#and when the Hulk doesn’t know the word ‘revolution’

[daydreamerdrew]

The Incredible Hulk (1968) #177

[idjitlili]

I can be the God of your Orgasm.

Loki x reader

(Not my image)

Summary:Some how ending up in Sakaar ,Valkyrie ends up taking you under her wing,no not her horse Aragorn,for a year ,until some Gods show up.

Word count:1768

Warnings:Language

A/n: Couldn’t end it , last time I touched this was October. Uhm, there’s a picture of Bowie, probably TMI here, but he was the first man , I ever you know over.Double aswell. I’m sorry.

You just a young woman in y/c ,heading to college your average routine ,but you never made it. Instead you had tripped over into a puddle ,but yet again you were decieved ,it was a portal. You hadn't/only left your country ,let alone been on another planet. You didn't think that was even possible;magic nor to be able to breathe on an different planet,well that was what you were told by the government. No you weren't a flat earther,thats bloody stupid. However you felt like the government hid a lot.

Michael Jacksons death,Heath Ledgers death,River Phoenix's death, Princess Diana's death , David Bowie, Obi-wan,it just seemed a little suspicous, not saying it was definitely them covering up the murders but...

Anyways so you fell into the puddle into a some rubbish ,literal rubbish. You had no idea what happened ,when Valkyrie found you she didn't either. God damn Benedict cumpatch stay in america with your fake american accent. Just stay away ,don't really want to be assassainated for being best buds with Sherlock Holmes and Dildo Gaggins.

Valkyrie had felt bad for such a young mortal being in an strange planet,she couldn't bare to bring you to Grandmaster ,to be apart of his orgies. he was indeed a tough warrior much like Dwalin the dwarf from the hobbit,who funfact is the longest living dwarf living up to 300 years,yes irrelvent.

Thus, you lived with her ,you managed to get a part time job as a cook,just so you didn't feel so bad about living with Valkyrie rent free. When I say part time cook ,I mean you just cooked for you and her,you didn't trust this planet. It was lucky when you fell in that puddle the stuff in your backpack didn't get wet,so you had some books to read,and such.

To be far being away from home stuck on an alien planet really did get boring ,you'd hate to admit it but sometimes you had to go to visit Hulk,because he was sorta normal. No he was not but he was okay ,like a destructive toddler but it was better than being alone. Other than that you really missed home ,you missed tv,you missed ice cream.

Pretty much everyday was boring. Well after almost a year of being here ,Valkyrie had brought a guest to your shared apartment thing. The God you had seen on the television a couple years ago. You had been sitting on the sofa reading at the time ,you jumped so hard when the door slammed open,you had looked up to see valkyrie shoving down a dark haired man in chains.

"Uhhh, are you allowed to kidnap people here?" you had questioned ,causing Valkyrie and the guy turn to you ,you had recognised him after a moment of trying to pin point his face. "I don't think that will hold him...h-he's-"

"Just stay away from him ,don't talk to him,don't look at him,hell don't even think about him,I will be back with Thor ,and then we can get you home, Y/n. So pack your things ." Soon as she had mentioned going home you had already started gathering your things,as Valkyrie had left after the God of Thunder. No you didn't go to the big battle compitions and Valkyrie certainly did not tell you she had found Thor ,but it didn't matter you were going home.

It didn't take you long to pack soon,you had your shoes on and everything sitting on the sofa ,twiddling your thumbs,feeling Loki's gaze on you. What's up with in love stories men staring , oh shut up you are just jealous because you can't even get a boyfriend ,stupid scribe.

"she said not to think about you...can you read minds?" you had questioned ,just really because that gaze he had on you made you feel proper ugly ,in which you were not. He had scoffed at you.

"I'm not a witch."

"I never said you were,you are a God ,must be better than having a hammer, it's like a normal hammer with steriods."

"Ah..so you have heard of me," He had smirked to himself ,you had just looked back at you hands before reaching for your bag grabbing your journal and ink,before just scribbing doodles on a clean page.Loki didn't speak after that not until you did again ten minutes later ,probably less time goes slow when the mood is a drag.

"the thing with new York, that was because of Thanos? People have controlled me by making me feel guilty so many times..OH manipulation ,you probably don't want to hear what I have to say,but I can't help it ,i've been stuck here a year the only person I got to speak to is drunk Valkyrie and hulk in which I feel like I am talking to a child. You know what I really wish I was watching Lord of the rings right-"

"You are from earth,how did you end up here?" He had grinned at you,cutting you off,isn't he like a mass murderer? Well he was tricked into doing it ,so more like accidental murderer ,why is he so handsome. Don't be stupid he is a God of course he is handsome.

"Uh..I fell into a puddle then I was here." The God had turned his head away to the floor ,scrunching his eyebrows together in confusion.

"I don't see how that's possible."

"Well it happene-" Yet you were cut off again,as the door slammed open,you quickly turned away back to your notebook,Thor ,Bruce and Valkyrie stood at the door.

You missed what happened first ,Loki having things thrown at him ,and such,you only looked up when he said something about spaceships,seeing Bruce. Your eyes glittered with excitement , Thor saw this. "Oh my! I can't believe it's-2 Thor had shook his head for you not say it. "Radiation scientist,Bruce Banner, damn,now I must say this is much more exciting than a hammer,which you don't have what's up with that? Hey Bruce how you feeling?Green? Darn, imagine being strongest Avenger!"

Thor had scoffed at you,"Does she always talk this much?"Bruce had made his way over to you smiling at you as you stood up. "It is so cool to meet you mister Banner."

"Thank you miss..." "Y/n" He had smiled at you again before turning to Thor ,"see strongest Avenger,yep that's me."

"well then ,let' hope we can get home,just first we are to go to Asgard."

***

"Valkyrie ,I'm going to stay with Dwayne Johnson,I have no fighting skills so it's better if come I after," you had gestured to Korg.

"Alright then, I'll see you if I don't die" And with that she left you with the aliens,smiling up to them.

"The revolution has begun."

***

"Hey, what's this?"

"Thank you." You had stood next to Korg as he had powered down the taser device on Loki's body,you had stood rocking on your balls of your feet in excitement to get home.

"Hey,man. We're about to jump on that ginormous spaceship. You wanna come?" Loki had jumped up,his hair a messy ,from the intense pain he had just suffered,from betraying his brother yet again.

"well you do seem like you're in desperate need of leadership." The smirk was interweaved into his voice, smooth as his greasy hair.

"Why, thank you."

"Hurry up! It has been too long since I've seen the dance seen in the james franco spiderman three!" You rushed forwards grabbing a hold of the mischief makers arm dragging him towards the ship. "Talkative and touchy," Loki just allowed you to drag him,with him supposively being evil,grinning.

***

"uhhh, what's the chances of as all dying horribly? Do you think if i pretend to be dead she wouldn't notice?" Loki was driving the space ship,whilst you sat in the seat next to him,all the alien people sat or stood behind. You really be riding shotgun on a spaceship,it was you or korg.

Loki did not answer you , yet just slightly smiled glancing to you briefly, not a good sign, you'd think with two Gods you'd be fine ,but clearly not. "Hey do you think if Thor had to fight I don't know- AHH" You weren't sure who you meant to say as you face planted into the spaceship's floor,as Loki's flying had stopped so suddenly causing a jolt. You had laughed to your lesson quietly,patheticly in honesty ,covering up how embarrassing that was.

You felt as if you were Mantis ,when Drax had informed her to watch out after she got hit in the face.  All you could think was there's like a bunch of aliens on this ship and it's guaranteed at least 3 have just seen you face plant.  "Okay , that makes me wish that I was on Thors spaceship right now." Your hair in your face, forearms pressed against the cold metal floor.

"What does he have that I don't?" His voice seeped with sarcasm, okay maybe not he was probably just annoyed that a midgardian was aboard and could not shut up.

"He probably can fly this thing better, well it's probably Bruce but that's even better , do you even know how many PHDs he has?"

"Honestly I do not know and do not care."

"Wow that's not very nice . He has..wait I dont -" The smirk on Loki's face was stamped deep, as he pulled you out of your concentration by doing so. "Shut up I bet you say to all your lovers, ‘If you givee a chance I can be the god of your orgasm’” Honestly you don’t know what made you think of that , something tells you it’s to do with a dude that reads a lot of smut named Blake. Actually the author doesn’t know if he does but..

“Thank you darling, for the new material.”

[lokigodofaces]

list of variants/timelines i want to believe exist (and probably canonically do now)

this got long so i'm putting in a cut

a world where all of the events that happened in the Framework are real

bonus if the Framework world has their own version of the Framework that is like the real world in aos

Steve fell off the train, not Bucky. bc of the crap Zola did to Bucky, he survives in ice and well, and everything happens the same but Steve and Bucky's roles are reversed

Coulson doesn't bother to keep it a secret that he's alive, and the mcu is mainly just aos but with all the main characters as well (in other words, there's mainly good writing)

also in that world Steve and Bucky love Lola

Steve doesn't go back in time to live with Peggy

to all the people claiming aos isn't canon: Sylvie just made everything canon y'all. aos absolutely happened, and while i will argue that it happened in the main timeline, if you don't want to believe that it still happened in a timeline

Bucky didn't remember Steve soon enough, not until he killed Steve

Steve killed the Winter Soldier and didn't know who it was until he removed the mask

Hydra didn't hunt down Jiaying and by extent Daisy, so Daisy was raised by Jiaying and Cal who are not crazy bc they didn't have the same experiences they did in the main timeline

Thor never takes the others to Jotunheim, so Loki never learns he is Jotun

Fitz didn't survive almost drowning

Ward wasn't recruited by Garrett, but by literally any non-Hydra agent so he is a good guy

Coulson and May listened to the agent telling them to not send May in at Bahrain, heaven knows what happens there

the government gives the Avengers more than a week to go through the Accords, so they all get to the enhanced-people-have-to-wear-trackers, giant-underwater-prison, enhanced-operatives-can't-investigate-politicians, no-trial-for-enhanced, no-investigation-for-enhanced, etc sections so they all decide to not sign and just don't care what the government says

this is random, but i feel like Bucky as Ghost Rider would be a cool aesthetic.

the Avengers meet Robbie bc he keeps assassinating their targets bc they're targets of Ghost Rider's

Daisy dies instead of Lincoln

Daisy kills Lash before he can save her

Loki never "dies," so he is sent back to Asgardian prison after tdw

Radcliffe never reads the Darkhold, he just gave it to AIDA, so most of s4 doesn't happen

Dreykov comes after Natasha between Avengers and CACW, leading to the Avengers beating his *ss (like Yelena said, the god from space doesn't need an ibuprofen after a fight)

everything's the same but no Joss Whedon going on and on about Natasha not being able to have kids

whatever ship scenario you have is canon now

Loki gets all panicky after the Hulk beats him to a pulp, having now realized what he's done. Thor believes him, and this leads to Thanos being killed in 2012-13

Deadpool sits in the back of everything, shouting comments like "Yay! Superhero landing! But don't do that, it's bad for your knees!"

Peter Parker's parents never die

the Cavalry is an Avenger

Yondu brings Peter Quill to Ego, causing the universe's destruction

Gamora and Nebula get along their entire lives

Gamora and Nebula switch roles (Gamora becomes the cyborg, Nebula the guardian and Thanos's favorite daughter)

Heimdall actually bothers to look for Loki, seeing if they can find his body for a funeral, to find that he is being tortured by Thanos. Odin refuses to send anyone to save him, making Thor realize just how awful he is. Thor, Sif, and Warriors 3 go with the help of Heimdall to save Loki

Odin and Frigga are actually good parents, creating the most iconic trio ever

tw suicide for the next bullet point

Bucky commits suicide between TWS and CACW (Sebastian said in an interview once that Bucky was suicidal)

Loki keeps coming back as DB Cooper for fun or bc he keeps losing bets

the Eternals did interfere

the shrapnel kills Tony

this one thing i made about Mr Rogers adopting Loki

Robbie is part of the Avengers in 2012, but when he sees Loki he immediately says that Loki isn't the issue and goes off to fight Thanos single handedly (and wins)

for whatever reason Coulson and May do legally adopt all the Bus Kids

Hunter and Bobbi both go to break Fitz out of prison, and they stick around for the rest of the season

Fitz and Jemma never meet (saddest of sad days)

Loki for some reason is in FFH and he sees Mysterio's illusions and just laughs bc he's such an amateur

everything's the same, everyone's just obsessed with classical music and it's constantly playing so i get happy watching it

Asgardians are like the elves in LOTR (books, not the movies), so they're constantly singing and dancing and all

Loki is shown playing a Norse flute-like instrument (we know they exist, we've found them, they're different than your typical flute and we don't really know how they sound but i want Loki to be a flautist and no i'm not not projecting (note the double negative) and yes i headcanon Loki to be a flautist i don't care what anyone says)

everyone gets therapy

someone (Monica or Jimmy) hits Hayward on the head, knocking him out (the same way Gandalf knocked out Denethor in ROTK when Denethor told everyone to flee) and the rest of SWORD works with them because clearly Hayward has issues

Stephen commits to not texting and driving

somehow Luis becomes He Who Remains just for one timeline so the entire story is told like how he tells his flashbacks

Coulson doesn't help Fury and Carol escape

T'Challa does not survive and M'Baku becomes Black Panther

the suit in Iron Man 3 is not garbage the entire movie

Tony doesn't find a way to save himself in time

Ross dies in Incredible Hulk

Loki has a pet flerken he just always carries around

by the same logic, Bucky has a kitten he meets between TWS and CACW that he always carries around. said kitten attacks people when they attack Bucky

Bucky becomes Captain America instead of Sam

when Thor goes back to 2013 Asgard, he drags Loki with him back to 2023

Clint tests the time travel by going to Sokovia and drags Pietro back with him

Steve comes back an old man, but they use Bruce's attempt at time travel to turn him back into the 30 something Steve he was

literally anything happens other than Thanos killing Loki bc Loki only used knives when he isn't even tall enough to reach Thanos's neck

Sam and Bucky straight up kill Walker

Daisy never goes through terrigenesis

Loki somehow ends up a tutor for Daisy

Bucky joins the aos team after they find him on the run from Hydra

Bucky plays baritone saxophone bc bari saxes are awesome and it adds nothing to the plot but he spends at least half an hour in each movie playing bari sax

everything's the same but John Williams is the composer

S.H.I.E.L.D. uses GH-325 to revive a bunch of composers (Mozart, Dvorak, Beethoven, Bach, Bizet, Holst, y'know, all my guys) because they for whatever reason have their bodies because of some wack mission. and now they have a bunch of classical composers alive who insist on writing more music. and what are you going to do, tell Bach to stop composing?

by that same logic, someone working at the Guest House decides to steal Freddie Mercury's body so that they can revive him bc he just loves Queen that much

Thor realizes how awful Odin is and makes it his goal to get revenge for what Odin did to his little brother

Thor meets a bunch of Loki variants (most notably gator Loki) and just decides to stop questioning anything ever

Mobius teaches Loki how to ride a jet ski

Loki arrives at S.H.I.E.L.D. and informs everyone he wants to go to school and learn about politics and run for president and S.H.I.E.L.D. is like "okay whatever just don't tell anyone you're a literal god" but have no way to stop Loki from telling anyone

y'know the "shot heard 'round the world" thing from the Battle of Lexington (first battle in American revolution, if you don't know what it is, we have no clue who made the first shot & both sides were telling their troops to not fire. once that shot was fired the battle broke out)? yeah well that was Loki i'm pretty sure

Loki comes to Earth and becomes an Avenger and all but only ever introduces himself as DB Cooper. Thor doesn't ever come to Earth, so everyone just thinks DB Cooper found the secret to not age and just showed up to save people. he disappears for stretches of time & everyone stops being confused bc he was in hiding for decades of course no one's gonna find him (he is actually on Asgard)

[sweetsmellosuccess]

Review: Martin Eden

Dir. Pietro Marcello

Films set over many years, in the manner of many 18th century novels, can feel exhausting, choked with a tangled clump of plot points, too many side characters and relatives all churning together, such that the ground covered in two hours feels like an arduous, mostly vertical journey going straight up. 

Pietro Marcello‘s film, set in post-war Italy, and based on the novel by Jack London, avoids that fate, by dint of the director’s skill, to be sure, but also because the titular protagonist is himself so vibrant and fetchingly passionate, he is a joy to spend time with, at least until he realizes his dream. 

Martin (a marvelous Luca Marinelli), a strikingly handsome and capable man, having been a sailor since the tender age of 11, is brimming with life, but as we meet him, winning over the affections of Margherita (Denise Sardisco), a pretty, young woman he meets at a dance and beds on the galley of his current ship in Naples, he doesn’t yet know what he doesn’t know. That changes dramatically when he meets Elena (Jessica Cressy), the stunning, aristocratic sister of a young man whom he helps out of a scrape. Indebted to him, the proper family matriarch (Elisabetta Valgoi) invites him to stay for lunch, where he charmingly regales them with stories of the sea, and his feelings towards the Socialist revolution, which appears more and more imminent after World War I. 

Spending the day with the wealthy, highly educated family, and utterly smitten with Elena, Martin takes it upon himself to become better read, using the excuse of her mentorship as a means of keeping in touch with her. Eventually, he decides to become a writer, and applies his boundless energy and enthusiasm towards producing work — dark and depressing, as his sister scolds him for (“too much death; too much pain”) — and sending it into various magazines for publication. For many years, his manuscripts are mailed back to him, unopened, but he doggedly keeps pursuing his dream of making a living from his words, a far cry from the series of hard-labor gigs he takes to make ends meet, even after moving to the distant outskirts of the city, to a small rural village, where he lives with a kindly widowed mother (Carmen Pommella), and her two children. 

Still pursuing Elena, even as it becomes more and more clear her snobby, wealthy family won’t ever accept him into the family, Martin continues to plug away, never doubting his vision. Along the way, he meets an older, formerly debonair poet, Brissenden (Carlo Cecchi), who takes the young man under his wing, and helps support him through his wretched poverty. Despite his hulking frame, Martin eventually takes ill with a fever, which quickly dissipates when he catches word, at last, from an interested publisher. Emboldened with this success, he again goes courting Elena, but his more strident political views, at odds with the landed gentry of her family, lead her to turn away from him, leading him down a darker, if not more materially successful path. 

Marcello packs the film with offbeat bits and pieces of other films, including strips of what appear to be vintage home movies, sometimes in juxtaposition to what Martin is feeling  —  a group of kids swinging wildly from the bar of a fence, to a full galley ship taking in water and suddenly sinking like an iron ingot -- which adds a more winsome, timeless element to the narrative. It’s clearly set in the past, but avoids being too dependent on that particular sense of place and time. Martin is a young man, at first, just coming into himself, and the actions he takes, what he goes through, the film seems to suggest, would be similar in any age. 

Still, it has the literary feel of a good novel, such that the more jarring time jump near the end feels both justified and tightly bound. What stays with us is Martin’s rare drive and assurance of his path, a man who achieves exactly all and nothing of what he set out for, a lesson in the event of best laid plans, and the inexact science of properly feeding our souls.

