#and then i remember the winston churchill incident

[beatlebugblog]

loving the Beatles feels so beautiful and profound and then I remember some stupid shit they did and it ruins it

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Having both De Gaulle's and Churchill's account (this was one of my grandpa's most prized possessions and I got it after he died) of WWII around is pretty interesting.

On one hand, because De Gaulle is a much more pleasant and engaging storyteller. Mind you, that doesn't mean he's more accurate or anything like that, but he works the concept of a memoir as "the things that happened as I remember them, and the impressions I got from them". Churchill is doing a heavy, heavy chronicle, full of transcripts of telegrams and letters and communications and maps every 2 paragraphs or so, which might be very useful to the amateur historian, but that makes the experience of reading it as a narrative akin to chewing drywall (hence why I have never really read it before; just read a bit here and there about specific events).

The fun part here is the contrast when the perspectives collide.

In early June 1940, De Gaulle is made secretary of the Ministry of Defense in France and sent by the president on a mission to London, where he meets Churchill for the first time:

"Mr. Churchill received me at Downing Street. It was the first time I had a meeting with him. The impression I got of him reaffirmed my conviction that, led by such a fighter, Great Britain would never bend. Mr. Churchill seemed to be prepared for the most difficult enterprises, as long as they also were grandiose ones. The certainty of his judgement, his vast culture, the knowledge he had of most of the matter regarding the countries and men he dealt with, and at last, his passion for the specific problems relating to war unfolded with ease and pleasure. Above all he was made, by virtue of his character, to act, risk, and play his role decidedly and without hesitation. In one word, I found him decided in his position as guide and chief. Such were my first impressions. What followed did nothing but confirm them, revealing to me as well his eloquence and the profit he derived from it. Whatever his audience was -multitude, assembly, council, even a single listener-, whatever the spot -in front of the microphone, at the tribune, at table, or at his desk-, the original, poetic, and moving torrent of his ideas, arguments, and feelings gave him an almost infallible ascendancy within the dramatic environment in which the poor world panted. Able politician that he was, he used that angelic and diabolical gift to stir the passivity of the English character, as much as to impress the spirit of the foreigners. Even the humor with which he seasoned his gestures and phrases, and the way in which he sometimes used politeness and sometimes anger, showed to which point he dominated the terrible game in which he was immersed. The harsh and painful incidents that happened several times between us, caused by the friction of tempers, the opposition of certain interests of our respective countries, and of the abuses that England committed to the detriment of a wounded France, influenced afterwards my attitudes towards the Prime Minister, but in no way did they affect my opinion of his qualities. Winston Churchill always appeared to me, from the beginning to the end of this big drama, as the great champion of a great enterprise, and the great maker of a great History.

Churchill does not record this meeting at all. He cannot have just "forgotten" or dismissed it. You don't forget meeting a 6'5 dude of extremely idiosyncratic posture and manner, specially if you had to deal with him on a regular basis afterwards. The painfully slow and detailed telling of his memoirs don't allow for "it was insignificant enough".

The first mention we get from Churchill is something the like of "I went to Paris to see Reynaud, and there was a very tall fellow walking the gardens".

The fourth time Churchill visited France in 1940 is at a meeting and dinner they both attended. De Gaulle recalls an encouraging comment Churchill directed at Petain, then this:

"Mr. Churchill showed himself imperturbable, full of drive, but keeping a polite reserve in front of the cornered french; he was already overcome -and perhaps not without a certain secret satisfaction- by the terrible and magnificent prospect of an England abandoned to its fate at the island, England that he was to guide to salvation through effort... After three hours of discussion that led nowhere, we sat to dinner. I was by the side of Mr. Churchill. Our conversation strengthened the trust I had in his will. And him, in turn, I am certain, drew the conclusion that De Gaulle, though without material resources, was not a less resolute man."

Meanwhile, Churchill:

"After an interval, we were led to the castle, where we found Reynaud, mariscal Pétain, general Weygand, air general Vuillemin and some others, including the relatively young general De Gaulle, who had just been made sub-secretary of the Ministry of National Defense... Around ten o'clock everyone took their places at table. I sat by the right of Reynaud; by my right was general De Gaulle."

That's it. That's all he had to say.

Don't get me wrong, De Gaulle's text is full of elegant darts at Churchill's manipulative, petty and sly doings and sayings, he's not like, The VictimTM here. It's just very funny that De Gaulle goes "Churchill was a great chief of war, because he was determined and master of himself and also a manipulative backstabber", and then Churchill goes "De Gaulle who? I have no idea who this tall and not very young person whom I needed and used and tried to get rid of and couldn't and who irritated me and annoyed me to no end is".

*All quotes are my translation from the Spanish translations I'm reading from, sorry.

[girlactionfigure]

Why I’m Leaving Mumford & Sons

I loved those first tours. Bouncing off a sweaty stage in an Edinburgh catacomb we then had to get to a gig in Camden by lunch the next day. We couldn’t fit all four of us and Ted’s double-bass into the VW Polo. I think it was Ben who drew the short-straw and had to follow by train with his keyboard. I remember blitzing it down the M6 through the night, the lads asleep beside me. We made it but my voice sadly didn’t, completely shot by exhaustion, I had to mime my harmonies. Being in Mumford & Sons was exhilarating.

Every gig was its own adventure. Every gig its own story. Be it odysseys through the Scottish Islands, or soapbox shows in Soho. Where would we sleep that night? Hostels in Fort William, pub floors in Ipswich, even the Travelodge in Carlisle maintains a sort of charm in my mind. We saw the country and then, as things miraculously grew, the world. All the while doing what we loved. Music. And not just any music. These songs meant something. They felt important to me. Songs with the message of hope and love. I was surrounded by three supremely talented song-writers and Marcus, our singer with a one-in-a-million voice. A voice that can compel both a field of 80,000 and the intimacy of a front room. Fast-forward ten years and we were playing those same songs every night in arenas, flying first-class, staying in luxury hotels and being paid handsomely to do so. I was a lucky boy.

On stage, to my left Ted, a roaring bear, with his double-bass flying high above him. To my right Ben, with his unparalleled passion for music, pounding at the keys. And Marcus leading us with all the might of a hurricane or all the tenderness of a breeze, depending on what the song demanded. What a blessing it was to be so close to such talent as theirs. It will be with immense pride that I look back at my time with Mumford & Sons. A legacy of songs that I believe will stand the test of ages. What we’ve achieved together has vastly exceeded the wildest fantasies of this shitkicker from Mortlake.

Who in their right mind would willingly walk away from this?

It turns out I would. And as you might imagine it’s been no easy decision.

At the beginning of March I tweeted to American journalist Andy Ngo, author of the New York Times Bestseller, Unmasked. “Congratulations @MrAndyNgo. Finally had the time to read your important book. You’re a brave man”. Posting about books had been a theme of my social-media throughout the pandemic. I believed this tweet to be as innocuous as the others. How wrong I turned out to be.

Over the course of 24 hours it was trending with tens of thousands of angry retweets and comments. I failed to foresee that my commenting on a book critical of the Far-Left could be interpreted as approval of the equally abhorrent Far-Right.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Thirteen members of my family were murdered in the concentration camps of the Holocaust. My Grandma, unlike her cousins, aunts and uncles, survived. She and I were close. My family knows the evils of fascism painfully well. To say the least. To call me “fascist” was ludicrous beyond belief.

I’ve had plenty of abuse over the years. I’m a banjo player after all. But this was another level. And, owing to our association, my friends, my bandmates, were getting it too. It took me more than a moment to understand how distressing this was for them.

Despite being four individuals we were, in the eyes of the public, a unity. Furthermore it’s our singer’s name on the tin. That name was being dragged through some pretty ugly accusations, as a result of my tweet. The distress brought to them and their families that weekend I regret very much. I remain sincerely sorry for that. Unintentionally, I had pulled them into a divisive and totemic issue.

Emotions were high. Despite pressure to nix me they invited me to continue with the band. That took courage, particularly in the age of so called “cancel culture”. I made an apology and agreed to take a temporary step back.

Rather predictably another viral mob came after me, this time for the sin of apologising. Then followed libellous articles calling me “right-wing” and such. Though there’s nothing wrong with being conservative, when forced to politically label myself I flutter between “centrist”, “liberal” or the more honest “bit this, bit that”. Being labeled erroneously just goes to show how binary political discourse has become. I had criticised the “Left”, so I must be the “Right”, or so their logic goes.

Why did I apologise?

“Rub your eyes and purify your heart — and prize above all else in the world those who love you and who wish you well.” — Aleksander Solzhenitsyn once wrote. In the mania of the moment I was desperate to protect my bandmates. The hornets’ nest that I had unwittingly hit had unleashed a black-hearted swarm on them and their families. I didn’t want them to suffer for my actions, they were my priority.

Secondly, I was sincerely open to the fact that maybe I did not know something about the author or his work. “Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak,” Churchill once said, “courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen”. And so I listened.

I have spent much time reflecting, reading and listening. The truth is that my commenting on a book that documents the extreme Far-Left and their activities is in no way an endorsement of the equally repugnant Far-Right. The truth is that reporting on extremism at the great risk of endangering oneself is unquestionably brave. I also feel that my previous apology in a small way participates in the lie that such extremism does not exist, or worse, is a force for good.

So why leave the band?

On the eve of his leaving to the West, Solzhenitsyn published an essay titled ‘Live Not By Lies’. I have read it many times now since the incident at the start of March. It still profoundly stirs me.

“And he who is not sufficiently courageous to defend his soul — don’t let him be proud of his ‘progressive’ views, and don’t let him boast that he is an academician or a people’s artist, a distinguished figure or a general. Let him say to himself: I am a part of the herd and a coward. It’s all the same to me as long as I’m fed and kept warm.”

For me to speak about what I’ve learnt to be such a controversial issue will inevitably bring my bandmates more trouble. My love, loyalty and accountability to them cannot permit that. I could remain and continue to self-censor but it will erode my sense of integrity. Gnaw my conscience. I’ve already felt that beginning.

The only way forward for me is to leave the band. I hope in distancing myself from them I am able to speak my mind without them suffering the consequences. I leave with love in my heart and I wish those three boys nothing but the best. I have no doubt that their stars will shine long into the future. I will continue my work with Hong Kong Link Up and I look forward to new creative projects as well as speaking and writing on a variety of issues, challenging as they may be.

Winston Marshall

[ingek73]

Britain likes to consider itself the cradle of free speech – until someone heckles Prince Andrew

Marina Hyde

Vocal antipathy towards any number of things is a cornerstone of The Great British Way. Shame the authorities don’t agree

Published: 15:35 Tuesday, 13 September 2022

Yesterday, police arrested a 22-year-old man in Edinburgh after Prince Andrew was heckled as he walked behind the Queen’s coffin. “Andrew,” the shout was heard, “you’re a sick old man.” Hand on heart, I’ve heard worse. And if Prince Andrew hasn’t, he certainly will. Money and position and expensive lawyers can insulate you from a huge number of consequences in our imperfect world, but if some boy in the streets wants to go full Emperor’s New Clothes on you, you might just have to suck it up, even if it is bad manners in the circs.

Oh, hang on. You don’t actually have to. The man – he looks like a boy – was cuffed and later charged. There could be more to it than currently meets the eye, but it is arguably not hugely encouraging that a heckle may be deemed illegal when burglary effectively isn’t any more. Then again, do remember that this year’s Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act increased the minimum term for various serious sexual assaults to four years, and the maximum term for assaulting a statue to 10 years. If women are going to get sexually assaulted, we should strongly consider doing so while dressed as a living statue of Winston Churchill. That way we can seek the full force of the law as applied to inanimate materials, as opposed to the lesser versions typically offered to female flesh and blood.

So yes: the mores and codes of UK society can seem esoteric – but please consult your Bumper Book of British Etiquette for precise guidance on how to behave on all occasions. There is a time and a place for shouting at men who have paid out many millions of dollars to settle sexual assault cases, you will note, and the experts say it’s not while they’re walking behind their mother’s coffin alongside some bereaved siblings who haven’t paid out many millions of dollars to settle sexual assault cases. And fair play to the experts. However, a breach of etiquette is not a breach of law. If we started arresting people for not showing decorum, our courts system would collapse. Sorry – collapse more.

Arguably, vast and vocal antipathy towards even suspected wrong ’uns is a cornerstone of The Great British Way. Come to that, vast and vocal antipathy towards any number of things is a cornerstone of The Great British Way, which is why it really ought to be expected that a section of people won’t be that crazy about the whole 10 days of events mourning the Queen and transferring the crown to her son, and may even decide to make their voices heard publicly about the subject in a variety of ways. In fact, if people feel only one emotion is state-sanctioned, they may feel far more minded to give vent to others. They may be in the minority, you or I may disagree with them, and they may even have ghastly manners – but so what? How their protests are handled by the police tests not just the latter’s responsibility with their powers, but our democracy itself.

Unfortunately, we are only a few days into the official mourning period, and various tests are being failed. The man in Edinburgh was slammed down on to the pavement by two members of the public who appeared keen to go further. Instead of arresting him for his words, perhaps it would have been better for the police to speak to the two guys who physically floored him?

This isolated incident, in police parlance, is not an isolated incident. In Oxford, a man was arrested then de-arrested for shouting “Who elected him?” at the local proclamation of the new king. In Westminster, a police officer was filmed demanding the details of a man who had held up a blank sheet of paper. The man (a barrister) asked what would have happened if he’d written “Not My King” on it, at which point the officer requested his details, “because you said you were going to write stuff on it that may offend people around the King … it may offend someone.” Hmmm. Thank you, PC Brains. The idea that the UK is a cradle of free speech is one of those comforting stories the country likes to tell itself, when all manner of things from the libel laws to teachers being hounded to the Daily Mail devoting its entire front page to outrage that a comedian mocked Liz Truss says differently.

Clearly, the task of policing London when hundreds of thousands of people are descending on it to pay their respects to the Queen will be complex and sensitive. But quashing public dissent can backfire in ways even those with power cannot foresee. As a 12-year-old, Prince Harry was made to walk a very long way behind his mother’s coffin at the suggestion of Tony Blair’s Downing Street, who thought his presence would serve as a human shield against members of the public who might otherwise feel moved to shout dissenting things at Prince Charles. The plan seemed to work in that very specific and limited way, on that very specific and limited day – yet caused untold damage to the child for many years thereafter. In not unrelated developments, that child went on in due course to cause untold damage to the very monarchy that the original plan was intended to protect.

Was it worth it? I rather think not. Then again, heavy-handed stifling of dissent never is, and the sooner the authorities wise up to that one, the better for everyone in our democracy. At the moment, shows of strength simply look like signs of weakness.

Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist

-

remember:

As a 12-year-old, Prince Harry was made to walk a very long way behind his mother’s coffin at the suggestion of Tony Blair’s Downing Street, who thought his presence would serve as a human shield against members of the public who might otherwise feel moved to shout dissenting things at Prince Charles

[the-desolated-quill]

British Prime Minister Boris Johnson has delivered a passionate speech urging BLM to stop the protests and described the vandalism of the Winston Churchill statue ‘disgusting.’

I hope everyone remembers this moment. THIS is the most vocal Johnson has been since the protests began and it’s extremely revealing. Basically our Prime Minister cares more about the safety of a statue than he does about the safety of black people. Lovely.

Of course I should point out that this isn’t the first time the Churchill statue has been vandalised during a large scale movement. It’s the most targeted statue in Britain and has been defaced in movements ranging from the student protests to crowds of drunken football fans. But of course, on those occasions, the people were mostly white, so nobody talked about it.

In response, the Churchill statue has been boarded up, which again is very revealing of this governent’s priorities right now, and now we’re getting far right groups such as Britain First pledging to protect the statues. Now last I checked, this is called vigilantism and is in fact a crime. But will the police do anything about it? Well if they wish to avoid a Charlottesville style incident happening here in the heart of London, they better bloody had.

