”

He quickly helped his friend lifting the girl’s feet. Before leaving, he gazed back to Jude one more time, but she had already turned away as a tall man raised her hand above her head and paraded her in front of the audience. 

They kept screaming for The Queen as Cardan crossed the door to the room where he and Locke had left the other unfortunates.

After leaving the girl, Cardan leaned his back against a wall and once more tried to make sense of what he’d just saw.

“It seems like you go for the tough ones, don’t you?” Locke teased, a little hint of nervousness in his words.

“I didn’t know… I mean,” he said. “I thought she was only a guest here or something.”

His friend shrugged. “Maybe she is. People sometimes gets into this things for money or for sport.”

Suddenly, he remembered the exact point of what he’d wanted to say to Locke for the past hours. He straightened and pushed his friend’s shoulder. “What the fuck are we doing here anyway?? You said this was a good job dumbass!”

“Well it is!” He answered, crossing his arms. “If it was a safe or legal event, I didn’t ask. Bartenders who make a lot of questions are not usually hired. And here, my friend, we are making some good money.”

Cardan stared at him.  He was right, he knew that. But still, underground fighting events were deeply illegal. They were since pretty much always but about a decade ago, a similar event had ended up in chaos because rival gang members started a riot. Many people, involved or not, had died. The place was burned down in the process. And it had uncovered several cases of well positioned people involved in drug dealing, women trafficking, among other things. 

Since that day, police had fiercely hunted illegal fighting pits. There were some, of course. But it was rare for anyone to hear about them.

Then again, Cardan knew what it was to have family involved in illegal stuff. And thankfully he’d been able to leave Balekin before he’d messed up more. Or at least he tried. 

Even if he didn’t work with his brother anymore, he was forced to give a fee every month to repay him after one night when Cardan, highly intoxicated, left a warehouse unguarded and several merchandise was stolen. Expensive merchandise. He was going to spend his entire life repaying that mistake. But at least he was on his own, not having to answer any other of Balekin’s calls.

He took a deep breath. He needed to get his shit together. After all the events of the night his thoughts were running full speed, not to mention the headaches the sight of blood and beatings caused him. There was still a faint ringing noise at the back of his mind. 

The door opened and Madoc entered, eyeing all the unconscious bodies laying on the beds. “Good. Leave them there and go back to the bar. Someone will take care of this.”

As they walked back, Cardan eyed the remaining guests. Almost half of them had started to leave after the last encounter, but several other remain. Going back to the gambling tables and talking to each other. He wondered if Jude would still be there, maybe if he-

A hard bump on his shoulder stopped his trail of thoughts, followed by a growl and a hand grabbing his shirt roughly. “Watch it, idiot.” 

He frowned and look up, finding a pair of cruel defying eyes staring back. The same ones he saw when the guy was beating the other one near death. Valerian.

His face and hair were cleaner now, he’d probably washed away the blood after the fight. Still, his expression remained the same. 

Cardan said nothing, if the guy was waiting for an apology he wasn’t going to get it. He might not be a fighter but he was certainly sick of bullies like him. The grip on his shirt didn’t loosen. Grabbing Valerian’s hands he jerked himself off. “I could say the same thing.” Cardan snarled, walking away with Locke.

He only managed a couple of steps before he was pushed to the ground.

The roughness of the floor scratched his forearm. He turned just in time to see Valerian’s fist merely inches from his face.

The next thing Cardan knew, a sharp pain erupted on his jaw throwing him down completely. He could hear Locke yelling something, but before he could turn to face his friend, a heavy body settled on top of him.

People started gathering around them.

Valerian grabbed his shirt again and another blow connected near his eye, blinding him for a moment. Something warm slid down his face. He snarled and grabbed the man’s arm, pushing him away. His fist raised again and Cardan braised himself for the next blow.  

One that never came. 

From one moment to another, the weight over him disappeared with a grunt. He quickly got up, looking at his attacker, who now had a slender arm pulling against his neck. Hard. 

Valerian arched and coughed, rage dancing on his eyes. Behind him, Jude kept janking the man back until they were at safer distance. Then, she let him go and move to stand between him and Cardan. She’d cleaned up too, Cardan noticed. Though she was still wearing the clothes from the match, her hair was loose and the dirt and blood were gone. 

After spitting on the floor, Valerian turned to Jude with gritted teeth, raising up with closed fists as if he were to throw himself against her. Jude just glared at him, fists clenched too. A slight smirk tugging up the corner of her lip.

“Is there any problem here?” Madoc’s strong but calm voice startled him, pulling him out of the scene in front of them. 

The two fighters dropped their defensive pose, eyes still locked at each other’s. 

“There isn’t, General, my apologies.” Valerian muttered. “The barman and I had a little disagreement.” 

“You being a jerk is common knowledge, not a disagreement.” Jude snorted.

The venomous glare he gave her send a shiver through Cardan’s skin. 

“Enough. Everybody back to work now. And you two,” Madoc hissed, pointing at Jude and Valerian. “Drop it. I don’t have time for another of your quarrels today.”

That said, he left, dragging some of the curious spectators back to the gambling tables.

Cardan stood there, not sure if he should approach Jude. Yet.

“You heard your General,” She purred. “Walk.”

Valerian gave a step towards her, baring his teeth. “You won’t be the boss’ favorite forever, bitch.”

Then he was gone. 

Cardan let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Hey man, are you ok?” Locke asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, you know I suck at fights, I should’ve-”

“Yeah, it’s ok.” He touched his brow, were Valerian’s blow had opened his skin. His fingers came back bloodied. 

“You should get that checked.” Jude’s voice softer now, the fierce eyes she’d worn at the end of the fight had disappeared too. “I’ll send over a healer.”

She turned to leave, but Cardan reached for her arm, stopping her. “Hey.”

Pulling back her arm, she fixed him an alarmed look. Right, they weren’t supposed to be seen together. He hesitated. The bruise on her cheek looked less swollen now, but it had started to gain a slight purple stain on the center. “Are you alright?” He mumbled, as casually as he could. 

Jude tilted her head and smirked. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

She noticed his clenched teeth and rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, go.”

Cardan nodded and turned to Locke, walking back to their assigned spot. There, Roach ran back and forth, mixing drinks for the clients gathering there. He’d look funny if it wasn’t for his panicked eyes, searching for his partners among the crowd.  

“About damn time!” He growled. “I’ve been attending all of our side for ages! Come here and- shit, Cardan what happened? Did you-”

“We’ll tell you later, let’s get this place free first.” Locke interrupted him, taking his gaze back to his friend’s wound. “You should get that cleaned, I don’t think people will appreciate blood-flavored drinks.”

They both chuckled as Cardan pressed a wet cloth to his brow. 

With Locke’s help, the bar was empty again in a couple of minutes. All the remaining guests were now minding their own business elsewhere.  

Roach sighed, resting his elbows on the table. “This is why I prefer to collect the money, rather than preparing the drinks. All those people are impossible!”

“Well that’s the fun part too.” Cardan sat on the floor, the cloth now extended all over his whole forehead. The places where he’d been hit throbbed harder now than a couple of minutes ago. 

“Yeah, as fun as being beaten just for walking.” Roach laughed. “Man you really have some bad luck.”   

“Not as bad as you’d think! Otherwise he wouldn’t have left with that gir-”

“Shht!” Cardan silenced him, feeling his cheeks slightly warm. “Let’s not talk about that here, her request.”

Locke barked a laugh, throwing another cloth at him. “You’re scared of Madoc, aren’t you? Fuck, I don’t blame you. He seems just ready to shot anyone anytime. But is he scarier than your girl? I wouldn’t dare getting on her way either.” 

They were going to mock him till the end of times, Cardan was sure of that. 

“You must be Cardan.” An unknown voice said, startling the three of them.

He looked up, taking the cloth away. 

A short, slim woman stood behind the bar. Her short hair, frizzled and oddly white, framed her fine features. She wore a blue scrub, and carried a small first aid kit in her right hand.

The healer, he assumed. 

“That’s me.” 

She nodded and started taking things out of the briefcase, alcohol, cotton wool, antiseptic and god knows what else. “Sit here please.” She motioned at the stool in front of her.

Once he did, she started attending his wound. Fast, quiet, efficiently.

“Did Jude send you?” He whispered. 

The healer hummed and nodded in response. Not much of a talker it would seem.

“Is she coming too?” He tried again, feeling dumb. But he needed some answers. 

“Miss Jude has already left the building.” 

Oh. Something sinked inside him. He let her work in silence, wincing just a bit when she pressed some first aid tape over his eyebrow. Had Jude treated her injuries already? He should probably stop thinking about her. She’d left already. 

“I’m done.” The woman’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. All of her items already packed except for a little pill box. “It will probably sting a little, but it won’t leave any scar. If you experiment any headaches, take one of this pills.” 

Cardan nodded. “Thanks, I will. If you see Jude, tell her I say thank you... Please.”

The girl stared at him. Pondering. Her gaze felt like it could pierce his skull. At last, she sighed. “I will.”

She extended her hand to him, he frowned. An awkward hand-shake, considering she hadn’t gave him one when she arrived. Still, he answered back. 

Then he felt it. 

Something folded between her fingers. 

Trying to keep a steady face, he took it, immediately putting it away from curious eyes. She grabbed her bag, ready to leave when Roach appeared next to them. 

“Uh- excuse me miss, I don’t mean to bother but I cut my finger with a glass a moment ago. And I was wondering if you could- you know.” He babbled and raised his hand, a small gash running along his index.

The healer considered him for a moment, then pulled something from her bag and left it next to Cardan’s pills. “Sorry, I cannot stay.” 

She walked away stiffly, soon disappearing behind some doors. Cardan watched her go.

A muffled laugh sounded behind him. He turned to find Locke covering his mouth in order to avoid the cackle that threatened to come out of it. Roach’s face was the embodiment of embarrassment and failure. 

On the table was a little pink band-aid.