[just-random-obsessions]

Funny Moments In Thor Ragnarök

Thor 1

Thor 2

Avengers 1

I know I said I was gonna do Avengers Age of Ultron too, but because it didn’t have Loki in it, I decided to scrap that idea because this series is mostly focused on the relationship between Loki and Thor. So without further ado, all the funny moments in Thor Ragnarök. Side note: This accounts for all the moments were SUPPOSED to be funny. However these are mostly toilet humor, so whether or not it was actually funny to the viewer just depends on that person’s taste in humor. Funny moments listed below cut line which is underneath the tag list.

Edit for clarification: This is not a post supporting Thor Ragnarok. This is an anti post. In another post (that I’m too lazy to write right now) I will be explaining the difference in humor tones between this movie and the previous three. I will also be explaining why this tonal change is hated by anti Ragnarok people.

Tag List: @fyrecrafted @lokijiro @nikkoliferous @miskiett @icyxmischief @iamanartichoke @juliabohemian @official-and-unstable-satan @darthxerik @melodylnoelle @just-another-human-2019 @fandomsandfanfictions @mentallydatingahotcelebrity @cateyes315 @burningarbiterheart @imnotacreepijustlikeyou @usedtobegoodfriend96 @alexakeyloveloki

~ “Where I met you :)” *skeleton’s jaw drops*

~ “Surtr. Son of...a bitch you’re still alive?!”

~ *The chain keeps spinning Thor around and interrupting Surtr

~ “And you’ll grow as big as a house-?” “A mOuNtAiN” 

~ “Oh that’s a crown. I thought it was a big eyebrow”

~ *Thor’s timing being wrong when he says “that’s what heroes do”

~ “oh I make grave mistakes all the time. Everything seems- *shit that’s a bg dragon* -to work out”

~ “Behold!!! My stuff!

~ *Pronounces Texas wrong*

~ “I call them Des and Troy. Together, they Destroy”

~ *Thor drops the hammer in the dragon’s mouth* “Stay!”

~ *The entire Asgardian play*

~ *The woman in the audience emotionally grabbing Thor’s arm*

~ *Thor being all wtf???*

~ “Father” “Oh shit”

~ *that smile!!!* 

~ *Out of breath* “Behold!! Thor! Odinso-” “You had one job”

~ “I swear I left him right here” “right here on the sidewalk or right here where the building’s being demolished?”

~ “Can’t see into the future. I’m not a witch” “No? Then why do you dress like one?” “hEy!!!1!!!1!!”

~ “I can’t believe you’re alive. I mourned you! I cried for you!” “I’m honored??”

~ *the two girls who approach Thor to take a selfie*

~ “Sorry to hear that Jane dumped you” “She didn’t dump me. I dumped her. It was a mutual dumping”

~ *Thor poking the piece of paper cause he thinks it’s Loki*

~ “You can put down the umbrella”

~ “So Earth has wizards now” “The preferred term is Master of the Mystic Arts” “Alright wizard”

~ *Thor fumbling with the cool spikey things*

~ “I don’t drink tea” “Well what do you drink?” “Not tea”

~*the self-refilling beer*

~ “No I don’t have a phone but you could’ve sent an electronic letter. It’s called an email” “Right do you have a computer?” “No what for?” *confusion*

~ “My hair is not to be meddled with-OW!!!!”

~ “We could’ve just walked”

~ “Don’t forget your umbrella” *the awkwardness between them as everything crashes*

~ “I hAvE bEeN fAlLiNg FoR tHiRtY mInUtEs!!!!1!!1!!!!”

~ I’m pretty sure Odin’s death scene was the only scene to not have any humor in it.

~ “Who are you?” “I’m just the janitor”

~ *Valkyrie tries to do the Badass Walk but falls off the edge*

~ *Val keeps stumbling*

~ “But we’ve already got him” “Alright then. I guess I go through you”

~ *The guns not working at first*

~ *Val’s smirk*

~ *Thor’s mashed up face on the window of the ship*

~ “Whoever you are.” “Whoever I am?! Did you listen to a word I said?!”

~ *Thor’s scared screaming turned into a confused and awkward screaming as he is introduced to the Grandmaster*

~ “He’s wonderful. It is a he?” “It is a he”

~ “She is the- and it starts with a b” “Trash” “Were you just waiting to call her that? It doesn’t start with a b” “Booze-head”

~ “You’ll pay for this” “No I got payed for this”

~ “I am the god of THUNDER” *sparkles*

~ “OH MY GOD I’m stepping in it!!!”

~ “I’m going back to Asgard.” “Assgard?”

~ “Loki!” “Shhh!”

~ *Loki and Thor start arguing*

~ “Get me out!” “I can’t!” “Get me out!” “I can’t!”

~ “I’ve never met this man in my life” “He’s my brother” “Adopted”

~ “Let me introduce myself my name is Korg. I’m kinda like the leader in here”

~ “I tried to start a revolutions but I didn’t print enough pamphlets”

~ “Oh no. Doug’s dead”

~ “That’s exactly what Doug used to say. See you later New Doug”

~ Infinity Gauntlet: “Fake!!”

~ Casket: “Weak!”

~ Surtr’s Crown: “Smaller than I though it would be”

~ *Thor throwing rocks at Loki*

~ “Piss off ghost!!”

~ “It would pull me off-” “Oh my god. The hammer pulled you off?” 

~ *Thor fumbling with talkin to Val and doing the thumbs up*

~ “By Odin’s beard you shall not cut my hair” *2 seconds later* “Please kind sir do not cut my hair”

~ “I have to get off this planet” 

~ “Loki! Look who it is!” *NOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENO

PENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPENOPE

NOPENOPENOPENOPE

~ *Thor gets whacked around like Loki did in Avengers* “YES!!! THATS HOW IT FEELS*

~ “Not just to execute people, but also to execute their vision. But mainly to execute people”

~ *Hulk being naked in the hot tub* “That’s in my brain now”

~ “What are you crazy?!” “YES”

~  “Hulk like fire. Thor like water”

~ *Thor stumbling around Val again*

~ “Because that’s what heroes-” *gets bonked in the head with the ball*

~ *the voice activation being “Point Break”*

~ “What happened to your hair?” “Some creepy old man cut it off” “It looks good”

~ “Banner” “Welcom strongest Avenger” “Uhhh what?”

~ “You and I had a fight “ “Did I win?” “No I won” “That doesn’t sound right”

~ *Topaz trying to hand the Grandmaster the meltsick*

~ “I don’t wanna fight your sister that’s a family issue”

~ *Thor and Bruce arguing like children*

~ “It’s my disguise” “I can see your face” “Not when I do this”

~ *Bruce complimenting Valkyrie*

~ *Thor stealing the name Revengers from the Avengers*

~ “Where are you at these days?” “It varies from moment to moment” *NOPE*

~ “We are going through the big one” “The Devil’s Anus?!”

~ “I’m asking for safe passage. Through the Anus”

~ *The snake story* 

~ “You guys have a beast :D?!!!!”

~ *”I’ll explain later”*

~ “I don’t like that word” “Mainframe?”

~ *Thor and Loki step out of the elevator* “Hello” “Hi”

~ *get help*

~ “Alright I can figure this out it’s just another spaceship”

~ “Did she just say the Grandmaster uses it for orgies?!!” “Yeah. Don’t touch anything”

~ “Use one of your PhD’s” “None of them aRe FoR FLYING ALIEN SPACESHIPS”

~ “Well you do seem like you’re in desperate need of leadership” “Why thank you” 

~ “Not that [Asgard’s] not nice it’s just that it’s on fire”

~ “I love what you’ve done with the place. Redecorating I see”

~ *heroic music plays* *Bruce falls flat on his face*

~ “I’m Korg. This is Miek. We’re gonna jump on that spaceship. Wanna come?”

~ “Your savior is here!!! Did you miss me?”

~ “You’re late” “You’re missing an eye” 

~ “I think we should disband the Revengers”

~ “Hit her with a lightning blast” “I just hit her with the biggest lightning blast in the history of lightning”

~ “So what do we do?” “I’m not doing Get Help”

~ “You can’t defeat me” “I know. But he can”

~ “We’re fulfilling the prophecy” “I hate this prophecy”

~ “For once in your life! Don’t smash!” “Big monster?!” 

~ “It will become a haven-” *Asgard explodes* “Yeah no sorry”

~ “Oh Mieks dead. Yeah I stomped on him on the bridge. I felt so guilty I’ve been carrying him around all day.” *2 seconds later* “Oh Miek you’re alive!! He;s alive guys!! What was your question?”

~ “Do you really think it’s a good idea to go back to earth?” “Yes of course, the people of Earth love me”

I FINALLY FINISHED IT!!!!!

[anonthenullifier]

You think Tommy & Billy occasionally have to hear their parents get referenced or discussed in classes or school hallways?

I am so so sorry this took a long time. I hope you enjoy it! 

The echoes of the bell are still bouncing through the halls and the room is still teacherless. There are signs that Mr. Byrne, their physics teacher, is around – a coffee cup sitting on top of a pile of their ungraded papers (which is fine by Tommy, he’s tempted to just go knock the mug over and get everyone As) and also the word DENSITY scrawled on the board. “What is it - 3 minutes and we get to leave?”

“Fifteen,” Billy doesn’t even turn to acknowledge his twin, too focused on organizing his notes, “pretty sure that’s only for college and also not sure it’s even a real rule.”

Apparently today his brother is in one of his serious, academically focused moods. “No one asked you, nerd.”

Now Tommy’s earned a steely stare, “You did.”

“Whatever.” Fifteen minutes seems excessive anyway, if Tommy is going to lead a revolt to not have class, he’d rather only wait five minutes, max. Given the make-up of their classmates, he’s reasonably confident he could get at least three-fourths of the back two rows on his side. Definitely not going to garner any sort of sympathy or fealty from the front rows, where they sit, because Billy says he hears better up here. Tommy only sits with him because they are near the door for an easy escape. “Do you think he’s dressing up again?” 

Billy writes Density at the top of a new page before looking at Tommy with disdain finally aimed at someone other than him. “God, I hope not.” 

“Who do you think it’ll be this time?” 

“Probably Carol.” Tommy snorts and then gags at the mental image, also a sliver proud of Billy’s emotionless delivery.  You see, Mr. Byrne is one of those…”cool” teachers, self-described, not student labeled like their kickass literature teacher next period. He’s “up” on memes, pop culture, and slang, though usually only on an academic surface level, the way old people try desperately to relate to the “youths” of the time. Why he tries, Tommy doesn’t know, the man has to be at least in his mid-thirties.* His choice of cultural relevance this semester? Superheroes. It’s awful, every week they have to watch him fanboy about someone else they know. It’s bad enough being the children of Avengers and dealing with other students who either have unoriginal questions (“Why do Hulk’s pants not rip apart?”), want autographs (particularly from Tony), want to prove they can win a fight without super powers (they can’t and Tommy’s detentions prove this), or, his favorite is when they ask sexually explicit things about his parents. That is a topic he never ever ever ever wants to think about ever again. 

Tommy checks the clock – four minutes. One more and then Živjela revolucija!** 

“Good morning class!” Dammit. “Today we will be…,” Mr. Byrne’s entrance is drowned out by sniggering, everyone murmuring around them and Tommy swears he can feel at least fifteen people looking at him.  

“Oh no.” It’s Billy’s voice that worries him the most. 

Tommy finally looks up,”Oh fuck no.” 

“That’s right,” it was bound to happen, they should have seen this coming, should have dropped this class when the whole superhero examples and costumes started. But they didn’t, they had just a bit too much faith in humanity. “Today we will be learning about density from the expert himself,” Mr. Byrne, face painted a too bright red and a plastic gem that he probably stole from a troll’s stomach stuck to his forehead, tries to swipe his Halloween costume store quality cape dramatically, “The Vision.”

A swift kick to the left gets Billy to tear his eyes away from the abomination at the front of the room, “Fuck this shit, I’m out.”

Except a thin blue strand traps Tommy in his seat,, “It’s one day,” Billy’s mouth doesn’t move but Tommy can hear his damn placating voice in his head, “we need this class to graduate and you can’t go to the principal again, so just stay and suffer.” The last part is almost gleeful. 

“Nope, I’ll just get a G.E.D.” Tommy throws his brother and teacher the middle finger as he vibrates his molecules and phases the hell away. 

Dad’s face is not pleased and mom’s eyes are glowing. “I swear this one is justified.”

“Yes,” his dad’s voice matches the tone he’s used on villains begging for freedom, who try to explain that the death ray was just meant to exterminate the rats in the city not, you know, the group of people tied up, “I am certain your detention will be justified this time.”

Well, he’s a lost cause, so Tommy shifts to the more rebellious parent, “Mom, I promise, that man is a lunatic and I had no choice but to skip.”

The Scarlet Witch, feared and revered for her reality warping, is about to tear a hole in reality and kick him out of this existence. “I’m sure.” 

Jody, the secretary, in all her villainess cardigan wearing glory shushes them sternly, “You know the rules.” The reprimand is replaced by a mannequin-esque smile, “The teacher is on his way and then Dr. Bennett will sort this all out.” 

Five minutes of agonizing silence pass, dad on one side in his unassuming and gaudy sweater vest and mom on the other, flicking arcs of scarlet between her fingers, before an out-of-breath Mr. Byrne arrives. He’s changed, now in khakis and a polo and face clean other than a slight tinge of red that looks like a sunburn. The conniving bastard. “The Vis-, I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff, what a pleasure to meet you.” 

Mom provides a taut, yet polite smile, “It’s too bad we didn’t meet under better circumstances.” 

“I agree,” Mr. Byrne’s voice conveys the same feeling that a patronizingly placed hand on the shoulder would, “Tommy is such a bright boy.” The if only is left silent, thankfully, a phrase he is so sick of hearing. 

This is all bullshit. Mr. Byrne knows exactly why Tommy left and yet, as the way it usually goes, the adults will all believe the adult. Actually, as it usually goes, he’s going to be left out here and not be allowed to speak his piece. 

The door to the principal’s office opens with a, “Mr. and Mrs. Maximoff, Mr. Byrne, please come inside.” 

His fate is sealed now, at least one more detention and maybe, if he’s lucky, an expulsion, though honestly that wouldn’t be luck because then he’d probably be forced to do some community service thing or, worse, have dad homeschool him.  But then, like an Avenger that’s been gone for a way too damn long time during the battle, salvation comes in the form of Billy rushing through a portal in the office wall. “Wait, I have evidence!”

“William,” the principal’s voice is almost the same cadence as dad’s when he’s disappointed, “this is unprecedented.”

Billy is way better at playing along with superiors, his body folding in just enough to show he is ashamed at the breach of protocol, but he remains steadfast against the admonishment. “I know Dr. Bennett, but I have pictures of what happened in class today.”

Curiosity is the prime emotion in the office, but it is not the loudest, that would be the absolute blissful terror draining the last of the color from Mr. Byrne’s face. “Let us see it.” Billy hands his phone over to the Principal who squints with a “Huh,” and then hands the phone to mom who immediately starts laughing while dad, well, it’s hard to read his reaction, but Tommy knows that anytime he stands that still and that impassive it means he has come across something so horrendous, so lacking in social respectability that he is doing everything in his power to not phase through the floor. “Mr. Byrne, I believe you and I need to have a conversation. Thomas?”

“Yes, ma’am?” Whatever kindness may have been on her face is gone. “Um, yes, Dr. Bennett?”

“You should go back to class.”

He salutes her. “Will do.”

Tommy waits just a moment longer to watch the slouched form of his teacher go into the principal’s office before joining his family in the hallway. “That was amazing! You should save me every time…” he’s really confused right now why everyone isn’t celebrating with him. “What?”

“You should get back to class,” mom doesn’t sound mad, in fact, she seems entertained by the whole thing and is only putting on the parental facade because it’s what she has to do as his mom, “we can discuss some better ways to handle these types of situations later,” something he expected, “once your poor father here isn’t so traumatized.” Ah, he sees it now, dad’s still a bit stiff and hasn’t blinked in awhile, it would be rude to rub this in any more, that’ll be for dinner tonight. 

“Sounds good. Won’t skip class again.”

“I’m sure…” 

Billy tugs Tommy away as he counters back, “Have faith, mom,” and he walks away a free man.

*30, according to my own students, is the equivalent of being elderly and about to die. 

**Long live the revolution!

[nikkoliferous]

He doesn’t bother explaining why he’s here.

This is early on, late May, a few months into the race, but he is already of the belief that he is doing something extraordinary with his presidential campaign — something that’s never been done before. The trouble is describing it. There’s no word for this in modern politics. It is, he believes, “a new way to communicate with the American people” — though he won’t say this until later, and only when asked. Even now, long after he’s put this work at the center of his campaign — at his events, in ads, on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube — he won’t talk about it much. He isn’t sure it’ll work, or if people are “picking up on what we’re trying to do here.” The media, he believes, has always believed, can’t fathom what’s at the heart of this.

So when he arrives at the house, a small mobile home 40 miles outside Montgomery, Alabama, over the Lowndes County line, in one of the poorest places in the country, with five reporters and his own camera crew, he steps through the front door, greets his host, and begins with no clear mention of what he hopes to accomplish here or how it will help him become president.

Pamela Rush, a 49-year-old mother of two, is showing him the problems with her home: the floor tilting visibly to one side, the sheets of plaster peeling off the wall, the broken pipes, the broken cabinetry. He stops in the room where her daughter sleeps. “Do you guys wanna…?” He motions for everyone to come closer. His videographer shuffles forward. On the bedside table, there’s a ventilation machine, the kind used for sleep apnea. A tube of ribbed plastic connects the device to a mask resting on the bedspread, which is patterned cheerily with tiny elephants. Because of mold in the house, Pamela’s daughter needs the device to breathe in her sleep. “How old is she?” the candidate asks. She’s 10. Pamela holds up the mask so he can see up close.

“Show them, not me,” he says, gesturing toward the camera.

She shows the camera the mask.

The visit continues like this. “Show them,” he keeps saying. “Show them.” He speaks only to ask questions, prompting Pamela to “explain” this or that, pointing her to an unseen audience on the other end of his camera lens. It’s like he’s directing his own video — except the video isn’t about him or his campaign or his policy agenda. He is, it seems, somewhere offscreen, an omniscient narrator, felt maybe, but not seen or heard. This is not a public event. There is no crowd. There is no podium, no speech. Mostly, there is silence. The leader of the political revolution — a man who has spent 50 years of his life trying to talk about his ideas — is not saying much at all.

In his first campaign, a third-party bid for US Senate in 1972, he lugged around a 2,000-page, two-volume study by the House Banking and Currency Committee, liberally quoting its findings to the people of Vermont. He spent that year telling anyone who would listen about the fact that a mere 49 banks were trustees of $135 billion and held 768 “interlocking directorships” with 286 of the country’s largest 500 industrial corporations. To him, the phenomenon of interlocking directorships was not arcane or irrelevant to daily life in Vermont. It was an urgent outrage.

In Congress, he developed “the oligarchy speech,” a bleak overview of income inequality in America. The speech became the basis of his public events, his lengthy posts on Facebook, of an entire book — title: The Speech — consisting solely of the transcript of an eight-hour speech he delivered on the floor of the Senate.