Police brutality and systemic racism isn’t an American problem. It’s a global problem. Black Lives Matter. Statues... don’t.

[bopinion]

2021 / 26

Aperçu of the Week:

"If Europe were once united in the sharing of its common inheritance, there would be no limit to the happiness, the prosperity, and the glory which its people would enjoy."

Sir Winston Churchill

Bad News of the Week:

Over the years, the EU has evolved from a purely economic alliance into a community of values. Article 2 of the Treaty on European Union makes this "respect for human dignity, freedom, democracy, equality, the rule of law and respect for human rights." And these values must be defended. Unfortunately, not only externally in bilateral relations with the whole world, but increasingly internally. Two incidents of the last week fill me with concern in this regard.

The highest body of the EU is the so-called Council, consisting of the heads of government of all member states. The presidency rotates every 6 months, and since July 1, 2021, it is held by Slovenian Prime Minister Janez Janša. The former constituent republic of socialist Yugoslavia and of it since 2004 first EU member is a European success story. A member of NATO and, since 2007, of the euro zone, Slovenia is now the most prosperous country in the Balkans. According to a 2020 assessment by the Bertelsmann Stiftung, it has achieved above-average success in its economic transformation and political development. And the United Nations Development Program ranks the parliamentary republic among the countries with very high human development.

So the European community of values should actually be in good hands with the head of government of this model student of democratization. Actually. Because Janša, to put it mildly, is polarizing. He repeatedly doubted that global warming in the context of climate change was man-made. He argues for the right of Slovenian citizens to carry firearms. He considers "cultural Marxism" a key threat to the European Union. He congratulated incumbent Donald Trump on his election victory in 2020 before the vote count ended. He has been investigated several times for corruption, once resulting in a prison sentence. He sympathizes with Identitarian movements. He constantly tries to undermine freedom of the press and independence of the judiciary. And and and...

Usually, an EU Council president is expected to moderate, to seek balance, to mediate, to push the general agenda forward, etc. But this agenda currently includes possible sanctions against member states if they do not respect the defined values. The headliner here is, of course, Viktor Orbán. And now Janša has backed Orbán in the dispute over a Hungarian law restricting minors' rights to information on homosexuality. It is to be feared that he will instrumentalize his temporary office - for the first time in its history - to support personal interests. And he will gladly do so against the EU itself.

Another essential body of the EU is the directly elected parliament. In it, the political camps form factions according to their basic orientation, with conservatives, social democrats, liberals and greens dominating. This stable structure, which reflects the preferences of EU citizens, is now facing a challenge: the right-wing populists.

Under the leadership of Marine Le Pen of France's Rassemblement National, Matteo Salvini of Italy's Lega and Viktor Orbán of Hungary's Fidesz, 16 parties explicitly belonging to the right-wing spectrum are preparing to build a new alliance. In addition to the above-mentioned parties, the corresponding parties from Poland, Spain, Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Lithuania, Romania, Greece, Bulgaria and the Netherlands are also part of the alliance.

The planned alliance is the "first stone" in the construction of an alliance to "reform Europe," according to the official declaration of intent. This alliance is the "basis of a common cultural and political work," adds Le Pen, Salvini calls the agreement a "charter of values" on the basis of which a Europe is to be built that is based "on freedom and identity instead of bureaucracy and standardization." In other words, they are planning the overthrow.

Good News of the Week:

A fundamental pillar of every democratic legal system is the principle of "giving the accused the benefit of the doubt". Even in ancient Rome, "In dubio pro reo" applied, and it is still true today: everyone must be presumed innocent until proven guilty. That is good and makes sense. In the 19th century, people in this country spoke of preferring to let twelve guilty people go free rather than hang one innocent person. Innocence weighed more than guilt. So far, so civilized.

Another legal principle in ancient Rome was "Ne bis in idem": (You can) not (be accused) twice for the same. This principle, too, has made it into the modern rule of law. Until last week. Because then the German Bundestag decided to change the underlying law. The background to this is the availability today of forensic and criminal technology resources and tools that did not exist in the past. The decision is causing a great deal of discussion among legal experts.

On the one hand, some see it as calling into question the legal authority of the judiciary. After all, the verdict must be valid - forever. Publicist Franziska Augstein (yes, she is his daughter) denounces this with verve under the headline "Forever suspect". The law would subject once accused to lifelong fear. They would face a lifetime of having their case retried. So what? Victims always have to suffer the consequences of a crime for life.

On the other hand, in some cases it is possible to prove guilt after the fact. I can remember a case in which, after twenty years, fiber and DNA traces led to the conviction of a perpetrator who had kidnapped a child and left it to die in captivity. But at that time he was acquitted for lack of evidence (which was technically not usable at that time). And therefore - "Ne bis in idem" - he could not be charged and convicted again. He remained a free man despite proven guilt. How do you want to explain this to the parents of this child? Everything in me bristles.

Other news of the last days: Bill Cosby was released early from prison. He was the first legally convicted celebrity in #metoo. So why was a clearly guilty man who drugged and raped women released early? For one thing, because many of his at least 60 victims were not considered in court because his acts were "time-barred" - another one of those issues that doesn't sit right in my head without complications. On the other hand, because there was a legal "formal error" in the agreement between two prosecutors. I also find it difficult to acknowledge this.

In this respect, I am satisfied that resourceful - and expensive, since it is usually the financial strength of a defendant that determines the quality of his defense (this, too, does not correspond to my sense of justice) - lawyers now have one less legal dodge at their disposal, which is questionable at least in some cases. For there is one principle of jurisprudence that cannot be shaken: proof beyond reasonable doubt. In my opinion, this has to count. And it should count regardless of when it came to light, by whom, and under what circumstances. Likewise victims should have a higher value than (proven!) perpetrators. After all, Justitia is supposed to be blind - and not stupid.

Personal happy moment of the week:

In French, my son got an A on a team assignment. That is remarkable. Because according to his own statement, he "hates" this school subject. Which is a shame, because after all, his stepmother, a French Canadian, and I speak and love this language. However, I have to concede to him that, especially at his age, the teacher is crucial (I just leave it there). And that the first year of a new subject under "pandemic circumstances" is anything but ideal. Nevertheless, his big sister should finally stop picking on this belle langue - after all, she is a role model!

I couldn't care less...

...that Germany has been kicked out of UEFA Euro 2020. The Belgium vs. Italy match on Friday, for example, clearly showed that there are simply much better teams at the moment. And apparently also better coaches - I really don't understand any of this, but some tactical lineups seemed questionable even to me. But that doesn't mean that I would root for England now ;-)

As I write this...

...only with the right hand, I suffer from the so called "Moderna arm" - it's a good thing that as a right-handed person I had the first COVID vaccination put into my left arm. My daughter had still told me to let my arm rotate vigorously in order to avoid exactly that. But when everyone else in the waiting area looked at me a little irritated, I let it go. That was probably a mistake.

[thepanicoffice]

A Fragile Peace: Armistice after the Great Culture War

[...]

It’s no secret that I do not have my finger on the pulse of our age. I can, given time, remember to hold a mirror up to its mouth to see if it’s still breathing, but that’s about it. This is largely due my being a seething cauldron of self-regard and venality, but it may be for other equally valid reasons too. I don’t really care.

But that means this esteemed chronicle is falling woefully behind. The last time we broke a story, it was about my torrid affair with the then-Minister of Defence, which I only revealed because, due to an unrelated matter, I needed a public alibi. Sadly, I cannot always rely on my own sexual allure to the political classes to push us to the forefront of news.

The only way to get ahead in the publishing game is to start commissioning stories on things you assume are inevitably going to happen. That’s why I have asked our war correspondent to report back from the frontlines of the impending societal rupture that will define our post-pandemic world. I present to you, from several years hence, the Armistice of the Great Culture War.

[...]

Words by Lydia Happenstance, Culture War Correspondent

Last Friday, on the third day of the third month, 2025, after nearly one and half years of confused and needless violence, the guns, sirens, and opinion pieces fell silent to mark the beginning of Armistice and an end to the Great Culture War.

It began as a battle of words between the UK Conservative Party and an enemy that they had themselves largely created; a Frankenstein’s monster stitched together from scraps of Daily Telegraph premium content, animated by fears of civil unrest and falling house prices.

Their repeated assertions that you can’t say anything anymore, echoed and expanded upon by their outriders in the national press, culminated in the creation of the British Bastion of Culture [1], a paramilitary group whose mission statement was as emphatic as it was baffling: ‘To save Winston Churchill from the Marxists’.

Seeing this as a provocation, a protagonist in the Culture War gradually coalesced. After dozens of public meetings and committees of varying degrees of formality, the People’s Vanguard was established on a Zoom conference call in October 2021. Composed largely of sullen academics, irascible Twitter activists and musicians who have been unable to find meaningful employment since the COVID-19 pandemic, the Vanguard – known more commonly as ‘The Wokeists’ – began to prosecute a bloody and merciless campaign of tolerance on an unsuspecting populace.

They became known for their guerrilla tactics, affixing plaques of detailed historical context about the role of slavery and structural racism onto statues, buildings, and Cabinet Ministers in a series of daring night-time raids. It was said of them that ‘the armies of the Woke never sleep’.

Retaliation from the BBC was swift and unforgiving, as they took control of local television stations and forced broadcasters to play the German episode of Fawlty Towers, which they mistakenly thought was deemed offensive by ‘the Lefties’.

By the end, and possibly from the very beginning, it was clear that many of the combatants no longer understood what they were fighting for, only what they were fighting against. The War became an end in itself, rather than a means to any kind of glorious future. Ultimately, it was attrition and the exponential increase in casualties that made a ceasefire inevitable.

The Armistice was signed in Droitwich, for reasons unknown. It was attended by the democratic committee of the Vanguard, led by their Tribune, the distressingly middle-class Marxist poet, Rupert Trebuchet MA, and by BBC leader and regular Spiked columnist, Sebastian Spitegills. No eye contact was made or pleasantries exchanged as the parties, mediated by the comedian Michael Macintyre – chosen for being so banal and anodyne as to be a wholly neutral party in the Culture War – hammered out the terms of peace.

The Treaty of Droitwich runs to some 270 pages with many complex agreements made. No off-colour jokes are to be told below the 28th parallel, meaning that you will now have to travel North of Ipswich if you want to watch a Carry On film or reference the name of the dog in Dambusters. Equally, those who wish to use the term ‘problematic’ or write a Guardian long read about culturally appropriative Halloween costumes will be obliged to travel to the South of this line that formally marks the schism in our divided nation.

Both parties have agreed to stop using the word ‘triggered’, whether ironically or unironically.

Perhaps most controversially, but in the spirit of compromise, both parties have agreed that certain issues, such as trans rights and the utilitarian calculus of whether or not Churchill was a net positive to the world, will be uniformly responded to with the dictum: “It’s actually very complicated actually.”

The Treaty also allowed for the exchange of prisoners of war, many of whom have been away from their uncomprehending and slightly embarrassed families for many months. Sadly, deaths in the POW camps of both sides have been so high that very few will be returning home. The Bastionites, considering hanging to be a tradition that uniquely represents ‘the very best of British’, have been enthusiastically performing summary executions since hostilities first began. The Wokeists took a less violent but more tedious approach, instead forcing captured fighters to undergo Tesco’s corporate Awareness and Sensitivity Training. Many of the BBC soldiers, however, preferred to take their own lives rather than learn what a microaggression is or how to avoid speaking disparagingly to BAME colleagues. Deaths number in the thousands.

The UK Labour Party hailed this historic accord. Speaking in the House of Commons, party leader Sir Keir Starmer was forceful in his praise for the Treaty, saying: “This is an event that has occurred and we recognise that.”

Prime Minister Michael Gove, when asked for comment, responded obliquely: “My mandibles are sharp and my belly hungry. Bring in the infants that I might slake my abhorrent thirsts.”

Despite the progress that has been made, many observers are predicting that the peace that has been brokered will be a fragile one. On Sunday morning, on the outskirts of the Sussex village of Piddinghoe, a small skirmish broke out over whether the War should be commemorated with red or white poppies. The word ‘Imperialist’ was spray-painted on a telephone box before a library was set on fire in quick reprisal. Many more such incidents can be expected before peace truly settles in.

There are even reports that some will not accept the hard-won peace. Former Commandant Laurence Fox, the second highest ranking General of the BBC army, is said to be stationed in a bunker on the Isle of Man, where he has either not been told or simply refuses to acknowledge the ceasefire. He will not be alone. No contact has been made with Julia Hartley-Brewer’s submarine for more than three weeks.

Speaking to civilians – those who have been victims of the violence, displaced by the upheavals, or simply mildly inconvenienced by having the same episode of Fawlty Towers repeated on their televisions for the last year – they remain unclear as to why any of this happened in the first place.

“I don’t understand any of it,” said Clive Purloin, a roadworks engineer, who was caught briefly in the crossfire as rival groups clashed in Liverpool over whether Ken Dodd was a fascist whose statue should be toppled. “Really. Not a clue.”

It is a view shared by virtually everyone.

The signing of the Treaty of Versailles. It was like this but much, much stupider. ----------------

[1] Only belatedly realising, to their incandescent, bovine fury, that this meant they shared an acronym with an organisation purportedly representing everything that they despised. Attempts to rename the group were prevented by them having entered into a two-year contract for the website domain

[bolbianddolanhouse]

BNHA self insert AU

Part 1, Start from the way beginning here!

Chapter 30.5: I’m Not Playing These Games!

There I stood in front of the person that made me flee to protect my family, the gang leader himself, Johnny. Two years since the incident and he shows up at my most vulnerable.

“How the hell did you get here anyways.”

“My right hand man here pulled what you would call a ‘pro gamer’ move and transported us here” he gives me a look “this would’ve been you but you just had to be good at heart and play hero” they roll closer to me “now everyone and their abuela are rising up and becoming the very thing that has failed them, heroes never gave a shit about us!” his voice steadily raising “I’ve killed them all and look what it has brought, no heroes and local law running in fear but I’m not the bad guy. If anyone wanted to join, they get the freedom to use their quirk in public, I’m empowering them!”

“That’s not empowerment!” I bark back “that’s terrorism! The people join out of fear and you use them like pawns to take over!”

“Terrorism, liberation, same thing!” he rolled his eyes “point is, I’m here to kill you once and for all!” he stopped 5 feet away from me “I don’t let anyone live to tell the tale of fighting me!”

“What will killing me do for you now?” I tried to find the logic in his plan “I’m already not returning home and everyone thinks I’m dead.”

“Ah I though so too until Humberto couldn’t shut his mouth about you being alive because he could see some ‘red string’ bullshit” he scoffed “his cousin pried information from him and I just had to see for myself, he had visions of you roaming around these streets and going to some sort of hero training school.”

“Fuck, he would develop his quirk better when I died” I muttered to myself. I had to think fast, since I’m not at 100 percent because technically my body is still healing itself AND I only had one gun on me with 10 bullets. “I’ve defeated you once, and I’ll do it again!”

“Oh? Where you planning to throw fists in this GUN fight?!” he pulls out a very weathered and old rifle, like it was cool “I brought the HEAT tonight!”

Out of habit, I pulled out my gun but burst laughing when I saw what he had “That?- pbbt! Boi brought the rifle Winston Churchill used in the war!” I cackled and made the other person crack up too. I start to tear up “Yo! How much did that cost you? 5 bags of wheat and a chicken?!” I laughed harder and the other person was rolling on the floor laughing out of control.

“Sorry boss but I warned you” said the lackey, trying to stop laughing “she was gonna roast you ass all because you took the gun from that veteran’s display at Century High.”