“Nailed it man, NAILED IT!” Locke mocked him. “Please tell me you didn’t actually cut your finger on purpose just to talk to her.” 

“Of course I didn’t you ass! But I might have cut myself because… I was looking at her and didn’t pay attention to the damn broken glass.”

Locke and Cardan looked at each other before both erupted with laughter. Roach’s red ears didn’t help much.

Their jokes continued for a couple of minutes before vanishing completely at the sight of Madoc walking towards them. 

“Well gentleman,” He greeted them. “Your work for today has come to an end. Clean everything and meet me in the kitchens.”

It didn’t take much since they were used to clean as they worked. But still paid a little extra attention into leaving everything impeccable. The last thing they wanted was to owe anything to those people. 

Back in the kitchens, Madoc stood at the center. Waiting. Both of his hands behind him.

“I trust,” He started, glaring deeply at them. “That no word about what happened here today will leave your mouths. Am I correct?”

Cardan didn’t need to be a psychic to know that one of the hands Madoc kept unseen held his gun. 

“You needn’t ask.” Locke answered. “When we accepted the job we knew our lips would be sealed about it, and they’ll remain like that.” 

Well that first part wasn’t entirely true. But his friend had a clever mouth, specially when he needed to save his ass.   

Roach and Cardan swore too they wouldn’t say anything. 

“And if I find out that any of you slipped even the tiniest detail about this, you agree that I’ll have to kill all three of you.” Madoc smiled. “Well not that I’m really asking, but you’re aware of it now.” 

The group remained silent, breaths caught in their throats. 

Once that was cleared, he put away his gun and gave each one a small yellow envelope. “As promised. With a little extra since I had no complains for your work, a difficult thing to accomplish here.” He turned to Cardan. “About the incident with Valerian, I know it wasn’t your fault so, don’t worry about it.” 

Inside the envelope was pure cash. Enough to make Roach whistle. They thanked him and put away their envelopes. 

“There are three steady spots available for our bar zone. The last group, well, liked to gossip a bit too much.” Madoc sneered, clearly enjoying their reactions. Cardan was certain he could notice his pulse under his neck. “Same rules apply. One night every one or two weeks. Same payment, in case you’re interested of course.”

“We are.” Roach and Locke turned to him, wide eyed. The steadiness of his voice surprised even himself. “Consider it done.”

“Good. Keep the uniform then. There is a cab for you outside. I’ll let you know when you’re needed.” 

Outside, they found out most of the cars were already gone. Small groups of people gathered around some of the remaining vehicles to smoke and talk. On the opposite corner, a lonely cab waited for them. 

As soon as they crossed the door, his friend bursted into questions. 

““We are”?? Cardan what the hell were you thinking?!!” Roach nearly shouted. “I won’t deny this is well paid but agreeing to this… I don’t know man-”

Locke didn’t say anything, but his frowned brow was enough.

Cardan stopped in front of them. “Do you really think he was asking? After what he said? We were in this since we arrived, and saying ‘no’ Madoc would’ve only gave him another reason to get rid of us. You can’t- just refuse here, not with this kind of people.”  

A kind that, to his misfortune, he knew quite well. He sighed and passed a hand through his hair.

“I get it, I guess I just need to get used to the idea.” Locke mumbled, looking back to the building.

Roach panicked gaze was still on Cardan. “So this means there’s no way out? Not even a-”

“Fuuuck!” Locke suddenly whispered. “Guys isn’t that Garrett? There, next to the white Audi”

They turned to said car, where a small group of young men shared a bottle of whiskey. Cardan narrowed his eyes a bit but indeed, there he was.

Garrett had worked with them at the bar a couple of years ago, and even though he was a little introverted, Cardan had been good friends with him. Still, he’d left to enter the police academy. At least that’s what Cardan last heard. His normally sandy-coloured hair was dyed black, but that irreverent smirk of his was recognizable anywhere.

“What is he doing here?” He asked, mostly to himself.

The cab driver honked, hurrying them.

Just before closing the door, Cardan glanced back to the group. Garrett stared directly at them, taking a long puff from his cigarette. Then the car started. 

Halfway back to the city, he remembered the paper the healer gave him. With a quick movement, he took it out of his pocket and unfolded it. I was a napkin. With a note. 

I wouldn’t normally offer two for one, but since I didn’t get to say goodbye the way I intended, hopefully this allows me to make up for it some other day.                                                       J.

Under it, a cell phone number. Her cell phone number. 

He grinned and without really thinking about it, he took out his phone and send her a short message. Fuck, would that make him seem desperate? Hopefully not. 

Roach and Locke were talking but he didn’t really paid attention. 

It was until he was folding back Jude’s note that he realized there was something printed on the opposite side of it. Something that made his stomach turned to a knot.

He’d memorice that form since he was a little kid. But the Greenbriar’s shield he’d grown to, had a small “B” at the center in honor to his brother Balekin. 

This one though, had a “D” at that same spot. 

Dain’s.

*************************

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE! 

It took me like forever to reorganize my ideas for this au but IT’S BACK BABY!

xx

[foreficfandom]

Mystic Messenger - Buying MC A Gift

– Zen –

For years, Zen dreamed of buying his love a classic, dainty necklace, romantically delivered in a box all wrapped up in a silk bow. And now he has you! A chance to fulfill this boyfriend dream of his!

He tends to kind of, enforce an image of cuteness on you, even if it’s not your aesthetic. He just likes his love to be innocent and girly. It’s okay if you’re not, he loves you just as much. But when he buys you things, it almost always swings in that direction ‘cause he’s a little unconsciously stubborn like that. 

So he checks his savings and decides that, yep, he’s got enough to splurge a bit, and buys a gold heart necklace. It wasn’t luxurious, nor designer, it was just this teeny 24k gold pendent on a gold-colored chain. The best he could afford at the moment. He asks the store to gift wrap it with the most ‘romantic ribbon’ they have available.

The two of you go on one of your many lunch dates, where Zen has to tuck his hair underneath a hat to make sure the both of you aren’t hassled, and you eat sandwiches with coffee in a cute little shop. 

He slides the box over to you, and there’s this huge smile on his face when you open it to fawn over your gift. 

“It’s only a small thing, but I hope you like it. One day, I’ll be rich enough to afford what you deserve, jagiya.” 

He reaches over and pulls your hair aside to put it around your neck. You touch it with your fingers. It’s all just like his old fantasies. Zen’s romantic dream #35329 fulfilled!

Romantic dream #35330 was when you eventually mentioned to someone in passing, “Oh this necklace? My boyfriend bought it for me.” He just about melted. 

– Yoosung –

For many years, Yoosung didn’t have much money to his name. But he still wanted to buy you gifts because he couldn’t stop thinking about you? Every day he’d daydream about the two of you, about what kind of stuff you’d like to do?? He’d pass by windows of shops and think, “Would MC like this?”

Once he decided to start giving you gifts, he’d kind of freak out a bit because he was worried he’d give you something stupid. He googled for ideas, and talked to Zen, but couldn’t decide what sort of trinkets to shower you with. 

He couldn’t afford good chocolates, and he didn’t know how to buy clothing for another person without going up to you and being like, “Oh, by the way, MC ... what’s your shirt size? Asking for a friend - wait no that’s not what I meant -”

One day, he walks into a bookstore to shop for more mechanical pencils, and by coincidence found large selections of gift items. There’s scented candles! Creative desk toys! Gag gifts of flavored bubble gum and imported mints! 

He ends up choosing what he thought was the cutest. You’d like cute things, right? Cute stuff is universally cheery, so he’d thought you’d enjoy the character-designed set of highlighter markers. 

Turns out that yes, you did enjoy them, and he puffs up with pride all day because yay!! He did a boyfriend thing!

His later gifts were of similar caliber, like sticker sheets or pretty notepads. And later, he finally branches out of the bookstore and looks as jewelry, chocolate boxes, and flower bouquets. Regardless of what he chose, you always loved them. 

– Jaehee –

Most of her ‘gifts’ tend to be of the practical bend. Like stuff for the house both of you end up using, or a set of nice socks because she remembered you mentioning that you needed to replenish your stock.

Not the most romantic gifts, but arguably more appreciated because of how useful they were. Jaehee’s your Functional Adult™ girlfriend and it brings you plenty of joy.

But sometimes she’s compelled to be more whimsical. Her job at C&R didn’t leave her with nothing, and the cafe’s been going so well her wallet’s been more stacked than ever before. So it didn’t take much for her to walk into that gourmet chocolate boutique and purchase a sample box of their best truffles.

Managing your own small business means evenings are usually free. You and Jaehee enjoy a homemade meal, and settle down to drink some beer and watch dramas. Before you can relax completely, she goes, “Oh, I remembered something,” goes to the bedroom, and walks out with a small paper bag. 

“Just a little thing I bought earlier today. I saw it and thought of you.” You opened to reveal your chocolates, your smile making Jaehee’s eyes light up.

You insisted she share them with you, but she refused. She got a smaller box especially to avoid you wanting to share a portion with her. The two of you share most of her gifts already, this is intended to be for you and only you.

So instead you enjoyed your chocolates, biting them in half and showing Jaehee how the chefs filled each one, and discussing the flavors. It gave her inspiration for a new seasonal mocha blend for the cafe!

– Jumin –

Rip in fucking pieces your old commoner life. If a month doesn’t go by where Jumin doesn’t try get you at least two designer items, the world is ending. 

Salvatore handbags. Jewelry from Prada. Balmain dresses. Vuitton shoes. Gourmet boxed strawberries, giant influencer sets of luxury makeup, oh Valentino is producing these cute teddy bears for some reason? Here’s five. 

He’s pretty unpredictable about it, too. Some days, he comes home from a business trip with only one piece for you, for which you’re almost thankful for the lack of a heart attack. And sometimes, he just ups and gets you a car or something, or five new Saint Laurent blouses.