And in 2016 — the rallies? The arenas? He had 2,600 in Iowa’s hulking Mid-America Center — largest crowd of the caucus season. He hit every city he could: 5,000 people in Houston, 8,000 in Dallas, 10,000 in Madison, 11,000 in Phoenix, 15,000 in Seattle, 27,500 in Los Angeles, 28,000 in Portland — plus overflow! All those people showing up to hear an hourlong speech they already knew by heart: wages down, median income stalled, one family with more wealth than the bottom 130 million… As he spoke, they’d mouth along to their favorite lines: “Congress does not regulate Wall Street—” “WALL STREET REGULATES CONGRESS,” the crowd would shout back. “Enough is—” “ENOUGH!” they roared. The succession of grim facts — “but let me tell you what is even worse!” he’d say — became a ritual. When a small bird, later identified as a common house finch, once landed on his lectern, an entire stadium full of people cheered wildly, mouths open, their arms raised to the sky, eyes turned upward — not to God, but to the image of the bird and their candidate on the Jumbotron. There was power in the speech. He believed, aides have said, that he was literally changing a generation, person by person, line by line, with every rally.

That was the whole thing — Bernie Sanders, talking.

This is something different.

“Pamela,” he says gently, “why don’t you explain it.”

“And be loud so everyone can hear you…”

Bernie Sanders is sorry for your troubles, but that’s not the reason he’s asking you to talk about them — which he is, everywhere he goes. He wants you to talk about your medical bill — the one you can’t pay. He wants you to talk about losing your house because you got sick. He wants you to talk about the payday loans you took out to keep your kid in school. About the six-figure student debt that’s always on your mind. About living off credit cards, or losing your pension, or working multiple jobs for wages that won’t be enough to support your family.

He would like you to talk about this publicly, in detail, and on camera. He will ask you to do this in front of reporters, or in a room full of strangers at one of his town halls. Of course, the Bernie Digital Team will be there — they are always there — taping your story on camera, or streaming it in real-time to his own mass broadcast system on YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. On any given day, he is capable of reaching millions of people.

“Who wants to share their story?” he’ll say. “Don’t be embarrassed. Millions of people are in your boat.”

He has, it turns out, built an entire presidential campaign around an open invitation to speak — to talk plainly about the “reality of life” in this country — to be “loud so everyone can hear.”

His suggestion, by asking you to speak up about your private anxieties, many of them financial, is that you and the millions of people in the proverbial audience will begin to see your struggles not as personal failings, but systemic ones. He is less interested in explicitly presenting solutions than naming the problem — that “we have millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world who are struggling every single day,” which is a phrase he repeats daily, almost like an exhortation, as if to grab the American working class by its shoulders. He doesn’t deal in pity or reassurance. Yes, he’ll give hugs — one arm, from the side, other hand still clutching the mic. But mostly he’ll just listen and nod, gaze lowered. Or he’ll shake his head at the crowd, like can you believe this? And then, from the gut, a clipped scoff, like of course you can believe it. That’s the point. He has heard your story before, because it’s all part of the same story: a broken system, driven by profit and greed, built to reinforce the notion that if you’re bright enough, if you work hard enough, then you can travel the path to the middle class. And if you don’t make it there…well, maybe you’re the problem. And who wants to talk about that?

He believes his presidential campaign can, he says, help people “feel less alone.”

He is trying to change the way people interact with private hardship in this country, which is to say, silently and with self-loathing. He is trying, in as literal a sense as you could imagine, to excise “shame” and “guilt” from the American people. These are not words you hear often in politics, but in interviews this year with the candidate, his wife, and his top advisers, they are central to his strategy to win. He is imagining a presidential campaign that brings people out of alienation and into the political process simply by presenting stories where you might recognize some of your own struggles. He is imagining a voter, he says, who thinks, “I thought it was just me who was struggling to put food on the table. I thought I was the only person. I thought it was all my fault. You mean to say there are millions of people?”

He still has his rallies, but “it’s a different campaign, and we do things differently,” he says. “I can give the greatest speech in the history of the world, but it will not have the significance and the impact that the real-life experience of ordinary Americans will have.” At many of his events, the antiseptic macro focus of the “oligarchy speech” — the anonymous actors on Wall Street, the greed of the American corporation, the rigged system — has been replaced by the most intimate details of someone’s life. The outrage in his voice, a booming rasp amplified across three tiers of an NBA-size venue, is softer now. The arena itself has morphed into a digital platform for one voter’s story.

Show them, he says. Show them, not me.

We understand presidential campaigns, in their most basic form, as a conversation between a candidate and the American people. The conversation is happening all the time, in person and online, directly, indirectly, at every possible scale: It’s a handshake, a speech, a television ad, a sponsored post on Facebook. It’s a policy rollout. It’s the signage at a rally, the way an American flag is steamed and hung just so on a stage. Every dollar of every campaign is spent on shaping or beautifying or amplifying some message from the candidate. Bernie’s first presidential bid, in a sense, was the unprocessed, stripped-down version of that conversation: It was the speech. In terms of the mechanics of the thing, as he put it in late 2016, he wasn’t “reinventing the wheel.”

Four years later, he is attempting to run a presidential campaign that facilitates an entirely different conversation — one between people like Pamela and the American people. The stories he collects and broadcasts across the internet aren’t just voter testimonials produced to validate the campaign or its policies — they’re aimed, in Bernie’s mind, at people validating one another.

After 50 years, this is an unlikely place for the political revolution to land. It’s more human. More empathetic. More personal than what you’d expect from a man who’s willingly played along with his persona as a perma-“outsider” and, as he put it in 2015, “grumpy old guy.”

There’s this idea that Bernie Sanders is “a man of the people who doesn’t like people” — just issues. That’s not exactly right, though the precise balance between the two can be difficult to pin down. “Policy, policy, policy,” says his wife, Jane, who is a strategic partner on her husband’s campaign. “Fight, fight, fight — which is true, but he’s also about people.”

He arrived in Vermont in 1968, full of ideas about movement politics, and began his career by raising his hand at a local third-party meeting. He settled in Stannard, a remote town with no paved roads, populated by fewer than 2o0 people, where he learned to live in isolation. But in politics, he also discovered that he liked talking to strangers about the issues of the day. In the ’80s, he hosted his own public broadcast show as mayor of Burlington. In the footage, unearthed by Politico earlier this year, he can be warm and dryly funny. On the campaign trail in Vermont, he liked to take impromptu walks and kept a pair of trunks in the car in case he passed a swimming hole. In Washington, he kept more to himself. Interviewed in 1991, fellow members of Congress described him as a “homeless waif” with a “holier-than-thou” attitude who “alienates” his potential allies, who “screams and hollers,” one said, “but he is all alone.”

Part of the problem, of course, is that Bernie Sanders is not an open book. He will snap at reporters when they ask him to talk about himself or, god forbid, how he’s changed as a person, because what does that have to do with Medicare for All? “You’re asking about me, and I’M not important,” he once said in an interview. “What’s important are the kinds of policies we need to transform this country. OK?” The conversation was over after six minutes. His interior life, to the extent that it is acknowledged among his campaign staff, is a subject only a few people can address with any authority. A simple question on the subject — have you ever seen him cry? — recently reduced senior aides to various forms of lawyer-speak. “I’ve seen him emotionally affected,” one said after a long pause. Another, as if the question had been unclear and possibly even sinister, said only: “What do you mean?” With Jane, he’ll call from the road to talk about his day, but questions like “How did that make you feel?” are not a part of the discussion. “Oooh, no,” she laughs at the suggestion. “Oh no, no. Yeah, no. He doesn’t do that. No. No. Neeevver.”

He can be harsh with staff — short-tempered and demanding and sometimes rude. “Some people say I am very hard to work with. They say I can be a real son of a bitch. They say I can be nasty, I don't know how to get along with people,” Bernie told his press secretary in 1990, according to a memoir by the former staffer. “Well, maybe there's some truth to it.”

His mood is under careful observation. Aides are always noting things like “He’s in a good mood today.” When he is happy, everyone is happy. When he’s not, everyone is quiet, especially in the SUV, where he will ride shotgun with his iPad, a red Vitaminwater at his side, scrolling through tweets from @BernieSanders, maybe only speaking up to dispassionately observe that people must really care about education in this country because a tweet about education is getting a lot of engagement today. Everyone knows which staffers make him feel most at ease — a special currency on the campaign. Small signs of interpersonal comfort — watching an aide make him laugh, watching another gently brush dandruff from his navy blue blazer — can feel like extraordinary acts of intimacy. In 2016, when discussing the campaign at a bar, some staffers got in the habit of referring to him as “Earl” or “the old man,” because at the end of the day, he is 78 years old. And who would have expected this — the most emotionally driven, intimate, borderline touchy-feely campaign of the 2020 election — from “a real son of a bitch”?

Correction.

“I don’t like the word ‘touchy-feely,’” Bernie Sanders says curtly.

Everyone is sensitive about how to describe this. There’s been a lot of “experimentation” with this, one of his advisers will start to explain — before doubling back to say that, actually, “I think ‘experimentation’ is the wrong word.” There’s no precedent for it. Joe Biden and Elizabeth Warren often invite you to consider your story through the lens of their own. Bill Clinton said “I feel your pain,” but he never asked people to reorient the way they feel about their own pain.

Bernie says he is trying to “redefine our value system.” Jane talks about breaking down decades of societal muscle memory: “It seems to be the American way,” she says. “That we all think it’s our fault — instead of recognizing there is a system that is making it unfair for them.” They are, as they see it, trying to dismantle the ideal of “rugged individualism,” an entire era of political thought. Ari Rabin-Havt, a top adviser who travels with the candidate every day, puts it more tangibly: The campaign is a “megaphone” for working people, he says. Briahna Joy Gray, his national press secretary, has likened the effect to “catharsis” from nationwide “gaslighting.” On the podcast she hosts for the campaign, she compares her boss to Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting: the therapist who tells Matt Damon, a young man who was abused by his foster parent, “It’s not your fault. Look at me, son. It’s not your fault… no, no, no, it’s not your fault.”

It really started late this spring, around the time he went to Alabama. The campaign YouTube page started pushing out stories like Pamela’s: a family living without clean drinking water in South Carolina; a family with inadequate low-income housing in San Francisco; workers at Walmart. On Twitter, he asked people to reply with stories of “their most absurd” medical bill. He got 50,000 responses in a week. By the fall, he was holding more town halls than rallies. In rooms from Iowa to Nevada, one person would raise their hand to speak, then another, and another, and another. “Don’t be nervous,” he’d tell the crowd. “You really are among friends.” Not every event has been as affecting as the next. On one trip, he visited a woman’s home in Des Moines to document her problems with contaminated well water. His host happened to be a fan and prepared two trays of homemade brownies for the occasion. Bernie, already late for his next event, declined to eat a brownie and left after 15 minutes. But more often than not, he is an attentive and genuine listener. At one event last month, a woman stood to say that people are “embarrassed if they don’t think they make enough money.” Bernie told her this had been “instilled” by “the system.” The campaign posted footage of the exchange on Instagram. As you watch the video, bold capital lettering runs across the top and bottom of the screen like an emergency weather alert: “THE SYSTEM WANTS YOU TO BE ASHAMED.”

“What we are doing,” he says, “is really speaking to the working class of this country in a way I’m not quite sure any candidate has ever done before.”

Eventually, when asked, he comes to describe this as core to his strategy to win.

“Here’s the gamble,” Bernie says. The gamble is there are millions of working people who don’t vote or consider politics to be relevant to their lives. “And it is a gamble to see whether we can bring those people into the political process,” he says. “One way you do it is to say, ‘You see that guy? He’s YOU. You’re workin’ for $12 an hour, you can’t afford health insurance — so is he. Listen to what he has to say. It’s not Bernie Sanders talking, you know? It’s that guy. Join us.”

And yet, on a Tuesday night, in one moment, the full force of the political revolution, all 50 years of it, came grinding so unquestioningly to a halt by one blocked artery. He will spend two and a half days in the hospital — and he will lie there hooked up to their beeping machines, and he will yell at the doctors when they try to ask him stupid questions, and he will quiz them about health care policy and obsess over what all this would cost without insurance — and there will be a crisis over what to say in the press release and when to say it and if it can wait until Jane is able to deliver the news in person to the seven grandkids before they see it on CNN, and there will be reporters stalking him outside the building, and all sorts of people will want to visit — and for days, he will say over and over again, “I can’t believe I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine how I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine…” like this is a fact he simply cannot accept, because he feels fine as soon as they finish the procedure and because he’s always had terrific “endurance”... Never thought it’d be his heart to cause him problems… Ran a 4:37 mile in high school...!

But not once, in all that chaos and frustration, will he consider dropping out.

ii.

Here is what Pamela explains to Bernie Sanders: that her family bought this mobile home in the ’90s for a trumped-up price of $114,000; that she lives on $1,000 a month; that she still owes $15,000 on the house; the house she fears will harm her daughter’s health; the house where her mother caught pneumonia and died; the house where, “when a storm comes,” she says, “we have to stay in the mobile home and just pray.” He learns that Pamela’s sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to pay for the county garbage service. Another sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to buy into the sanitation system. He turns to a reporter in the Alabama heat. “Really something, isn’t it?” he says. He is frowning, jowls gathered slightly at the neck, but there is no shock or judgment in his face. It will become a familiar expression over the summer and fall. He is not always an obviously comforting presence, but there is never judgment.

“So this is where the waste goes?”

Everyone is outside now, around back. Sanders wants to see where the waste goes.

He learns that Pamela, like many residents in Lowndes County, is also “straight-piping” her untreated sewage from the bathroom to her yard. She is here with Catherine Flowers, an activist who has worked with Congress on the pernicious tangle of issues facing Lowndes County: criminalized poverty, environmental degradation, inadequate infrastructure.

He peers down at a line of dark, matted grass where, a few paces from his feet, inches from the base of the trailer, sewage flows via exposed PVC pipes into a shallow open-air trench. “Is this uncommon in this part of the world?” he asks, steering the conversation for his unseen audience, and the cameras swing back to Pamela and Catherine.

The sun is beating down. Bernie rolls up his sleeves and starts talking gravely about how this is the richest country in the history of the world... “Today we’re in Lowndes County, Alabama, in an African-American community,” he is saying. “Tomorrow we’ll be in California in a Latino community, or in West Virginia in a white community, and the stories will be the same.” You can see his bald head turning shades of pink and red. Everyone is sweating. Pamela is talking about her mother’s death. It is not an easy conversation. “This is America,” he is saying.

Back in his Washington headquarters, the digital team is waiting for the footage.

In the supercharged world Bernie inhabits, the decision to stay in the race was considered not only reasonable, but obvious. Here, there is no confusion about “what we’re trying to do here.” The candidate moves amid a swirl of people you would classify uncynically as “true believers.” It’s a lot of passion in one place. The stakes always feel high. But the hard and fast question of whether they can win the nomination is, to a certain extent, supplanted by the general sense that the movement is a just and right cause and, therefore, in the end, the cause will prevail, likely in a shocking fashion when no one anticipates it or believes it can be done, à la Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And so they are always on guard against outside forces — people who will doubt them, or underestimate them, or try to actively destroy them.

This is how things go in “a politics of struggle.”

In “a politics of struggle,” as Sanders explains it in a 2015 foreword to his first memoir, setbacks are expected. There will be defeats before there can be the “breakthroughs” few people imagine possible. In a politics of struggle, the goals are “transforming a city, a state, a nation, and maybe the world.” It is already understood that this is “about more than winning an election.”

It’s in this environment that the advent of the heart attack became another motivational “setback.” Ocasio-Cortez decided to endorse. Supporters only hung on tighter. Campaign staffers spoke in grave tones about the “sheer terror” of a world without Bernie. “What is happening right now,” Briahna Joy Gray told her subscribers on the campaign podcast, “is that an old man is carrying the most colossal imaginable weight on his shoulders.” By the time he is back on the trail, the mission of the campaign takes on newly urgent, almost philosophical importance.

He’s in Iowa — a town called Toledo, Tama County, population 2,341 — coaxing people to talk to him about how they feel. “What about health care?” he says at a local civic center, roaming out from behind the podium. “Don’t tell me what I wanna hear! — I want YOU to think about it. Should health care be a human right?” The crowd, not quite warmed up yet, signals a yes. “WHY?” he replies, voice booming. “Who wants to tell me why? Don’t be shy…”

This is his first campaign swing since the heart attack. Five events in 24 hours.

He has to address the age question, of course, so he does. “I've been criticized for being old. I plead guilty. I am old!” he says at his first stop of the trip. Reporters ask him about it. Pundits analyze why it matters. Dr. Oz, the heart surgeon and television host, provides his unsolicited opinion that Bernie’s “protoplasm is strong,” a you-know-it-when-you-see-it term in the medical community for physiological sturdiness. Voters also weigh in, as if to offer reassurance. “Seniors rock!” a woman says at a town hall in Marshalltown, Iowa. Moments later, a middle-aged man raises his hand to tell the candidate that, by age 39, he’d had three heart attacks, a stroke, and a triple-bypass surgery — “and it doesn’t have to get in the way of living, all right?” Bernie takes these remarks in stride, smiling back gamely. He is in a good mood. Though you get the distinct impression that he would rather not be discussing the state of his protoplasm, or himself, at all.

During the town hall in Toledo, Jane and a few staffers can hear Bernie speaking through the walls of an adjacent hold room. She and Ari Rabin-Havt, the deputy who was with Bernie in the hospital through the whole ordeal, are sitting at a small table talking about the heart attack like family members who, maybe years later, are finally able to look back at the whole thing and laugh. Except here, it’s been days, not years. Jane is going into her own Bernie impression: “He’s like, ‘I feel fine. I don’t understand… You’ah tellin’ me I had a heart attack?? I don’t — I, I don’t understand.’”

The thing that bothered him so much about it was the relative smallness of it — like this was needlessly, stupidly about him, “and I’M not important,” remember? What did his aging body, in his mind a vessel of little consequence, have anything to do with the reality that “millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world are struggling every single day”? The answer, of course, is everything: This, like any endeavor in electoral politics, hinges on the will and presence and personality of its leader. The political revolution is no less human or fallible.

And there he was, having to ask for a chair during an event in Las Vegas — he rarely sits on stage — because of chest pains. “Ari, can you do me a favor?” he looked around the room for Rabin-Havt. “Where’s Ari? Get me a chair up here for a moment. I’m going to sit down here.” Staffers found their jobs suddenly transformed. They were dealing with the questions of a health crisis: Should they take him to the hospital? And which hospital? The closer one, or the one with the better cardiology center? But this was Bernie. Everyone knows Bernie. There would be a scene. People would ask for selfies in the waiting room. Reporters would hear about it. They did not want that. It was Rabin-Havt, in the end, who approached the front desk at the urgent care center behind the MGM Grand and discretely flashed his boss’s driver’s license — 09/08/1941, SANDERS, BERNARD — so the nurses would usher him into the back quietly and without delay.

“They're like, ‘Look, we're gonna have to put him in the cath lab,’” Rabin-Havt says. Jane, seated to his right, hasn’t even heard this part of the story yet. So they got him in the cath lab. The doctor asked, how much pain are you in on a scale of 1 to 10, which Bernie rebuffed as a useless question. Then they asked him to please remove his wedding ring. “Really?” he growled, removing the ring. Then they asked for his glasses. And that’s where he drew the line. “JESUS CHRIST! I'm not gonna do that,” he said. That night, Rabin-Havt and another staffer took turns wearing the wedding ring so they wouldn’t lose it. “Oh my god,” Rabin-Havt says. “It was the scariest part.”