“Fuck you guys!” he cocked the gun “I’ll just end yall laughing!” 

At that moment, I lunged forward and knocked the gun out of his hands and threw in an elbow to buy me time to escape. I ran toward the warehouse area, hoping to hide and teleport out to familiar area. The area was void of anybody and my plan to teleport out was a bust because my body can’t handle a 100 meter teleportation, let alone a 2 mile one! Plan B, send an SOS ping to Mimi while hiding. I hid behind a tall stack of pallets, the sound of the other two coming closer and closer to the warehouse.

“19 to 20, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, what is going on?”

“Code Moonbeam, I need backup and escape.”

“-gasp- Who’s the perp?”

“It’s the gang leader that caused me to leave home, he found me.” The sound of a loud bang of metal on metal was heard, startling me. “Just please send me anyone that’s near downtown! I’m in a warehouse with the number 64 painted on it.”

“We’re on it! Hang tight!”

I’m absolutely terrified, who knows how long help will arrive or if I’ll make it out alive. This isn’t a training game, I have a high chance of not surviving this one.

“COME OUT, COME OUT ITATI!” yelled Johnny with a gun cock “I know you’re here! just give up and accept your fate.” He breathes heavily “I’ll make sure to put you in that empty casket!”

I stifle my sob, I was basically a sitting duck, waiting to get plucked. Two minutes of keeping silent, I hear a very distinct ‘SMASH!’ battle cry followed by the sound of a brick wall breaking. I peer over the pallets and see Midoriya, Bakugo, Iida, Todoroki, Uraraka and Kirishima. I ping Mimi again.

“Hey um 20, quick question, WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“IT WAS THE BEST I COULD DO! Everyone else was indispatch-able in a reasonable amount of time.”

“Okay, so who else is on the way?”

“Your caseworker, Hemingway, Midnight and myself with Jin.”

“HURRY PLEASE before the twinks become my liability!”

I look on to the madness going on the other side of my hiding spot, these crackheads are really wailing on Johnny and his right hand man. It wasn’t safe for me to come out and I had to think of something quick. Uraraka and Todoroki found me and almost gave away my location.

“Palma-san! Thank goodness you’re alright” sighed Uraraka in relief “who is that person in the wheelchair? and why are those two a threat?”

“No time to explain” I squeeze my eyes shut “I’m trying to think of a plan that won’t risk my body to further damage” I bring my hands to my face “I can’t teleport nor levitate very strongly and I only have 8 bullets now.”

“I saw that he has fire” Todoroki put his hand on my knee “if you copy my fire quirk, will that help your thought process?”

“Shoto, you’ve been granted the brain cell tonight!” my face lit up “I can still copy! This will work perfectly!” I clap my hands to refocus my thoughts “Shoto, on my cue, I want you to form an ice dome to trap in those two. Uraraka, on my cue, drop that stack of pallets on them. I’ll distract them long enough to get things in motion.” I stand up “In the meantime, Shoto, I’m counting on you to let everyone know to back off because I came up with a plan.”

“Right!” both affirmed with me before getting to their part of the plan. I copy Todoroki’s quirk and ran out to the action.

“ENOUGH FOOLING AROUND JOHNNY!” I bellowed to stop everything “this a fight between you and me! Square up if you’re so tough!” I strike a power stance to show my seriousness.

“Need I remind you that you’re the reason I can’t fight at my best anymore” he drops his rifle “you disabled my ability to use telekinesis along with my ability to walk” he summoned fire on the palms of his hands “you’re the real villain here! Fuck you and your heroics! People like you deserve death!”

“NO! It’s you that’s the villain” I take slow steps forward “I came here to hide from the terror you’ve caused in our quiet piece of town! No more will I hide, we settle this once and for all!” I unzip my bomber jacket and go into a fighting stance, everyone backed off the moment I got in my stance.

“Fine by me!” Johnny clenched his fists “first to die, loses.”

“BET!” I scream as I do the Rising Phoenix, flames cover my body and burn off my non-flame resistant items, luckily my outfit was flame resistant. I fight them the best I could to get them all in one spot for the plan to work but I was getting tired fast. My body was trembling for me to stop using the fire quirk by the time I get them where I wanted “URARAKA!” I screamed and the pallets fell on top of the two. “SHOTO NOW!” a blast of ice came in on the left and quickly engulfed them in a thick ice dome. I released my fire copy and gasped for air.

“Are they dead?!” worriedly peeped Midoriya.

“Not yet” I smirked “I’m gonna contact the police and caseworker, they’ll-” and before I could put my finger to the earpiece, I heard the ice cracking “TAKE COVER!” It was too late for me, since I was the closest, I got hit with shards of ice and got knocked down onto my back. I sat up quickly and saw that the two weren’t there but I knew exactly what happened. “The other person’s quirk was Wormhole!” I facepalmed myself “of course it was! That’s how they got here without a plane, they wormholed to coordinates.” I felt myself go weaker and weaker “Is everyone...okay?”

“Don’t move!” Bakugo cried out “you’re bleeding, somebody help me stop the bleeding!”

I look at my body and I saw a piece of ice the size and thickness of a portfolio file, pierced into my upper navel. I touch my wound and saw the blood on my hand “Huh? So I am” the sound of everyone panicking around me was fading, my vision blurring “just leave me here to die, it’s okay” I said smiling, accepting my fate “I lost, tell my family I love them, I’m coming home Jesus.” I slowly close my eyes because finally my agony of being in hiding and not being happy were coming to an end. I felt my body go into a comfortable numb feeling along with feeling light as air. A blinding white light came into view, ‘ah yes, the heavenly gates’ I thought to myself as I felt myself get closer to it. I regained my vision and I was met with a familiar setting of an IV drip, heart rate monitor, brain wave monitor and a TV in the top-right corner of the room.

“DAMMIT! I DIDN’T DIE!” I yell and winced in pain.

“She woke up, doctor” a nurse gasped.

“Bring in the legal guardian” said the doctor, then turned to me “Hello Miss Palma, that was quite the scare you gave your friends” he scribbled on a clipboard “can you recall how you got here?”

“I remember getting the ice in my navel and realizing I was bleeding” I take a look at my surroundings “then I closed my eyes because I thought I was going to finally die, then I felt numb then I saw the light” I looked at the doctor “now I’m here and awake, not dead.”

“Well that’s all thanks to your hero friends” he tucks his pen in his ear “they rushed in with your extremely fatigued body and the bleeding was stopped before you reached critical levels. We expected you to wake up in the late afternoon but it looks like you’re recovering fast.”

“Wait, what time is it?”

“It’s 11pm, you arrived here right before 10pm” he answered me and got up “I’ll leave you to the legal work with your guardian, expect me again in 2 hours.”

My caseworker walked in, tear stained and clutching her flies “Oh sweetheart!” she threw herself over my left side “how could I be so careless to just-”

“It’s not your fault” I interrupted her “nobody could’ve predicted this, I was being erratic and ran off by myself!” I told her everything that happened “Will I be okay?” I asked softy, stopping her scribbling “it’s just that, more and more things are popping up and I’m worried that I won’t be strong enough to last this final year of high school” I try not to cry “I don’t want to be relocated again or get sent home, my heart can’t take another one.”

“Sweetie, don’t cry” she put her files down to hold my hand “you won’t get sent away until the threat is gone. And you don’t have to worry about getting any of your tuition money getting taken away nor the labyrinth exam.”

“Wait what do you mean?” I was taken back by those words.

“The proctor properly documented what went wrong and everyone checked the exam requirements” her smile broke through like sunshine through gray clouds “since you got interrupted by a non-exam projectile by a non-staff, it falls under unfair termination, so you are set to take the real test in the last month of your 3rd year.”

“I got pardoned?!” I got excited but winced in pain “that’s great news! I guess I have time to heal until then huh?”

Midnight walked in with a phone in her hand “Oh it’s true, you are awake” she sighed in relief “We called your parents and your mom had a lot to say, very loudly.”

“Not surprised” I giggle “is she on the line? Put her on speaker.” Midnight put the phone on speaker and put it on my shoulder “hello? Madre?”

“Mija! Que en la Jesus estas haciendo” she exasperated “cada ves me hablan, voy en para cardiaco!”

“Sorry mom” I sighed “pero estoy en el hospital y no soy muerta, but what should I do? I took a lot of damage.”

“Ya saves que nessistas hacer mija” my mother took on a serious tone “ya se que no lo gustas pero dilen nessistas estasis.”

“Estasis? What is that?” muttered Midnight “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t like it either” I groaned “Estasis, or Stasis in english, is a quirk medical procedure were they put you in a mild coma so your body can heal from the inside out BUT this is only done on patients with telekinesis after surgeries, sever injuries and child-birth. Since telekinesis is very hard to suppress, it makes healing very difficult and posing danger to our already damaged bodies.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to go to the hospital after the practice exam?” Midnight sat by my right side, getting at face level with me “you feared of getting into stasis?” I nodded and she gave me a very understanding face “oh Ita, you’re our little trooper but now you really need it” she turned to speak into the phone “okay Mrs Palma, what needs to be done?”

As my mother explains how it’s done, everyone else is in the hallway in anxiety of my well-being.

“Do you think she’s going to be alright?” Kirishima worriedly asked Bakugo and Uraraka “that doctor didn’t seem too worried but that lady and Midnight were in shambles rushing in.”

“I’m worried about Iida-kun” Uraraka softly spoke, turning to were Iida was sitting “he hasn’t said a thing since they took her in. And he hasn’t changed out of his bloodied suit, poor thing, having to carry her limp body and screaming for her to wake up.”

“Probably thinking about their fight before the incident” Kirishima sighed “he thinks this is all his fault.”

“Well, isn’t it?” Bakugo butted in “if he didn’t interfere in her practice exam, wouldn’t she not be here?”

The two thought about Bakugo’s point and how it was true technically but then a portal appeared. Mimi and Jin rushed out of the portal.

Mimi scanned the room and locked sights onto Iida “YOU!” she screamed and ran over to where he was sitting and grabbed him from his suit collar “You told me that you’d insure her safety! Now I’m gonna lose her all because of your insolence!” when he didn’t give a response, Mimi slapped him so hard it made everyone’s head turn.

“Mimi thats enough!” Jin pleaded “let go of him, we don’t know who’s fault it is yet” he put his hands on her wrists “please babygirl.” She let go of Iida and Jin holds on to her arm “lets go in and check on her, she’ll be happy to see us.”

“Yes, lets” Mimi calmed down and walked into the hospital room with Jin.

-Few hours later-

“Okay Miss Palma” the doctor said as he attached a syringe to the IV drip “I got the dosage attached and it’s a slow drip” he puts his thumb on the plunger of the syringe “why don’t you sing for us” he gestures to everyone in the room “you’ve got quite the audience here.”

“Sure, any requests?” I get ready for the incoming comatose state.

“What’s that french song you sang when you were sweeping the other day?” recalled Uraraka “it’s very pretty.”

“OH I know which one you’re talking about” I clear my throat “okay, ready” the doctor started the drip before I starting singing “Hold me close and hold me fast...” I saw everyone smile and enjoy my singing, slowly feeling the medicine take effect “...and when you speak, angels sing from above...” I could barely feel the warmth of Mimi and Jin’s hands holding mine “...and life will always be, le vie en rose~” my eyes fluttered shut and the rest of my body went limp.

I was expected to wake up in 10 days, in those days, I’m as delicate as a newborn baby. Mimi and Jin take care of me by regulating my body temperature, bathing, feeding me liquids and making sure I don’t get bed sores. It wasn’t difficult but it got lonely as everyone but them got to go home for the holidays. On the ninth day, something came up were they were needed immediately. With Midnight unavailable to care for her, they turned to the help of the hero dorms. They teleported in with Ita swaddled in a sleeping bag.

“Listen up wannabes” Jin demanded everyone’s attention “we need your help for one day, see, we got summoned and can’t leave her alone” he gestures to Mimi “so we’re depending on you to care for her until we return.”

“I have instructions and schedule of feedings and other stuff” she slings off a duffle bag “here’s everything and the food.”

“We’ll take care of things!” Iida stands up to get the bag “you have my word.”

“Good!” she hands over the bag “if you fuck it up, I’ll end you.”

“Mimi, cool it!” Jin scolded “but seriously, if we come back and she’s in worse condition, I’ll make sure you won’t be able to reproduce!”

Mimi hands over Ita, then jumps in the portal. 

“Well, I’m confident that we’ll-” he turns and sees that everyone that was in commons area, fled to their rooms “I’ll take care of her” he sighed and took her to his room. He gently set her down on his bed and he sat on the floor to look through the bag. “Let’s see, theres the list and soup” he took out some books and a mini speaker “wonder what these are? Guess I should read the list” everything was neat and organized to Iida’s liking but the contents were a bit strange “let’s see, it’s 11am right now, so she had breakfast already. Next is... read to her?” he was puzzled on the scheduled item “well I can’t ignore it, I shall read to her” he picked up the book with a book mark sticking out of it “this one will do, The Secret Garden, chapter six” he cleared his throat “Next morning, Mary told Martha that she had found Colin...” he gets invested in the book and read it all the way to the end “...And by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in Yorkshire—Master Colin! The End.” He looked at the time, it was nearly 3pm! “Oh my- reading this book took so much time! What’s next on the list?” he looked and saw that he missed taking her temperature. He took note of the thermometer after the beep “Okay you’re at 89 degrees, nearing over-heating” he unzips the sleeping bag to see her in comfort wear and thermal socks, her squirming scared him but it was just a reflex. He carries her out to the commons room to set her on the couch as he heated up her soup.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk to you” Bakugo whispered as he sat down near her “but please come back stronger than ever, we need you.”

Tokoyami slid in the moment Bakugo got up to go back to his room “Ita, I miss you dearly” he nuzzled his beak against her forehead “when you wake up, I’ll help you back to your feet, I promise.”

“What are you doing?” Iida asked confused at the sight of Tokoyami nuzzling Ita’s forehead.

“She likes it when I do this” he responded without thinking “but usually were cuddling and kiss-” he stopped his sentence but it was too late, Iida put 2 and 2 together.

“You’re the mysterious boy she’s been sneaking off to make out with?!”

“Well, to be fair to her” Tokoyami laughed nervously “she hasn’t came over for a session for months” he stood up “I think she’s seeing somebody else or maybe is cooling off to start something with someone else?” he gulped “but we were never in a relationship and what we had was just purely physical, she’s a needy girl Iida-kun. If you kissed her, she’ll pounce on you for more.”

Things got very awkward after that, Tokoyami in general avoided Iida for the rest of the day. After Ita’s afternoon feeding came washing her face and letting her on the floor to listen to music. Iida laid on the floor next to her.

“Remember when we’d sit around and talk for hours” he reminisced “and how I’d hold you close, so many times I’d held back kissing you” everything was very still yet the music and company made his room less solemn “I just love you Ita. You’re amazing and I don’t know why you spend time with me when I ruin everything and cause you stress” he reached out to stroke her hair “I’m sorry for making you so angry that day, sometimes I don’t know how to approach things and I just end up ruining things. I have so many things to say to you” he turns his head to face her “I want to tell you how I feel, the dreams I have of you, all the wonderful feelings you give me when you run up with your arms out for a hug, the thoughts I have when I hold your hand” he sighs “but my mind blanks when I want to tell you, not for long though. When you wake up, and the day presents itself, I’ll ask you to be my girlfriend” a warm smile creeps on his face “I’ll give you flowers and set up everything perfectly so you’ll never forget it, we’ll kiss and be filled with our love...won’t that be nice?” he waited for a response like she was conscious “you’re my darling Ita, I love you” he kissed her nose.

