#but people not understanding buggy make my blood boil

[beanghostprincess]

People who don't understand why Buggy hates Shanks when Shanks "did nothing to him" seriously haven't had a nasty breakup with a best friend everyone liked better than them

[hiatustohitdice]

On Resident Evil 8

*Spoilers*

I just don’t know anymore.

Everyone loves this game.  Everyone!  Everyone I follow.  All of my friends.  Everyone that my friends follow.  People are saying it’s the best in the series.  Or people say it’s the second best only to RE4.

And, like, I don’t get it?

Am I crazy?  Am I an idiot?  I just, I don’t get it?  

Listen, I’m not even one of those ‘it can’t be a real Resident Evil game cause it’s in first person’ people.  I didn’t like RE7 very much, but I was actually EXCITED about this one, so it’s not even a I-went-into-this-expecting-to-have-it-crush-my-dreams.

Like, I was ready!  I wanted Resident Evil 8 to blow my mind.

But it’s just another game where women are dispensable?  With overly complex boss designs that sort of take up so much of the screen you don’t really know what you’re looking at?  With trite story beats that are ripped from so many different sources that it doesn’t feel like homage, it just feels like a media skin quilt.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  The gunplay is amazing, and the minute to minute actions has got me playing mercenaries constantly.

But Moreau, Big Vamp Lady, and Magneto are uninteresting villains.  With no motivation.  And seemingly no reason to exist other than to be upset and decide to murder something because it’s there.

Where does Vampire Lady sell her wine?  Does she have a distributor?  Does she just drink it all herself and give some to her bug children?  I’m guessing it’s the duke, but like, that dude has a horse and buggy so I’m not sure her brands really gonna get out there.

Why does the village need a dam?  Do they fish?  Is it just to have a Resident Evil 4 fish monster in it?  And why did you give it to the guy that everyone seems to hate and not trust?  Also Ethan, gurl, you stole the fucking thing from fish man, and then you...flaunt it?...in his face?...long enough for him to....?  Trap you?  WHY?  Why didn’t you just leave?  Is it because your child isn’t as important as winning?

Oh, right, so we had to partake in a boss fight.  A boss fight where you just run in a circle for four minutes and wait for him to starfish his body out his mouth.

And why is Magneto making all the robots?  How many fucking people live in this village that Magneto can have hundreds of robot warriors, NOT TO MENTION THE ONES THAT WERE FAILURES?  If the whole Mother Miranda thing didn’t work out, was he just gonna go start a war in Lithuania or something?

And with all the women that are stolen by Vamp Lady, why the fuck do the people in this village think they Mother Miranda protects them?  AND AGAIN, HOW MANY FUCKING PEOPLE LIVE IN THIS VILLAGE?  I count ten houses max.  I fought at least 1,000 monsters?  “The monsters!  They just attacked us.  I mean, we’ve been picked apart one by one for generations.  That’s why we call the castle the castle of Blood and Death.  But that’s different!  That’s Mother Miranda SANCTIONED death.”

Damn this game is pretty.  The art direction and set designs are just lovely.  And playing on the PS5 with the adaptive triggers is so nice.

But why the fuck did Mother Mirando steal the baby just to chop the baby into pieces just to hand it off to her four creations just to take all the pieces back just to put the baby back together again just in time for Ethan Winters to show up and shoot her in the face?

And if Mia was kidnap, why isn’t she dirty?  Especially if Mother Miranda has been experimenting on her?  She’s just wearing the same clothes with her hair tucked to the side.  Shouldn’t it at least be tussled a little bit?

And people are like, ‘this is one of the most well put together plots in the RE Universe,’ and I just don’t get it.

Granted, the rest of the series is convoluted as FUCK, but at least every villain and set piece that I can think of boils down to more than just “I dunno?  Chop the baby up, I guess?  Really hope that Ethan Winters who we know is alive and well doesn’t come looking for the fucking baby.”  And wait for the ritual, Mother Miranda?  “Yeah.”  And is there some significance to WHEN this ritual happens?  “Nope.”  So you chopped the baby up because?  “I’m dramatique okay?”  But you could have just achieved your plan at any point, really.  “I mean, probably.”

The plot was just so full of massive, bizarre holes that I couldn’t focus on it.  And halfway through I was like, I get it, you played Resident Evil 4.  

And you’re telling me the BSAA didn’t run A SINGLE TEST on Ethan Winters?  The guy that’s so fucking paranoid about what happened in Louisiana that it’s fucking up his marriage?  You’re saying that guy didn’t ASK to have some tests run on him?

Really?

And if the mold fucking knows.  And if the mold fucking remembers everyone connect to it.  HOW THE FUCK DID NONE OF THOSE PEOPLE SEE ETHAN COMING?