The next morning, when Jane arrived from Vermont, she found her husband unchanged. He was talking about how someone without insurance maybe wouldn’t have gone to urgent care at all because of how much it would cost. “That’s his brain,” Jane says. She turns to Rabin-Havt. “Did he say anything to you?” “Not during,” Rabin-Havt says. “The next day when he woke up, he was like, ‘What do you think this is going to cost?’”

His room became the center of activity in the hospital. He held policy discussions with the nurses. He asked the doctors about the hospital's finances. That was a relief, Jane says — to see “the same old Bernie.” Back in Washington, the press team kept obsessive watch over the news coverage, demanding corrections from reporters who described the stent procedure as a “surgery.” There was no surgery, they said breathlessly. It was a procedure! “I’m talking to the doctors,” Jane recalls, “and they’re saying ‘procedure,’ not surgery. It was not a surgery.” Rabin-Havt nods: Not a surgery. Once they finally got the diagnosis — “heart attack” — they needed a statement. So they hunkered down in a hospital break room. The doctors (multiple) started dictating to Rabin-Havt, who tapped out notes on his iPhone. Their first draft was a bit medical — too much jargon. One of the physicians, an English major in college, cut in: “No, no, no — we can do this so the press understands.” So then that doctor tinkered. Once they had their finished product, Rabin-Havt emailed it to the doctors and asked for a formal reply affirming the statement as their own. Proof in writing, presumably, in case of conspiracy theories.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Jane says, laughing. “Well, it was — it was not fun.”

You might wonder, reasonably so, why a 78-year-old man would rather be here, back in Iowa, still doing this, likely at some risk to his health, when he could also just drop out, endorse Elizabeth Warren, and spend his days at the family home on Lake Champlain. Maybe this is especially true if you also believe that Bernie Sanders stands no real shot at winning the Democratic nomination and probably knows it — but will take his diehard supporters, his loyal 15%, a big enough chunk to influence the debate and stay relevant, as far as they can carry him. But then, of course, you would be ruining his good mood and missing the point entirely.

“Honestly,” his wife says, seated at the small table, “I think things are getting worse. Things are getting worse.” By which she means wages, costs, bills, just not knowing if you can keep a roof over your head. “And this is an opportunity. I don't know that the opportunity was there in 2016, where it was so widespread in the same way, the feeling among people of, ‘Wait a minute. We deserve better. This is not OK. The system is completely broken.’ There were some people who saw it in 2016, but it has gotten so much worse over the last two or three years.”

“We’re losing ground as a people. And that angers him,” she laughs dryly, and from the other room, you can hear that he does sound angry — angry about how people go bankrupt for getting “CANC-AH,” angry about our crumbling “IN-FER-STRUCHRR,” angry about his colleagues in Congress who say everyone “LOOOOVES” their private health insurance. “THAT TRUE?”

He is yelling, yes, but Bernie Sanders is “happiest and most comfortable in rooms like this,” Rabin-Havt says, gesturing to the event across the hall. “When you put him in a room full of political hacks — like, phonies — that’s not his room. He’s not going to like it.”

Jane nods. “And he’s going to be gruff.”

“He’s going to be gruff,” Rabin-Havt says, “and he’s not going to know how to deal with it. You put him in a room with real people telling their real stories and—”

“And he’s a different person,” Jane says. “If you have politicians and, uh, media personalities just trying to play gotcha politics or talk about the polls or other candidates — and never asking the real questions about what's affecting the people, he has no time. He has no time.”

Jane, like most everyone around her husband, is a true believer. The two grew up in the same area of Brooklyn — 10 blocks apart, where her father worked as a taxi driver — but they wouldn’t meet until 1980 in Burlington. She was a community organizer. He was running for mayor. She had never heard the name “Bernie Sanders” when she helped organize a debate for the candidates at a Unitarian church in town. “Nobody liked the incumbent mayor in the community groups. Being a good Catholic girl, I greeted him and made sure he was all set up. I didn't even talk to Bernie! But everybody was interested in Bernie. And then I sat in the second row, and I listened to him, and so did the entire Unitarian Church,” she pauses, then continues slowly, “and I felt that he embodied everything I believed in. The first time I heard him speak. And I knew I would be working with him from that moment on.”

There is a stunning intensity in the belief — one made very real by the heart attack, one held firmly by his staff, his wife, by the candidate himself — that if Bernie Sanders isn’t going to be telling the American people these stories, then no other candidate will.

“It was a gut check for a lot of people,” Jane says. “Everybody was thinking cerebrally, ‘well, you know, we'll see how it plays out. The polls don’t seem to be doing that well right now. Who knows whether it's gonna be Biden or Elizabeth or Bernie…’” She waves her hand in the air.

“And then when people — I mean, I felt it very strongly from so many people — when people heard that he had a heart attack, it was like, ‘Oh my god.’ And envisioning, OK, without Bernie's voice, oh my god, this would be a totally different race. It would be a totally…” her voice trails off. “People understand that he's the one that can affect real change…”

“This is not a, uh, an intellectual discussion.”

At some point, the sound of Bernie’s voice from the other room drops out.

Jane goes silent. The staffers go silent.

Everything is abruptly quiet, and there is an instant, a half of a split second, when the mind imagines that maybe something’s happened — and then there’s the sound of Bernie Sanders speaking again.

“Somebody was just asking a question,” Jane explains.

“Oh, OK,” Rabin-Havt says.

“OK.”

iii.

The video team is still rolling outside Pamela’s house.

After about 25 minutes, the visit is over. They are all standing in the front yard — Bernie, Pamela, and Catherine. Two campaign vans are idling silently in the driveway. Both women have dealt with politicians before: Catherine has worked on legislation with US senators, including another presidential candidate, Cory Booker, to address rural wastewater problems. Pamela has testified before a congressional forum on poverty convened by Elizabeth Warren.

“Thank you,” Pamela tells her guest.

“I want to thank YOU,” he replies. And suddenly, there are tears. Catherine is hugging him, and then Pamela is hugging him too and crying into his blue button-down shirt — and then they are all hugging together. “We won’t forget you,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

After they leave the house, he turns to one of the political reporters with him. “Learning something?” he asks.

The visit is still heavy on his mind. There is some light conversation about the trip — and then you see his face turn to a grimace. The reporter asks about Joe Biden. At this particular juncture in the horserace, there is a thirst for conflict between the two candidates.

“One day at a time…” he responds.

The reporter tries again: “Do you think Biden’s message is resonating in the South?”

“We’ll take it one day at a time, I have no idea. Nor does anyone else.”

He is, of course, annoyed. “You have all heard me rant and rave,” he starts telling the group. “I don’t think that the media is the enemy of the people, that it’s fake news. God knows I don’t think that.”

“But I do think we have to do a better job in looking at issues that impact ordinary people.”

“There are millions of people in this country…”

Later in the day, he relays Pamela’s story to the crowd at his town hall. The following month, his campaign releases a two-and-a-half-minute video about the trip, titled “Trapped.” Eventually, it hits 750,000 views.

In the middle of an interview, he bats back a question to ask one of his own.

“Do you know what it’s like to live —”

He is about to say “paycheck to paycheck,” but he stops himself. As he sees it, the media doesn’t know anything about that. Reporters, even the well-meaning ones, he thinks, don’t have a clue. “I mean, I do,” he says. “I grew up in that family.” His father, a paint salesman, worked hard but never made much money. The family lived in a three-and-a-half-room, rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn. Both parents died young. As a young politician in Vermont, Sanders had to borrow gas money to campaign. The windshield wipers on his Volkswagen bug didn’t work. He struggled to pay bills. After his swearing-in as mayor of Burlington, he bought his first suit at age 40. He was, in those days, the same voter he’s trying to reach now. His old notebooks, legal pads fished from the archives by a Mother Jones reporter earlier this year, include rambling notes on his inability to do better for himself and his young son. The internal commentary is scathing and unkind. “Not only do I not pay bills every month — ‘What, every month?’ — I am better now than I used to be,” he wrote, “but pretty poor…”

The secret, it turns out, is that in addition to taking this work very seriously, Bernie Sanders also takes it very personally. The secret is that a mostly solitary man — a man who has spent most of his political career on the outskirts, who’s never really fit into someone’s idea of a politician, who’s “cast some lonely votes, fought some lonely fights, mounted some lonely campaigns” — is now trying to win a presidential campaign, maybe his last, by making people feel less alone.

This is his campaign, his theory of change, though he’s done very little to explain it to a wider audience. “I care less about the coverage, in one sense,” he says. “What I care about is that someone turns on the TV, and there’s someone who works at Walmart, or someone from Disney, or McDonald's. And they say, you know, ‘that’s me.’” He wants those people to do the talking: the people who worry about their electric bill. The people who wonder if they can afford to have another kid. People for whom “the idea of taking vacation” — he scoffs as he says the word — “is not even in their imagination even though they work all the time.” In his mind, he was those people.

He is not among the politicians “whose mommies and daddies told them at the country club that they were born to be president,” as he put it last year. He suspects his parents were Democrats, but he isn’t sure — it’s not something they discussed. So he is not drawn to Washington in the usual ways. Which is not to say that he doesn’t have ego. In 2016, staffers watched him adjust with unexpected ease to his new power and popularity: The guy in the middle seat, coach class, was suddenly flying private and showing up to watch the Golden State Warriors play the Oklahoma City Thunder in Game 7. But he does not have what one former president called “that wretched mania, an itching for the White House.” He is driven by a different compulsion.

You get the sense, without exaggeration, that he will keep doing this for the rest of his life. That he would die before he stops. There are some signs, after the heart attack, that this is playing on his mind. “At the end of the day,” he told his supporters in a seven-minute video he recorded after his release from the hospital, “if you’re gonna look at yourself in the mirror, you’re gonna say, ‘Look, I go around once, I have one life to live. What role do I wanna play?’”

But for the most part, his mood is notably light. His return to the campaign trail, ever since the heart attack, aka “heart incident,” as senior aides refer to it in the press, has been a happy, bordering-on-joyous affair. He starts cracking jokes during his speech. He plays basketball. He hosts his staff at his house in Burlington, demonstrating the best way to build a fire in a tiny stove. He announces plans for his own New Year’s Eve party in Iowa with food, drinks, and live music: “Bernie’s Big New Year’s Bash.” Inexplicably, he ends up dancing at a labor solidarity dinner in New Hampshire. “Our revolution includes dancing!” he declares. And then, to the sound of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and The Temptations’ “The Way You Do the Things You Do,” he sways his hips from side to side, grinning, and twirls woman after woman across the banquet hall.

The major papers describe this period as a “renaissance” and “resurgence.” In polls conducted since the heart attack, he has either maintained his position or become even more competitive. He has a shot at Iowa. He looks good in Nevada and California. He remains the only candidate with more donations than Donald Trump. And he has some $1.67 million coming in each month from people who have signed up for automatic recurring donations.

On one afternoon in late October, he travels to Brooklyn to do a few interviews.

The plan is to walk up Henry Street to the Brooklyn Promenade, a pedestrian area overlooking the East River and downtown Manhattan, but he makes a turn onto Kane Street instead — spontaneous! — another indication of his good mood, which an aide quickly notes aloud.

He walks a few blocks, greeting passersby, before ducking into Francesco's Pizzeria & Trattoria, where he orders a slice of pepperoni. His staffers also order pepperoni. “See!” Bernie says. “Can’t think for themselves!” Jane shrugs. “Well, I got cheese,” she says.

The guys behind the counter open the oven and pull out a slice of pepperoni, wet and shimmering in its own hot oil. No one is concerned, apparently, about whether pizza is a wise choice three weeks after a stent procedure. Jane doesn’t blink. His staff doesn’t blink. No one blinks. Bernie takes his plate to a corner table, where he sits for a brief interview, giving polite but clipped answers about his decision to stay in the presidential race after the incident.

In one swift hand motion, as if to dispense with this line of inquiry entirely, he lifts the slice from its white paper plate, folds the crust lengthwise, takes a large bite, and swallows.

“This is my life,” he says.

The statement is, for Bernie, as straightforward and uncomplicated as it sounds. Everyone seems to understand this. Of course he should eat pizza. Of course he is still running for president.

“Well,” Jane says a few days later, “I mean, it would be kind of ridiculous if it didn't affect him in some way.”

“I think the way it affected him was, ‘OK, this… This is my mission in life. This is my purpose. I'm here for a reason.’”

On that long flight from Vermont to Las Vegas, she thought about what she should do when she saw him in the hospital. “If he wasn’t doing well,” she thought, she would put her foot down. She would tell him no. “If he was in danger, I would absolutely say, ‘I’m sorry. You can’t.’”

Jane pauses. “But honestly, I don’t know that he would have listened to me.”

[selfcallednowhere]

March 3, 2018 San Francisco, CA

This was my second time being at the Fillmore, after an Apollo 18 show a couple of years ago. It's a really awesome venue! I just love all things historic, and it really is just a cool venue even aside from that--I especially love the beautiful chandeliers (so does Flans, but I'll get to that).

So I was hoping they were actually gonna change the setlist this time after having the exact same one the previous two nights, and there are few songs that could've made me more excited than what they opened with: "Everything Right is Wrong Again"!!! Seeing the songs I have lyric tattoos from is always so intense for me. I've seen the other one, "Ana Ng," quite a few times, but this was only the third time I'd seen this one, and it was a majorly big deal. So that was the show highlight right off the bat!

After the song was over Flans said it was a sold out show, and that selling it out had "changed our whole self-image" and now they were "strutting around all arrogant and sticking our fingers into other people's chests." Then he said they were playing two sets and he wanted us to hold our applause for the second set (he actually said "second show," but he clearly meant to say "second set") and "treat us like any other opener" and feel free to do things like catch up on our emails.

Then he asked John how his day was (I love that he usually asks him this, because I'm always curious). John said that he'd slept for most of it, and Flans said he had too but he'd been trying to keep it a secret. Then he said it was part of his "two-part program: sleep all day, then drink an insane amount of coffee."

Then they had some whole long conversation about this self-help guru I don't really know named Tony Robbins. Flans said he'd just watched some Netflix documentary about him, which he expected to be some sort of exposé but was actually "a Trojan horse for him." John said he makes you not believe in self-help and think "I'll help myself, thank you very much." Then he said that his act has gotten a lot more obscene and he's now saying things like "How do you fucking feel?" whereas before he was more "G-rated." Then Flans said he'll yell at someone who "looks like someone's grandmother 'What the fuck is wrong with you?'" John said we should watch this documentary, and Flans said we should set a timer and just watch it for ten minutes.

Then Flans said they were going to be playing "new songs, old songs, and songs we barely know how to play." People cheered, and he said, "Those are our favorites too." Then he said they have a new album and it's really good. John: "We were holding the vial of good and someone jostled our elbow." Then Flans said they're "chuffed" about how good it is.

After "I Left My Body" and "Damn Good Times" (both great as per usual), Flans said the previous song had featured "the psychedelic experience of Dan Miller," and that the Fillmore is "no stranger to endless guitar sounds." Then he said that he didn't have "enough weird guitar sounds" on the next song, and John said that "the stakes are higher" cos it's the Fillmore.

Next they played "Mrs. Bluebeard"--John did not break his sad little streak of screwing up the lyrics every single time I've seen it, siiiiiiiiigh.

After "Your Racist Friend," they played "I Palindrome I," which was another delightful surprise and show highlight for sure--I've only seen it a handful of times, and it's such a good song.

Then, John picked up the contra-alto clarinet.

JF: This is the contra-alto clarinet. The signal for political revolution! JL: Cells, awaken! JF: If not here, when? If not now, where? Maybe I'm harping on this too much. *long pause*

Then they played "All Time What." Afterwards, Flans said that Dan had provided "an adult portion of high notes" on that song.

At the Fillmore they have a person walking around carrying a tray over their head bringing people drinks so they don't have to leave their spot to go to the bar. So the girl who was doing it this time was walking up near the stage (she was nice, I chatted with her a bit at the second show) and Flans said, "It would be interesting if that person didn't work here. There's not enough mustache wax in the world to top that. Not enough top hats in the world to mustache wax that."

Then they played "Bangs" and "Hearing Aid." They're doing an interesting cacophony of sound at the end of the latter, and it's good with Curt's trumpet too. That song is one of the ones I rank lowest on Flood (I don't hate it or anything, just not particularly into it), but it's still been rather enjoyable live somehow (I've been having that experience with quite a few songs that are currently in the set, actually).

Then Flans said that he's seen some movie called Last Waltz (another pop culture reference that was entirely lost on me) like 14 times, so when they play here he imagines an announcer announcing Neil Diamond. Then he asked if they could turn the chandeliers on "at a low volume." Then he said that there was going to be a "Neil Diamond/Van Morrison cage match--only one pantsuit will survive." Then John said that they've played a bunch of shows here before but he can't remember the chandeliers ever being turned on before, and Flans said you have to play a sold-out show to make it happen. They were very pretty, once they were on!

Then they played "The Mesopotamians." I've been burned out on this song live for quite some time, just cos I've seen it a million times, so I was pleasantly surprised when I actually enjoyed it this time.

Next they did the back-to-back thing that I was loving so much at the other shows of "When the Lights Come On" followed by "Nothing's Gonna Change My Clothes." GOD, I cannot even handle how good it is seeing two songs as amazing as those two back-to-back like that.

After that, Flans was describing the chandeliers as jellyfish, which was really silly. He said he wished he'd taken some psychedelic drugs to appreciate them more.

JF: There's some commercial on cable TV for some memory tablet that says "Includes an active ingredient found in jellyfish." Because jellyfish remember everything. GUY IN AUDIENCE: IT'S THE STINGER! JF: Yeh, I guess if you're stung by a jellyfish you won't forget it. JL: And neither will the jellyfish. JF: There has to be a German word for that sort of dream logic...This next song features the whole band. JL: The word "features" is being taffy-pulled to mean "includes." JF: It includes an ingredient found in jellyfish.

The song was "This Microphone," which I have been enjoying live (though I think there are several other songs from the album that would be even more suited to a live setting which they haven't yet played for some reason). Afterwards, Flans said they should play it again because there had been some sort of sound coming off the amp during it (I didn't hear anything). He said it reminded him of playing at the 9:30 Club, "where the PA liked to jam with us." Then a couple of crew guys came out to set up new amps, and Flans seemed pretty upset by them having to do this in the middle of the show. He said that one of them was "on the lam from the FBI" and that the other (Jon Carter, one of the very few crew members I can recognize just because he's been working with them forever) is from Vermont and is "made of pure maple syrup."

Flans said they only had a couple more songs to get through before the break between sets. John suggested they take the break now cos of the technical difficulties, but Flans didn't want to for some reason.

To kill time they started talking about Tony Robbins again. Flans said, "He doesn't have an asterisk, but I think he's icing," and that "his head and body are huge. He's going to join the Marvel team." John said he would be saying "How do you fucking feel now?," and Flans said he would be saying "Admit it, Hulk, your mom never loved you!" Then they were asking if the amp was working now and were apparently told that it had been working for several minutes. John: "They're waiting for us!"