Next on the list was to bend her joints and to rub the tension out of her back, it brought back memories from the time she came back from her first practice exam. Iida was feeling the regret of not telling her that day before her couch pass out. That didn’t matter right now, the day will come for his turn. He served her dinner and cleaned her up for bed. Mimi thought ahead and packed an air mattress so she didn’t have to bunk with anybody.

“Iida-kun, are you sure that air mattress is going to fit on your floor?” Midoriya asked in the open doorway of Iida’s room “it’s running up really big and it’s not at half-way inflated.”

“Not to worry” Iida tried to talk over the sound of the air pump “I’ll find a solution to fit this in, as long as she has a soft place to rest.” Ita was lying on his bed on her side, already looking like she fell asleep waiting for Iida to inflate the air bed. Finally, after rearranging half the room, the bed was ready for her. He puts her in the sleeping bag and places her on the air bed with 5 pillows laid about. He closes his door and crawls into his own bed “Good night Ita” he turned to her side of the room as he puts his hand on the light switch of his table lamp “sweet dreams, I love you.”

Dreams of her waking up and being back to her sweet, loving self came to Iida that night. When morning came, it was back to the harsh reality that she isn’t back yet. Still, he was full of duty to take care of her until Mimi and Jin came back later that day.

“Iida-kun, are her eyes supposed to do that?” Uraraka asked as she was looking after her on the couch as Iida was heating up her soup “it’s like she’s trying to open her eyes but can’t.”

“Oh that, yes it is” he responded from the kitchen “it’s more concerning if she doesn’t, it means that her brain is actively functioning at a normal rate.” the sounds of plates being shuffled were heard “I learned that from the papers her friends left for me, apparently when telekinesis users sleep, their brain activity spikes at random and their eyes do the same thing but at a much faster rate.”

“That makes sense on why she can stay up for days at a time” Todoroki said as he leaned in closer to her face “I wonder if she can hear us?”

“Give her some space Shoto” Midoriya warned “what if she wakes up seeing your face up in hers?” he turned to Iida walking in with the soup “can we watch you feed her?”

“Sure but it’s a bit of a strange sight to see her eat” he sat next to her and brought a cooled spoonful of soup to her lips, she does some quick sniffs and opens her mouth slightly to consume the spoonful “it’s an automatic response to swallow liquids so her food consists of soups with smooth textures.”

They keep watching her eat and see some of the after care until Mimi and Jin showed up.

“Alright, looks like she was well taken cared of” Mimi announced as she was inspecting her “thank you so much for caring for her.”

“Not a problem” Iida said bowing “we hope she recovers soon.”

Another 2 days pass, it’s New Years and she hasn’t woken up. Concern and slight panic set in Mimi and Jin as they really don’t know what to do. They call her mother and she said to wait it out a little longer as her brain might be adjusting back slower to full power. Everyone comes back to the dorms the next day and are worried for her, a knock at the door of their dorms kicked everything into high alert.

“Oh Shinso, nice to see you” Jin said relieved as he opened the door “we thought it was somebody else.”

“I came as fast as I could” Shinso panted “is she awake?”

Jin lets him in and walked to her room “That’s our concern” he opened the door to see Mimi taking her temperature “she was predicted to wake up 2 days ago but there’s no signs of her waking up soon.”

“It’s been emotionally taxing these last few weeks” Mimi sighed as she stroked her hair “I really want my baby girl back.”

“Can I have a moment alone with her?” Shinso asked and without hesitation, they got up and let him have his moment. He sighed the moment they closed the door “Oh Ita, I wish I was here to prevent this mess” he held her hand carefully “I have so many stories to tell and things to give you” he looks out of the window, it was dark with light snowfall out “I smoked that blunt you gave me, it was really good and I slept like a log that night” he chuckled “I dreamt about you that night and I couldn’t wait to come back to kiss you and play with you” he leaned in and kissed her lips “it’s not the same, wake up so I can get a proper kiss.”

Like it was on cue, she opened her eyes and groaned. She blinked and looked around her, not really processing what’s going on. “Wha- what day is it?” she stretched her body and her spine realigned “Hey Hitoshi! How was-”

“I can’t believe it!” he gasped “you woke up!” he ran to open the door “SHE WOKE UP!”

“Hmm? What’s the big deal with me being awake?” I asked as everyone piled in to see me.

“You took longer than 10 days to wake up!” Jin cried out, throwing himself onto her for a hug “but you’re back and nothing else matters!”

“Oh fuck really?” I hugged back “I must of been really injured if I took longer to heal.” Jin released his embrace “actually, if you say that, I don’t know if I’m at 100 percent then.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hansai “you took extra time, doesn’t that mean you can get back to things like normal?”

“Not exactly” I responded “I’m going to be weak and vulnerable but now I can sort of do things on my own, WHICH REMINDS ME!” I gesture for everyone to make room for me as I pull the covers off me to get up “it’s time to-” I felt my legs give out like they didn’t even try to support me and I fell.

“Oh shit you alright?” Yuka panicked as she helped me up.

“FUCK ME! I can’t walk” I stressfully screamed “I hate this side effect.”

After some quick planning on my next course of moves, everyone left my room again to leave me and Shinso alone.

“It’s getting really close to your curfew” I checked the clock, it was 7:50pm “you should go before everyone gets worried.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow to tell you about my time away” he leans in to kiss her, she kissed back “until then, stay warm love.”

Those words lingered with me all night, the thought of Shinso being the one I woke up to was making my heart pound. I was motivated to get better now, the sooner I can get back to full health, the sooner Shinso and I can be in an intimate relationship! Even though I had a week and a half until school resumed, I was still too stumbly to do any physical training or walking long distances in that matter. First day back and I was wheelchair bound but this time I had so many people helping me around. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel lonely or pathetic. I had so many holes in my schedule that I could leave 2 hours early if I wanted to. But I planned to fill them with training sessions and helping lower-classmen once I was able to. Soon I was able to walk and run like normal, I felt myself get stronger with my quirk too. Word got out that Iida helped me recover and was the one that carried me to the hospital that night. I gather the courage to say thank you to him after class, since lunch is right after the class we’re in.

“Hey Tenya!” I get in his way to get his attention “can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure!” he didn’t hesitate at my request.

I pull him to the far corner of the hall “I just wanted to say, thank you for helping me during my recovery time” I take a deep breath “and, sorry for being angry and shouty before I ran off.”

“Don’t apologize for that” he fixed his glasses “I’m sorry for pushing you too far to make you angry.”

“Well, I was wondering if there’s anything I can do to make it up to you?” I get timid “like, anything at all?”

“No need” he smiled “seeing you healthy and safe is reward enough” he put a hand on my shoulder “I’m just happy you’re back.”

“Okay, if you say so” I give him a tight hug “I’ll pay you back! somehow.” We part ways for lunch but I was in a dilemma, how could I see Iida with intentions of sparking something when things were going well on their way with Shinso?! Was I in denial that Iida doesn’t have feelings for me or that I don’t really want to be in a relationship with Shinso because of some underlying issue? I don’t know, it’s all very confusing that I’m teetering between them two when it’s super obvious who I want to be with. I meet up with Shinso at the roof of the hero dorms for a smoke sesh later that night.

“Hey remember when we danced up here?” Shinso said, laying next to me on the blanket.

“How could I forget?” I smiled, recalling that night “I was so sore from training but I forgot about my pain because you did that.”

“Remember what I said?” he cleared his throat “after the kiss?”

“Yeah~” I start blushing and turned my head away to hide my face.

“I’m holding myself against my word tonight” he gets closer and leans on his side “it’s the right time and I’ve been longing to ask” I turned my head to face him and he holds my hand “will you be my girlfriend?”

My heart felt like it stopped, this is it, your chance at happily ever after. I felt my face glow red and my lips trembling “Yes, I’d love to be your girlfriend.” As he leaned in to kiss me, as if to lock in my answer, my anxiety of if I chose the right answer was lifted off me. That or the high was kicking in, but I was happy that better days were coming...maybe senior year won’t be so bad.

-Chapter 30 End-

<Previous - Next>

FAQ * Chapter 1 * Intro Post         

[peaky-yamyam]

Neighbours: Part Twenty-Two

The Payout

Part One | Part Twenty-One | Part Twenty-Two |  Part Twenty-Three - The Final Chapter |

I replay the moment we stood before the car for a long time; Tommy’s hands enclosing mine, caressing the skin of my fingers gently. I wonder, had Tommy not cut me off, where my words were heading. They'd begun to tumble from my mouth before I realised what was happening, a confession that perhaps neither of us was ready to hear; I love you.

There are times when I’m barely sure I mean them; when I think about the implications, when I think about Grace who Tommy had loved so dearly and about Alfred who had become my world and who had broken me when he passed. It doesn’t feel like that, Tommy is not my world, but my world feels more complete with him in it. His home feels like my home, helped no doubt by the amount of time I'm spending there. I wonder if perhaps love is different for each person it's directed at? My life has hardly been rife with examples for me draw from, but when Tommy and I share a joke and he laughs, when I catch him watching me with Charlie, a smile on his face, or when he captures me from behind in his arms and presses a kiss to my neck, it feels as if nothing could ever hurt me again and the words bubble in the back of my throat, desperate to escape. I force them down though, deciding that until I'm certain, no utterances of love will leave my mouth.

A few weeks after the gala Tommy catches me as I return from my early morning checks on the horses and invites me into his office.

“Sit down Georgiana,” he orders, “I have some things I need to explain.”

I listen, enraptured as he describes the reasons for the bounty on Roderick and Whitley's head; a litany of sordid offences had been committed by the two of them. Tommy slides the files he has on them towards me and as I read through them I’m met with descriptions of numerous accounts of assault, bribery, blackmail, extortion and solicitation, none of which particularly shock me having known Whitley well, and even from the few times I'd spoken to Roderick, it's no stretch of the imagination to picture him partaking in these activities as well. The only thing that surprises me in fact is the dates, some incidents dating back years, a couple stretching into the decades.

“Why now Tommy?”

He doesn't answer immediately, but unfolds a letter and hands it to me. It's a letter thanking him for his service, signed unmistakably by Winston Churchill.

“You can't be serious?” I mutter to myself, rereading the letter to be sure.

“It would seem that their intention was to create a backing with the richest and most powerful people and companies in the country and that's not the kind of sway you want two politicians to have, especially when they are big opposers to Churchill progressing his political career any further,” Tommy elaborates.

“Of course…” The irony of the situation is not lost on me; Winston using the biggest power of them all - The Crown - to quash the inexcusable power Whitley and Roderick were concocting. Winston with The Crown on his side is dangerous. But perhaps not as dangerous, it would seem as Whitley and Roderick.  

I read the letter a final time.  “‘Yet again, your assistance has been so gratefully received.’ Yet again, Tommy? What does that mean?”

“This isn't the first time I've been asked to do something like this,” he answers, so matter-of-factly that my blood boils.

“How many times?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“And what exactly do you get out of risking your life and reputation?” I fume, folding the letter up messily and flinging it towards Tommy.

“Licences, money, he saved my life once…”

“And what have you been so graciously gifted this time?”

“Money.”

Despite wanting to fly out of my chair and scream, I manage to keep myself composed. “Money? Tommy, you already have more money than you know what to do with! This whole mess, all the stress and danger, for more fucking money! Unbelievable, I knew Winston could be a prick but this-”

“You know him?” Tommy interrupts and I can see his mind whirring as he contemplates how this could help him in the future.

“He was a friend of Alfred’s, I wouldn't say I know him well, but yes I know him… Tommy just answer me this, why? Why would you do this just for money?”

He looks at me as if he's already told me the answer a hundred times, his eyes squint and his mouth draws into a tight line. “Because I don't have a fucking choice Georgiana.”

I decide not to argue with him, I’ll never understand the full implications of his work and I’ve accepted that. Besides, my anger is directed elsewhere and shouting at Tommy will do nothing to placate it.

“What are you planning?” Tommy asks, a trace of humour on his face and in his voice.

I shake my head and keep my lips tightly closed.

“Are you thinking about how you can get a meeting with Churchill?”

“Oh I don't need a meeting Tommy, I'll turn up at his fucking house!”

He's almost smiling now as he swipes a finger across his lips. “Georgiana, calm down. The agreement we have is beneficial for all parties, so don't barge in there, in a rage, and ruin it.”

“I shan't promise anything,” I reply, already out my chair.

“Georgiana,” he warns. “I know you're angry but listen to me. Do not ruin what I've built with him.”

“I won't.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise.”

And with that I'm out the door.

As it happens all it takes is the mention of my name to Winston’s secretary and I'm permitted a meeting at his office as soon as I can make it to London. With Jones’ erratic driving I make it there by early evening and am ushered through without delay to Winston’s office.

The door is open as I approach and before I'm fully over the threshold he calls out to me.

“Georgiana! How delightful it is to see you.” He rounds his desk as I enter and pulls me in for a hug. “It's been a long time.”

“Mmm, Alfred’s funeral,” I reply solemnly, dampening his previously jovial greeting.

“Of course, of course. How have you been? Word on the street is your stepping out with a certain Mr Shelby?”

“That's right.”

“And I assume that he's informed you of our arrangement?”

“He has.” I try to keep my anger contained, to channel it articulately and calmly, however my snappy answers are falling short of what I had planned.

“Am I right in thinking that’s the reason you've come to see me today?”

“It is.”

Luckily it seems that Winston remembers the few times we've met previously and the stories I know Alfred had told about me, and as such he has no illusions as to my true feelings.

“Very well. Say what you have to say,” he prompts and I explode as if his words a match dropped on a pile of gunpowder.

“You have no right to keep calling on Tommy the way you do, asking him to murder and framing it as if it's some great service to the country, when in fact he's just doing you a favour so you can have an easy ride! It's ludicrous!” Once I start I can't stop, all the points I'd spent the journey here organising into an eloquent argument flash through my mind chaotically before expelling themselves from my mouth. “This has nothing to do with the welfare of King and Country, this is all about you! You couldn't possibly get your own hands dirty could you, oh no, not Winston Churchill, you're too good for that. You get some pawn you know you can control with blackmail and bribery to do it all. Then when Tommy does gamble his life for you, the reward he's given is what? More cash that he can add to the mountains he already has? You're an utter shit Winston!”

As I return to silence the air hangs heavy between us. Winston sits with hands folded neatly in his lap and waits until my breathing slows a little and I calm enough to lean back in my seat.

“Finished?” he asks and I nod. “Good. From what I hear Whitley threatened you with gun.”

I nod again.

“That must have been terrifying and I imagine it stirs up a lot of negative feelings. Thomas must have explained the nature of our relationship, he benefits from it greatly and the accounts I hear of him lead me to believe that he rather enjoys the sport of it all. But, Alfred was a dear friend and as his widow, if you want me to cease contact with Mr Shelby, then I'll do so.”

“No,” I mumble, covering my eyes with my hand as I try to organise my thoughts again. He's right in his insinuation that my anger is misplaced, spurred on my experience at the gala and my confused feeling towards Tommy which, as I refuse to feel angry at Tommy, have manifested themselves now in my deluded trip down here and my outburst. I feel like a child, petulant and immature, unable to process her feelings in a mature way. “Tommy told me not to ruin anything,” I add. “In fact he didn't really want me to come.”

“But he didn't stop you?”

“Of course not. He knows he couldn't.”

That garners a small chuckle from Winston and his eyes grow soft. All is forgiven.

Regardless I still feel the need to apologise.

“Winston I am so sorry for what I said. It was out of order.”

He waves his hand casually. “No matter, do you feel better at least?”

“A little.”

“This business with Whitley and Roderick is over and I urge you to forget about it. However, you do realise that stepping out with Mr Shelby means this kind of thing is always going to occur?”

“I know that. I've accepted that it's Tommy's life and who he is.”

“You care about him a lot, you can see it in your face when you speak of him.”

“I do…”

“But you feel guilty,” Winston concludes.