Depending on who you are, it can get pretty overwhelming, or even troubling. All this worth sitting in your room, and is it even towards a productive cause? You remember the days when your family had to struggle with debt and insurance and student loans, you think of all you know who have to deal with eviction and EBT cards, you think of those who starve or die from sickness because they have no money.

You try to explain to Jumin that all this excess is so ... it’s too much. “But my love, I just want to spoil you,” he says. 

 “Then spend more time with me. Don’t blow all this money on material things. I want you.”

That’s a harder thing for Jumin to grant. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to his work, and it’s an internal struggle for him to forgo his crowded schedule to make room for you. 

But it’s a gift that rewards you both. Jumin’s time clears up a bit more, and he stops trying to bury you in luxury you don’t need. You get to wake up next to him more, and spend afternoons and evenings and nights with him. It’s the best gift he could ever give you. 

– Saeyoung –

No, this is not a shitpost. This boy gifts you a fucking gun. Which, depending on who you are, could even spark an argument where Saeyoung insists strongly that he just wants to keep you safe. Carrying guns is highly illegal in South Korea, but since when did Saeyoung care about the law?

You woke up one morning to Saeyoung already five hours deep into his work, because his sleep schedule is still fucked up even though he’s no longer part of the agency. A strange black box was next to your handbag, and you opened it to reveal a small plastic pistol with ammo cartridges. 

“It should be small enough to fit in your purse. Keep the safety on unless you want to shoot. Stay safe, baby - S”

Saeyoung already gives you crazy gifts of robot cats, automatic night lights, talking dolls, and even at one point a taser. But this was crossing a line. If you got caught with this in your purse, it’d be a legal disaster. 

Now granted, Saeyoung didn’t actually intend for you to be carrying a concealed firearm whenever you go to the cornerstore to buy milk. He just kinda thought it’d be an extra precaution during more troubled times. Being slightly sleep deprived and hopped up on soda at the time didn’t help his decision making. 

You wait until he leaves his hacker den to testily shove the gun under his nose and demand an explanation. He pleads his case, and tries to insist that he was only thinking of your safety.

If you’re not comfortable carrying the gun around, he helps you tuck it away in an accessible part of the bunker. 

“Please, baby, just let me know you’re protected.” He hugs you, and you thank him for his thoughtfulness. Even if its a bit weird. 

– Saeran –

His Ray alter would have scoured the globe for anything you asked of him. Saeran today still wants to spoil you as much as he can. Which, as his life slowly stabilizes, begins to grow in opportunity.

Like his brother, he makes tech for you. Mostly software, such as tricking out your laptop to have firewall defense that no money could buy, or hotwiring your phone to run quicker and faster than new.

His money begins to flow in from freelance work, and he starts to look for more classically romantic gifts. First, it was bouquets of flowers he’d surprise you with, then it was little wrapped boxes of macaroons, and then he would shop for crystal jewelry and expensive perfumes.

He wanted to pursue that ‘princess’ image. He no longer tried to force you into it, but instead let it inspire his romantic bent. Every holiday or occasion that allowed for the slightest excuse for gift giving, and he was guaranteed to give you something or another. On Chuseok, he gave you a silk shawl. For Halloween, it was a large box of decorated sweets. On Christmas, it was a pressed flower pendent. New Years was a smart watch that he reprogrammed. 

And on random occasions, he’ll still come home with a large bouquet of carefully arranged flowers, or perhaps a new potted plant to decorate the house. 

You always reward him with a kiss, and it makes him feel really appreciated. A bit of loving normalcy in his otherwise troubled life. 

– Jihyun –

While Jumin tends to be very ostentatious with his wealth, Jumin is a lot more reserved. He may not buy you Chanel coats on a whim, but he still shells out quite large amounts of money for dinner at a fancy restaurant, or a beautiful hand-printed silk scarf he bought while working in Shanghai.

When he buys you smaller gifts, he picks up things from co-ops and other independent, artsy places, usually while he’s running other errands. He’d be shopping for kitchen gadgets and touring the wellness section, and he spotted this beautiful set of bath salts that he’d thought you enjoy. Or, he’s on his way back from the gym and passed a natural produce boutique, and saw a gorgeous gift box of unique tea mixes. 

He’s a believer of sustainable living, so most of what he buys he tries to put his money towards ethical practices. So if you’re getting something from him, expect it to be natural-grade, vegan, fair-trade, etc. Whether its a bag of candied oranges, or a pearl necklace. 

He likes to be spontaneous with his casual trinkets, and traditional when it comes to occasions. You never know if he’s gonna come back from grocery shopping with a scented candle for you, but it’s for sure that he’s got some special bracelet or hair barrettes for Valentine’s. 

To him, these are all just evidences of his newfound peace and tranquility. There’s nothing like being out and about, seeing something, and being able to go, “Hm! I wonder if my love would like this?” So it propels him to buy it and test out the hypothesis. And it almost always results in your smile, which to him is the best reward.

[whitehotharlots]

Liberal cruelty has consquences

This semester is winding down. As I am desperate to avoid grading student papers, I’ve spent the morning reading longish-form online articles. I just came across one that I feel very conflicted about. The online reaction to it as been troubling. So I don’t know if I have anything particularly coherent to say, but I’d like to talk about it.

The anonymously written piece is titled “What Happened After My 13-Year-Old Son Joined the Alt Right.”  It documents a young man’s journey from a garden variety, liberal-leaning goon to a frothing neo nazi mutant.

The piece is understandably sympathetic, seeing as it was written by the boy’s parent. The writer’s whiny and heavy handed tone caused me, and most of my e-pals, to dismiss it. If anything, the essay showcases an immense failure of parenting. If my child were to ask me to take him or her to a “Traditional American Culture” rally, I would slap the everloving shit of them. Lord knows how many times the kid’s parents had dropped the ball before it ever got to that point.

But then I re-read the start of the article, in which the parent identifies the trigger point for their son’s downward slide:

One morning during first period, a male friend of Sam’s mentioned a meme whose suggestive name was an inside joke between the two of them. Sam laughed. A girl at the table overheard their private conversation, misconstrued it as a sexual reference, and reported it as sexual harassment. Sam’s guidance counselor pulled him out of his next class and accused him of “breaking the law.” Before long, he was in the office of a male administrator who informed him that the exchange was “illegal,” hinted that the police were coming, and delivered him into the custody of the school’s resource officer. At the administrator’s instruction, that man ushered Sam into an empty room, handed him a blank sheet of paper, and instructed him to write a “statement of guilt.”

No one called me as this unfolded, even though Sam cried for about six hours straight as staff members parked him in vacant offices to keep him away from other students. When he stepped off the bus that afternoon and I asked why his eyes were so swollen, he informed me that he would probably be suspended, but possibly also expelled and arrested.

If Kafka were a middle-schooler today, this is the nightmare novel he would have written.

At a meeting two days later with my husband, Sam, and me, the administrator piled more accusations on top of the harassment charge—even implying, with undisguised hostility, that Sam and his friend were gay. He waved in front of us a statement from the girl at the table and insisted that Sam would need to defend himself against her claims if he wanted to prove his innocence. But the administrator refused to reveal the particulars of the complaint (he had also blacked out identifying details, FBI-style) and then hid the paperwork under a book. He declared that it was his primary duty, as a school official and as a father of daughters, to believe and to protect the girls under his care.

Eck… who edited this? It would have worked so much better without a fucking Kafka reference.

So, maybe it was the tone. I dunno. But most readers seem to regard this section as exaggerated, possibly fabricated.  The takeaway was “boo hoo, the nazi kid got punished for sexually harassing  a girl.” Heck: If a reader is truly dedicated to the #BelieveAllWomen mantra, then this description doesn’t warrant sympathy even if it’s entirely true. The kid said something that upset the girl. It wasn’t directed to her and it wasn’t about her. But still, he upset her, and she’s a girl, so he is bad and deserved whatever punishment was doled out to him.

And this got me thinking about my experiences in high school, as a student in the late 90s and a teacher in the mid-aughts. Administrators seemed to always be adopting some or other policy of harsh punishment for bad behavior: zero tolerance toward weapons, drugs, hats, disrespectful posture, electronic devices, swearing, Simpsons t-shirts, and mentally unhygenic reading materials. During dances and social gatherings, my middle school allowed students to bring in CDs from home. That was a decent policy, but anyone who attempted to play a “hip hop” track would receive an immediate suspension for “endorsing violence,” regardless of the track’s lyrical content. My high school adopted a firm anti-bullying policy, but once a boy came to school wearing a gothic dress as some kind of vague transgressive statement, and two separate male teachers called him a fag--out in the open, in front of everybody, as part of the official business of teaching.

Once, in 8th grade, two kids were caught taking over-the-counter caffeine pills. They didn’t get sick or anything; a girl saw them and she narced. They were arrested by the school resource officer, taken in a cop car to the hospital to have their stomachs pumped, and then summarily expelled, their young lives effectively ruined over 50 milligrams of a safe and legal stimulant. At an emergency assembly held the next day, the frog-faced principal croaked out a dire warning that the use of such drugs was strictly forbidden and we would all be subjected to the same fate, should we attempt to sneak in any No Doz. As he issued his stern warning, he slurped gluttonously from a 22-ounce mug of gas station coffee.

The point is, zero tolerance never really means zero tolerance. Rules are always--always, literally always, without exception in the whole of human history--enforced arbitrarily. Harsh policies rarely make anyone safer. They are employed instead to further humiliate and brutalize those who have already been rejected by the system. In my last two paragraphs, I cited the dumbest and most conspicuous examples of arbitrary cruelty that happened to pop into my head. This doesn’t cover the everyday, petty cruelties that teachers and administrators would exact upon kids they simply didn’t like. Without exception, these were the kids who were already marginalized: effeminate boys, masculine but unathletic girls, kids who dressed poorly, kids who spoke with accents, black kids, kids with learning disabilities or behavioral problems. These kids would be given detentions or even suspensions for minor infractions--looking away from the chalkboard, slouching, sneaking in candy, laughing at importune times, etc. It wasn’t the teacher’s fault, of course: zero tolerance and all that. But, strangely, the zero tolerance policies never seemed to apply to the popular, athletic, and/or well-connected kids. If Suzie Creamcheese was caught sneaking some Starburst during Algebra--well, she’s probably hungry, seeing as she works so hard. If Raul, Roofus, or Sheena were caught doing the same? God help them.