So then they played "Hey, Mr. DJ, I Thought You Said We Had a Deal," and as usual I was completely rocking out. And then they played "Birdhouse in Your Soul," and I was thinking that I didn't know if I could handle rocking out to that one when I'd already rocked out so hard to the previous one. But rock out I did!

The second set started the usual way: the "Last Wave" video, then the Quiet Storm section beginning with "Older." John was doing the amusing/creepy pointing as he sang it thing again.

Afterwards, Flans said this section of the show features electronic drums, trumpet, and his "haunted mic chip," followed by some silly sounds.

They played "I Like Fun," then Flans introduced "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too" in a way I haven't heard him do it before. He said that these are "contentious times, troubling times" and this next song is an election song from 1840 and is  "mean-spirited and super-hostile," so we should take this as evidence that things being that way now isn't new and "things get better, then they get shittier again, but that doesn't mean it's over." I thought this was an interesting way of thinking of it, and I wonder if it was part of the motivation for them bringing the song into the set.

So they played the song, and then John introduced "James K. Polk" in the same way he has been (with some variation)--by saying that this song is from WAY IN THE FUTURE of 1844, where there are "flying driverless beards" and "electric buggy whips."

After they finished, they bowed, and when they stood all the way up again John said he should finish the bow by playing a flourish on his accordion. I know he was just being silly, but I actually thought that would be cool.

Then they were joking again about the "haunted mic stand." John: "When they got home they found that the mic stand was attached to the car handle somehow!"

Then Flans said their next song was going to be from 1848, and sang the silly "Zachary Taylor has a tail" song he made up the night before. Then he said their next song was from 1852, but neither of them could remember who was president then. Someone yelled that it was Pierce. Flans said he couldn't think of anything to make up about him, and John said he was one in a string of crappy presidents. Flans asked him how, and he said he did things that were contributing factors to the start of the Civil War (I was as always quite excited to hear him showing off his intellect). Then he said his son died in a train wreck so they weren't really allowed to make fun of him, which led to some silence and nervous laughter. Flans: "I think we should take a moment of silence for how badly we're managing this part of the show. It's gone completely off the rails." (Perhaps not the best choice of words in light of what was just said...)

Then they played MY THEME SONG, and it was incredibly special and moving and emotional for me just like every other time I've seen it.

After "Istanbul," Flans started introducing "Bills, Bills, Bills." Once again he was talking about "Tubthumping" first, and some people were cheering, presumably thinking they were going to play that one instead. "For those of you not applauding, don't worry, we're not going to play that song. Because it is a song that, once heard, cannot be unheard."

After "Particle Man" and "The Famous Polka," Flans introduced "Wicked Little Critta" by saying, "Though we're from New York City, we have deep origins in New England. Haunted, cranky, emotionally unavailable New England."

Afterwards, Flans said the next song features Dan on acoustic guitar. John: "It features the word 'feature' as well." Then Flans said Marty only plays kick drum for the whole song, and they tried to talk him into playing other things but he refused.

At some point the chandeliers had turned off, and Flans was saying he wanted them to come on again. People started chanting "Jellyfish! Jellyfish!" I saw Flans saying it too, but I didn't hear him say it at the beginning and I wasn't looking at him right then, so I'm not sure if he was actually the one who started it or if it just started spontaneously in the crowd and then he picked up on it. Then he said that whoever was in charge probably wasn't going to listen because "they might think the band Jellyfish is reuniting." Then: "It's clear someone is on their break." But then they did come on and everyone cheered.

After "Number Three" and "Answer," Flans introduced "Man, It's So Loud in Here" by saying that a few months ago they'd done a Mink Car show. "We played all the songs we know how to play. We left out the ones we don't know how to play, cos we thought that might be socially awkward."

Next was "Twisting" (rocked my face off, as always), and then it was time for band intros. Flans introduced Curt, Dan, and Danny, then he said, "Well, that just about does it!" John was really amused. But then of course he did actually introduce Marty after that, he was just pretending to have forgotten him to be funny.

They closed out the main set with "Doctor Worm," which was superfun as usual.

When they came back for the first encore, they had the house lights on.

JL: Now you know how it feels for us. JF: Confess! I want to do a special long-distance dedication to the guy flipping double birds. I know where you're coming from. I just keep it inside.

Then Flans was saying that in the dressing room they have a poster from some time the Black Crowes (man, this show was just full of pop culture references that went entirely over my head) played five nights in a row, which makes it seem like not such a big deal for them to do two.

The first encore was the same as the previous two nights: "Dead" followed by "Don't Let's Start." Even though it was no longer a surprise at this point, I was still ecstatic to see them playing two of my all-time favorite songs back-to-back.

When they were backstage again between the first encore and the second, I was trying to figure out what the second encore might be. At the previous two shows it was "Doctor Worm," but they'd already played that one so that couldn't be it this time. I decided that I'd love it if it was "No One Knows My Plan," cos I really wanted to conga again.

So they came back and Flans said, "We just have one more song. It's a dance party. We're done thinking, it's time to start dancing." And then they played "The Guitar," which yeh makes a great closer and normally I would've been perfectly contented with it, but since the idea had come into my head minutes before I'd just really had my heart set on "No One Knows My Plan," and Flans's "just one more song" absolutely ruled the possibility out.

But then! But then!! They surprised me by ACTUALLY PLAYING IT!!! I was SO EXCITED. Congaing during that song is seriously THE MOST FUN FUCKING THING EVER. The first two times I got to do it the people in front of me jumped out halfway through the song and I couldn't see where I could get in again, but this time I got to do it for the whole song, and it was so fun. Towards the end two parts of the line were passing by each other and we just all started high-fiving as we went by each other, and I was thinking that we knew how to have a real good time as opposed to all the people who were just standing around watching and MISSIN' OUT. A truly fantastic ending to a fantastic show!

The all-important JL wardrobe report: the same long-sleeved black shirt as the night before for the main set, but a black-and-white stripey t-shirt for the encores.

[frankenstudies]

observation, question, hypothesis.

DAYTIME doesn’t exist in space. The inky black between stars, where Hulk is now, makes for a perpetual night, and protects him from Banner. This is definitely some archetype Amadeus always talked about, some part of the Hero’s Journey having to do with the quest for self and abandonment of what one has. What complete baloney, the Hero’s Journey. How naive that kid used to be, trying to convince the world that the Hulk is a hero.

Everything’s always easier in space. The Hulk doesn’t need to breathe, doesn’t collapse or boil in a vacuum. He just is, in the dark, as always. He gets left alone. Space doesn’t care whether you’re a hero or a monster.

Space also doesn’t care what things are called, and neither does Hulk. Nebulae, star clusters, empires, crystals, nuclei, wormholes, black holes, matter, antimatter. Hulk would call it all doesn’t-matter. All the things that are important have too many names and faces to keep track of, anyhow. Like the thing Hulk calls The End, and the thing he calls What Comes After/Before. 

When Hulk spoke to Cyclops, he saw all the ugly hidden things inside the undead X-Man. He’s been doing that recently. What wasn’t normal was the blinding light wrapped up in Summers’ boring, pointless facade. So that was a good place to start looking after he saw no blinding light orbiting the Earth. The place where people come back from, and the thing that brings fragile little mutants back.

Hulk knows there are a thousand entrances to the thousand levels of What Comes After/Before. He likes the one he built himself. The desperate child called it the Green Door.* Easiest way in: Hulk aims himself, crushes the limiter on the thruster boots he borrowed from Amadeus, and shoots himself toward Earth’s moon. Normally, this might crack the Moon, or Hulk’s head. But he knows what he’s doing. He keeps picking up speed, craters and pale rocks rushing toward him, and then in a green flash he could easily mistake for refracted evening sunlight the Door opens and slams shut behind him.

In lots of old, old cities that flooded or burned and got built up again one story higher, the original facades of the buildings remain in the underground system. What Comes After/Before has been burned and rebuilt a thousand times, and this is its deepest, oldest sub-level. Or it’s the citadel that contains all others. Depends on whatever hokum you believe in. Point is, he can tell this isn’t a place for anyone to be, or to visit. Here Hulk finds what he calls the Blinding Light.

“I know what you are,” he says.

“And I know what you are,” says what others call the Phoenix Force. 

Hulk grins darkly. “See, I figure there’s not much that understands us like we do. So that makes sense to me.” He sits down heavy on something. He can’t really see much, but he sees what’s really there. “You’re fire. Energy. Some say you’re the fire that created the universe and the fire that consumes it. But you’ve always been like this. You’ll always be like this. I’m just fuckin’ angry. Where’d I start? Some screwed-up science experiment?”

“I hear the scientist in you. Isn’t he a scientist? Your little host, like I have my Jean and my Scott and my Rachel. But he’s more than a host, more than my Jean, even.” It seems to have trailed off its train of thought, so the great firebird shakes itself. Not unlike a disheveled duck or chicken. “It can be hard for me to focus on one thing. I’m everywhere. I imagine it isn’t difficult for you. You’re very solid. I hear the scientist in the questions you ask me, because they are such mortal questions, and so governed by logic and fear. You know the answers, but you wish you didn’t. You are afraid it’s all that simple. You hide them from yourself.

“So I will tell you, and then there is no hiding.

“You began the first time a child of Sakaar wished he wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. You began in Xirena Awhina’s heart** as she hid in a closet, in the dark, from her parents’ killers. You began when humans first felt rage, white-hot, blinding. When the first stars exploded into existence. You were born to Brian and Rebecca Banner, and you began when your father killed your mother.” Hulk’s eyebrows draw together and he opens his mouth to question, but the Phoenix stops him. “That’s your scientist again. Don’t think of things as so cut and dry. You gave yourself agency in one green blast, and as soon as you were, all the monsters that lived inside all my creatures called to you. Believed in you.

“You were killed and reborn and killed and reborn in the fire at the core of Sakaar in an endless cycle, and you crawled from the depths as something like me. A pantheon unto yourself. You were the - what did they call you?” 

“Grh,” says Hulk. “They called me the Sakaarson. The Worldbreaker.”***

“Oh, yes. I liked that. And you were, literally. You were reborn deep inside Sakaar, because its people needed the world’s greatest monster to save them. You destroyed everything they knew, tore down their palaces and broke open the very earth. Some forests need to burn before their seeds can sprout. You broke their world before it could fall apart.

“And then you returned to Earth. They called you a monster, as they always have. They feared you and hated you as they were consumed by pain and anger. They killed you as they started to destroy themselves. Reborn from Gaea’s ancient mourning, you crawled out of the earth you were buried in. Sakaarson and Worldbreaker to Earth too, it seems.

“The word apocalypse comes from the Greeks; apokaluptein, meaning to uncover. Like the Death card, it’s a revolution and a rebirth. Like the Abrahamic devil, you bring the apocalypse. Now you are killed and reborn and killed and reborn with their sun. Your kin become your pantheon. You are made of earth, fire, and blood.”

“Why am I still here?” asks Bruce. “Why won’t I die?”

“You fear that answer more than any other,” replies the Phoenix Force. Hulk finally sees that he’s sitting alone on the edge of a lunar crater, as the Earth rises slowly above the horizon, satellites and cities twinkling, intangible. The voice of the Phoenix follows him for the rest of the night. “It’s just you being you.”

[royal-loki]

Why does Thor agree with Loki that he should stay on Sakaar - a Thorki perspective

I know this scene is confusing to a lot of Thorki shippers because basically Thor seems indifferent when Loki says that he’s better off staying on Sakaar. Instead of begging for Loki to come with him back to Asgard, Thor agrees that he should stay on Sakaar because it’s “perfect” for Loki. Here’s the whole dialogue exchange in the elevator -

Loki: Here's the thing. I'm probably better off staying here on Sakaar. Thor: That's exactly what I was thinking. Loki: ...Did you just agree with me? Thor: This place is perfect for you. It's savage, chaotic, lawless. Brother, you're going to do great here. Loki: Do you truly think so little of me? Thor: Loki, I thought the world of you. I thought we were going to fight side-by-side forever, but at the end of the day you're you and I'm me and... oh, maybe there's still good in you but... let's be honest, our paths diverged a long time ago. Loki: [emotional] Yeah... it's probably for the best that we'll never see each other again. Thor: That's what you always wanted. [pats Loki on the back]

The thing I found most fascinating about this scene was that leading up to it, Thor and Loki were fighting perfectly in sync with each other. 

We were shown a whole action sequence demonstrating how second nature it was for the brothers to fight side by side. They knew what their next moves were without even glancing at each other. You can think of this scene as a dance. Thor and Loki were having a waltz to express their feelings rather than simply talking. Right before their in sync fight sequence, we get this exchange -

Obviously, the writers wanted the audience to know that Thor and Loki are terrible at communicating with words. As Loki states, “Open communication was never our family’s forte.” 

Earlier in the movie when Thor is held prisoner before his fight with the Hulk, Loki casts an illusion and visits him. There he suggests to Thor that they should both stay on Sakaar and kill the Grandmaster, eventually ruling Sakaar together or leaving when they get the chance. We know that Loki has shown that he knows that they can’t defeat Hela because she is too powerful. Since they failed to stop her before she got to Asgard, she would be even more powerful if they went back to fight her. Loki is a pragmatist, he knows their chances of survival and he wanted Thor and him to stay alive. It might seem selfish for Loki to pick Thor over the rest of the Asgardians in that moment but he loves Thor more than anyone else, and would rather spend the rest of their lives together than risk losing him to save anyone else.

Now that we have established the context for the elevator scene, let’s review what happened. Loki tells Thor that he will help him get the Grandmaster’s (orgy) ship in exchange for safe passage through the “anus.” Yes, this is was actually written into the movie. Then Valkyrie and Bruce set off to start a revolution to form a distraction so Thor and Loki can go get the ship. We begin the scene by Thor asking Loki to discuss what has happened since he found out that he was ruling Asgard in Odin’s place. Loki claims that he doesn’t want to talk about it but his body language says otherwise. We get a whole scene of the two brothers fighting in perfect harmony without even creating a battle plan. Even though Loki says contradictory statements like, “We might as well be strangers now. Two sons of the crown, set adrift.” We can clearly see that Loki’s silver tongue has gotten quite rusty. Thor can easily see through Loki’s facade of indifference. The scene shows the audience how the brothers instinctively know what the other will do. They easily defeat all the guards that are in their way. Thor and Loki are far from strangers and are both working together as Odin and Frigga would have wanted. Now we’re at the infamous elevator scene. 

Before anyone says that Loki wouldn’t be safe on Sakaar - I know that Loki claims that he has run out of favor with the Grandmaster but he is the God of Mischief and can easily disguise himself to stay hidden as long as he wants to.

Loki tries one last time to get Thor to reconsider and stay with him on Sakaar. Yes, he wanted his brother to stay, not just himself. Thor doesn’t take the bait and says that Sakaar is perfect for Loki. He’s pretty much telling Loki that he knows that he would rather stay safe with him on Sakaar but Thor is a hero and he has to go back to save their people. Thor is very intelligent and has finally figured out Loki’s pattern of behavior. He says one thing but wants the opposite. In this case, he’s telling Thor that they should go their own separate ways but what he truly means is that he wants them to stay together, just not on Asgard. Thor uses reverse psychology on Loki to get him to want to come with him to save Asgard and it works. 

I’ll explain another confusing sequence that has polarized the fandom - Thor using the obedience disk on Loki, leaving him stranded on Sakaar. The way I interpreted the scene was that Thor knows that Loki is a powerful God like himself. He also knows that some people find the obedience disk to be highly erotic. Thor knows that Loki got pummeled by the Hulk, hit with an energy blast from an re-engineered Asgardian weapon, tortured by Thanos, fell through an abyss, got beat up by the Avengers, survived a fight against the Jotuns, and countless other examples of Loki being able to withstand physical pain. Although Loki is squirming on the ground while the obedience disk is on, he does not pass out like Thor. Clearly, Loki has a higher pain tolerance than his brother and it could be possible that the obedience disk does feel painful but in a “it hurts so good” kind of way.

Thor knows that Loki will cast an illusion and so he places the disk on Loki during the elevator scene before his brother can do anything that will prevent Thor from getting off Sakaar and saving the Asgardians. Yes, Loki would have risked Thor getting captured just so he can stay with him on Sakaar. He probably assumed he would gain the Grandmaster’s favor again and eventually buy out Thor’s freedom. 

Thor: This place is perfect for you. It's savage, chaotic, lawless. Brother, you're going to do great here. Loki: Do you truly think so little of me? Thor: Loki, I thought the world of you. I thought we were going to fight side-by-side forever, but at the end of the day you're you and I'm me and... oh, maybe there's still good in you but... let's be honest, our paths diverged a long time ago. Loki: [emotional] Yeah... it's probably for the best that we'll never see each other again. Thor: That's what you always wanted. [pats Loki on the back]

After this exchange, Thor can see that Loki is visibly upset by the thought of them parting forever so Thor changes the subject to them doing “Get Help”. This reminds Loki of the times they played together as children and lightens the mood for the next scene when Loki attempts to betray Thor. It’s telling how desperate Loki is to stay with Thor by how easily Loki agrees to do “Get Help” with him. A game where Loki pretends to be the damsel in distress and Thor holds him up. Yes, Thor throws him but this doesn’t physically hurt Loki and it’s not the first time they have done this ruse. Even though Loki says that it’s humiliating for him, a genius like himself didn’t bother to think of another way to distract the guards. This tells me that he doesn’t truly get embarrassed by it and actually enjoys doing it. Especially since he was contradicting his true feelings for two scenes before that. 

Then Loki splits from his illusion and sets off the alarm. Again, I want to clarify, Loki was not betraying Thor, he was only calling the guards so Thor is forced to stay on Sakaar with him. He was worried about Thor fighting Hela and getting himself killed in the process. 

Here’s the most important point - Thor knew that Korg was setting off a revolution and would come to the ship docks to escape. He was not leaving Loki to die on Sakaar. He knew his reverse psychology had worked on Loki and convinced his brother to be the hero he knows he truly is. Remember, they grew up together and have been alive for over a millennia. Thor knows that Loki has always fought side by side with him against their enemies. Finding out the truth about his parentage broke Loki and caused him to rebel against Odin but Thor knows that Loki was in deep emotional pain from the betrayal. Loki even says that Thor knows how he feels now, being lied to all his life. 

Thor knew Loki would come back to Asgard with him and the other prisoners. He always knows that when he speaks frankly with his brother, that Loki does the opposite of Thor asks of him. This time, Thor wised up and spoke to Loki in a way that he knew would get through to him.

In summary, Thor agrees with Loki that he should stay on Sakaar because Loki is a “tsundere”. He hides his true feelings behind his silver tongue but his actions speak louder than words. The brothers working so seamlessly to fight off the guards in the scene prior to them being the elevator. It showed that despite the few years of drama between them, they love each other very much. Loki only wanted Thor to say safe with him on Sakaar but Thor felt a duty to go back to Asgard and save his people. Thor knows that Loki has a kind heart and would come back to save their people so he used reverse psychology to tell Loki that he ‘used’ to think the world of him and that he belongs on this savage planet. Loki ruled Asgard for years, it was prospering and all the Asgardians seemed happy with his method of ruling. In fact, there’s a theory that most of Asgard knew that Loki was pretending to be Odin but didn’t even care because they love him. This movie established three very important things. First, Thor is just as intelligent as Loki but plays dumb when it’s convenient to him. Second, Loki loves the Asgardians and the Asgardians love him. Third, they care deeply about each other but have a hard time expressing their feelings with words.