Perhaps it should have obvious to me, that my hesitation with voicing my feelings to Tommy is born from the guilt of moving on, but it's only when the reason is laid in front of me so clearly that it becomes apparent.

“You shouldn't,” he adds, “Alfred loved you dearly, long before you loved him-”

“You just said I shouldn't feel guilty!” I interrupt.

“Let me finish. I simply mean that all he wanted was for you to be happy, to have a life you enjoyed. Although you might not think it, I hear a great deal of your comings and goings through gossip and I know Alfred would proud of you for making your life what you want it to be.”

“The gossip you’ve heard must have been relayed through the mouths of those incredibly favourable of me, because I have no doubt he'd be ashamed of me. The past few months I've done nothing but be a disgrace to my family's name and title,” I scoff.

“Perhaps. But I get the impression Georgiana,  that for once you're being entirely your true self.” His attention shifts slightly to the paperwork in front of him and I can tell he wants to end this conversation on some sort of profound comment. “Feeling guilty over the feelings of the dead is pointless, especially when it's unprecedented.”

The conversation is over, my feelings have been addressed and he has nothing more to say so I stand to leave but I can’t let him have the last word.

“You'll pay Tommy more money,” I order.

“Thomas has been given his due.”

“His due? Men have been Knighted for less than what Tommy has given. You’ll pay him more.”

“Goodbye Georgiana,” Winston says, but there is no malice or annoyance behind his words, rather a playful cadence that spreads to his whole face and I leave his office feeling lighter and more composed than I have for a while.

[keywestlou]

U.S. LED BY CRAZIES AT THE TOP

Insanity prevails. Within the confines of the White House. The President and his closet advisors.

This week Trump walked from the White House to St. John’s Episcopal Church for a photo-op. The President standing in front of St. John’s holding a bible up in one hand. The boarded windows of the Church behind him.

The purpose of the photo in front of the boarded Church did not make sense to me at the time. Turns out it was the final step in exhibiting Trump’s “bravery.” To show he was not afraid of the protesters in front of the White House.

The protesters that were moved away brutally by horsed U.S. Rangers, Secret Service and military personnel. The protesters were quickly and without warning pelted with flash grenades, rubber bullets, and tear gas. At the same time, military helicopter flying low over them.

Welcome to the new United States of America!

The protesters were eliminated. Soon thereafter Trump came walking down the White House driveway, through Lafayette Square where the protesters had been, and crossed over to the front of St. John’s whee he stood for the photo-op.

Trump placed American citizens in jeopardy, scared the hell out of them, just so he could have a photo-op that he thought would make him look good.

The Nation, world and press mocked him!

Yesterday, Trump’s press secretary Kayleigh McEnany announced that the photo-op in front of the boarded St. John’s was akin to Winston Churchill touring the rubble of London during World War II.

She was serious.

To compare Trump to Churchill in this scenario or any other is pure insanity. The two have nothing of value in common.

CNN’s Anderson Cooper immediately went on the air and said no way!

Thousands have since commented on the internet their thoughts re the Churchill comparison. I am going to share a number with you. Each evidences how people feel and reacted to the comparison.

“Churchill fought against the Nazis, didn’t encourage them…..Winston stayed in London above ground during the blitz whereas Trump was in a bunker 5 stories underground in fear of the protesters…..Churchill fought the enemies of his people, didn’t suck up to them, and won…..Trump looked uncomfortable in the photo because he was afraid the bible would burst into flames.”

“Did Churchill ever cheat on his wife with a porn star?…..Trump will be remembered as the biggest laughing stock as a leader…..Churchill wasn’t a draft dodger, fought in a war, wasn’t illiterate, and was a genius orator…..I’m from the UK and it’s an absolute insult to compare a child president to Churchill.”

“It won’t be long before we learn from the White House press secretary Mr. Trump is actually similar to the son of God…..Never in the field of human conflict have so many been pissed off by so few.”

A couple of other comments reflecting feelings about Trump aside from the photo-op.

Nicholas Kristof said, Trump uses the military “to prove his manhood.”

Ian Welsh warns “a long, hot summer” ahead.

I do not recall Churchill ever considering deploying British troops against his people. Trump’s threats to do so prove America is closer to anarchy than ever before in its history. Can you imagine: Active U.S. military units taking control of American cities?

Trump threatens federal forces moving into Washington. He sees Constitutionally protected protesting as “domestic terrorism.” Included in the term is the smashing of shop windows. A cynical hyperbole.

Trump wants to create his own “palace guard.”

Trump wants to be viewed as another Nixon: The President of Law and Order. Forgetting such is neither needed nor legal.

D.C. police are capable of containing the disturbances without interference by “heavily armed soldiers.”

Army units are trained to fight foreign enemies. The Army is not trained in law enforcement.

Thump’s demand for a “rough policy” is the opposite of “law and order.”

My opinion: The worst is yet to come.

Yesterday, I wrote about the man who might be described as the Hero of Swan Street. The gentleman who let 70 protesters run into his home and be kept safe overnight from the horsemen, authorities, etc, who were chasing protesters from Lafayette Square. These were the same protesters who were being moved so Trump could do his Churchill thing.

The event occurred monday evening. I first heard about it very early tuesday morning on Morning Joe. About a 2 minute live interview with Rahul Dubey who owned the house involved. I caught only half of it.

Interesting, I thought. Something I should blog about.

I did the blog and used the brief information I picked up on Morning Joe. I was ready to publish the blog around 10:30. Searched the internet for an article or 2 re what occurred. Had to be something. The story a terrific one!

Nothing.

So I published my blog wondering why there was no further information.

Beth reads my blog and commented that I did not have all the facts, some not precise, etc. and referred me to a NRP article published that day 6/2. The article by Bill Chappel and Mano Sundaresan. Excellent! Detailed!

Where was it when I needed it? It had not been published yet. The Beth article was not published till 6:41 in the evening.

There had to be others published earlier. Found only one. Too late to have been help to me. It was published 11:31 am, an hour after my blog was published.

I would like to report in detail re the NPR article. However would take up too much space and time this morning. So much happening!

I recommend you read the NPR 6/2 article by the authors previously mentioned. Not only interesting, exciting.

What might be described as another screw up by me yesterday were the photos of Trump and Hitler. Hitler holding a bible in one hand as Trump had in the photo before St. John’s Church.

The Hitler photo a phony. Photo-shopped. Digitally altered. In the original, Hitler was holding nothing in his hand.

Haste makes waste. Re the photo incident, I was guilty. The Hitler photo was so good, I could not wait to share it with you.

I promise to temper my enthusiasm.

I close with an Abraham Lincoln quote I have shared in the past. One that is appropriate in view of what our country is going though in recent days: “America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”

Enjoy your day!

  U.S. LED BY CRAZIES AT THE TOP was originally published on Key West Lou

[the-record-newspaper]

The Killing of Rhonda Hinson Part 35

This photo of Rhonda Hinson was taken a short time before she was shot to death.

(Editor’s note: This is a continuation of a series about the Dec. 23, 1981 murder of Rhonda Hinson.)

 By LARRY J. GRIFFIN                                                                                          Special Investigative Reporter

For The Record

 Out of intense complexities, intense simplicities emerge. –Winston S. Churchill

 No—Detective James “Flash” Pruett did not believe Mark Turner to be a suspect in the actual killing of Rhonda Hinson.

However, he appeared to be convinced that Mark knew more than he was saying—especially pertaining to the gray-hooded sweatjacket that Rhonda left in the backseat of his gold 1977 Buick Regal.  He was also persuaded that his continued pressure on the Turners might motivate Mark to divulge how and when the jacket was returned to Greg and later found on the sundeck of Rhonda’s Datsun 210.  

Moreover, it is clear that he intended to leverage Mark’s connection with the chief suspect in order to acquire information about the early morning events of December 23, 1981.  Detective Pruett’s case file notes of Wednesday, January 10, 1996 reflect his thinking:

“…I don’t feel Mark is the suspect, but I do want to keep the pressure on his family to guarantee cooperation with them [authorities]. They could assist me in getting the covert recording and hopefully Mark will one day recall how the gray sweatjacket got out of his car.”

The erudite investigator concluded the day’s summary with one final observation relative to Turner’s purported memory lapse regarding the disposition of the gray-hooded sweatjacket.  

“One thought I had today was about Mark’s memory of the sweatjacket.  Mark vividly remembered all the events with the jacket, except how it got out of his car. It would hold to reason, if he could remember the jacket before the medication, he would have remembered who he gave it to unless the transfer from his car to someone else was after Mark took the medication on December 21, 1981.  Greg McDowell did visit Mark on December 22, 1981, thus providing the opportunity for transfer to his car.  Could Mark have been sedated enough not to remember giving the jacket back to Greg?”

On Thursday, Jan. 11, 1996, Detective Pruett journeyed to Frye Regional Medical Center around 2 p.m.  He met with Glynis in Medical Records and presented the signed release form he had garnered from Mark Turner.  Upon review, Flash learned that the then 18-year-old Turner was transported via ambulance to the emergency room of the hospital 17 minutes before midnight on Monday Dec. 21, 1981, and was released to his mother, Barbara, just over an hour later on Tuesday, Dec. 22.  

From there, the detective drove directly to Foothills Footwear to talk with Mark in-person.  When he arrived, Flash observed Faith Turner in the parking lot removing her small child from the front passenger’s seat.  Ms. Turner’s back was turned toward the detective who startled her as he approached from behind.  Flash asked her to have her husband step outside.  Mark appeared instantaneously, carrying with him three photographs:  one of his Buick and his brother’s Thunderbird together, one of Greg and Rhonda, and one of him and Jill Turner-Mull.  The detective noticed that Turner was visibly shaken, unable to control the trembling of both his hands and legs.  In his case file synopsis of the day, the investigator wrote:

“He [Mark] gave me the picture of his car and I responded by saying, ‘oh sh.., oh sh.., oh sh..’ and by looking at him funny.  He immediately said, ‘I know it’s looking like me more everyday.  I’m telling you, I didn’t do it!’”

During his first interview with Mark, Flash told him that a witness had described a car [Buick] like his at the crime scene.  He also averred that the physic had described the car down to the vinyl top.  Both statements were fabrications.  The detective continued his synopsis:

“He [Mark] sat there quietly for a moment and then started talking about how he was unable to work, how it had him torn apart both at home and work.  He said he had talked with Jill Turner several times today.  I noticed Faith was withdrawn today and didn’t talk much. She sat quietly near the office door with the baby.  I had followed Mark inside when he asked for a copy of the car picture.  He made a copy on his office copier and kept the copy for himself.  I asked for the color print back and he handed it to me.”

As Detective Pruett was exiting the office, he met Mark’s father, Charles, who was on his way inside.  Mr. Turner told Flash that “he and his wife wanted to talk with him.” Mark informed the investigator that he had talked with his mother the night before and she too—like Jill Turner-Mull—remembered asking Mark for a bowl Greg McDowell had in his possession.

With that conversation in mind, Flash told Mr. Turner that he would talk with them “as soon as possible.”  Charles added that his wife, Barbara, would be home around 4:30 p.m. But it would be another week before Detective Pruett conducted the interview with Mark’s mother.      

At 10 a.m., on Thursday Jan. 18, 1996, Flash returned to Foothills Footwear and Mark Turner.  They spoke together in Turner’s office.  The first topic of conversation was the enigmatic gray-hooded sweatjacket. Though he had spoken with friends and relatives—according to him—Mark remained adamant relative to his inability to recall the transfer of the sweatjacket to anyone.  Significantly, he did recollect that his mother, Barbara, had remembered that she asked Mark to get her bowl back from Greg.  

The two men discussed the possibility of Turner’s contacting Greg McDowell to invite him up for the weekend; so, he phoned his high school friend at Brittain Engineering.  The conversation lasted 10 minutes, as the detective listened.   Greg indicated that he had plans but—as a consolation—invited Mark to lunch that day.  Mark accepted the invitation to meet near mid-day at the Garden Center.  Immediately, Flash went to work:

“I called the SBI office to ask for Roy Brown.  I wanted to wire Mark for the lunch meeting.  Roy was not in his office, but Don Riechard agreed to assist.  Mark followed me to the SBI office and Don completed the form.  We installed the Nigra recorder on Mark and followed him to the Garden Café.  We parked across the road at the Sub Station 2.  Mark and Greg stayed inside for almost one hour and came outside around 1:12 PM.  We followed Mark back to the SBI office and removed the recorder.”

The result of the impromptu surveillance was less than satisfactory for Detective Pruett.  Mark maintained that he could not entice Greg to discuss the past with him.  Further, any time he broached the subject of former times, Turner averred that McDowell would lower his head and not make eye contact him.

Later in the afternoon of Jan. 18, 1996—specifically at 5 p.m.—Detective Pruett interviewed Barbara Good Turner, Mark’s mother.  At the time, Ms. Turner was 54-years-old, living in Connelly Springs, and employed at Houston Hosiery located on Lovelady Road across from Carolina Mills. Expeditiously, the topic of conversation focused upon the events of Dec. 22and Dec. 23, 1981.  Flash recorded the essence of their interaction in his meticulous notes:

“Barbara recalled seeing Greg McDowell at K-Mart on December 22, 1981.  She told him about Mark being home with his injured back.  When she returned home, Mark informed her Greg had been by the Turner’s Indian Hills home.  Mark and another brother laughed about Barbara catching Greg buying condoms. Greg had indicated to Mark he was embarrassed with the incident and told Mark and his brother what happened at K-Mart.”

Contradicting her son’s previous statements to Detective Pruett, Ms. Turner denied any knowledge of Greg having a bowl of hers.  Moreover, she averred that Mark didn’t drive Jill Turner home the night of Dec. 22, 1981.

Flash continued his summative narrative:

“[Barbara] did recall Jill Turner being at her home early morning December 23, 1981.  She did recall Jill calling Mark in the middle of the night to tell him about Rhonda’s death.  Mark had made a bed on the floor to ease his back pain.  She recalled following Mark to the hospital and getting home after midnight on December 22, 1981.  She feels Mark did not go shopping with Greg on December 22, 1981, because the medication had really affected him.  She does not recall Mark having the sweatjacket.  She did remember calling Jill Turner’s mother to ask for her to come to the funeral home, because she felt Jill needed support.  Barbara said Jill was really upset.

When asked about being in the Turner home on the early morning of Dec. 23, 1981, Jill Turner-Mull responded with a terse, “No.”  Then she again described her recollection of that fateful morning with the same alacrity that she did when first interviewed on January 25th of this year.

“…Mark picked me up and we went to Greg’s and then he brought me home.  I have no recollection of being there on the early morning of the 23rd.”

During the interview with Detective Pruett, Barbara recollected that when she went to the funeral home on Dec. 24, 1981, she saw Greg McDowell standing outside Rhonda’s room—Mark and Jill were standing near him.  

Finally, the investigator allowed Barbara to view the composite pictures previously shown to others close to the case.  Ms. Turner responded with, “I don’t believe in this!  This is witchcraft!”  She did not recognize either picture and opined that the male composite did not resemble Greg, except for the hair.  

An hour later, Detective Pruett terminated the interview and left the Turner residence.  As he drove away, he mulled over the conversation with Ms. Turner. The contradictory statements she offered relative to her son’s prior asseverations specifically stood out in clear relief.  It was obvious to him that Barbara Turner was attempting to place her son away from the early morning crime scene and the killing of Rhonda Hinson.

 [Editor’s Note:  Ms. Barbara Turner has been invited—in writing—through social media to talk with The Record relative to her recollections of the events surrounding the killing of Rhonda Hinson.  Though she has indicated—with a “thumbs-up” emoji—that she saw the requests, she has of this writing not accepted the invitation. Any future statements by Ms. Turner will surely be reported.]