Some teachers were nicer than others, of course. Some were downright supportive. Others were simply evil. There was one, when I was in 7th grade, who was particularly repulsive and cruel--no kidding, his admiration of Rush Limbaugh was formative in my early-adopted hatred of American conservatives. He had matted red hair and teeth like a cracked picket fence and would wear a leather jacket out to lunch. Anyhow, he would prattle on about his hatred of kids who “Just. Refuse. To. Learn.” These kids were almost always black. Pure coincidence, I’m sure. He’d make a show of tossing them out of class--sometimes physically--for infractions as minor as getting an answer wrong when called upon. One time, a twitchy white kid who wore the same t-shirt every day called him out: It’s unfair, he said, that I’m getting thrown out of class for getting an answer wrong, when right before me another kid got several chances to respond.

The teacher turned beet red. He got on his knees and put his face two inches in front of the twitchy kid’s eyes. 

“I’m not throwing you out because you got the answer wrong,” he explained. “I’m throwing you out because you are you.”

Again, these are the conspicuous examples. The everyday stuff is harder to describe twenty-five years after it happened.  Most people were not brutalized and they didn’t have a single moment that ruined their life, but they were still exposed to a deeply unfair and cruel system, and such exposure naturally engenders feelings of betrayal, hopelessness, and anger.

Here’s my story--it’s particularly stupid. 9th grade. One day,  I walked into Spanish class, and the large woman who teaches in that classroom before my section grabbed me by the collar, physically lifted me out of my chair, and shoved her moist biscuit of a hand into my face. “What is this,” she demanded.

This was all very sudden. I could see nothing but her hand, which had a distinct fecal aroma.

“I don’t know,” I said.

She removed her hand. I looked down toward desk. She stood silently. I had no fucking idea what she was talking about.

“You’re gonna tell me what you did, right now, or I’m gonna double the detentions.”

I was still silent. Seriously, no idea what was going on. This enraged her. She began to count upward, starting at 3 detentions and stopping at 10, by which point tears were welling up and my face was flushed. I said I seriously did not know. She pointed to a small pentagram someone had engraved into the desktop. The desks, by the way, were movable. Anyone could have done it. She blamed me because she didn’t like me. I served 10 detentions and had to pay over a hundred dollars (a shitload of money for a 13-year-old) to get the desk refinished.

This isn't the end of the world, obviously. But it really, oddly broke me. Before, I had thought that so long as I did was I supposed to and didn’t break any rules, I’d be okay. Now I realized that was bullshit, that any vindictive cunt with a few ounces of power could punish me for any reason, at any time, and I wouldn’t be allowed to mount a defense. That’s the sort of thing that fucks with a kid’s head.  I mean, christ--it’s 23 years later and I’m still kinda pissed about it. I hope that woman is dead.

I regained a sense of control by stealing books from the woman’s classroom. A few times a week, I would grab a textbook when I came in, use it during class, and walk out with it. At the end of the school year, some friends and I burned them in a glorious bonfire along the banks of the Mississippi.

My response was petty and destructive, but I don’t feel any pengs of guilt or shame in remembering it. I had to do something to reassert agency, to feel like I had some control, and I managed to find a way to go about doing it that didn’t hurt anybody or get me into trouble. Regardless of the morality of my particular response, we can agree that kids are now much more surveilled than they were 20-odd years ago, and that minor mischief is now much more harshly criminalized. If a kid finds themself on the outs within their school, there’s really no way they can push back. Their only available avenue of asserting control over their lives is to wander into welcoming communities elsewhere…

One more anecdote then I’m done….

My sister was in high school during 9/11. The attacks were on a Tuesday, and the whole rest of the week was assemblies and talking circles and other such activities meant to assuage fear and gin up the hatred of the dirty brown bastards that done this. Two of my sister’s friends, older boys, were the sort of kids who read Howard Zinn and listened to Jello Biafra’s spoken word records. During one meeting, they expressed exasperation at a girl who was sobbing because she just, like, didn’t know why anyone would do that. The boys certainly didn’t approve of the attacks, but they tried to explain the whole concept of the US being an unhinged and murderous imperial power that had done much worse stuff all over the globe. The audience gasped. The boys were hauled into the principal’s office. They were charged with verbally assaulting the crying girl. One was suspended. The other expelled.

So, I dunno… go ahead. If you think due process is evil, that all victimhood claims are valid and should be taken at face value, and that kids of lesser social status should be demonized and made into criminals for upsetting members of the fair sex, then you do you. That’s fine if that’s what you believe. But please don’t be so naive as to think that the bulk of these newly criminalized behaviors are going to actually be malignant, or that the genuinely malignant behaviors of secure kids will be curbed in any way. Please respect yourself enough to realize that school admins aren’t magic sages with mature moral compasses--a plurality of them were business majors in college, for fuck’s sake. And most importantly, don’t be surprised if the kids you dismiss wind up doing some crazy or awful shit in response.

[raisingsupergirl]

A Daydream In Defense of Classical Education: Love the Lord Your God With all Your Solid, Liquid, Gas, and Plasma

LentWatch 2020, Week One: Freedom!

Change is hard. Breaking habits is harder. And breaking habits without accountability is the hardest, which is probably why I've already "failed" at my personal Lent goals by snacking after dinner (c'mon, it was just a few cookies… and some meat-n-cheese… and some chips). But despite realizing my limits and having to drop that one goal, I've held strong to the rest (which you can read about by clicking here), and the results have been like a long sigh after months of holding my breath.

At first, I felt a little lost. Especially regarding social media and YouTube videos. It's amazing how we, in the 21st century, have lost the ability to sit idle. Every spare moment is taken up by checking our phones. Waiting at doctor's offices, going to the bathroom, five-second pauses in friendly conversation—they all fall victim to Instagram notifications, leaving no room for actual thought. And I almost forgot the joy of such idleness before I gave these little things up. And that, combined with cutting television down to a minimum and alcohol down to zero, has made way for that glorious thing that used to be so condemned by teachers and parents: daydreaming!

Now, one can't just cut out all entertainment cold turkey. I'm not even convinced that a human can survive on work and sleep alone. There must be some in-between where we recharge and enjoy pleasures of our own choosing. And so, instead of Facebook and Netflix and beers, I've been reading—at night, mostly, but also in the morning, and even a little during the day. As I said in my previous post, I started re-reading Celebration of Discipline. But I'm also reading The Book of Revelation, The Time Machine, and a creative young adult trilogy called The Illuminae Files. I've never been one to read multiple things at one time, but gosh, it seems like my mind has been hungry for too long, and now it's chowing down. And with the glut of all these stories and ideas, I'm finding that I pause every page or so to just think.

What am I thinking about? All kinds of stuff! For example, why water can't (typically) get hotter than 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Or why an open refrigerator will actually heat a room. Or whether Einstein was wrong about exceeding the speed of light. Or why four separate books of the Bible seem to disagree about how to love God (and thus, what it means to be human). You know, normal stuff.

WARNING: What follows is some serious musing and rambling. If you're strapped for time or are easily irritated by random details, skip to the last paragraph. You'll have no idea what the title of this post means, but hey, I'm not sure I really know, so…

Now, if you haven't checked out, you're probably just intrigued enough to wonder if I've completely lost it. But it may surprise you to know that all of the thoughts I listed above are quite related. And I never would have had them (or their subsequent "higher" questions) if I hadn't "wasted" tens of thousands of dollars on a bunch of classes that I "didn't need" in college. I would have just read the books I listed earlier with interest, and then I would have moved on with my life. But, you see, there are things that bind us—things that connect us to art, literature, history, architecture, mathematics, science, religion, and back to art again. And, for me at least, the more I fill in the gaps between these elements of the human experience, the more I appreciate it all.

I get that not everyone is like me. I get that most people are happy to learn a craft—become an expert, even—work at that craft, leave a legacy, and catch the last episode of their favorite TV shows. And that's the way it's always been. I mean, not everyone in ancient Greece was a philosopher. Not everyone in the Middle Ages received a classical education. But there may have been soldiers and peasants who would have enjoyed the experience had they been given the opportunity. And I, for one, am one of those peasants.

As I've said in previous posts, my young life was characterized by impulsiveness, which culminate in the idea that, "I should go to college and become a physical therapist." I just kind of had the idea one day, so I did it. I resonate with Elle Woods (from Legally Blonde) when she applied to Harvard Law School and said, "What, like it's hard?" Now, of course college was hard (and PT school was much more so), but I enjoyed it. All of it. Even the classes that I didn't need to take: philosophy, freshman English (in which I learned only about Little Red Riding Hood in all of her iterations throughout history…), physics, Old Testament studies, American history. Learning to enjoy education was a slow burn, and it definitely didn't peak until college. If I'd have followed my first inclinations as a senior in high school, I would have joined the military or the police academy, and I would have had a fulfilling career in either (likely with a more impactful contribution to society), but I never would have understood the universe in the way that I do now. And that would have been a real shame.