*Side note - I know there are some Thorki shippers that hate Taika because they feel like he undermined Loki in Thor: Ragnarok but I can assure that Taika is one of the biggest Thorki shippers in all of the MCU

[drfxster]

Fosterson Week, Day 2: Canon Divergence

Jane thought punching Loki the first time felt good. Getting to punch him four times before Topaz pulled her off him felt even better. “You should have stayed dead!” she shouted, trying to wriggle free. Loki just stared at her in disbelief.

“Janey, Janey, Janey,” the Grandmaster laughed as he watched the spectacle. “What about my new guest has got you so, uh, worked up?”

“Remember the boyfriend’s brother I mentioned?” she asked, finally breaking out of Topaz’s grip.

“This is the invade-y one that died?" The Grandmaster’s eyes moved up and down Loki.

“We thought he died,” Jane muttered.

“Well, that’s a story I have to hear.”

“I hope you’ll excuse me, then, sir. I still have a lot of work to do.” Jane shot Loki another glare before looking at the Grandmaster again.

“Alright, Janey, just give be sure to me an update on your gizmos and doodads tomorrow,” he said breezily. Jane clenched her teeth in a smile and resisted the urge to punch him too.

Living in a high-tech alien civilization where she got to work with their tech had been a lot cooler in her head. Asgard had been closer, and that had included an evil alien parasite using her as a host and sapping her energy, Odin insulting her and demeaning her, invasion by evil elves who killed Frigga, getting put under house arrest, and a really exhausting escape. 

Here on Sakaar, she had basically become the Grandmaster’s pet for a year and a half, and she was pretty sure he kept sending his minions to mess with her stuff when she went to sleep or left her lab, just to keep her around.

And now Loki was around. Joy.

After that little run-in, the mandatory parties became even more intolerable, one giant game of keep-away-from-Loki-and-the-Grandmaster. If she’d had any kind of political savvy, she’d have tried to get Loki an appointment with the pardoning stick, but she knew how to pick her battles, and the god of mischief was the last person to have a political vendetta with.

So she kept her head down. Pilfered what she could to keep building her portal back home. She would finish it eventually, the Grandmaster was only delaying the inevitable.

Then came the day when there was actually a reason to be at the party. She was hiding in the corner, making a few adjustments to the quantum screwdriver she’d cobbled together when she smelled electrical discharge and heard a very familiar, deep voice. Thor, shouting Loki’s name.

“Hey!” She crammed the screwdriver back into her pocket as she tried to charge after the guards wheeling him away, only for her skirt to get pinned down by someone’s foot. Whirling around, she saw the Grandmaster smiling at her, looking higher than usual.

“What’s the hurry, Janey?”

“Please tell me you are not sending my boyfriend into the arena,” she implored.

“Ohhh, right, Lord of Thunder would be your boyfriend, wouldn’t he?” The Grandmaster chuckled. “Maybe we should play that up in the promotions beforehand. You’re coming to the match, no arguments.”

“Are you kidding me? No, I’m not going to be part...how the hell did this even happen?”

“142 found him. Said he’s a contender.”

“142 is a nihilistic alcoholic mess who doesn’t care about anyone but herself!” Jane fumed. “Call it off. He’s not a slave.”

“Janey.”

“I am not calling them prisoners with jobs!”

“Shh, shh, save some of that spitfire for the main event.”

Oh, she really wanted to punch him.

Thor opened his eyes to find Jane sitting over him. “I don’t suppose this is Valhalla,” he croaked.

“Not exactly.” She bent down and kissed him very softly before dabbing at one of the cuts on his arms. “I’m so sorry this all happened to you.”

“How are you here?” He tried to sit up, but she placed a hand on his chest.

“Stay down, I’m still working. And to answer your question, Imploded wormhole generator in my lab. I don’t know how long it’s been on Earth, but it’s been a year and a half here,” she admitted.

“Oh, Jane.” He stopped as he realized there was someone else in the room, breathing heavily. Despite Jane’s best efforts, he sat up, making out the form of the Hulk sitting in what looked like a hot tub. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other. “Are we good?” Thor prompted, receiving only a huff in reply.

“Look, I need to get back to my lab before it gets trashed too much,” Jane interjected. “The Grandmaster keeps trying to curb my progress. But I promise, I’ll be back as soon as I can. But first,” she paused to produce an odd looking wand-like instrument from the pocket of her dress. “Let’s see if I can’t get this off.” She held it up to the disk on his neck and Thor winced as it sparked against his skin. “I’m sorry, hold on, almost...got it.” She pulled the disk off. “Hang on to this, you might need it.”

“Clever as always, Jane Foster.” He smiled, and she kissed him again, a little more aggressively this time. “You swear to return?”

“I give you my word.” She deepened her voice to intimidate him, and he managed to laugh.

“Puny science girl,” Hulk muttered.

“Banner likes Jane,” retorted Thor. “And we need to talk.”

Jane was in the middle of working on the spectrometer when the guards came and dragged her into the throne room where the Grandmaster was dismissing Scrapper 142 and Loki.

“Janey, I’m really sorry to do this, but your boyfriend’s gonna have to die. It’s sad, you two must’ve been cute, but this is business.”

Then it clicked, just as the guards released their grips on her arms. “You’re about to try and make me into a hostage, aren’t you?”

The Grandmaster chuckled. “Sorry, but it’s poetic, you know? ”

“Please, don’t.”

“Janey—”

“Right, looks like I have to do this.” She pulled out her screwdriver and hit the detonator switch she’d hidden on the end, throwing it on the ground before she started running. “Bye!” The blast went off just as the mooks started chasing her, giving her the chance to swerve in the same direction she’d seen Loki and 142 go. And 142 had Loki knocked out flat on his back. “I wanna know how you did that.”

“You’re with the blond idiot?”

“Thor?”

“Yeah, him.”

“We’re a thing, yeah.”

“Then come on.”

“Surprise.”

Thor immediately flung the nearest bottle at Loki’s head, just to make sure he was real, then noticed Jane scribbling on the walls. “Hjarta, what are you doing?”

“Well, thing is, all my research is back in my lab at the Grandmaster’s palace, so I can’t go back and get it, which means we don’t have my wormhole generator to get out of here. Which means we’re gonna need to go through one of the wormholes, and our best shot is probably the big one, which is also dealing with a a collapsing neutron star—”

“I tried to tell her that we should find a clean one, but apparently, she’s insisting on the Devil’s Anus,” Valkyrie complained.

“Hey, after what you told me about Hela, we’re on a time crunch, right, Brynnhilde?” Jane shot back. “So, anyway, I’m trying to get the coordinates down right, because we’re only going to have one shot.”

“And we’re going to need a ship,” Valkyrie interjected. “Mine would get torn to pieces in that thing.

“The Grandmaster has a great many ships. And I may have the access codes,” Loki spoke up, only to get another bottle launched in his direction by Valkyrie.

“He’s not serious, is he?” Banner asked. “We’re not actually going to trust him?”

“He’s Loki,” Thor said with a groan. “We can trust him to what’s in his best interests, which currently align with ours.”

“Thor,” Jane said warningly. “Remember what happened last time.” Thor turns his palm to her briefly, showing the obedience disc she pulled off him.

“We will work with what we have. But first, we need to start a revolution.”

[writerjodie]

Connor Kenway - Cry for Help

It's Friday, which means a new oneshot on my Ao3 and Wattpad accounts!!

I may as well post it here too, to reach a wider audience ;)

◇▪◇

Ah, Boston. A city of new beginnings and dreams, one rattled by war and revolution.

The rigid streets please you, they make it easier to navigate through the warrens of brick houses - unlike the winding streets of your hometown back in England. Still, you would much rather be in the comfort of your own home, rather than the unfamiliar harshness of this new world - never mind the fact there's a bloody war going on.

But what you want is never what you get, not since you had pledged yourself to the Creed. At first, you had enjoyed it, and had helped the British Brotherhood covertly operate beneath the Templars' radar. Eventually you'd grown bored of seeing the same faces every day, of repeating missions over and over, and running around in circles as the Templars thwart yet another of your plans.

Your mentor had seen this listlessness in you, and had sent you to respond to the letter sent by Colonial Mentor Achilles Davenport. Achilles' letter was vague, only asking for a helping hand to help him train his new student, and perhaps complete a few missions of the side. You supposed it was better than sitting around doing nothing, and so had accepted the mission with glee.

The trip across the Atlantic had been rough, and you had nearly kissed the ground upon arrival. Now all that's left is to find this Davenport Homestead, but you already know that wont be an easy task. It's not like you can just ask anyone  in the city, not with the Templars absolutely infesting the place - a reign that should end soon, with your help.

Sighing to yourself, you gnaw at the chunk of stale bread in your hand, and gaze out over Boston harbour from your perch on the roof of a house. Your eyes automatically flicker through the crowds, searching for any sign of an Assassin insignia, or even a Templar cross, all to no avail.

Seagulls soar over head, screaming as ships come and go, then you see him - a flash of white and blue in the crowds, hidden beneath a beaked hood. Finally!

The man lingers for a second on the street corner, the shadow of his hulking form reaching nearly across the whole street. Head tipped back, his eyes meet yours with a nod. Then he's gone.

Bastard.

Swearing, you get to your feet and attempt to follow him only to feel a huge hand clamp on your shoulder.

"Miss (Name)?" a voice asks, one belonging to the man who was down on the street, and who is now stood behind you. You have to admit, that's pretty impressive.

Slowly, you turn to face him, getting a good look at the part of his face visible beneath his hood.

"Master Achilles?" you ask, by way of response.

"No, the old man is back at the Homestead, I'm Ratohnhaké:ton," he doesn't smile, but lets go of your arm.

"Ratohnhaké:ton? A...lovely name, and yes, I am (Name)," you nod to him, feeling tiny compared to his huge form.

"What?" you add, noting his surprised expression.

"You are the first person who isn't a member of my village to pronounce my name correctly, most people just call me Connor," he smiles a little, a sight that sends your cheeks blushing,"Come on, I have some horses ready to take us back to the Homestead,"

Wordlessly, you follow the assassin through Boston and the Frontier, all the way to the Davenport Homestead.

-

The moon is soaring high by the time you arrive, and you nearly drop off your horse with fatigue. Luckily, a young lad runs out of the stable building to deal with your's and Connor's steeds, and you allow Connor to lead you into the brick house where Achilles no doubt waits for you.

"Old man! I'm back!" Connor calls out, finally tugging down his hood in the safety of the manor. The wall lanterns cast unflickering shadows on the wall, as floorboard creak upstairs. Impatiently, Connor stalks into one of the side rooms, leaving you to wait as Achilles shuffles down the stairs.

"Hello dear, let me have a look at you, and see who they sent to me," Achilles squints at you, prodding you with his walking stick, "Hm, not bad. I'm sure we can make good use of you here,"

"Thank you for having me, I was at my wit's end back there - nothing to do but chase dead ends. From what I read in your letter, things are more...interesting over here," you thank the old man, following him into the sitting room just off the hall.

As much as you want to crawl into bed and sleep for days, you know it's only polite to speak to your hosts for a bit - at least you're getting food, coming from the sounds of Connor clanking around in the kitchen.

"Yes yes, especially since young Connor here is the son of a certain Grand Master of the Templar order," Achilles chuckles, as if that little titbit is nought more than playground gossip. Releasing a whistle, you shift uneasily in your chair. I bet their family meetings are awkward.

Jerking back, you barely dodge the plate that flies in your direction, watching as it smashes on the window behind, leaving a smear of whatever stew was on it.

"Hey! That window was cleaned just yesterday!" Achilles snaps, glaring at the brute of an Assassin that stands in the doorway. Unsure of what to do, you lean further into your chair as you watch the argument unfold before you.

"First you claim I am incapable of fighting the Templars alone, then you send for help behind my back, and now you go around telling everyone about my father. What if I don't want people to know?" Connor practically snarls, already storming from the room.

"Young man get back here and clean that stew up! (Name) would have had to know eventually, and we are greatly outnumbered by our enemies, you will thank me for the help later," Achilles rises on shaky legs, resting heavily on his cane,leaving you to awkwardly sit in the winged chair by the pile of steaming stew.

"Why don't you get (Name) to do it, since you're so keen on making her help us," Connor is shouting now, his voice still loud even though he is at the top of the stairs.

Achilles doesn't deign to reply, and merely sits back down opposite you.

"I think it's safe to say that it's a delicate subject," Achilles explains, "He'll come round by tomorrow. Now, would you like more stew, or I can show you to your room?"

You decide to play it safe, and opt for going to your room, knowing you can't stay awake for much longer.

Once in your room, you strip down to your undergarments and tug out your spare clothes from the small bag slung over your shoulder. You dress yourself in them, and go to close the curtains, only to see Connor gazing out to sea from his seat on a rock. You find yourself watching him for some time, feeling a slight pang of pity for him.

Poor lad...his father is a Templar, and he may be forced to kill him one day. You are so distracted in your thoughts that you don't notice him turning back to the house, stopping when he sees you staring. He cocks his head to the side a little, watching you as you watch him, a tiny grin forming on his lips.

Smiling back, you quietly close the curtains and crawl into your narrow bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

Tomorrow you would begin your work, helping Connor and Achilles to defeat the Templars of the Colonial Rite. But that's tomorrow, tonight - you sleep.

---

When Achilles had told you that your fellow assassin is the son of Grand Master Haytham Kenway, you had imagined that they were not on speaking terms. Because, you know...being on opposite sides of a bloody war is certainly cause for animosity between relations.

But when you arrived in New York after a day's rest at Davenport, you had not expected to be greeted by the Grand Master himself - even is it is a cold reception.

"Evening Connor, I see you've made it in one piece," Haytham sneers, regarding you coldly, "And I see you have brought company,"

You too stare at the Grand Master curiously, not entirely sure on how to act. God damn Connor, he's working with the enemy! You should be slitting Kenway's throat now with your blade rather than chatting him up in a damp alleyway.

"Recovered from your beating, then?" Connor snaps back, already impatient with the man. Sucking in a breath, you tense yourself for Haytham's reaction: whatever relationship these two have...it's an odd one.

Haytham scoffs at his son's words, and continues to ignore you. Not that you mind, to tell the trust, you don't think you'll be able to keep your words civil if the opportunity arose.

"Benjamin Church is holed up in a brewery on the waterfront, we should be done with this by sunrise," he explains, indicating his hand in the direction of the waterfront.

That's enough information for you, and you are already climbing up the side of the shop you have gathered outside. Once up there, you linger, waiting for Connor and Haytham to join you.

"Good, I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible," Connor turns to join you on the roof, shooting a small grimace to you as he starts his climb.

You can't help but feel a little stutter in your heart as you consume the way he looks at you, at the dark glint in his eye that promises violence - not towards you, of course.

"I would't want to keep you waiting from your lost cause," Haytham mutters under his breath, once he reaches the roof too. Had Connor not been there keeping it civil, you're sure you would have gutted that Templar there and then.

Deciding to ignore Haytham as much as he ignores you, you take off at a run across the rooftops, only sparing a glance behind you once - which was only to see Connor deep in conversation with his father. As a result, you arrived at the brewery much quicker than your counterparts, and remained lingering on the roof around the corner. You allow them a few minutes to converse again, before you drop down into the alley beside them.

"I will find a guard who is off duty, and take his uniform," Connor watches as you drop down beside him, "(Name), you should try to find a disguise too, they wont just let anyone in there,"

"Very well, I will wait here then," Haytham sniffs, looking non too pleased to be left behind with you.

"Of course you will," Connor snaps, glaring as his father sits down on a bench.

"Oh I'm sorry! Would you like me to come along and hold your hand perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?" Haytham jests, shaking his head as Connor glares back.

With that, he's gone, leaving you to deal with Haytham. Sighing, you reach upto your hair, pulling it from its' tie to loosen it. Once your (h/c) hair is loose and flowing, you move onto your robes, tugging at the clever slits in the side that pull down a small skirt for you to wear. It's quite clever really, you'd stitched it up yourself one night a few years ago, and it allows for you to pass as an ordinary lady when times are dire - like now.

You turn back around, to find Haytham staring at you with interest.

"Never seen a woman before, Kenway?" you spit out before you can stop yourself. God...your mentor would be stringing you up now if he could see you...he would want you to flay Haytham where he stands just for being a Templar. But Connor wants to work with him, for some forsaken reason, so you will comply.

"I was merely wondering why he chose to bring you along, I don't see how you will help this mission," Haytham flicks some imaginary dust from his trousers, as you stand over him, arms folded, "It's unusual of Connor to cry for the help of others,"

"It was not Connor who called," you mutter, your conversation interrupted by Connor's return.

Haytham looks his son up and down, checking his stolen uniform will pass inspection. You have to admit, he looks mighty fine in that suit, especially with that tricorn on his head. Oh to see him with just that on...

Wait. No. Stop that.

During your musings you had failed to notice Connor was too, staring back at you.

"You look...beautiful," he whispers, ignoring the look Haytham gives him.

Rolling his eyes, Haytham leaves you blushing with his son and stalks off to the brewery entrance, beckoning for you to follow. It's only as you approach the gate that you realise: you do not know what part you are to play. You decide to take a punt, and quickly loop your arm around Connor's, hoping Haytham cottons onto your idea.

"The Father of Understanding guides us," Haytham chants to the guard at the door, who meets him with a nod. You and Connor however, he looks the both of you up and down questioningly.

"You I recognise, not the savage, or the tart," the guard snarls, his voice gruff and lazy.

You flush furiously with anger at the insult. Tart? Tart? What a bastard.

"He is my son, and-" Haytham's explanation is cut off by Connor clearing his throat violently.

"And the tart is my...wife," he yells, already at his wits end. You have to admit, in the few days you'd known Connor you had grown to see him as naive and sweet, if not a little headstrong. You hadn't thought he'd work out your plan when you grabbed his arm.

"Tasted of the forest fruits, have you? Off you go then," the guard steps aside, ignoring Connor's outburst.

Once Haytham is through, the guard shoves his rifle in front of you, stopping you and Connor from entering.

"How do I know this savage isn't kidnapping you? Wouldn't you rather cosy up with me, eh, love?" the guard leers, and you watch as Haytham sighs in exasperation behind him.

"I can assure you, kind sir, that we are very happy together," you reply, allowing Connor to tighten a protective arm around you. If you had your way, the man would be bleeding out right now on the floor for A: insulting both you and Connor, and B: questioning your ruse when the bloody Grandmaster is backing it up.

The guard merely raises one brow, in a look that you translate as 'prove it.'

Glaring at the guard, you think of what could prove to him that you and Connor are married, after all, you don't have a ring or anything to show him. You hesitate for a second, before you think 'well...fuck it', and plant a huge kiss on Connor's lips.

He stiffens for a second, before he relaxes and kisses you back.