[aion-rsa]

Stephen King: 10 Best Supernatural Villains

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Know the terror and madness of Stephen King's 10 greatest supernatural villains!

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The name Stephen King conjures up images of horrific creatures, monsters, places, and some of the most enduring villains in fiction. These are beings of unimaginable evil that test the limits of the protagonists' will to survive, and some of these villains have gone on to become almost as famous (or infamous) as the writer himself.

While many King villains are monsters of the human variety (serial killers, power hungry despots, nihilists, etc.), his most memorable are the supernatural ones who use their dark powers to twist the orderly world around them into chaos and pain.

Pennywise the Clown isn't the only monster you need to fear at night. King has created plenty of other horrific things that go bump in the night. Here are just a few of his best supernatural madmen and monsters...

10. Gage Creed and the Pet Sematary

Pet Sematary (1983)

“Don’t go beyond, no matter how much you feel you need to, Doctor. The barrier was not made to be broken. Remember this: there is more power here than you know. It is old and always restless. Remember.”

When Louis, Rachel, Eileen, and Gage Creed moved to Ludlow, Maine from Chicago, their cat Winston Churchill in tow, they wanted a peaceful new life in the more rural locale. What they got was a descent into death and madness almost unmatched in modern horror fiction. In the novel, the Creed cat is killed. Louis fears telling his daughter and buries the beloved pet at a nearby “Pet Sematary,” an old Micmac Indian burial ground. The cat returns home, much to Louis’ shock and delight, but it’s not the same friendly animal. It’s a listless, mean, half-alive creature that does not have a fondness for life.

Further Reading: Every Stephen King Film and TV Adaptation Currently in Development

When Gage is killed by a truck, overcome with despair, Louis buries his son in the Sematary. What comes back is a true horror of epic proportions. Gage is such a disturbing villain because he once existed as an object of purest affection. The once totally innocent soul is now corrupt and ridden with supernatural darkness. The Pet Sematary itself is rumored to once have been a burial place for cannibals, and the spirit of a Wendigo dwells in the soil.

Now, Gage is back with the most ancient of curses coursing where blood once flowed. Every father’s nightmare turned even darker. King felt the book was too dark even for him and shelved it until his wife, Tabitha, and his friend, the author Peter Straub, encouraged him to share his bleak vision of paternal loyalty with the world.

9. The Leatherheads

Under the Dome (2009)

“God turned out to be a bunch of bad little kids playing interstellar Xbox. Isn't that funny?”

Much more frightening than typical villains, the Leatherheads are an alien race responsible for the construction of the Dome that covers Chester’s Mill. They are in the same vein as H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmic horrors, beings much older and more powerful than humanity. The mere sight of them could drive a man mad. They are beings with the power of gods but no connection to or feelings for humanity. Just cold observers that exist on a different layer of reality.

The Leatherheads construct the Dome the same way a child makes an ant farm, out of a morbid curiosity to watch how lesser creatures exist. Their casual disregard for humanity makes them truly terrifying because, unlike some of King’s other antagonists, there is really no way to fight them.

The Leatherheads are mentioned in King’s chilling short story N., but it is in Under the Dome where readers get to experience the sheer paralytic terror that would occur if an alien species of ancient intelligence turned their attention towards our little backwater planet.

Read More: It Chapter Two Easter Eggs and Reference Guide

8. The Raggedy Man

Cell (2006)

“What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle.”

Fans of The Walking Dead need to recognize. King does zombies too, and they are sphincter-tighteningly scary. In Cell, a pulse travels into cell phones all over the world. Anyone on their phone at the fateful moment is turned into a zombie. These villains are a different breed than the popular Romero clones, as the pulse also unlocks latent powers of the human mind like telepathy and levitation.

The Raggedy Man is the leader of the zombies. He thinks, organizes, and commands. He has all the nihilistic hunger of a zombie, but he has planning skills and foresight which make him a truly frightening antagonist. His goal is to spread his people around the globe and take the planet for his horde. He sees humanity as a threat to his people and seeks to destroy them to protect his new race, which could make him literature’s first sympathetic zombie villain. He is often seen wearing a crimson Harvard hoodie giving the creature an atypical zombie air of intelligence and capability.

The name of Harvard’s sports teams by the way? The Harvard Crimson. Well played Mr. King, well played.

Read More: How It Chapter Two Differs from the Book

7. Kurt Barlow

‘Salems Lot (1975)

“That above all else. They did not look out their windows. No matter what noises or dreadful possibilities, no matter how awful the unknown, there was an even worse thing: to look the Gorgon in the face.”

King’s only foray into vampires (the classic ones, anyway), Barlow was the writer’s way of getting the whole mythos right the first time. ‘Salems Lot was King’s second published novel and his first of many novels centering on the idea of a preternatural creature releasing the beast inside of regular people. It was also his first small town novel, a setting King would return to many times over the decades.

Barlow’s story mirrors that of Dracula, from the shipment of his coffin and native soil from overseas to his arrival and reign of terror in a contemporary setting. He even has his own personal Renfield, Richard Straker, his own gothic mansion, his own legion of dark minions, and a twisted grip on the residents of ‘Salems Lot.

Further Reading: 10 Best Stephen King Horror Novels

Barlow was more of a catalyst, using embraced residents as pawns to tighten his grip on the town, but his very presence on the page was accompanied with a sense of urgency and dread.

In a 1995 BBC radio drama of ‘Salems Lot (that is well worth seeking out), Barlow is played by Pinhead himself, Doug Bradley, which automatically gives the vampire tons of villain cred.

6. George Stark

The Dark Half (1989)

“Cut him. Cut him while I stand here and watch. I want to see the blood flow. Don't make me tell you twice.”

Stephen King once wrote under the pseudonym Richard Bachman and published some of his more experimental works like The Running Man, The Long Walk, and Thinner. His experience as somewhat existing as another person inspired King to write the Dark Half and inspired the creation of one of his most cold-blooded killers, George Stark. 

In the novel, Thad Beaumont was a successful author who wrote violent crime novels under the pen name of George Stark. After revealing to the world he was actually Stark, Thad and his wife stage a mock funeral for the author to symbolically cut ties with the violent crime fiction Beaumont wanted to leave behind. This is where King brings the terror.

Further Reading: Stephen King's 10 Most Terrifying Human Villains

The novel started with a flashback that dealt with the removal of an eye from the brain of a young Thad. It was the eye of a twin that was conjoined in the womb to the writer, an incident Thad had all but forgotten about. It was actually the eye of George Stark, who later rises from the mock grave the Beaumonts planted him in to go on a killing spree that leaves even the most seasoned reader with PTSD.

Stark is the embodiment of the darkness in the hearts of all men. The most frightening part of the book is that, even though Beaumont is desperate to rid the world of Stark, part of him is attracted to the freedom evil gives Stark and the realization that the evil is a part of him.

5. Rose the Hat

Doctor Sleep (2013)

“She's the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell. If you mess with her, she'll eat you alive.”

Rose the Hat, an immortal energy vampire from the 18th century and the leader of a cult of killers known as the True Knot, is one of King's scariest villains to date. Manipulative, ethereal, beautiful, and hungry for the "steam" -- psychic energy -- that keeps her and her band alive, Rose will whatever it takes for her next meal, even if it means torturing little children and killing them. 

In Doctor Sleep, the sequel to King's The Shining, Rose becomes obsessed with hunting down Abra Stone, a young girl with a powerful Shine, which puts her at the top of the True Knot's list of potential food sources. Rose hatches a plan to kidnap Abra, but the girl proves elusive, especially after she teams up with Dan Torrance, a survivor of the horrors of the Overlook Hotel with his own Shine. Together, along with some help from some friends and one surprise guest from the afterlife, Dan and Abra are able to fight back against Rose and the True Knot.

But the road to the end of the book is soaked in blood, as Rose claims victim after victim. She might not look like a monster but Rose is as monstrous as they come. 

4. The Overlook Hotel

The Shining (1977)

“This inhuman place makes human monsters.”

If there is one thing King’s constant readers have learned after decades of nightmares is that places can be as evil as people, an idea that is personified in the Overlook Hotel, the setting of The Shining. On the surface, The Shining is a classic haunted house tale, but beneath the surface, it is so much more. It is a deep look into the fragility of fatherhood, the bond of trust between father and son. As Danny Torrance, the psychic child who journeys to a secluded Colorado hotel with his caretaker father and loving mother discovers when the father he trusted is transformed in a raging madman by the power within the Overlook.

Further Reading: How The Shining Examines the Immortality of Evil

The novel’s most riveting sections feature past accounts of other times that the Overlook weaved its dark magic, transforming good men into monsters. The walls of the Overlook can barely contain the rage within the heart of the hotel, and as The Shining plays out, readers discover just how corrupt the place is. Make no mistake, it may not have arms to swing an ax, or legs to chase down its victims, but the Overlook is a hungry sort of evil that demands to be fed. Just try staying at a Motel 6 after reading King’s classic. I dare you.

3. The Crimson King 

Insomnia (1994), Black House (2001), The Dark Tower series

“I am the Eater of Worlds.”

The Crimson King is often mistaken for It, and it is not completely clear if they are the same monster, but the regality and level of reverence the King’s minions hold for him seem to suggest that he is different than the sewer-dwelling eater of children. This beast is the embodiment of evil in King’s shared fictional universe. He is first introduced in Insomnia, where he tries to kill a child prophesied to topple the rule of the King forever.

The King is later revealed as the monster behind the events of the novel Black House, and he is the overarching villain of the Dark Tower series, the monster responsible for trying to bring down the structure of reality.

Further Reading: A Reading Guide to the Stephen King Dark Tower Universe

Stephen King suggests that all his villains, supernatural or otherwise, are pawns of the Crimson King. The name itself carries some great metatextual flavor as, of course, Stephen King himself is the one truly responsible for the evil in his worlds. The half of the writer that creates and is responsible for these horrific monsters is also named King. Stephen King is the writer, father, husband, and Red Sox fan. The Crimson King is the dark overlord of the fictional universe and the monster maker.

2. Pennywise the Dancing Clown

It (1986)

"Float?" The clown’s grin widened. "Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy..."George reached.The clown seized his arm.And George saw the clown’s face change.

Every twenty-seven years It rises to devour the children of Derry. It awoke when a homosexual couple was beaten by a gang of thugs in 1984 to again reign terror on the children of Derry. It was put to rest by the Losers Club, a group of misfit teens, in 1958 only to rise again, decades later. It killed the leader of the Losers’ (Bill Denbrough) little brother in one of the most hair-raising prologues in horror history.  

It is another of King’s manipulator villains, as It controls the darker residents of Derry, such as bully Henry Bowers to do Its bidding. It is a cannibalistic clown that lives in the sewers, a leprous mummy, a giant spider, or a series of orange lights called the Dead Lights that drive people mad when gazed upon.

Unlike the similar creature, the Crimson King, It does not commit evil for glory or power. It devours because It hungers. The lives of innocents exist only to fill the void of It's being. And let’s face it, nothing, NOTHING is freakin’ scarier than a hungry clown in a sewer.

Read More: It Chapter Two Ending Explained

1. Randall Flagg

The Stand (1978) Eyes of the Dragon (1986) Hearts in Atlantis (1999) The Dark Tower series

“My life for you.”

Not so much a single villain, but the archetype of all villains, Randall Flagg is King’s greatest singular creation of evil. Flagg first appeared in The Stand, the Dark Man who gathers the worst of humanity to rebuild a new civilization in his own dark image. The Walkin’ Dude had a propensity for crucifying any whose beliefs ran contrary to his.

Flagg is the greatest of King’s manipulators, able to inspire loyalty in those with dark hearts, as seen by the Trashcan Man in The Stand and even Mother Carmody in The Mist. All they have to do is say “My life for you,” and mean it, and Flagg will be there to inspire their dark deeds.

He was revealed to be the main antagonist to Roland in the Dark Tower series and is the ever-present evil in all men. Flagg is walking the back roads of reality just waiting for a chance to whisper in humanity’s ear and stir up some good, old fashioned chaos.

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Feature

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Marc Buxton

Nov 11, 2019

Stephen King

Horror Movies

from Books https://ift.tt/2ZWR727

[cielizzydefencesquad]

a very 1920s au (part v)

Parts 1-4 can be found under the fanfiction tag below! :) 

It was January 22nd, 1924 and Sebastian was half out of his mind with boredom. The Phantomhive brat had been clever enough to deprive him of all company (i.e. chess pieces) and while Elizabeth Midford had transferred him into a more comfortable holding cell, there was still little to do. He was denied anything that could be used as a weapon—including silverware for goodness sake; what was he going to do with a butter knife? Stab someone with it? (Though, in retrospect, he did once kill a man with an empty lipstick tube.)

Lying on the hard bunk mattress, Sebastian’s glittering mahogany eyes were fixed on the cement ceiling, mind whirling with thoughts, schemes, and the question of escape. He needed at least three days to send Phantomhive down the wrong path and a few days more to get to Rosewood Clearing. From the limited amount of information he managed to piece together, Rosewood was about two and a half miles away from Phantomhive Manor—it’d been built in 1897 by Vincent Phantomhive as a wedding present for his blushing bride-to-be.

Not that she was ever there all that often, Sebastian snorted, crossing his arms behind his head. This new prison had a small slit window that allowed some sunlight into the cloistered little room and judging by the faint orange-pink rays, it was near sunset.

That was when he heard her footsteps—light and dainty, the faint click of a woman’s shoe…

The brat’s fiancée.

“Miss Elizabeth.” Sebastian acknowledged once she was close enough. He rose out of polite formality and gave her a short bow.

The girl seemed embarrassed. “I’m terribly sorry if I woke you.” She apologized, hands clasped together and golden curls loose. The lady wore a gown of dark blue satin that displayed her snow pale shoulders and exquisite décolletage. A heavy gold pendant hung round her neck.

“Not in the least.” He reassured, eyes meeting hers. “But the caverns of another man’s prison is hardly the place for a lady such as yourself.”

“Oh yes, yes I know.” She took another step forward. “Only…only I—“

“Yes?” He prompted—perhaps a touch too carelessly—and was surprised when he saw a brief hint of steel in her otherwise angelic expression.

“I need to know if what you said was true—if you’re genuinely unable to return to England.”

Sebastian eyed her warily and briefly debated on toying with her but—no. He needed to have a source on Phantomhive and while he doubted that the girl would actually betray her fiancé, it would at least be interesting to try.

“Yes,” he admitted, crossing the few feet of space he had to meet Elizabeth face to face. “Returning to Birmingham would be as good as signing my own death warrant.”  

“But Mr. Churchill seems rather insistent on catching you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“So would it be out of the realm of possibility for him to send a federal agent across the Atlantic and to America in the hopes of tracking you down?” Her eyes were wide with false innocence and Sebastian felt a mixture of annoyance and grudging respect towards her. The girl certainly used her beauty to her utmost benefit, he’d give her that.

“What a thing to wonder.” Sebastian chuckled, looking the very essence of calm—if not somewhat amused. It was a trademark of his since the early days of his career when he ran cocaine for the London boys. “Why do you ask, Miss Midford?”

“Because it’s not everyday that the Chicago police department comes knocking on our front door. They’re either too scared or too inefficient but now we’ve had three visits in the span of five hours.” She pressed her palms against the prison bars. “Please be straight with me, Mr. Michaelis—would Mr. Churchill send a government agent cross continental in the hopes of capturing you?”

Sebastian liked the earnestness in her eyes—it was one of her greatest strengths—but otherwise chose to ignore it. After all, he was a creature of guile and opportunity and he would not be swayed by a little girl with sweetness in her soul. “Perhaps.” He allowed, half-smile still in place. “The man is rather temperamental—made a terrible ruckus during the war and was relegated to office duty. Shame, really. He would have made one hell of a prime minister.”  