I can’t, it was just so fucking stupid, and I don’t understand how no one is talking about it.  That everyone is even okay with the tank section.  The tank with the chainsaw?

But if any of you FUCK with Donna Beneviento, I’m fucking coming for you.  What a fucking badass section she had.

[awed-frog]

Sorry it took so long, but I would love to know what happened on the train trip you mentioned in your tags :)

Oh, it’s stupid, just - since I couldn’t move around during pregnancy, this was my first trip ‘without full mobility’, in the sense that we had the buggy and so had to be mindful of stairs, narrow spaces and stuff. And it got me so mad and upset and ashamed, because while a buggy is the most amazing, privileged reason ever to have limited movement, it still highlights how everything gets really difficult, really quickly. Like, on our first train there was one place for buggies or wheelchairs, and two seconds after we sat down, a lady with a wheelchair came on board so of course we moved, and there was literally nowhere else to go. Which got me thinking 1) what the hell happens when two people with a wheelchair randomly or purposefully take the same train and 2) what if there’s an emergency and our buggy, parked in the middle of the train, ends up trapping and killing everyone? Meanwhile on the other train, we needed to hoist the buggy up - and I know they have little platforms for wheelchairs, but it still beggars belief they would design a train like that in the first place? And finally, on the last leg of the journey there was this asshole who straight up refused to move even if we needed that place and the train was otherwise empty - I ended up changing the baby right on his lap, poop and all, and he finally buggered off.

(The train was empty, btw. He could have moved literally three meters and found a 4-seater all to his bloody self.)

So, I don’t know. I like to think I’m informed and educated about stuff, so I’m ashamed by how blind I’ve been to this problem my entire life. Moving around with a buggy makes you see most of the ways the space around us is not accessible to some people, and even worse, how it was designed not to be accessible because no one actually gives a damn.

(That’s why I think that representation is good and all when it allows you to see yourself reflected in a story, but the real magic is when representation makes you see the world through someone else’s eyes. Understanding the problems, ambitions and challenges of other people is a lot harder than we think. 

Also a lot more important than we realize) 

And possibly unrelated, but something else: train stations are slowly shutting down their waiting areas, and this makes my blood boil. I used to catch lots of trains when I was a student, so I know for a fact that back then, every station - and especially big, shiny stations - had lots of benches or places where you could sit down and stay warm for free. Now - not so much. In fact, even our local station doesn’t have a proper waiting area anymore - you can see all the places where benches have literally been wrenched away, and the only place left to sit down in the warmth now is a horrible little cafe you’d have trouble navigating with a big suitcase. Also, it’s not open train-time (say, 5:30 AM to midnight), but only 8 to 6 or something. 

There are moments I feel things have gotten worse since the 90s but then I think, Hey, Cicero was always saying how everything sucks now but back in his youth etc, so maybe this is just distortion and bias, but then I have days like that one and I’m like NO FUCK OFF THIS IS DEFINITELY WORSE and I’m not sure how we allow this stuff to happen. Possibly because it’s framed as ‘keeping others out’ instead of ‘will end up screwing you too’, so we’re just Eh, as long as it keeps that guy the hell away from me and that’s it? 

As the poem goes, First they came for the benches I did not speak out, because I was not homeless, and now I’d like to sit down so I can breastfeed I’m screwed.

[spicedlitteshortstories-blog]

A Murderer’s Tale

A Murderer’s Tale

My father was not a kind man. Most of the time he was half drunk, and it seemed that the only way he knew to treat others was by bullying. From those he did business with to his Saturday night poker friends to the way he treated his family and even to the animals on our farm, I can’t recall a time when I witnessed him acting with any ounce of civility. He was just one of those hate filled men who felt the world always owed him something but never gave it to him. He was bitter and sad and violent. Every night, my older brother and I would expect a beating. Sam was two years older than me, but would always submit to whatever undeserved punishment our father would give us. I, on the other hand, was much less willing to accept his thrashings.

It started when I was about 9 years old when I figured out I could run away. He would always catch me though, and then the beating would be many times worse. My brother did not understand me. He hated the pain probably as much as I did, but he always said it was better to give in rather than resist. After all, we were both too weak to fight him. I don’t think my brother would have fought even if he was strong enough. He just didn’t feel it was worth the fight.

As we got older, my brother remained willing to accept the beatings. My will to resist only grew. I would run from him or hide and even try to fight back whenever he would come after me. He always won though.

One day, my Dad came after me with his knife. He had never used a weapon on me besides blunt objects. I knew he could kill me this time. I also knew that I neither wanted to die, nor to live under this abuse. So I ran once again, but this time with a destination. I needed a weapon with which to defend myself. There was a musket above the fireplace, but I could not reach it and did not know how to use it. There were knives in the kitchen, but I did not know how to handle myself in a knife fight. The only remaining weapon that I knew might be my way out was my father’s second revolver that he kept hidden in his bedside table. I knew it was there and that it was loaded because once spied on him putting it away after cleaning it.