Oh lord. You could stand there for hours, just kissing him. But a laugh from the foul faced guard pulls you back to your senses.

"Alrighty then, enough now, I get it," the guard chuckles, letting you past.

Haytham merely regards the two of you with a raised brow, before leading the two of you to continue the mission.

-

A week passed, an not a mention is made of the kiss. But interacting with Connor was growing increasingly difficult, especially with the growing feelings and thoughts in your head. Hell, even Achilles has noticed the change in atmosphere, and is always pushing for the two of you to speak.

Mostly you stick to solo missions, liberating the people of Boston and New York on behalf of Connor whilst he gallivants about with his father. For once, though, the both of you are at home, and it looks as if you'll both be there for a few days, with nothing to do.

You're hunting down by the Aquila when one of the homesteaders approaches you, Myriam.

"There you are, Achilles is looking for you," she waves over at you, pointing back towards the manor house.

"What for?" you ask, knowing you've already chopped the firewood for him today.

Myriam shrugs her shoulders,"He didn't say, just that it's urgent,"

Confused, you finish skinning the fox you've felled and follow Myriam up to the manor, where Achilles waits for you in the doorway.

"Ah, (Name) come inside," Achilles pulls you inside, ushering you into the dining room, where a table is laid out with roast turkey and candles to boot - and Connor.

"I think it's about time you two spoke to each other properly," Achilles pushes you onto the chair opposite Connor, who looks equally as surprised as you,"It is obvious that you two harbour feeling for each other, so I'd suggest you both confessed,"

Achilles tiptoes out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Frowning a little, Connor looks at the spread of food in front of him. "I had nothing to do with this, Achilles sent someone to bring me here, I guess he did the same to you," he breathes, not quite catching your eyes. "Connor..." you begin, readying yourself to talk. Achilles is right, there is something between you two, and letting it wither and die is not a good idea. You may as well take the plunge. However, Connor beats you to your proclamation of love.

"(Name), it is true that my heart harbours warm feelings for you. I had not thought Achilles had noticed, nor that you would reciprocate them," he begins, his voice trembling slightly with the rush of emotion that courses through him,"Since we are here, would you do me the honour of....allowing me to kiss you?"

You grin at Connor from across the table, his cuteness is just too much. "I do believe we have already kissed," you muse, harking back to your brewery entry,"And I remember it being the best kiss I have ever had," You practically leap over the table, nearly knocking over the candle in the process, to reach Connor. His lips are silken and smooth against yours, his touch feather light yet carrying that possessive firmness of a trained warrior. As you two unite, you feel his eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. Dinner is forgotten as you melt into the kiss, your lips molding against his in a way that makes you think you were made for each other. Hands roam wherever they can reach, and the two of you pull apart for only a second.

That look...that goddamned look in his eye, feral and laden with lust and love for you. Without a word the two of you abandon the food, and you allow Connor to tug you upstairs to that you presume to be his room. Half a thought is spares for poor Achilles, who no doubt will be deprived of sleep tonight, but that thought is whisked away when Connor's hands find your sensitive areas and you struggle to keep your eyes open at the contact.

God, the week of no contact was worth it for this.

[hamiltongolfcourses]

Has Golf Changed?

I played with him at Colonial the first week back out, but I sort of said, ‘OK, wait until he gets to a proper golf course, he’ll have to rein it back in.’ This is as proper as they come, and look what’s happened.”

—Rory McIlroy, on Bryson DeChambeau

“So many times I relied on science, and it worked every single time.”

—DeChambeau, following his U.S. Open victory

For a moment, let’s forget the specifics. Let’s forget the weight and distance gain, the muscle activation fitness regimen, the protein shakes, the single iron length, the putting lasers, and a thousand other things that fall under the umbrella of “science.” Forget it all and think broadly. We need some distance to understand Bryson DeChambeau’s win at the U.S. Open—the most consequential result for golf since Tiger Woods won the Masters in 1997—and to internalize the only conclusion that really matters: On an intellectual level, nobody else is trying hard enough.

If that sounds like an insult to a group of professionals who have dedicated their lives to becoming elite practitioners of the sport, so be it. DeChambeau is putting them to shame simply because he has the courage not just to seek out innovative ideas, but to pursue them with monomaniacal energy. His commitment is so rigorous, so fanatical, that everyone else comes off looking like a dilettante.

This makes people uncomfortable, fans and players alike, but the ultimate legacy of his astonishing win at Winged Foot—a course that was supposed to be the antithesis to and kryptonite for the DeChambeau Style—is that we can no longer dismiss him as a pretentious pseudoscientist. That comfort is gone, and now we reckon with a reality that forces from the mouths of the doubters the three most painful words imaginable.

He was right.

• • •

Let’s talk about Tiger in ’97. With that win at Augusta, which so quickly validated and then exceeded every bit of hype, the game was fundamentally changed. The kids who watched him then, and who are dominating the PGA Tour today, understood golf entirely through the context of Tiger. His power, his fitness, his passion, his competitive edge. These were the templates they followed. Some, like Patrick Reed, even began to wear red on Sunday and to speak with the same clipped cadence. Even in less extreme cases, Tiger’s physical and psychological influence was felt. You see it everywhere today; the game exists in his image.

What will the DeChambeau Effect look like? In 15 years, will we watch a new generation of hulked-up bombers chain-guzzle protein shakes, pecs bursting out of their golf shirts, each iron as long as the next, as they analyze complex topographical charts and an assistant clocks the speed of their putts?

The answer is, probably yes. DeChambeau is so full of good ideas that some of them are going to trickle down, particularly if he keeps winning. Whatever Chris Como, his coach, is doing, other coaches will do. Muscle activation technique, which has been a staple in the NFL for years, will become widespread in golf. Barring any major rules change, power will reign even more completely than it did before, and player physiques will reflect it. All of DeChambeau’s good ideas will be copied.

That’s because DeChambeau is golf’s answer to Billy Beane. He takes a Moneyball approach to every facet of the game; he’s open to literally any idea that might make the sport easier and help him shoot a low score, and he’ll pursue the slight edges with monastic fervor. Playing within a game that hews closely to tradition, socially and competitively, DeChambeau has the self-confidence to ignore conventional wisdom. The difference is that Beane sought out market inefficiencies because his Oakland A’s operated from a major payroll deficit. DeChambeau, on the other hand, was already supremely talented. When an NCAA and U.S. Amateur champ opens his mind to the cosmos in an effort to squeeze every possible advantage, Winged Foot is the result.

Writ large, that’s both the lesson and consequence of the past weekend, and the single element that young aspiring golfers should take to heart. To compete in the Bryson Era, it’s not enough to have talent and to work hard. You better think hard, too. You better be so committed that you treat golf like an experiment to be solved, and you better stumble upon your own innovations. DeChambeau’s long-lasting effect on this game won’t be physical. It will be mental.

• • •

Do you find DeChambeau invigorating, or infuriating? The answer probably says less about DeChambeau, and more about you, how you feel about change, about tradition, about innovation, and about the limitations of what golf should be.

Of all the players who commented on DeChambeau when it became clear that he would win the U.S. Open, Rory McIlroy’s remarks were the most interesting.

“I don’t really know what to say because that’s just the complete opposite of what you think a U.S. Open champion does,” McIlroy said. “Whether that’s good or bad for the game, I don’t know, but it’s just—it’s not the way I saw this golf course being played or this tournament being played. It’s kind of hard to really wrap my head around it … I think it’s brilliant, but I think he’s taken advantage of where the game is at the minute.”

Nobody explicitly asked him for an appraisal on whether it was “good or bad,” but in Rory’s defense, that part of the question is implied. Still, if you’re like me, you read a bit of negative judgment in the answer, and a bit of frustration. DeChambeau seems to have found a cheat code, and the idea that it’s working might seem unjust, especially to a player like McIlroy who has experienced a slew of difficulties at the majors in the last half-decade.

Yet to call it a shortcut is to undersell DeChambeau’s outrageous work ethic, the months of body transformation during the pandemic, the Saturday night range session under the lights at Winged Foot. Still, the ideas themselves aren’t so wild. If there’s a comical angle here, it’s that despite the caricature of DeChambeau as some kind of occult physicist, the fundamental beliefs behind his “innovations” are fairly simple. In July, I learned all about his weight gain and muscle training regimen, and while the specifics get pretty complicated, the reasoning behind it can be expressed with a very simple equation: More weight and more strength = more distance = more wins.

It’s not even a new concept. Tiger’s fitness regimen changed the game in similar ways, but DeChambeau wanted to do more than simply follow in Tiger’s footsteps. He wanted to continue the evolution and blow it out to its most extreme form, and his self-belief is so total that he refuses to be held back by cautionary tales.

Example: The reason most people thought he’d fail at Winged Foot is because the thick rough punishes errant tee shots, and DeChambeau’s length comes at the expense of accuracy. If you can’t hit fairways, you can’t win—not there. It sounds logical, but look closer and it’s easy to see how conventional wisdom fails. What actually happened, and what DeChambeau noticed before the week began along with his coach Chris Como and Mark Broadie, is that the fairways were so narrow that they punished everyone, long hitter or short. Nobody hitting driver could reasonably be expected to hold a high percentage. So, in that case, why not be long?

“Everyone talked about hitting fairways out here,” Xander Schauffele said on Sunday, when asked about DeChambeau. “It’s not about hitting fairways. It’s about hitting on the correct side of the hole … you’d rather be the guy in the rough with a lob wedge than with an 8-iron or 7-iron.”

Precisely. Of course, wide fairways pose the same conundrum. Punish everyone, and length wins. Punish no one, and length wins. You see the common denominator: Length wins.

Now, it’s not quite that simple. DeChambeau had a comprehensive game plan, played beautifully from the rough and was spectacular with the putter, particularly on Sunday. But it starts with rejecting the original idea, that aggression won’t work. It starts by rejecting the warnings.

• • •

The nice thing about athletic innovation is that the results are measurable. DeChambeau’s physical transformation attracts the bulk of public attention, and puts the focus on his drives (which are spectacular). Did it work? Well, in the 2020 season, he finished first in strokes gained/off the tee. That’s compared to 24th, 12th, and 35th in prior years. It worked.

His putting game deserves its own feature-length article, but you can get a small taste from this quote: “If I hit a 40-footer and it says 10.1 miles per hour on the device, I know that I’ve executed it correctly. And if I see the ball go two feet past that 40-foot mark, I know it’s perfect.” So it involves radar and arm locks and lasers and men holding towels when necessary. Did it work? In 2020, he finished 10th in sg/putting, compared to 28th, 32nd and a woeful 145th in prior years. It worked.

Today, his approach game is relatively poor (119th by the strokes gained metric last season), but you can bet he’ll find a way to improve that, too, and if his performance from the thick grass at Winged Foot is any indication, he’s on his way. “I don’t think they can set it up for him, to be honest,” Louis Oosthuizen said on Sunday, “he’s so strong out of the rough.” In fact, DeChambeau was first in the entire field at Winged Foot in strokes gained/approach, accumulating a massive 7.551 strokes in four rounds. It’s working.

You can view this success as a referendum on the specific techniques DeChambeau is using to improve his game. Yes, there will be copycats. He’ll be very influential in that regard, perhaps more than anyone since Tiger. But as DeChambeau himself readily concedes, “not everybody has to do it my way.” The fact that he’s thrived with muscle activation technique and lasers and protein shakes doesn’t mean that everyone will. It doesn’t even mean that he will, at least not forever.

The true revolution that DeChambeau has initiated is not a physical or technical one, brilliant as those elements might look today. No, he’s leading an intellectual transformation, and it’s defined by both the ability to consider golf in new and counterintuitive ways and the courage to pursue those ideas with a zealot’s obsession. In that sense, he has already lapped his contemporaries and put them on the defensive, and he’s done it on the basis of principles (“length wins!”) that seem shockingly obvious.

• • •

There’s a story, almost certainly apocryphal, about Christopher Columbus attending a dinner party at a nobleman’s castle after his voyages. At one point, a guest spoke up to say that discovering a new trade route to the Indies wasn’t such a great accomplishment; really, anyone could do it. Rather than respond, Columbus asked for an egg. When it arrived, he challenged everyone at the table to stand the egg straight on its end. They all tried, they all failed; the egg toppled every time. When they were done, Columbus took the egg, cracked the end, and stood it straight up with no problem. “And now that I’ve shown you how it’s done,” he said, “any fool could manage.”

Bryson DeChambeau has cracked the egg. What happens next is up to everyone else.

[vincentstlouisworks-blog]

The Land of Nod. Part 1 “Recite”

Coda pulled the fur trappings back from the wood frame and stepped into the Choza. His father lay in his customary place, on the pile of white blankets along the far wall. His mother tended the fire in the center of the small one-room tent. Two sticks of Take' wood held up a rod of precious ore, suspended from which was a bronze pot holding the simmering yams and kettle boiling over with fragrant moss tea. The fire blazed in his mother's eyes, two flaming pits on her sooty face. She took no notice of him as he entered, but Coda's father turned his head toward him.

“Come here child.” His raspy voice arose across the Choza.

Coda dropped his bundle of Spinaca and Sapios beside his mother and the firepit. She looked up at him and smiled softly, nodding her approval. Coda smiled back, took a piece of Sapio and bit the stalk. She swatted at his backside with the firestick, but he leaped away with a laugh.

The old man saw none of this, both of his eyes were milky now with cataracts.  Like many men of the Coven, Coda's father Alek had married many wives, and fathered many children. He had even served as the Coven's Yang-Sun the year before Coda was born. That was when Coda's mother Ossi has bee chosen as the new Lun-Yin at the Carnival Feast. Tradition mandated that the Yang-Sun had to go live with the Lun-Yin in her Choza from now on. Alek had left his many other wives, and many other children, and the comforts of the Frozen Fortress to reside here on the slip with the Lun-Yin.

“I am here Alek Yang-Sun.” Coda said, sitting down cross legged beside his father, bowing his head with respect.

“Where have you been my Ninito?” He said, using the slang term all former Yang-Sun's used for their youngest son fathered by the Lun-Yin.

“I have been in the Aguharo, gathering wares for supper.” Coda replied.

The old man lifted his wrinkled hand and patted Coda's head with his slender fingers.

“Good boy.” He croaked. “Good boy. A great helper to your mother. One day you will be a great father to many. One day you will be Yang-Sun.”

This was something his father often told him. Coda didn't know whether to believe it or not. His father was dying, had been all of Coda's life, now at roughly one hundred and sixty moons. This was purely conjecture however, because after one hundred and fifty moons, a young boy was now a man and would no longer count his moons. The old man was prone to states of illucidity, and would often say things that didn't make much sense to Coda, this being one of them. The men of the Coven were not supposed to speak of who would be the next Yang-Sun, that was a job for the Shamani Council to decide, and to make conjecture about the issue was strictly forbidden.

“He doesn't know the things he says,” His mother had once told him and Coda now respectably ignored the statement when his father said it.

Shortly after Coda had been born, the Creeping had spread over the Coven. The people of LunSun had blamed the Jerusa people across the Channel for spreading the Creeping, but as far as any Lunsunis could remember, no one had witnessed any signs of the Creeping across the Channel. The Shamani Council tried to dispel the rumors of the Jerusans being at fault for the plague, worried that such sentiments might break the fragile peace between the two peoples. Ewannawongo, the eldest Shaman had passed along a decree, by word of mouth, from Choza to Choza, down from the Castillo Coquina at the base of the Frozen Fortress on the sacred mountain and across the slip. The edict had declared that the Creeping had not come from the North, across the Channel and Jerusa, but from the South, across the Admiralty Mountains, where the compass began to spin.

For generations, a statement from the Shamani Council would have been treated as gospel, but times were changing. The Creeping had brought many Lunsunis to question their faith, although they would never come out and say that publicly. The feasts and festivals were still observed, although perhaps not with the same vigor as in the days of the founders, but the people were more brazen now to question the statements coming from the Castillo. They still pointed across the Channel. They still blamed the Jerusans.

“Recite.” Coda's father croaked.

Coda reached into a wicker basket beside the sleeping man and pulled forth the Shadow Book.

Every Yang-Sun received a new Shadow Book upon their coronation day. Bound in the strong hides of the brownback Servo and compiled by hand by Shamani scribes, in the sweeping caligraphy of the Jerusan proper tongue. The only schooling the young ones of the Coven received was teaching on how to recite the words of the Shadow Book. The words were to be sung, in the same cadence, in the same pitches and tones, as the founders had recited them to the very first Shamani, in the very first Cycle of Moons.

Coda opened to the place marked by the red ribboned bookmark and began to recite.

“Traversed here, the people of Jerusa

In the time of the Founders.

Under the light of the Lean Moon

In the time of the Yearning

Some revolutions passed that Twelve's Carnival Feast.”

Coda took a breath and looked at his father. The old man's cloudy eyes were turned toward the fur ceiling of the Choza, his mouth agape. His breathing coming in heavy rhythmic sighs. His skeletal hand clutched Coda's arm as Coda sang the verses of the Shadow Book, his entreating rising like the wavering plucks of a Sitar toward the black star filled sky above the cluster of Choza's. As she poured over the food cooking on the open fire, Coda's mother hummed along to the melody of the verses. Women were not permitted to recite the words of the Shadow book, so they were apt only to hum along as accompaniment to the divine verses.

“On sleds pulled by dogs.

Beasts of great fur from the other end of the orb.

Armed with weapons of fire.

Forged from the ruins of the Great Ancestors.

Scavenged from the wastelands of the North, beyond the Great Sea.

The people of Jerusa came to Lunsuna.

The Shamani came to the end of Lunsuna.

To the place of the slip.

Where the snowpack turns to blue ice.

The Shamani came to welcome the people of Jerusa,

Under the wavering lights of the Ancient Ones.

But alas, the Chief among them.

The one known as Jeffers.

Drew a blade of precious ore.

And stabbed Roan, the Yan-Sun of Lunsuna,

In the heart.

And Jeffers, and the people of Jerusa, and their warriors.

Erected a cross of Take' wood,

And commanded the Shamani, and the people of Lunsuna to worship the graven idol.

They asked every one of the Shamani to pledge their loyalty to Jeffers, the Jerusans, and their god.

The Shamani's did not understand.

“This Take' wood once had life in it,” they said.

“Of course we can bow down to it.

But where is their god?”

And they--”

“Coda!” His mother hissed.

Coda looked up at his mother who motioned with her head and eyes to his father. The old man's eyes had fallen, and he lay snoring softly.

Coda quietly closed the book, placed it in the basket, knees popping, and tip toed over to his mother.

“Is there anything else you need from me Mami?” He asked. In a whisper.

“Parajeel bushels,” she replied in a soft voice. “Just two or three. And Saul Shavings, just a thimble full. Then you are free and you can lie down and work on your spear.”

Coda's eyes lit up, and before his mother could say another word, he was up and throwing back the fur trappings of the Choza, stepping outside into the cold air. The wind howled across the slip, tossing slivers of loose snow in rippling patterns that mirrored the green, yellow, and purple lights of the Ancient Ones in the dark sky above.

Coda pulled his fur overcoat tight around him as he trugged across the hard pack of the slip, toward the Aguharo, marked with a tall stick of Take' wood, which stood out in the white snow like a tall dark line, even in the dead of night. The Aguharo was dug in the ice at the very edge of the slip, near the rock outcropping which stuck like a finger into the darker ice of the Great Sea, frozen solid this time of year.