“I know about Gallipoli.” She countered icily and Sebastian was mildly impressed by the harsh tremor in her voice. “I know Winston Churchill was willing to open a second front even after the Allies lost millions in the first four months of the war. I know Winston Churchill was willing to sacrifice 50,000 soldiers and betray the trust of his commanders in order to destroy the Ottoman Empire.” She leaned closer. “From what I can tell, Mr. Churchill doesn’t do things by halves and he’s come too far to sink back into obscurity. Can you imagine? One more political blunder like Gallipoli and he can kiss his dreams of becoming prime minister goodbye. How do you think the British public will feel knowing that good Winston Churchill had been consorting with mobsters and murderers?”

“Davenport—“

“He used to be head of the Irish mafia until Churchill made a deal with him. Trade in your mafia gun for a government badge and you escape persecution.”

“My, my—the lady knows her blackmail.” Sebastian’s smile was sharp as he traced Elizabeth’s palm with the tip of his finger.

She shuddered but refused to back down.

“Tell me,” she urged, “are those policemen here because of you?”

Sebastian shrugged, insolent to the last. “It seems that way, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Oh god.” She breathed, pressing one hand to her mouth.

“This is hardly a chapel, my dear.” He taunted lightly. “And I am no priest.”

“Ciel will kill you in twenty seconds if he thinks your presence will compromise his business.”

“Very well then. He’ll simply have two items of contention he needs to clean up.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Two items?”

“Oh yes,” the mobster replied blithely, “the first being my decaying corpse and the second being…well, you already know that.” He winked, sly and insincere.

The girl looked more confused than ever. “What are you talking about, Mr. Michaelis?”

“You’re a clever girl.” He leaned closer, breath ghosting across her cheek. “Figure it out.” Sebastian smirked. “Though I pride myself on notoriety, I hardly think Winston Churchill, admiral and protector, would go to all this trouble just to persecute me at the London courthouse.” He took two steps back, allowing the newly formed evening shadows to wash over him. “You remember the incident that occurred a few months ago? Just days before Christmas, Miss Elizabeth?” His voice turned to cold silk. “The orphanage that burned down, killing all those innocent children?”

“The…fire—it was an accident. Ciel…Ciel got there too late. A murder-suicide.” Her voice was a whisper.

Sebastian chuckled as he prowled the darkness, a demon hunting for his next meal. “Come now my dear, you’re more intelligent than that. A baptism of fire for those kidnapped children—a fire that just so happened to kill the only man who could’ve had your fiancé indicted for treason.”

“Ciel wouldn’t—“

“Oh but he would, my dear.” Sebastian smiled, teeth glinting in the faint moonlight. “He most definitely would.”

“Do you think it was wise, young master?” Tanaka inquired as he polished the silver, movements smooth and sure while his employer read by the fireplace.

Ciel, seated in a high-backed armchair, turned a page. “Do I think what was wise?” His voice was calm—monotone even—but his spine was rigid, his entire posture coiled like a spring.

“To send Miss Elizabeth down there to interrogate him. The man has a talent of planting seeds of doubt in even the most faithful of people.”

“If you think Elizabeth will be swayed by any of his arguments then you’re sorely mistaken.” He closed his book. “She’s strong. The strongest woman I know.”

“Aside from her mother of course.” The old butler chuckled.

Ciel winced. “Yes…Francis Midford is certainly…interesting to say the least.” He paused, almost half in thought. “My future mother-in-law. Thank god she lives in Boston.”

Tanaka laughed before turning around, giving his master a short bow. “I should think so, my lord. But all the same—I worry for Miss Elizabeth.”

“Have you so little faith in her abilities, Tanaka?” Ciel demanded. “She learned from my hand how to interrogate prisoners. I’ve seen her wheedle information out of the devoutest Catholic and most lascivious politician. Sebastian Michaelis will be no different.”

“Oh young master I have complete faith in my lady’s skill and strength, but the child she carries should not bear such a burden.”

“…Child?”

“Indeed, my lord.” Tanaka bowed again. “Your child.”

A/N: Yayyy part V of my 1920s au series! Plot’s finally rolling along—I’m hoping Alois gets to make his big debut next chapter (: Thanks for reading!

[coffeeandpixiedust023-blog]

How Being Too Kind To Others Can Be Unkind To Yourself:

When I was kid my grandmother always used to say to me “You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar”. It was an old turn of phrase that basically said that I would make more friends if I were sweet or kind than if I were sour or mean. Now this, for the most part, is a pretty true statement about life in general. It is better to be kind. I generally try to live my life by the Hippocratic Oath whenever possible: “First, do no harm”. However, I feel that in today’s society something else has developed that I like to call “toxic kindness”, and even I have fallen victim to it. In fact, it used to completely consume my life, and while I have made great strides to overcome it, I still find myself slipping into it.

So, what is “toxic kindness”? Well, I think of it as the societal influences that make us feel like we cannot assert ourselves. I have, on more than one occasion, been made to feel like I am not allowed to say no or stand up for myself because I will be viewed as a “bitch”. Eventually, this mindset started to set in, and I began thinking that I had to be a total people pleaser to be considered a “nice person”. I couldn’t fight back in arguments, express an opposing opinion, or even decline a date with someone I wasn’t interested in because I didn’t want to be seen in a bad light. I wanted people to think I was “nice”, and toxic kindness had led me to believe that I had to let people walk all over me in order for this to be true.

This state of being was unhealthy for me for many reasons. For one, I was beginning to let things build up too much inside. Someone would say something to hurt my feelings, and I would think to myself “let it go. It isn’t worth an argument”, and I would hold my tongue. I wouldn’t defend myself or express that I was hurt because I didn’t want to say anything to the person to start a disagreement, but I also never really let it go. It was the same with a slew of other incidents. If fights did occur, I was always the one to back down, when people asked me for favors I always jumped at the opportunity even if it was an inconvenience for me. I allowed myself to be taken advantage of, and I never said a word. I stayed friends with people who constantly talked down to me or used me as an emotional punching bag. I never stood up for myself. All of these things would gather and then plant a tiny seed within me. That seed was then slowly watered and nourished by all of the other things I never let go of; my stifled comments and silent battles. I had no way of decompressing any of the hurt or anger because I refused to let it out. Until, eventually, it would blossom into a flower of emotion that unleashed at the most inopportune moments. I would snap undeservedly at people I felt were “safe” targets, like my mother, or get angry with myself over bad grades and inconsequential mistakes. I would find myself bursting into tears over small things like a spilled cup of coffee or a sad song on the radio. All of these feelings were fighting for an outlet, and it had made me an emotional wreck.

The second reason that toxic kindness is so harmful is that it is completely ludicrous. Obviously no person is perfect, and that does not equate to them being unkind. While it is true that sometimes people don’t like you if you disagree with them, that does not mean that you are a bad person because of it. You can’t agree with everyone all of the time. And while it is also true that someone’s feelings or pride may be temporarily injured by a rejection, it is much better to be honest. If anything, this poisonous behavior will only make things much worse for you. For instance, it can cause you to make the wrong kinds of friends. When you’re so desperate to be liked by everyone, you can allow people into your life that are more harmful than beneficial to you. It can also end friendships and relationships. Issues that could have been resolved early on by talking through them may spiral out of control or cause your resentment to grow until there is an irreversible blow up that puts a rift between you and the other person. It is okay to disagree with your friends, and it is also okay to tell a toxic person that you can’t have them in your life anymore. It is not a crime to care about yourself as much as you care about others. It is exhausting to always put yourself last, and, like with what happened to me, you can cause yourself a lot of unneeded emotional distress.

Now, I am in no way saying you should act on every impulse you have. You should not run around screaming in people’s faces anytime they do something to set you off, and you shouldn’t go out of your way to be confrontational. It is not okay, by any means, to be cruel. However, it is better to understand that you can express yourself in a kind way without having to feel guilty. You do not have to be a doormat to people in order to be likable, and you do not have to be spineless in order to be a good person. I had to learn this the hard way over many years of frustration and difficult relationships, but I have come a very long way. I stand up for myself, I am unapologetically me, I weed out the people who bring me down without allowing myself to feel bad for it. I keep only the supportive people who truly care about me in my life, and they accept me regardless of my flaws or our disagreements. I am still working on it everyday, but I always like to remind myself of the mantra “Do not harm, but take no shit” that is very popular on the internet lately. It’s true, and it’s something all of us should remember. Do not let noxious preconceived ideas control your life.

“You have enemies in life? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something in your life.” ~Winston Churchill

[onelungmcclung]

Jewish and Russian prisoners were starved, beaten and shot on Alderney after Churchill abandoned the island to the Germans. Britain investigated the crimes after the war — and then covered them up.

On June 30, 1942, Robert Perelstein wrote to a government official in Sarthe, northwest France, with an innocent question. The carpenter and cabinetmaker, 60, had been wounded twice serving France in the First World War, had married a Catholic woman, and saw himself as “French above all”.

Yet Perelstein was of Jewish descent, meaning that under the Nazi occupiers’ racial laws, he was required to wear a yellow star with the word Juif (Jew). His employer had sacked him, and he was running out of savings. His wife and their daughter, 3, were suffering.

Could somebody not write to Germans to explain his predicament? In elegant handwriting, he wrote: “Perhaps it would be possible for you, Mr Prefect, to help me obtain a dispensation from wearing the star just to get to my place of work?”

Soon he would have his answer: he was arrested by the Gestapo and sent to a slave labour camp the next year. On December 22, 1943, he died. The official cause of death was listed as exhaustion.

In purely statistical terms, Perelstein’s story is not unusual: 75,000 French Jews were murdered during the Holocaust, out of a total of six million. However, in other respects, it is unusual: because he died on British soil.

Perelstein’s name is one of several hundred contained in a British intelligence report into Nazi crimes committed on Alderney, one of the Channel Islands, during the Second World War.

On this speck of land, between 1941 and 1945, the Nazis built the only labour and concentration camps in the British Isles and imported thousands of prisoners to build fortifications.

After its liberation, survivors and Nazi soldiers provided testimony of appalling horrors, including Jews and Russians beaten for pleasure, prisoners shot for eating rubbish, and even the suggestion, in one instance, of cannibalism.

Such details are not widely known: the British government decided not to prosecute those responsible for war crimes, fearing an international embarrassment, and the evidence remained classified in military archives.

But today, the story can be told in extraordinary new detail. The Sunday Times has obtained a rare copy of the Pantcheff report, named after the intelligence officer who wrote it, which was held in the Russian archives. Many of the details have not been published before.

In addition, we have conducted the first interview with the author’s family, and spoken to the descendants of numerous survivors.

Together, the evidence poses sobering questions. How did a campaign of persecution and murder against Jews, prisoners of war and civilians take place on our soil? Why was nobody punished for these acts? And who is responsible for remembering those who died? As Lord Pickles, the United Kingdom special envoy for post-Holocaust issues, says today, it is time for the full truth to come out.

Systematic murder

“It has been established, I think, that crimes of a systematically brutal and callous nature were committed — on British soil — in the last three years.” These were the words of Captain Theodore Pantcheff, a British intelligence officer, who submitted his investigation, Report on Atrocities Committed in Alderney, 1942-1945, on June 27, 1945.

The story of Alderney’s occupation begins on June 15, 1940, shortly after the Nazis had defeated the Allies in France. It was then that Winston Churchill decided that the Channel Islands were of no strategic importance. The government gave up the crown’s oldest possessions “without firing a single shot”. Troops left in such a hurry that half-eaten meals were left on tables. Islanders were left with the shallow reassurance of George VI, who said “I deeply regret this necessity” — and claimed the link between them and Britain would “remain unbroken”.

In fact, the opposite was true. Churchill avoided mentioning them in his radio broadcasts. The image of Nazis walking down cobbled streets and passing red postboxes and English road signs, it was feared, could dent morale.

In turn, the Nazis were free to do as they pleased. On October 10, 1941, Hitler announced his intention to convert the islands into an “impregnable fortress” at the centre of his Atlantic Wall, a system of concrete fortifications to prevent an Allied invasion of Europe.

Guernsey and Jersey still had large civilian populations, but Alderney was different: its 1,400 or so residents had been moved out, meaning it was in effect empty. That meant the island, at three miles long and 1½ miles wide, would be one of the most heavily fortified sections of the wall.

It was in this context that the OT — Organisation Todt, the Nazi’s military engineers — arrived on the island and oversaw the construction of four labour camps, starting in 1941, as well as other satellite prisons for holding slaves. In 1943, the SS arrived, turning two of them into concentration camps, one of them a subdivision of Neuengamme, a notorious camp outside Hamburg. These operated under a form of systematic murder typically described as “Vernichtung durch Arbeit” — extermination through labour.

Those sent to the camps included hundreds of French Jews, many of them spared immediate death at Auschwitz on account of being married to non-Jews or coming from mixed marriages. The largest group was composed of Russian, Polish and Ukrainian prisoners of war and civilians. They were joined by German and Spanish political prisoners. It is thought that more than 6,000 people of 27 nationalities were taken to the island.

By the time of his arrival on the newly liberated island in 1945, “Bunny” Pantcheff’s mission was to illustrate what had happened over the previous five years, and the “long-term policy of maintaining inhuman conditions, undernourishment, ill-treatment and overwork”.

He was 24, but fluent in German and French, and had impressed his superiors with his interrogation of Nazis at the London Cage, where prisoners of war were held in Kensington. Having also visited his uncle on the island as a child for holidays, he was selected as the man for the job. According to his son, Andrew, 65, a former bookseller who lives on Alderney, his father confiscated a gun from a Nazi soldier shortly after arriving, telling him, wryly: “You won’t be needing that until the next war.”

But any levity is unlikely to have lasted long. The island had been transformed, the beach replaced by a fortification, and Lloyds Bank turned into a Nazi HQ. Longis Common, on the southeast shore, became a cemetery. Pantcheff “screened” more than 3,000 witnesses, including former prisoners of war, German soldiers and civilians.

Starvation diet

According to Pantcheff, labourers shipped to the island “were kept below deck in extremely cramped conditions, in one case with less than one square metre deck space per man … there were no sanitary arrangements on board”.

Some died during transit to or from the island, or while docked in the harbour for days waiting to get out. Josef Kaiser, a German naval officer interviewed by Pantcheff, recalled a ship remaining in the harbour for five days, at the end of which he “took off about 14 corpses … [and] thinks one of the bodies removed from ships was eaten by rats or Russians”.

Those who survived experienced hell on earth. Prisoners lived in wooden barracks encircled by barbed wire. Many of them were damp, flooded and structurally unsound, surrendering to wind or storms. Inmates spent most of their time outside for a single purpose: labour. Pantcheff wrote that “foreign workers did 12 hours of heavy construction work a day, sometimes more, with a break at midday, varying from 10 minutes to half an hour … this for seven days a week”.

Tasks included laying cables, constructing bunkers, tunnels and walls. Prisoners were not given special equipment or clothing: “Winter or summer they wore what they had on … with the exception of shoes, which were replaced by wooden sabots [clogs] when worn out.”

Amid these conditions, inmates were put on starvation diets. This included “half a litre of coffee, without milk or sugar” for breakfast, “half a litre of thin cabbage soup” for lunch, and “a similar portion of soup and a 1 kilo loaf among 5-6 men” for dinner. “Some 25 grams of butter appear to have been available twice or three times a week, but only on extremely rare occasions — if ever — were sausage, cheese or any fresh vegetable available to foreign workers.”

In response to such undernourishment, many prisoners became emaciated, ebbing for months between life and death, and resorting to eating anything they could find. Ernest Vincent Clark, a British farmer who remained on the island, told Pantcheff about how prisoners ate food “the dogs had left”, “a calf … buried under manure and also bad cows’ feet”, adding: “Obviously they were being systematically starved.”