But I did go to college, and I did rack up student loans (which I'm scheduled to pay off this spring!). And I did come close to what could be called a classical education, which laid the foundation for me to continue to learn, grow, and connect thoughts and ideas into new and creative concepts… some of which are kind of insane, like the one's I mentioned above, which I will now explain briefly (but only if you see the dragon in this picture I took below. Why? Because it’s awesome, and if you don’t see it, you’re not worthy--aka weird enough--to continue):

Thanks to the books I'm reading in tandem—along with plenty of breaks spent daydreaming in idle, wandering thought—I've dredged up an old fascination of mine: Why is the Great Commandment represented in four different ways in the Bible? "Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength." That's how the author of Deuteronomy puts it. But then when the verse is quoted by Jesus thousands of years later, Matthew, Mark, and Luke all put it in slightly different terms: "heart, soul, and mind," "heart, soul, mind, and strength," and "heart, soul, strength, and mind," respectively. Now, I realize the differences are subtle, and Mark and Luke both say the same things in a different order, but they are different. And when the essence of the phrase is, "Love God with everything you have," it's easy to wonder if these components make up everything it means to be human. And further research into the original languages in which these phrases were written sheds some light onto the discrepancy: English (and Greek, for that matter) doesn't have the words to describe the original Hebrew text, so slight variations are represented based on who's writing it and in what language.

But the intrigue remains. What does make up a human? And the answer, for someone like me (OCD, science-minded, Christian foundation), it's clear that we're bound together by a multifaceted system, like the Holy Trinity or the Four States of Matter. And so, if we take the States of Matter approach, what if our strength (bones, muscles, tendons) is akin to "solids," our heart (hormones, neurotransmitters, basic emotions) is akin to "liquids," our mind (cortical thought, short-term memories, self-awareness) is akin to "gas," and our soul (that ethereal, immortal morality not bound to social constructs or genetic influence) is akin to "plasma?" And so, such extrapolation (i.e. going down the Wikipedia rabbit hole) naturally leads to all sorts of allegory and thought puzzles. Oh, what fun it is to dream!

LAST PARAGRAPH BELOW FOR NORMAL PEOPLE:

Like I said, cutting the distractions from my day has allowed me to get back to the things that bring me true joy: quiet contemplation, purposeful living, and totally normal ideas about what it means to be human. Week one has been a success. I'm thankful for the money I "wasted" on my education because it's made me the man I am today, and I'm thankful for Lent because, even though I will inevitably fail at some of it, my ultimate victory will be remembering who I am as a man (which, apparently, boils down to the various states of matter…). So, thanks for reading, y'all. You could have been doing a bunch of other things (and you probably wish you had), but hopefully my rambling forced you to have at least one thought of your own.

And maybe, just maybe, that thought will lead to a daydream…

[ofduplicitousparis]

Hello! It’s Katie again with a trash child, I’ll be good and skip the ramble though so:

TWs: Immigration / Deportation, Death, Cancer

grant gustin. male. he/him  /  did i hear you say constantly checking a rolex watch, an ever present pompous smirk, denim jackets and ripped jeans ? then you must be talking about paris, i’d recognize them anywhere. i’ve heard that the twenty nine year old criminal defense lawyer is a capricorn and honestly, i see it. they’re known for being deceitful and edonistic, but their ambitious and discret tendencies make up for it. they’ve been staying at du lac for one week and i think that their real name is james ruth, but don’t spill. 

QUICK FACTS:

Codename: Paris Legal Name: James Alexander Ruth (psst from the mun though >.> that middle name is a reference to his father. He doesn’t know that though) Preferred Name when not using her codename: James. Age: 29 Gender:  Male Sexuality: Bisexual Date of Birth: January 1st Birthplace: Woodlawn, Bronx, NY Hometown: Dublin, Ireland Nationality: Irish, with American citizenship still in tact technically Height: 6′0″

Languages: English, Irish Occupation: Criminal Defense Lawyer

Father’s Full Name: James doesn’t know, actually Father’s Status: Unknown Mother’s Full Name:  Molly O’Malley/Ruth Mother’s Status: Deceased (After a battle with brain cancer) Mother’s Occupation: N/A (was a housekeeper at a hotel before she died) Ruth Siblings Oldest to Youngest:

James

Kiara (TBA, I’m debating making her a wanted connection? So her name is technically TBA as well - all I know is she’s younger than him ok.)

Relationship Status: Single

QUICK HISTORY

• To start off, James was born to Molly Ruth (as she was going by at the time) in the Bronx. As his father’s name isn’t on his birth certificate, he really has zero clue about who his father could be or anything about the man. His mother never mentioned who he was, or why he’s not in his life, and at this point, he really doesn’t want to know. (There’s only one time he’s actually tried to look into it, see below).

• His mother never married, in fact, he can’t recall a day where she actually even dated. Sure, it happened, otherwise his sister Kiara wouldn’t exist, but it only feeds into him not having a clue about who his father is or how he came to be.

• Even with only having one parent though, the ‘Ruth’ home was happy. Sure he didn’t often see his mother as much as he wished he did, she worked her ass off, but he had his baby sister, he was doing well in school, and he had an amazing social life. In fact, growing up he actually spent a lot of time with his next door neighbor and aunt, Ella, and her family. It was uncommon for the two families to celebrate holidays and go to church together. He wished he saw his mom a bit more often, of course, but he was happy in America.

• That is, until it was found out that Molly didn’t have a green-card or proper paperwork to actually work in the country. At ten years of age, James quickly was thrown into the world deportation trials and being sent to stay with his Aunt Ella, who he learned wasn’t actually his aunt biologically. Not long after his mom was deported, talks of sending him and his sister to Ireland to be with her began.

• James didn’t want to go at first, in fact - he did everything he thought of to get out of leaving his entire world behind. For the only time in his life, he tried to find out who his father was in hopes he’d be able to stay with him. It quickly became apparent that his mother had covered her tracks to the point he wouldn’t be able to figure it out, so by his 11th birthday - he was living in a country he had never been before, needing to find new friends and catch up on what he was supposed to already know in school.

• It was only after reuniting with his mother he learned why she left in the first place. Molly O’Malley had grown up in Dublin during the Troubles, and in 1987 - not long after losing her mother - she decided to get out of there as soon as she possibly could. Once upon sneaking into America, she started going by Ruth - hoping the very American last name would prevent anyone truly looking into the situation (because #WhitePrivilege is a thing here).

• After arriving in Ireland, Molly went back to her actual name - finding work in yet another hotel (she was so used to that line of work at this point, she didn’t dare try anything else). When given the option to change his name, James refused. It was a piece of his identity at this point. He’ll respond to ‘The O’Malley Boy’ if someone really… knows his family and stuff but otherwise he really doesn’t use it.

• While life in Ireland was an adjustment, James eventually made it. He started spending time with his very extensive family, learned Irish, breezed through secondary school, enrolled in Uni, got his law degree, etc etc. While he still does some very American things (what his mom called chips are fries but American fries are also… not the same thing as the proper version of what she calls chips, etc etc), he’s undoubtedly picked up behaviorism, slang, etc from Ireland too.

• He’s become a very well known criminal defense lawyer since he’s been able to practice, in doing so he’s made quite the money for himself. It’s not uncommon for him to show off and flash what he owns.

• The reason he is in Dulac is because of his mother, actually. She recently died from a very lengthy and brutal fight with brain cancer, and James really can’t stand being home right now. He was the one who took care of her the most when she was so ill, so it’s very much a rough time for him. The wound is still very fresh so… don’t ask him about his mam and expect answers, ok.

• James isn’t exactly the... nicest person. Okay, I love him, he’s an asshole and he doesn’t always play nicely with others. He knows what he wants, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get it. He’s probably the kind of guest who makes things harder but... tries to make it look like he’s not doing that. The staff who has to worry the least about his shit is the maids / housekeeping - his mom was one, his heart does come out occasionally, and that’s one of those cases. I really could see other staff being like “ugh, he made my life harder AGAIN” and a maid being like “really? He offered to help me carry towels and tries to make my job as easy as humanly possible??”

[arcticdementor]

Scott Alexander argued for Kolmogorov complicity - in short, to quietly shut up and let the crazies take over while you go off and do your work in areas the crazies aren't attacking. This is one of the last few interesting articles he wrote about politics and the "culture war" before banning the subject from his site and subreddit for fear of his career after being repeatedly doxxed and threatened by SJW activists.

Unfortunately, as we've seen, there is nothing the crazies won't attack and attempt to take over. Universities, Silicon Valley, Hollywood, comic books, video games, science fiction, you name it. Kolmogorov complicity is not an option. And frankly, Kolmogorov wasn't some honorable man who simply nodded along with the Communists while turning away to do his real work in mathematics - he cooperated with the Soviets in driving their political opponents out of mathematics. That's not defensible.

…

So, you're tired of tech companies censoring the Internet and SJWs ruining everything? Don't just roll over and let them win, but fight back - but fight back smartly, without putting yourself at risk. Instead of becoming complicit, become a spy. That's the core of my thesis.

…

Most of this is informed by my background in the tech industry, but some of it may be applicable to other industries, in particular individuals in large public companies and public universities. In addition, any of this which talks about legal remedies is going to be primarily centered on the United States, though you may have similar legal remedies elsewhere in the world. Please note that I am not a lawyer, and if you are in a position where you need a lawyer, you should talk to a real lawyer instead of taking advice from the Internet.

Just one thing first and foremost - if you can avoid it, never sign an arbitration agreement.

…

From now on, you're not fighting them in the open. Forget the "marketplace of ideas" - you're a spy. Except instead of being paid off by a country or an industrial competitor, you're in it to fight a war for freedom of speech within Western society. It's tragic that it's come to this, but that's the state of affairs that we find ourselves in.

So, how do you go about this? There are two things to keep track of: illegal actions, and political activity; and two classes of action: company policy, and people advocating for these things. Any way you slice it, you've got to collect the information, exfiltrate it safely, and sit on it until it's time to expose them. Anything that's embarrassing for the company, anything that's illegal, any individual that's getting away with stuff that you wouldn't be able to? Save it for posterity.

…

You must save this stuff on a medium that is not under corporate control. Not only do you not want to lose access of the data when you inevitably leave the company, you need to have control over the stuff you're planning on leaking in a way that they can't track. Don't sit there and email screenshots from your work email to your personal email. That's stupid. Don't save it to your work computer and then try to plug in a USB stick and transfer it off, either. That's trivial for corporate IT to detect these days. Most of the megacorps have very locked down computers and will flag that kind of thing immediately. Don't think "oh well I'll just turn the wifi off and do it" either, they'll send the alert as soon as you connect again.