During the time of the Blooming Moon, the Aguharo would rise out of the sand of the slip, or thrash around in the shallow water at high tide, or perhaps sink into the mud of the tidal pools that formed around the Great Island. The Choza would float adift, and fish would be plentiful, and there would be no need for the reserve stores.

Coda reached the marker, felt through the inch or two of fresh snow which had already covered the precious ore handle of the Aguharo, just in the small amount of time since he had returned to the Choza and recited the sacred verses to his father. Just as Coda gripped the handle, he stopped.

A sound had reached his ears. He looked up, out toward the direction of the Great Sea, across the Channel, toward the darkened stripe on the horizon he knew to be the land known as Jerusa. He squinted, his eyes making out the darkened hulks of their strange clapboard buildings. He listened quietly.

The sound he heard was singing.

The song was being picked up by the wind and brought to his ears over the small expanse of salty ice.

He could, barely, make out little figures of people, all of them seemed to be streaming in one long procession from the largest of the alien looking buildings. Each one carried a small light, bouncing on the horizon, dancing..as if each one of the Jerusans carried a flame with them.

“Candelas?” Coda whispered to himself as he listened.

The wind picked up, the sound of the song grew louder in his ears, and even across the expanse of Sea, he could hear actual words coming from the throng of people, moving left to right like shadows across the dark line of the horizon.

“Star of wonder.

Star of night.

Star of royal beauty bright.

Westward leading, still proceeding.

Guide us to thy perfect light.”

[gigsoupmusic]

The Flowers of Hell, Japanese Television, Sterling Roswell (28 Feb 2020)

Being the infidel atheists that we are, we normally only ever set foot in a church when someone gets married or dies, and lately it's been much more of the latter. So, it is largely thanks to musical events that we get our occasional ecclesiastical hit that doesn't involve being surrounded by family, whether dead or alive. Bit-Phalanx put on an amazing electronic festival last year in a church in Covent Garden, which you can read all about here. We were not expecting another chance to enjoy music inside a London church so soon. But, enjoy we did. Last Friday night we were congregated in the small but perfectly-formed St Pancras Old Church just north of the famous station named after it, looking forward to a triple bill of the Spacemen 3's ex-drummer Sterling 'Rosco' Roswell, current BBC6 darlings Japanese Television, and 'Lou Reed approved trans-Atlantic symphonic psych group' The Flowers of Hell.

Rosco's main percussionist had had to cancel last minute – let's just say it's a 'sign of the times' and leave it there – so Max Peak stood in on bongos, and started tapping away at them as Rosco kicked into his beautiful opening song, "Like Wild Horses".

"Heartbeat" was followed by his slightly off-the-wall "Nobody Loves the Hulk", and then into one the more recent tracks that we fell in love with when we first heard it a few years ago, "Atom Brain Monster", the lyrics of which Sterling has recently updated to refer to Boris Johnson instead of Tony Blair. We recorded the performance and would like to share it with you here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQSBpeXNUAo However, things sadly were not going well for our Rosco tonight as his string broke right in the middle of his next track, "Venus Honey Dew". It would have taken him at least twenty minutes to source and fix a new string and, whilst most of us there would have gladly waited to hear his classic "Give Peace Another Chance", which he was scheduled to sing next, it would not have been fair on the following act.

As we therefore do not have much more to add about Rosco's gig, we'd love you to read an article we wrote for GIGsoup about 'Being Sterling Roswell', following an interview with him in his studio last October. Next up were a very tight band from London called Japanese Television. We've been seeing their name a lot in the gig listings over the past year but this was our first chance to see them live. They are so different to everything else out there at the moment, so it is no wonder that they caught the eye of Marc Riley on BBC6. The tracks they recorded last July at the Marc Riley session have made it onto their new double-EP reissue, now available in all good record shops and which we were able to buy that night, the night before its official release!

But what makes Japanese Television so special? Well, for a start, there's no singer. And we like that, because it's different. Not having vocals means that the audience can really concentrate on the music, which is very surfy and very psychedelic. Not as surfy as, say, the Beach Boys, or as psych as say The Roaring 420s, but somewhere in-between, and without a singer. I think the best thing we can do here is to share here a bit of video we filmed. Here are two of their songs on one video – "Crocodile Dentist" (which, incidentally, was originally recorded for their EP in one take on an 8-track) and "Tick Tock". https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OsGNCu4IR6I Before this they played most of their back catalogue, kicking off with "Lizard Moon", and then their brand new track "Moon Glider", which is so new it's not even on the new release! We loved how psychedelic "Mood Glider" was, and how it slowed down towards the end.

"Surfing Saucers" came next, which has a really good organ sound to it which just sounded perfect given the church setting. Which brings me onto the instruments. Tim Jones plays his pale-blue surf guitar in a very unique way, hoisted right up underneath his beard, which must not be comfortable! He plays in a slightly different tempo, it seems, to the rest of the band, which is a truly marvellous effect. Ian Thorn is on keyboards, but also uses a taishōgoto, which is a form of Japanese harp which first came out in 1912, and looks almost like something you would type on (in fact, these instruments are also collectively known as 'typewriter zithers'). The sound is, as you would expect, very Japanese. Just something else that marks out this band as being pretty unique.

Alex Lawton on bass and Al Brown on drums make up the remainder of the foursome. They were buried by the dark shadows at the back of the stage, but kept time immaculately. We chatted both to Alex and to Ian after the gig, such lovely chaps. We recommended they give Young Georgian Lolitaz a listen, and if they ever play a gig in the former USSR republic of Georgia they should get together, as we think they would merge and make some really nice spacey music! After a short break, it was time for the main event. But first, a bit of background knowledge about The Flowers of Hell. They were formed in 2005 and were mentored by Sterling Roswell's erstwhile bandmate from Spacemen 3, Pete 'Sonic Boom' Kember.

Their second album was Come Hell or High Water, and the album cover features in the Aubrey Beardsley exhibition which opens tomorrow 4th March at Tate Britain. This is going to be the largest exhibition of the late-Victorian artist's drawings for over 50 years, and The Flowers of Hell's album will feature among the exhibits, as an example of how influential Beardsley was, whose life was so sadly cut short by tuberculosis at the tender age of twenty-five. Other artists' albums featured at the exhibition include The Beatles, Procol Harum and Humble Pie, so The Flowers of Hell are in very good company indeed.

Toronto-born band-leader Greg Jarvis suffers from, or in his case is blessed by, a unique neurological condition called timbre-to-shape synæsthesia, which basically means that he sees all sounds as layers of three-dimensional shapes. He went on to found the Canadian Synesthesia Association in 2013. Whereas many albums from artists on the psych scene are influenced by visions from LSD and other psychedelics, Come Hell or High Water is actually based and arranged on Jarvis's synæsthesthetic visions, which is what makes his sound so very unique. There were thirty musicians performing on that album, recorded over a mammoth forty sessions in four different countries. Knowing how much Jarvis likes to surround himself with a crowd, we were not altogether surprised that we counted eight musicians on Friday's small stage – nine, if you include the contribution of Anna-Nicole Ziesche (on the left in the photo below), Hamburg-born visual artist and former alumnus of Central Saint Martins, who got up on stage to read out a German poem from 1955 that her mother had taught her, over a trumpet solo.

Jarvis was everywhere on stage. Sometimes playing keyboards, sometimes harmonica and, towards the end, at the front of stage on his trusted guitar. One of the three trumpeters who featured on the original Come Hell or High Water album was our taishōgoto-player from Japanese Television, and therefore was also on stage for The Flowers of Hell, as was a sax player, a violinist, a female singer who had a hauntingly angelic voice, and various other performers, most of whom were lost in the darkness at the back of the stage.

Back in the 90s, before The Flowers of Hell, Jarvis was living, among other places, in Prague, playing in various underground rock bands. They played their version of "Muchomůrky bílé", a protest song by Milan Hlasva, who was the original bassist and songwriter for PPU (Plastic People of the Universe), who were forbidden from performing this (or indeed any other song!) by the then Communist government, which was one of the many catalysts that spurred PPU fan Václav Havel in 1976 to create Charter 77 which took on the government and eventually lead to the Velvet Revolution in 1989. The rest, as they say, is history. To be honest, it's not our favourite song of The Flowers of Hell, and certainly the least psych, but we filmed it because it means so much to Greg Jarvis. Here is our footage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6CznGOsrR0 Far more atmospheric was the next song, "Pipe Dreams", which was truly quite beautiful, it made the hairs on our arms stand on end. The violin intro, the pipes, the singing, the slow introduction of the percussion, it all works so well together. We'll let you make up your own minds: https://youtu.be/bZF_5WmXxuo "The Joy of Sleeping" came next, which was a fantastic duel between the female singer's haunting voice, and Thorn's trumpet sounds, with violins and keyboards and guitar and percussion adding to the quite breathtaking sound. Here's the footage. Enjoy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsTvjcrWrME After a couple of other tracks, Jarvis took to the front of the stage, turned around, and literally conducted the band to play his very experimental piece which is largely made up of rehearsed improvisations. Originally, this piece lasts over 46 minutes long (it is a classic example of 'absolute' music, in other words, music that is not about anything in particular, and is a term first invented by Richard Wagner to describe this abstract, non-representational form). Jarvis's synæsthesia is largely helping him direct the band to perform the sound that he is seeing, in a really interesting symbiosis. We did not get the full 46-minute treatment (or else there's no way we'd have made the tube home), but we certainly got a good crack at it.

The song finally ended on a real crescendo, with Jarvis whirling his arms around like crazy. Imagine Pete Townshend meets Simon Rattle and you're halfway there.

Lou Reed was a big fan of The Flowers of Hell, so it is no surprise that the band always like to fit in at least one Velvet Underground or Lou Reed classic into their set. Their cover of "Heroin" had a great build-up with the drums and the violin, with Jarvis on vocals and playing guitar. As with "O", it had a really exciting and cacophonous dénouement. There was something nicely cyclical about the way the evening ended. Sterling Roswell, whose set had earlier been so cruelly curtailed by a broken guitar string, was encouraged onto the stage for the closing encore. He sat on drums and joined The Flowers of Hell on Spacemen 3's iconic hit from 1988, "Take Me to the Other Side". This was a real treat for us, and was the perfect end to the evening. We filmed it and we're delighted to be able to share it with you here, though unfortunately the drums were right at the back of the stage so you can't see Rosco, but you can certainly hear his trademark drumming style. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIbn0J9J-Os And that was the end of another epic night of great entertainment. Armed with a copy of Japanese Television's EPs, and with a bounce in our step, we bade our fairwell to the lovely church and the lovely musicians who had entertained us for the prior three and a half hours. We are also looking forward to The Flowers of Hell's new greatest hits compilation album called 15 Years of Soft Labour, which is coming out this summer. It is going to include a 10-minute extended version of "White Out", featuring the sadly recently deceased Ivan Král, who was Jarvis's mentor and 'rock'n'roll uncle' for the past two decades. We at GIGsoup would like to also pay our respects to Král, who played with and wrote music for so many musical greats, from Iggy Pop to David Bowie and Patti Smith, among many many more, and who lost his fight to cancer last month. Čest jeho památce. Read the full article

[cometsweepandleonidsfly]

When Game of Thrones ended its eight-year run on Sunday, the series finale, titled “The Iron Throne,” received a largely negative critical response. Many writers pointed out that the show’s last season had given up on the careful character-building of Thrones’ early days—a problem that, in truth, had started a few years back. The result was a seemingly rushed conclusion where multiple characters made poorly justified decisions and important story lines felt only halfway developed.

The show made plenty of mistakes in its final episode, but among the most significant was Thrones’ abrupt and uncharacteristic turn to moralizing—and its use of heavy-handed allusions to 20th-century history to do so. Characters who were once morally complicated, whose actions fit within well-developed personal motivations and fueled the show’s gripping political drama, became mechanisms to bring the story to a hasty, unearned conclusion. Characters like Daenerys Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister—previously complex and fully formed—became, in “The Iron Throne,” mere tools in the service of a plodding message about the dangers of totalitarianism.

The reliance on contemporary historical allegory pervades the entire first half of the final episode, but the most glaring instance comes about 10 minutes in, after characters have walked through rubble-strewn streets and debated the ethics of summarily executing prisoners of war. Daenerys enters the scene upon her dragon, descending from the darkened sky. It’s a visceral case study in dramatizing evil as authority, which is to say it’s cribbed from Triumph of the Will. Daenerys’s appearance mimics Adolf Hitler’s entry in Leni Riefenstahl’s 1935 propaganda film. The queen arrives on dragonback, he on an airplane. Both come from above, seemingly higher and mightier than the mortals watching. Daenerys dismounts and walks through the blasted hulk of the Red Keep’s gates, directly toward the camera. When the wings of her last living dragon spread out behind her as if they were her own, the message is clear: The dragon has awoken. Dany gazes upon serried ranks of soldiers, fires still burning over miles of city and ash falling from the sky. Somewhere on the way to becoming the dragon, she has left behind the medieval machinations of earlier seasons and adopted the manicured totalitarianism of 20th-century dictators as her own.

The dragon queen begins to speak of liberation and renewal and bloodshed in front of a cheering crowd of uniformed soldiers, standing at attention, the blood of innocents still on their spears. Her zealous defense of war crimes in the name of ideology could be a Nazi’s speech, or perhaps a leftist authoritarian’s. There’s certainly something of Joseph Stalin and Vladimir Lenin in her idea that people ought to be liberated, by force if necessary, even if it means death for thousands. “Women, men, and children have suffered too long beneath the wheel,” Daenerys proclaims. Over the heads of her soldiers, viewers see what liberation means: the wreck of King’s Landing, Daenerys with her dragon sigil on one side and the flesh-and-blood reptile on the other. Hitler’s banners were the same red and black with a circle in the center, containing an odd, swirled insignia. The sieg heils are replaced by the thudding of spears, the brownshirts by men in helmets and leather, but the effect is identical.

The parallels are in some ways fitting. Daenerys’s rhetoric has always had a brutal streak—she’s had no problem promising the death of enemies to her followers. But her guarantees of violent revolution had previously been couched in the character’s personal kindness and her repeated efforts not to become a reborn version of her pyromaniacal father. Perhaps unable to make her sudden moral downfall in Season 8 seem wholly organic, Game of Thronesopted to lean on dramatic visual cues. If the show could not sell viewers on Daenerys’s embrace of unambiguous villainy, it could at least tie her directly to Hitler, to Stalin, to dictators whose reigns are within living memory.

In earlier seasons, tyranny did not always look like tyranny. Few moments capture how elegantly Game of Thrones used to work like the ones in Season 2when Tywin Lannister, one of television’s great villains, interacts with Arya Stark, who’s disguised as a servant. Tywin comes off as human, as a man concerned with his family and his legacy. He shows generosity, asks about his servant’s family, and treats her more gently than many of the series’s purported heroes might have. Such nuance extended to other characters, too: The often ruthless Stannis Baratheon practices a harsh but evenhanded form of justice. His late brother Robert, a drunkard and philanderer, still strove to act as a king and friend should, despite his constant failures. Even the murderous Roose Bolton’s and Walder Frey’s behavior was motivated by fundamentally human desires to improve their families’ lots. Viewers didn’t need fascist or Stalinist symbols to know when an action was vile, even if it came from a character who didn’t seem fully evil.

Things are simpler when viewers do not have to think about the people behind the evil. Game of Thrones used to ask its audience to think about those people, though. One episode in the show’s second season began with a seemingly random conversation between two soldiers guarding the Lannister army’s horses. They aren’t significant to the plot, but they get almost two minutes of screen time. They’re normal people who joke around—farting is involved—and laugh. And then they’re killed. The show often forced viewers to question its heroes not through cruelty and violence but through peace and humor. It was not the sudden death of the Lannister men that gave the scene its emotional heft but the ordinariness of what came before it.

That sort of nuance disappeared in later seasons. Even when the opposing side became sympathetic victims, they were not fleshed out with the same care as the Lannister soldiers were in the second season. The unsubtle imagery in Game of Thrones’ later seasons was aided by the show’s use of the Unsullied, Daenerys’s army of erstwhile slaves. Though they never really took on individual identities, the Unsullied had a story, and their very presence on the show made a point about who Daenerys was. But in Season 8, the Unsullied became an entity to be neatly organized and casually discarded. Their lack of individuality served the show’s thudding metaphors in “The Iron Throne.” The Unsullied’s faceless helms display no emotion but suggest total loyalty. The men slam their spears into the dirt in unison when Daenerys speaks. They are an authoritarian’s dream.

“The Iron Throne” doesn’t stop with the imagery of totalitarianism. Apparently concerned that some viewers might miss the parallels to 20th-century dictators, the show has Jon Snow, its morally upstanding and politically inept co-lead, join the now-imprisoned adviser Tyrion Lannister in his cell to fully explicate Daenerys’s transition to fascism. Tyrion asks Jon: “When you heard her talking to her soldiers, did she sound like someone who is done fighting?” Of course she didn’t, because dictators always need enemies. But in the past, Game of Thrones didn’t need to explain to viewers exactly what was happening. It presented well-shaded characters and morally unclear choices, then asked the audience to come to its own conclusions.

Tyrion continues: “When she murdered the slavers of Astapor, I’m sure no one but the slavers complained. After all, they were evil men. When she crucified hundreds of Meereenese nobles, who could argue? They were evil men. The Dothraki khals she burned alive? They would have done worse to her.” It’s impressive, really, that a character in a premodern fantasy reality is so well versed in postwar German confessional poetry: Tyrion’s words echo the Lutheran minister Martin Niemöller’s “First they came …” almost exactly. “First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out— / Because I was not a socialist,” Niemöller said. First she came for the slavers of Astapor.

Niemöller’s words are famous for good reason; they tell simply and concisely how evil results from inaction. But Game of Thrones viewers were watching a 73-episode television series that had the luxury of showing exactly how horrifying bloodshed can result from the intention to make society better. Thrones once had faith that its depiction of a kingdom torn apart by petty squabbles and the indifference of wealthy autocrats resonated with viewers. Until the last season, the show didn’t feel the need to tell viewers how it resonated.

Of course, since its inception, Game of Thrones has referenced real-life history. The central conflict is inspired by the Wars of the Roses, the notorious Red Wedding was based on a 15th-century event called the “Black Dinner”—the list goes on. But such references have usually been to things outside of living memory. They’ve been to medieval or ancient events, and usually they were mined more for plot points or invented history, not to set up obvious ethical comparisons.

The show’s final act didn’t trust viewers the way the early seasons did. The audience didn’t need a fable about power to be wrapped in a bow and delivered in the form of 20th-century historical analogies. (Or maybe we did—maybe some of us have “become inured to the shoddy writing and plotting.”) In its first half, and perhaps even for a season or two after leaving Martin’s books behind, the show trusted its audience enough to avoid allegory and the simplistic morality that comes with it. It trusted that the audience knew right from wrong, and knew that both could coexist within a character. It asked viewers to find their own messages in a series about a faux-medieval world of dragons and ice zombies—and take them or leave them as they saw fit. It would have been better if the show had ended that way.