Yet doing so violated Nazi rules, which stated that prisoners could eat only their formal rations, and so carried potentially lethal consequences.

Pantcheff wrote: “Workers were beaten for the most trivial offences, against the harsh regulations, such as failure to execute a drill movement properly, or endeavouring to acquire extra food from the garbage pail.”

Wilfred Henry Dupont, a prisoner, described an incident in which he saw a German “shoot a Russian who was picking up potatoes on the farm, but does not know whether he died”.

Nazi officers would at times tempt prisoners into breaking other rules so that they could respond with violence. Pantcheff describes how the SS “competed in getting leave by shooting prisoners for the smallest offences, e.g. they threw away cigarette ends and as soon as an inmate bent down to pick them up they shot them”.

As members of what the Nazis believed to be inferior races, or untermenschen, eastern European prisoners of war and French Jews appear to have suffered from the most extreme and arbitrary violence.

Jacques Pierre Chansaulme, a French prisoner, described an incident in which a “French Jew hit over the head by an OT man with a pick handle. He fell down and could not get up. Has seen men hit with sticks until they become unconscious.” This incident is corroborated in the report by Edgar Quinet, another Frenchman, who also remarked that it was a “common sight to see Jews and Russians beaten with sticks”.

On February 21, 1942, Julio Conin, a Spanish prisoner, arrived on Alderney, and was quickly sent to Norderney, the camp where most of the French Jews were held. He quickly became familiar with the way things worked: “Soon after he arrived,” Pantcheff wrote, he saw a man “beaten by a German heavyweight boxer”. On another occasion, he saw a Nazi soldier “beat until nearly blind a Spaniard … for giving food to a Russian”. He also describes a regular parade of sick prisoners that took place, during which a Nazi assaulted them in “brutal fashion”, kicking them in the kidneys.

Yet what is most striking about Conin’s interview is that it details crimes carried out not only by camp guards — but the most senior officials as well.

Karl Theiss was the commander of Norderney. According to Conin, the walls of his office were “painted four times to remove bloodstains … Hitler portrait there washed clean every day”. Theiss also forcibly used a “French colonial” black man “as [an] official torturer, as he could flog harder than any German”.

Bonuses for killing

In the annexe of the report, witnesses detail a series of accidental deaths, disappearances and murders. A man “blown up by [a] mine while collecting snails to eat”; a prisoner shot on a farm after illicitly picking up a “few potatoes”; two young men killed, their corpses discovered behind a hedge, after it was decided they were too “weak to work”.

One of the worst testimonies, euphemistically referred to as the “Russian boy incident”, concerns a 17-year-old boy accused of “breaking into a church and stealing food”. Despite protesting his innocence, the Nazis are said to have beaten his face, leaving it swollen. The next day, a witness said, “they gave him a cigarette to mock him, but he could not put it in his mouth. They made him sit on a stove which they stoked. Heat unbearable … kept there for half an hour — he was crying.” The testimony concludes: “The Russian boy disappeared after that.”

Much of the murder appears to have been more systematic. Scharführer Hoeglow, the head of the SS troops, is listed as giving a “bonus of 14 days’ leave, extra food and drink to SS guards for every five dead prisoners”. Scharführer Krellmann is listed as a medical orderly whose job was allegedly to give “prisoners injections which killed within 5 minutes. Prisoners old and incapacitated from starvation and exhaustion … it was Krellman’s job to give them the coup de grâce.”

On other occasions, it was apparently random, with individual prisoners said to have been thrown into the sea for poor work.

Pantcheff did not corroborate, or throw his own weight behind, every one of these testimonies. Indeed, not all of his witnesses profess to have seen certain individuals actually die, merely assuming they did so — such as the story of civilians “laying a cable … were beaten to the ground and left by the roadside, apparently to die.”

As a result of this, and the apparent random way in which certain bodies were discarded or left to rot, Pantcheff had one main resource in calculating the number to have died on the island: the burial grounds.

Jewish mass graves

After arriving on the island, he visited the southeast shore. It was at Longis Common that he first saw a cemetery with hundreds of wooden crucifixes. In one corner, away from the main site, he found eight Jewish graves, including Perelstein’s. He also found several others, which were “opened in my presence and found to contain one skeleton each”.

The burials were chaotic. “Although the graves are methodically set out, in perfect order, row by row, the dates of deaths given on the crosses are not in chronological sequences, which suggests that crosses were erected in a binary order, possibly some time after the death.” Pantcheff adds: “The same name appears in 11 cases of two crosses.”

Such uncertainty is reflected in the phrasing of Pantcheff’s conclusion as to the death toll, in which he merely refers to the number of people buried, rather than the number who died. He wrote: “The probable number of foreign workers buried is 372”. Similarly, the list of the dead in Pantcheff’s report is in fact a list of those who had graves that could be identified.

In merely referring to graves, rather than deaths, Pantcheff may also have been conscious of evidence of mass burials. British officials who arrived before him even appear to have witnessed at least one communal pit on Longis Common, putting up a large cross and a sign with the words: “Here lie the bodies of 43 unknown Russians.”

Other burial pits are alluded to by a number of witnesses, such as Lorenzo Cobo, who described “as many as six were buried in one grave, mostly dead through beating though some were shot”.

George Pope, a British boatman who did odd jobs for the Nazis, made similar claims, describing Jewish mass graves “containing more than one body … each grave contained 5-10 bodies and was left open until full”. He claimed that 300 to 400 Jews were buried in this way.

Pope’s testimony is complicated and controversial. He is described in the report as being suspected of “collaborationist activities” and delivering his testimony in an “unreliable manner” although it was later featured in the press. There are also suggestions he might have provided intelligence to the British during the war.

Today, academics remain agnostic about the total number to have died, and the means by which they did so. Dr Paul Sanders, a former Cambridge historian, and Dr Gillian Carr, an historian at Cambridge and representative of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance, put the number at about 700. Professor Caroline Sturdy Colls, a forensic archaeologist at Staffordshire University, says mass graves existed, and that British documents about them appear to have mysteriously disappeared after the war. She, too, says the death toll of 372 is lower than the true figure, and has produced a more recent, conservative estimate of up to 950. Marcus Roberts, the founder of JTrails, a Jewish historical organisation, argues the number is likely to run into the thousands.

Perhaps the final word will be from Pantcheff himself, who, in 1981, after a decorated career in MI6, and a few years before his death from cancer, wrote a book detailing his experiences. In it, he acknowledged that his original tally was a “minimum conclusion”.

His son, Andrew, says: “My father knew the death toll could be higher, he knew very well he wasn’t going to come up with an absolute definitive number. The number was a conservative number because he’s got to be able to link the deaths he knows about for people responsible for it. It’s not enough to say they might be here, they might be there. I think he erred on the side of conservatism.”

To Andrew, such conservatism was the best way of commemorating what happened on the island, rather than a callous underestimate. As a child, he recalls being taken by his father to a bunker where a Jew had engraved a Star of David in the wet concrete. Yet his father rarely spoke openly about what he saw. “I think he kept a lot of it inside, and with a notion of trying to work through it. I don’t think he was a great one for publicity. He tried to do God’s work, which was not always man’s,” he said.

Deliberate evasion

In the spring of 1947, military lawyers in the French army wrote to their British counterparts with a series of questions. Had Britain conducted an investigation into the concentration camp on Alderney? Was there a list of men responsible for war crimes? Did Britain intend to try these criminals for crimes committed?

The internal response, dated March 24, 1947 and sent by G Barratt, a lieutenant colonel in the office of the Judge Advocate General, was, at the least, strikingly evasive. He admitted his office “did conduct an investigation into the concentration camp”, before claiming that they had no list of the accused. “As no British nationals were involved and the majority of the internees were Russian, the completed reports were handed over to [them] for such action as they might think fit.

“Consequently, I regret that the only information we can give you on this matter is the general statement that the Russians were treated with great cruelty and that not only were many tortures inflicted on them, but they were also allowed to die as a result of starvation.”

In fact, Pantcheff’s report did contain a long list of named Nazi officials, crimes they were accused of, and details of underlying evidence. It also provided evidence of the camp’s leadership structure and its role within the wider German war machine, explaining individuals who were “directly responsible” to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

Despite such evidence, Britain did not bring prosecutions and prevented others from doing by failing to disclose evidence. Instead, the government exploited an ambiguity over which country should prosecute: the UK, on whose soil the crimes took place, or the Soviet Union, whose citizens accounted for most deaths.

One Foreign Office memo sent shortly after the war read: “For practical purposes, Russians may be considered to have been the only occupants of these camps.” As a result, only a handful of Germans were ever punished for their crimes on Alderney, mostly by a French military tribunal.

The only reason the story can now be told is because of the declassification of military records, decades after the events in question. In the early 1990s, the journalist Madeleine Bunting read the Pantcheff report for the first time in the Russian archives. Roberts, of JTrails, has since obtained photographs of the Russian copy of the report and provided analysis.

It is unclear if Britain has a copy of the Pantcheff report in full: Sturdy Colls says its contents are mostly available, but as disparate individual documents in the National Archives. For years, it has been rumoured that the government threw away a complete copy to create storage space.

Traumatic legacy

Séverine Landeau, 38, is the granddaughter of Perelstein, the carpenter who died on the island. She lives in La Roche-sur-Yon, 150 miles southwest of Le Mans, where he had lived. She said her grandfather’s fate had cast a shadow over the family that has endured for decades. Even today, her mother, 81, is reluctant to talk about it.

“She always tried to hide that her father was deported as a Jew. It is a part of her life that she always wanted to hide,” said Landeau, the youngest of eight.

“Being born in 1939 she lived through the war and really suffered,” Landeau added. “She did not have to wear a yellow star, but the other children often insulted her and called her a ‘dirty Jew’. Whenever she saw German soldiers come to the school she was really afraid, given that her father had been deported.”

Her mother continued to be wary about mentioning what had happened, even well after the end of the war. After her mother married in 1961, Landeau said, she did everything to hide her Jewish maiden name. “She was always worried it all could start again, against her and us. She was always afraid of antisemitism,” she said.

Many of these stories could be lost to the time, as the last generation of survivors dies out and no one nation takes responsibility for what happened on Alderney. Yet there are efforts to keep the flame of what happened there alive and explore why it has not punctured Britain’s consciousness.

Pickles, for instance, says Alderney’s story will form a central part of a new Holocaust memorial, to be built near Westminster. He said: “What happened does not reflect well on the British government on the time, and we are eager to ensure the full facts are understood by the nation … the fact that the perpetrators faced no prosecution is something that we will feature very heavily. We must explore the reasons for that.”

[dinafbrownil]

For Generation Juul, Nicotine Addiction Happens Fast And Is Hard To Shake

When Will tried his first vape during his sophomore year, he didn’t know what to expect. It was just something he had vaguely heard about at his high school.

“I just sort of remember using it a bunch of times, like in a row,” he said. “And there’s this huge buzz-sensation-like head rush. And I just … didn’t really stop.”

Will kept vaping nicotine addictively for the next year and a half. He was part of a trend. Teens’ use of e-cigarettes has doubled since 2017, according to the National Institute on Drug Abuse, with 1 in 4 high school seniors reporting use of a vape in the previous month.

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He’s now a senior at a high school in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. (NPR and Kaiser Health News are using Will’s first name only so he could speak freely about his use without fear of repercussions at school or home.)

Will overcame his addiction to nicotine before the outbreak this summer of severe lung illness and deaths linked to vaping. But he still occasionally vapes THC, the psychoactive ingredient in marijuana. He said the illnesses haven’t made him or his friends quit, partly because vaping is a big part of teen culture — and also because they think nothing bad will happen to them.

“I feel like, for a lot of people, that’s just a chance they’re willing to take,” he said. “I don’t think a lot of kids are thinking about the future.”

Last spring, three students at Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Md., were taken via ambulance to emergency rooms in two separate incidents after vaping THC.

All three students had lost consciousness, however, the cases are not among those being investigated by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said Mary Anderson, spokeswoman for Montgomery County Health and Human Services. The students hadn’t shown any respiratory symptoms, Anderson explained, and the incidents happened before the CDC issued guidance on reporting severe lung illnesses.

Churchill High School Principal Brandi Heckert said she’s seen vaping explode in popularity over the past year.

“All of a sudden, it went from zero to 60 — in, like, no time,” she said.

Teachers and staff have come a long way in being able to recognize the different kinds of vapes, Heckert said. Vapes can look like a flash drive or other digital device — so easy to conceal that students can sometimes use them in class.

“I think what’s scary for us a lot of times is that, unless they have some cartridge on them or package on them, we don’t know what’s in there,” Heckert said. “And so that makes it really challenging to help them if they’re in need.”

For example, she said, school officials last spring didn’t know exactly what the three students treated in the ER for serious vaping-related symptoms had ingested.

For teens who vape, an addiction to nicotine ramped up fast, too. Will recalled his out-of-control use.

“I just kept doing it,” he said. “I remember, especially when I got home, I just kept using my own — for, like, the entire night — until I sort of felt sick in my stomach.”

At first, Will and his friends got someone to buy the pods containing nicotine-infused liquid for them from a store. But eventually, Will said, he was able to buy his own pods online on eBay and other sites.

After a while, he no longer got the head rush that made vaping satisfying in the beginning. But he still kept buying nicotine.

Toward the end, the teen said, “it just seemed sort of meaningless, like just buying these $20 packets of, like, nicotine juice. It didn’t really seem like I was gaining much from it, and then over time, my lungs started to hurt.”

Will stopped vaping last spring almost by accident. A friend had jumped into a pool with Will’s Juul device, rendering it useless. He spent hours trying to fix it, but his efforts didn’t work. Another Juul device to replace it would have cost him about $50.

“It didn’t really seem like it was something that was really worth it to me. And I knew I was trying to definitely be more proactive and healthy,” he said.

So he stopped vaping — cold turkey — and felt a severe craving for three weeks straight.

“I can see why it would be so hard for other people to stop,” he said.

Will believes that for some people, including him, vaping is a phase. But others are truly addicted, he said.

Louis Schreiber, a senior at Winston Churchill High School, in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C., is working on starting an anti-vaping group at the school. He has asthma and says he hopes the rash of serious vaping-related lung diseases among teens will serve as a wake-up call to other students.(Elly Yu/WAMU)

Louis Schreiber, a senior at Churchill High School, doesn’t vape himself and is trying to start an anti-vaping group among his classmates. He has asthma and said he avoids the bathrooms at school because of vaping.

He’s part of a task force on vaping in Montgomery County and said he hopes the string of recent illnesses have served as “a wake-up call” for some of his peers. But he agreed the national wave of lung illnesses won’t stop many from vaping.

Right now, Schreiber said, the use of e-cigarettes “is viewed as a cool, popular thing” among his peers. “To stick out in high school for any reason, certainly, among this generation, is hard,” he said. “And going against this would be almost, you know, impossible.”

Nonetheless, Phoebe Chambers, a junior at Churchill, said the hospitalizations that have been in the news have scared some of her classmates.

“People who have never vaped probably don’t want to try it now. But kids who are addicted — I think they are struggling,” Chambers said.

“I have one friend who quit because they realized how bad it was, and it was very, very hard for them,” she said. Chambers is concerned about how vaping will affect the health of her generation. Even if a teen does try to stop using vapes, the devices are hard to avoid.

“It’s not just something that’s limited to one social group,” Chambers said. “It’s not just like the group of kids who, like, are stoners. It’s the athletes. It’s the nerds. It’s everybody. It’s infiltrated every social clique. Every type of person knows someone — or maybe they are that person — who is vaping.”

This story is part of a reporting partnership with WAMU and NPR.

from Updates By Dina https://khn.org/news/for-generation-juul-nicotine-addiction-happens-fast-and-is-hard-to-shake/