The safest thing I've come up with is to have a camera (or cameraphone) that is in no way associated with work (don't use the phone that has your company's security app on it!), and take pictures of the screen of your laptop. Most of these companies let employees take laptops home. If you put your laptop on a table, prop your elbow up on a table, and get a good focus angle, it's possible to take pretty good pictures of the screen. Or get a tripod. Oh, and don't store these pictures on a cloud that's controlled by the company you work for. That one's kind of obvious, but if you work for Facebook and put all the pictures on Instagram... well, one day you just might find that you can't log into your account anymore and oh also you've got a meeting with HR on your calendar that day that you didn't know about. Funny thing, that... Don't be stupid. Like I said at the beginning, you're a spy. Keep the spy mindset.

Timing's key, too. Don't dump the data the day you post a 40,000 word manifesto on the company email server and quit. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and your goal is to be anonymous. SJWs want to virtue signal and get credit for being the wokest person on the planet; your goal is to expose them without anyone knowing you did it.

…

If you are trying to bring legal action against the company, the first thing to remember is that you must have "standing". This means you have to be able to demonstrate to a court that you were directly harmed by a particular action. It's going to be very hard for you to do this even if the company is actively discriminating against your ethnic or racial group. (For example, if they're discriminating against white men, and you're a white man who got hired, you weren't "discriminated against" in the hiring process - going to be hard for you to win that case, obviously; and it's close to impossible for you to ever win a case that you didn't get a promotion you deserved because they can always just say "well we promoted someone else who was qualified".) As you can see from the Damore lawsuit, this is time-consuming, requires a ton of money for lawyers, and you may end up in front of some SJW judge or someone who's paid off by the company you're suing.

…

Alternatively, you can go after them in the media. As we know, most of the mainstream media is covering for these bastards, so you're forced to turn to the partisans like Breitbart Tech or maybe the weirdos with principles like Glenn Greenwald. If it's your first time talking to the reporters, you'll probably want to go in anonymously - make a new protonmail account, use Telegram, that kind of thing. They may require you to show proof that you really do work for the company before you can convince them; at that point you're just going to have to decide whether or not you trust them.

If you really can't get ahold of anyone in the media, consider just dumping it on the internet. Of course reddit bans doxing, but there are websites that don't. Just make sure you're doing it from an IP that can't be tracked back to you - if you're going to dump it all on the internet, do it from free wifi somewhere, use a VPN, etc. Don't do it from your home internet from the same IP address you log in from. You don't want that information getting back to you.

And it goes without saying - keep your fucking mouth shut. Don't start going "oh man did you see those leaks on the internet yesterday" and getting into arguments about it. If it explodes and goes viral there will inevitably be water cooler talk about it; stick to the safe stuff: "Never say anything you wouldn't want on the New York Times front page", "If they catch the guy he's going to be fired so fast it'll make his head spin", that kind of thing.

…

So, you run your own business and want to safeguard it against SJW takeover?

You want to do all the same checking up on your potential employees that you would in the above case, but it actually gets harder for you here, because you are going to be required to maintain some sort of reasonable race/gender balance, particularly if your company grows. If you're consistently turning away SJWs more than likely a number of them will be women, and they'll try to hit you for not hiring "enough" women. Especially if you're in a field which is predominantly male, this kind of lawsuit can be extremely difficult to fight off. The best defense may be to flip the numbers around - interview and turn down a large number of men specifically so that you can claim that you're hiring a higher percentage of women who interview than you do men who interview.

…

You might see groups pop up at larger companies that are semi-political or appear that they offer some opposition to the SJW hivemind. It's tempting to link up with like-minded individuals, but it's best not to be active in those groups. If you're vocal in those groups, it effectively paints a target on your back. Keep your mouth shut and blend in. Stick to work at work, leave your politics at home, and fight the battle in secret.

[stampeede]

How have you been doing? Learn anything new about life, God?

Thanks for asking! I appreciate it.Funny you should ask… 

Lately I’ve been immersed in looking at the false teachers of today, actually.I was a bit shocked to realize that a couple of my spiritual heroes, and especially a couple that I looked into when I was in a recent dry spell, are just fakes…

Let me begin by saying that my faith is intact and I am actually closer to God now than I was before. It shook me, but it has also cleared out some garbage that was polluting my views. I don’t have time to go into depth now, but in short I’m not bying the “street healers” anymore. They’re all over Youtube with their spectacular shows. 

Yes, shows, because that’s what it is.Now, to clarify, I do believe in miracles, and I do believe in street ministry, but not the kind I’m going to address here.

So, here it is: - People going out and caring for others by helping with practical matters such as food, shelter, homework, lawnmowing etc I completely support. The Salvation Army has a motto: “Soup, soap and salvation”, which means you first tend to people’s basic needs - no strings attached - and then you can share your faith if they are ready to hear it. (It usually makes them curious anyway.)

 - What I don’t support are the guys that wander the street (very often with a camera) and ask people if they have any bodily issues they can pray for, and healings are abundant. Or are they healed? I believed it for way too long.The trademark for these guys is that surprisingly often, whatever problem the person they meet has, it can be traced to having one leg shorter than the other, and it’s always people with shoes…I heard a magician describe how you can do this trick yourself, because it is an illusion. (It involves pulling out the heal of the shoe and simply pushing it back in. You can also move sideways to make the feet realign, but that’s harder to hide.) There are also other things they “heal” which can be produced by misdirection and manipulation. If I hold your knee in a bad position, you are likely to agree that there’s less pain after I let go. And legally blind doesn’t mean completely blind, so you can “suddenly” see how many fingers I hold up when I hold them against a contrasting background. You get the picture…

In their meetings, people often get to fill out a contact card before it starts, and pastors have been exposed quoting from these cards. They claim the Holy spirit told them, even though the information on the card was false. (In one instance they even managed to record the radio feed going into the pastors ear-piece…)

One thing that had bothered me while looking at these street guys was the lack of follow-up. You have to search a while to find someone that actually follows this healing with a conversation about salvation, which is odd, because that should really be the end goal of these activities.

What good is it to have a leg grow out, when the soul is ignored? I’d rather limp into heaven..

Now, this is a difficult subject, because it involves a lot of false teaching going along with the “miracles”Here are a few hints that you have encountered one of these guys:

They often deny that Jesus was both God and human on earth.

They often tie answered prayer (ie; getting what you want) to your faith. So if you have a chronical illness, or you are poor, it must be because you don’t have enough faith.

They quote scripture with verses out of context and don’t read whole bible passages.

When questioned or rebuked, they call people evil and lost, instead of just explaining how they came to interpret a verse in a certain way. (There’s a great example online of a preacher who prophesies over the local pastor, calling him a man of God and all good things, but when he calls her out on the false teaching, she calls him a demon and has him removed. So she’s basically saying that her prophesy was bull…)

For some reason, your step of faith almost always involves giving money, and if you give your last scrap of cash, that’s really strong faith and God will make you rich. As a consequence of this, people lose their homes, but guess who’s got a mansion? (To be clear, there are MANY verses in the bible that go against the connectiong between money and blessings.)

They often cite their personal revelations to justify why they go against the bible. (”I have the spirit, so I don’t need to follow the bible”)

Some even claim that God has the power, but they channel and control the miracles, and that’s a really diminishing portrait of God.

Now, I could rant on, and I’d really like to, because this is serious stuff. There are people that die because these preachers tell them to throw away their medicines. A young girl was told that when she wasn’t healed is was her fault for having sin in her life, so she killed herself instead.

But what I really advise you to do is to study this for yourself, because there is a lot to look at, so I’ll just give you some resources here to help you find out for yourself.

1. Start by wathcing the documentary “Miracles for sale“ by Derren Brown. (It’s on Youtube)

Even though he’s not a believer as far as I know, he treats the faith and the believers with great respect, this show goes after the faking guys. He trains a regular guy in all the tricks and manipulations, and the result is mind-boggling.

2. Then look at what Justin Peters has to say. He has plenty of teachings on Youtube, and in contrast to the false teachers, he uses the bible for reference. (If you ask him a question about for example verse 4, he’ll say: “Sure, let’s look at it, but we’ll start at verse 1, so we can get the context.”

3. Another guy who in my mind has sound and sensible teaching is Greg Boyd. He’s a well studied scholar, and can reference the original greek and hebrew words and their meaning like it’s ingrained in his head.

4. Being a metal head, I would also recommend you look at pastor Bob Beeman, and his video blog “Pastor Bob daily”. He’s sensible and sound, and knows life outside the box.I was thinking about whether or not I would name names, and I thought I’d rather have you look for yourself - and you WILL find them. I am also aware that mentioning names may trigger defenses if you are into one of them, like I was. I was just lucky enough that there was already a part of my brain that thought something was off.

But then I realized that it can be quite a wide search, so I’ll give you a couple of  guys to start with:Todd White, Benny Hinn, Kenneth Copeland and Bill Johnson. Oh, and basically the “Word of Faith” and “New Apostolic Revolution” movements.

Happy hunting, but be aware that this can shake you up quite a bit, when things you may have trusted turn out to be empty.

It did for me. I found myself walking through the mall hoping to meet someone who would fix my bad knees, but I’m glad I never did, because when the placebo and adrenalie wears off, both the knees and heart would hurt.

Remember to read the bible yourself without an agenda, and to pray and ask God to show you his love and to show you what’s real. 

Because it’s all there - you just have to look past the carnival show that’s taking focus from the loving arms of Jesus, who wants you to come as you are and just marinate in his unconditional love, that’s always free and always available.

[sociologyquotes]

United States War Crimes During the Vietnam War

from the article War Crimes: Agent Orange, Monsanto, Dow Chemical and Other Ugly Legacies of the Vietnam War by Dr. Gary G. Kohls

“Fifty years ago this next month (December 1965), with the urging of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the rubber stamp approval of President Lyndon Johnson and Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, the United States Air Force started secretly spraying the forests of Laos with a deadly herbicide that was known as Agent Orange.

Operation Ranch Hand, whose motto was “Only We Can Prevent Forests” (a shameful takeoff of Smokey the Bear’s admonition), was a desperate, costly and ultimately futile effort to make it a little harder for the National Liberation Front soldiers from North Vietnam to join and supply their comrades-in-arms in the south. Both the guerilla fighters in the south and the NLF army had been fighting to liberate Vietnam from the exploitive colonial domination from foreign nations such as imperial France (that began colonizing Vietnam in 1874), then Japan (during WWII), then the United States (since France’s expulsion after their huge military defeat at Dien Bien Phu in 1954) and then against its own nation’s US-backed fascist/military regime in South Vietnam that was headed by the brutal and corrupt President Diem.

(Incidentally, the nepotism in the US-backed, Roman Catholic Diem’s iron-fisted rule was almost laughable, with one brother being the Catholic Archbishop of Vietnam, a second brother being in charge of the Hue district, and a third brother being the co-founder of the only legal political party in South Vietnam [as well as Diem’s principal adviser]. It needs to be pointed out that true democracies do not criminalize political parties.)

The aim of the National Liberation Front was to unite the north and the south portions of the country and free it from the influence and occupation of foreign invaders. The leader of the liberation movement since its beginning was Ho Chi Minh, who had made sincere appeals to both President Woodrow Wilson (after WWI had weakened France’s colonial system) and President Harry Truman (after the Japanese had taken over Vietnam during WWII and then surrendered to the US in 1945).

Each appeal asked for America’s help to liberate Vietnam from their French colonial oppressors, and each one fell on deaf ears, even though Ho Chi Minh had frequently incorporated the wording and spirit of America’s Declaration of Independence in his continuous efforts to achieve justice for his suffering people.

Agent Orange’s Ecological Devastation of Southeast Asia

Operation Ranch Hand had actually been in operation since 1961, mainly spraying its poisons on Vietnam’s forests and crop land. The purpose of the operation was to defoliate trees and shrubs and kill food crops that were providing cover and food for the “enemy”.

Operation Ranch Hand consisted of spraying a variety of highly toxic polychlorinated herbicide solutions that contained a variety of chemicals that are known to be (in addition to killing plant life) human and animal mitochondrial toxins, immunotoxins, hormone disrupters, genotoxins, mutagens, teratogens, diabetogens and carcinogens that were manufactured by such amoral multinational corporate chemical giants like Monsanto, Dow Chemical, DuPont and Diamond Shamrock (now Valero Energy). All were eager war profiteers whose CEOs and share-holders somehow have always benefitted financially from America’s wars.

Such non-human entities as Monsanto and the weapons manufacturers don’t care if the wars that they can profit from are illegal or not, war crimes or not; if they can make money they will be there at the trough.

They are however, expert at duping the Pentagon into paying exorbitantly high prices for inferior, unnecessary or dangerous war materiels. One only needs to recall Vice President Dick Cheney’s Halliburton Corporation and that company’s no-bid multibillion dollar contracts that underserved our soldiers during the past three wars, but enriched any number of One Percenters.

Agent Orange was the most commonly used of a handful of color-coded herbicidal poisons that the USAF sprayed (and frequently re-sprayed) over rural Vietnam (and ultimately – and secretly – Laos and Cambodia). It was also used heavily over the perimeters of many of its military bases, the toxic carcinogenic and disease-inducing chemicals often splashing directly upon American soldiers. (But “stuff happens” as Donald Rumsfeld would say).

The soil in and around some of the US and ARVN (Army of the Republic of Viet Nam) military bases continue to have extremely high levels of dioxin. The US military bases where the barrels of Agent Orange were off-loaded, stored and then pumped into the spray planes or “brown water” swift boats are especially contaminated, as were those guinea pig “atomic soldiers” who handled the chemicals. The Da Nang airbase today has dioxin contamination levels over 300 times higher than that which international agencies would recommend remediation. (Guess which guilty nation is doing nothing about Agent Orange contamination of the sovereign nation of Vietnam?)

It is fair to speculate that any American G-I that spent any time at bases such as Da Nang, Phu Cat and Bien Hoa in the 1960s and 1970s may have been exposed. US Navy swift boat crews that sprayed Agent Orange on the shores of the bushy rivers that they patrolled were often soaked by the oily chemicals that were sprayed from the hoses. Secretary of State Kerry, are you listening?

The poisonous spraying continued for a decade until it was stopped in 1971. The South Vietnamese air force, that had started spraying Agent Orange before the US did, continued the program beyond 1971.

Agent Orange – the Chemical That Never Stops Giving/Poisoning

Agent Orange was a 50/50 mixture of two herbicides: 2,4-D (2,4-dichlorophenoxyacetic acid) and 2,4,5-T (2,4,5-trichlorophenoxyacetic acid). Other herbicide agents were mixtures of other equally toxic polychlorinated compounds, but every barrel was contaminated by substantial amounts of dioxin, one of the most toxic industry-made chemicals known to man.

The toxicity of the herbicidal chemicals known as “dioxins” or “dioxin-like compounds” is due to the chlorine atoms and the benzene molecules (or phenyl groups) in the compound to which they are attached. Dioxins have very long half-lives and are thus very poisonous to the liver’s detoxifying enzymes that humans and animals rely on to degrade synthetic chemicals that get into the blood stream. The fatty tissues of exposed Vietnam vets, even decades after exposure, continue to have measureable levels of dioxins.

[...]  Should it be a War Crime to Use Disease-inducing Herbicides as an Instrument of War?

According to Wikipedia,

“War crimes have been broadly defined by the Nuremberg Principles as “violations of the laws or customs of war”, which includes massacres, bombings of civilian targets, terrorism, mutilation, torture and the murder of detainees and prisoners of war [realities that abounded at places like My Lai and other massacre sites]. Additional common crimes include theft, arson, and the destruction of property not warranted by military necessity.”

According to that definition, anybody with a smidgen of awareness of what really happens in any combat zone would have to conclude that every war that the US military has ordered its young soldiers to go off and fight and kill in, especially the many corporate-endorsed, Wall Street wars, was laden with war crimes.

Four million innocent Vietnamese civilians were exposed to Agent Orange, and as many as 3 million have suffered diagnosable illnesses because of it, including the progeny of people who were exposedto it, approximating the number of innocent Vietnamese civilians that were killed in the war. The Red Cross of Vietnam says that up to 1 million people are disabled with Agent Orange-induced illnesses. There has been an epidemic of birth defects, chronic illnesses, fetal anomalies and neurological and mental illnesses since the “American War”.

Most thinking humans would agree that destroying the health and livelihoods of innocent farmers, women, children, babies and old people (who had no interest in the war) by poisoning their forests, farms, food and water supplies qualifies as a war crime.

Disrespecting Sickened Veterans Again and Again

According to Wikipedia, the chemical companies involved in an Agent Orange Vietnam veterans’ class action lawsuit in 1984 (against seven chemical companies that got Agent Orange contracts from the Pentagon) denied that there was a link between their poisons and the veterans’ health problems. On May 7, 1984, as is usual for Big Corporations that know when they are losing, the seven chemical companies settled out of court for $180 million just hours before jury selection was to begin. The companies agreed to pay the $180 million as compensation if the veterans dropped all claims against them.

45% of the sum was ordered to be paid by Monsanto. Many veterans were outraged, feeling that they had been betrayed by the lawyers. Fairness Hearings were held in five major American cities, where veterans and their families discussed their reactions to the settlement, and condemned the actions of the lawyers and courts, demanding the case be heard before a jury of their peers. The federal judge refused the appeals, claiming the settlement was “fair and just”. By 1989, the veterans’ fears were confirmed when it was decided how the money from the settlement would be paid out. A totally disabled Vietnam veteran would receive a corporate-friendly maximum of $12,000 spread out over the course of 10 years. By accepting the settlement payments, disabled veterans would become ineligible for many state benefits such as food stamps, public assistance, and government pensions. A widow of a veteran who died because of Agent Orange would only receive $3,700.

According to Wikipedia, “In 2004, Monsanto spokesman Jill Montgomery said Monsanto should not be liable at all for injuries or deaths caused by Agent Orange, saying: ‘We are sympathetic with people who believe they have been injured and understand their concern to find the cause, but reliable scientific evidence indicates that Agent Orange is not the cause of serious long-term health effects.’”

[...] Such shabby treatment of returning veterans has been the norm after every war, including the reality of the “bonus army” revolt of the 1930s when thousands of poor, disabled and/or unemployed World War I vets marched on Washington, DC, demanding the bonus that had been promised them in the 1920s. Rather than receiving justice, Generals Douglas MacArthur and Dwight Eisenhower dishonorably ordered their troops to burn the bonus army’s temporary villages and disperse the vets empty-handed.

[...] US Veterans’ Diseases Caused by Agent Orange

I conclude this essay by listing the currently-accepted list of diseases that the VA acknowledges can be caused by exposure to Agent Orange. This applies to American veterans, but one can be certain that the consequences are a hundred times worse for the Vietnamese people who were sprayed and who are still being exposed to it in the soil for the last 50 years.

The VA says that certain cancers and other health problems can be caused by exposure to Agent Orange and the other herbicides during their military service. Veterans and their survivors may be eligible for benefits if they have one of these diagnoses.

Amyloidosis, Chronic B-cell Leukemias, Chloracne, Type II Diabetes Mellitus, Hodgkins Disease, Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, Ischemic Heart Disease, Multiple Myeloma, Parkinson’s Disease, Peripheral Neuropathy, Porphyria Cutanea Tarda, Prostate Cancer, Respiratory Cancers (including lung cancer), Hairy Cell Leukemia, Soft Tissue Sarcomas and spina bifida in infants of Agent Orange exposed Vietnam veterans.”

[the-record-columns]

October 17, 2018: Columns

It never occurred to me the trouble I would be in...

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher 

I’m hoping the Statute of Limitations has run out on the Welborn bootlegger I want to tell you about today, because it’s me.

When I was in school at Western Carolina University in the late 60’s, whenever folks would figure out I was from Wilkes County, North  Carolina, they would invariably ask if I could get them a jar of white liquor. I knew the county had a reputation for moonshine but, until I went away to school, I had no idea how strong a reputation. Well, the regular requests coupled with the fact that I was always broke as a convict, got me thinking I could help my buddies and make a little money at the same time.  All I really needed was a source I could trust, and I would be in business.

When I mentioned my idea to Chelsie McNeil one day, he immediately steered me to his lifelong friend, Maurice Wheeling.  Maurice ran the Wheeling’s Store on N.C. 268 at the Elk Creek bridge in Ferguson and, sure enough, he was willing to help.  Each Sunday, on my way back to school, I would go by Wheeling’s Store in Ferguson and pick up 12 or 24 pints of Wilkes County’s finest white liquor.  The going rate was $2 a pint and, when I didn’t have the money, Maurice would give me credit till the next trip.  This arrangement worked very well, as I was easily able to charge $4 a pint at school. I’m telling you, that stuff was popular because, at the time, anyone over 21 could buy bonded liquor at an ABC Store for as little as $3 a pint.

Then there was the apple brandy.

Apple brandy was much harder to come by, and I was getting a lot of inquiries.  I had asked Maurice about brandy on a couple of occasions, but he never seemed to have any.  Then, one Sunday he had good news.

“Look at this.” he said, flashing the grin that everyone in Ferguson loved. “Here’s something that will pass for apple brandy until we can do better."  He opened a case of pint jars and held one up to the light.  He laughed as he explained that he had put a small slice of Limber Twig apples in each jar.  "Take out the apple before you show these to anyone. When they take the lid off the jar, all they will smell is apples and they’ll be happy.”

Maurice Wheeling knew exactly what he was talking about.  It worked like a charm and everyone was thrilled.  I sold “apple brandy” for $6 a pint as fast as I could unload it.

Truth is, I continued to haul a little “produce” as long as I was in school at Western. It never occurred to me the trouble I would be in if I had an accident and that white liquor spilled, or if for some other reason I managed to get caught.

That reality would come later, in the 70s, when I was working at WWWC in Wilkesboro with a disc jockey named Ric Vandett.  Ric had invited me to go to New York City with him for his cousin’s wedding, and I agreed to go.  All the entire trip would cost me, he said, was a case of  “…the good stuff.”

"No problem,” I said, and set about putting my hands on a few jars of white liquor and, once again, it was Chelsie McNeil who found it for me.  When Ric Vandett and I arrived in New York, I was soon introduced to the father of the bride, whose first question was simply, "Are you the guy with the moonshine?“

"Yes.” I answered, and delivered the goods.

From that moment forward, I was a member of the family, an honored guest. Yes, I was Cousin Ken from North  Carolina.  It was a completely fascinating weekend.  I had never been to a real Italian wedding, and they pulled out all the stops. There were endless parties and receptions and, every day, I continued to receive whispered “thank yous” for my contribution to the festivities.

As Ric and I were returning home that weekend, we talked a lot about the good times we enjoyed on our trip.  After a while, I told him I was actually a bit nervous around all his uncles and cousins.  When he asked why, I told him it was because it seemed as though most of them were carrying guns all weekend.

Even in church.

Ric laughed out loud as he explained to me his uncles and cousins are all New York City cops, and therefore required to carry guns.

“Are you telling me I delivered a case of white liquor to a ballroom full of policemen?” I stuttered.

“Yeah,” Ric said, as he nodded, and laughed again.

Folks, I want you to know I went out of the liquor business that day, never to return.

 Restore Faith in Yourself

By LAURA WELBORN

I have the obvious universal goal of losing weight.  

My friend encouraged me to do weight watchers with her.  It has been interesting how the principles of being aware of what you are eating in a point system.  I learned not to stay focused on my overall goal but to rejoice when I lost a pound or so a week.  I learned to forgive myself when I over ate the points for the day and try to make it up the next few days.  Points are counted each week and then you start over.  

Eating has become intentional and I learned to be OK with it being a slow consistent weight loss.  I began to consciously shift my focus away from the big goals and toward the little daily rituals that support them.  Consider the following…

●       If your struggling with an addiction your goal is to resist the temptation of your vice one day at a time.

●       If you’re a student, your goal is to learn and earn the diploma to qualify you to do what you want to do in a career.  Your ritual is your daily study habits.

●       If you’re a parent, your goal is to be a great role model for your children.  Your ritual is the time and energy you commit to setting a good example each day.

●       If you’re a human being, your goal is to live a happy, meaningful life.  Your ritual is the small, positive steps forward you take every day towards kindness and gratitude.

And if you mess up occasionally?  You own up to it, you forgive yourself, and you try again.  One day at a time, one step at a time, you get to restoring your faith in yourself which is arguably the most significant hidden benefit of consistently practicing a daily ritual—of trying again and again and again.

When you try to achieve a goal all at one time when you fail you lose faith in both your ability and yourself.  It’s kind of like another person constantly lying to you—eventually you stop trusting them. The same holds true with the little promises you make to yourself that always end in disappointment. Eventually, you stop trusting yourself.

And the solution in most cases is the same too: you have to restore your faith and trust gradually, with small promises, small steps, daily rituals), and small victories.  Again, this process takes time, but it happens if you stick to it.  And it’s undoubtedly one of the most important, life-changing things you can do for yourself.

And this is way weight watchers is successful- it builds on small steps, intentional eating and celebrating victories weekly at their meetings.   Then there is the starting new each week and forgiving yourself when you overeat.  I think the writing down everything you eat helps build accountability to your goal.  So when we meet our goals in small steps we restore our faith in the idea that we can achieve our goal…. It’s all about the small steps - the daily rituals that count.  

Laura Welborn is a counselor at Donlin Counseling who works with people to meet their goals of conquering addictions and healing relationships.  www.donlincounseling.com  336-838-7371

Israeli innovation blesses the nations​

 By EARL COX

Special to The Record

Israeli innovation was on the front burner during German Chancellor Angela Merkel’s recent visit to Israel which highlighted joint initiatives in water, green energy and agritech. Israel and Germany also agreed to collaborate in artificial intelligence, cyber defense, water, nanotechnology, electrochemistry, and oceanographic and cancer research. Merkel’s visit is just one example of how Israel reaches out to help and heal the world.  

Israeli innovation touches nearly every sector of life—science, business, food, defense, health, even navigating traffic (WAZE is an Israel app). In medicine, there’s help for mustard gas victims, cartilage replacement, desert plants that combat lymphoma, even a pill-size camera patients can swallow for noninvasive colonoscopies.

It’s been 70 years since Israel started transforming the Middle East’s technology desert, making it bloom and boom with more than 5,000 start-ups and myriad multinational corporations. But what’s most remarkable about this relatively tiny nation is the darkness of the region around her.

Despite the challenges of literally draining the swamp, providing for refugees, forging a common language, and facing wars and hostility from Day One, Israel’s defense forces, democracy and educational values have driven what some call its “miraculous” economic and social growth.  Israel’s economy is booming. 

Israel’s military trains young adults “to lead and manage people, improvise, become mission-oriented, and work in teams,” said “Start-up Nation” authors Dan Senor and Saul Singer. Plus, being a democracy protects and encourages individual freedom and initiative, unlike authoritarian regimes, which quench knowledge that might upset the equilibrium.

But one of innovation’s greatest drivers is Israeli education, with its seven research universities, 66 institutions of higher learning, and equal educational opportunities for all races and faiths within its borders. As a result, Israel is a global leader in patents, and has the fifth highest number of scientific articles per million people, the highest R&D output and a stunning percentage of Nobel laureates.

 Yet when Israel reached out to Jerusalem’s Arab citizens to offer its curriculum in their schools thereby opening a door for their children to study at its highly ranked universities—Palestinian educators slammed the offer as “racist.” Higher Education Minister Sabri Saidam called it a “declaration of war against Arab and Palestinian existence in East Jerusalem.” Educator Ziyad Al-Shamali threatened legal action against any schools allowing the “Judaization of education.” The official PA daily accused Israel of “imposing” its elective offer to “control the minds of Palestinian students and falsify Palestinian history.”

Palestinian leaders fear that Israel will teach history like they do—as propaganda and brainwashing. They distrust the West’s educational approach of free thought and inquiry, which could expose students to the truth about Israel’s democracy and history—including Jerusalem and the Temple Mount. Thus the Palestinians’ hatred of Israel has barred their children from a potentially brighter future. 

This mentality illustrates why Arabs, who once led the world in science, are dropping behind. Some Arab scholars attribute this to Islam. Pakistani Professor Pervez Hoodbhoy told The New York Times he attributes the dearth to “an increasing emphasis over the last millennium on rote learning based on the Koran. The notion that all knowledge is in the Great Text is a great disincentive to learning. It's destructive if we want to create a thinking person, someone who can analyze, question and create.''

The rejection of critical thought and innovation is producing “a great army of young Arabs, jobless, unskilled and embittered, cut off from changing their own societies by democratic means,”according to The Economist.

Israel discreetly uses its expertise to help its Arab neighbors. But so long as the Palestinians are blinded by hatred, and hemmed in by authoritarianism, they may remain a people of missed opportunities.

 The Hebrew Scriptures say, “Choose life.” The first two commandments, cornerstones of Jewish law and the IDF code of ethics, say to love G-d and your neighbor. But Islam is a religion of war and conquest. This perspective helps explain why Palestinians can’t fathom when Israel extends a helping hand. 

To untap and train talent and creativity in today’s Arab youth, some educational and democratic fresh air could release them into a better future. Spurning Israel, which desires to share its blessings with the world, leads nowhere.