So I ran up the stairs and into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I tried to lock it, but it got stuck. So I ran to his side of the bed and pulled open the drawer. Sure enough, right next to an untouched copy of the bible sat the shiny revolver. I picked it up. I had never handled a gun before and it felt heavy in my hands. I used my left hand to pull the hammer back to cock it. Just then, my father burst into the room. I spun around just as he rounded the foot of the bed and raised the knife to strike.

I raised the gun and pulled the trigger, firing the bullet into my father’s stomach. Unfortunately, this did little more than enrage him further in his drunken and excited state. He slashed at me with the knife and I instinctively raised my left arm to block him. The blade sliced my forearm to the bone. For a moment I felt my blood boil with unbridled anger, but somehow managed to focus enough to lift the gun once more. This time, I shot him in his shoulder. Blood sprayed out onto the walls as his body was violently whipped about by the force of the bullet. He stumbled back and fell to the floor, dropping the knife.

That was when the dam broke once again and rage returned to consume my soul. I pounced on the knife and snatched it up as my father grabbed my leg, snarling death threats at me. The next few moments were a blur as I let out years of frustration, stabbing and slashing until everything had turned crimson.

Just as I stood up from the mutilated corpse, I heard a shrill scream from behind me. I had forgotten about my mother. I turned to face her, exhaustion beginning to register in my muscles. I watched as her face turned from shocked disbelief to terrified agony and then to accusatory rage in a matter of seconds. To my surprise, she lunged at me, falling upon me with blow after blow with her feminine fists. Thinking back, the attempted attack was almost laughable. But to me, I had had enough of being beat down. It did not matter to me that she did not cause me much pain. What mattered was principle. No one would attack me like that again.

So I stabbed her too until her body fell lifeless beside her husband. I wiped the blood from my eyes and remembered my brother. He would be making an appearance soon undoubtedly, and I had no interest with dealing with him. So I picked up the revolver from the floor and waited. Sure enough, the footsteps did come. The approached the doorway with his voice calling out for each of us. I hated to think of him gone, but I knew he would never understand me. So when he stepped into the bedroom, I shot him before his expression moved past disbelief.

My family was gone. I sunk slowly to the floor beside their bodies and took a deep breath to calm my rapidly beating heart. There I stayed. I slept in a pool of my parents blood until dawn.

The next day, I awoke without memory of the previous day’s events. It was a mystery to me why I was not in my bed any why everything felt so sticky. Even after I opened my eyes, it took a moment for the situation to register and to resolve my confusion. So many thoughts flashed through my mind, but I just pushed them away. This was a good thing, I thought. Any fear or sadness or guilt I felt I quickly ignored. I didn’t see much point in dwelling upon them. And besides, there were things I had to get done.

So I took my father’s backup gun I had used the night before as well as the one he carried in the daytime along with the knife. I also searched the wardrobe and closet until I found my parents’ hidden money stash. As I stepped over the bodies, I considered cleaning the mess. The room had blood everywhere from the floor to the walls to the furniture and even the ceiling. I figured I would get around to it later. So I grabbed a satchel from downstairs and put the weapons and cash into it. I also put in a change of clothes into it.

And with that, I decided to take a trip into town. I figured from there, I could run away and start a new life someplace else. I was about 13 at the time, and I had never learned to ride a horse, so I walked to main road and waited for a passing horse and buggy to come by.

The sun was high above when a man in a buggy finally arrived. Luckily, the man was on his way to the town and hesitantly said he would take me. So I climbed in, and he snapped the reigns. After a minute of uncomfortable silence, the man asked why my clothes were all bloody. I looked down at them with surprise. I couldn’t believe my stupidity for not changing into clean clothes. Luckily I brought spares. I quickly made up some lie about having to slaughter one of the pigs and accidentally getting covered in its blood. I could tell the man was skeptical. He asked me why I was visiting the city alone and I told him that my father was out on the road doing business and my mother needed me to pick some things up from the market. Thankfully, the man asked no further questions.

It seemed like an eternity before we finally arrived at the town. The man stopped the buggy, and I thanked him. But before I could step out, the man asked me to stay put for a moment. I reluctantly agreed and watched as the buggy driver got out and walked over to another man with a big hat outside the saloon. I recognized the man outside the saloon as the sheriff. In a panic, I quickly jumped out of the buggy and ran off behind a small outhouse. My mind was racing and I knew that there was a chance that the sheriff would be paying our house a visit soon. It shouldn’t have bothered me considering I planned to leave it all behind anyway, but in that instant, those plans changed.

Once the buggy driver and the sheriff left, I went into the outhouse and undressed, replacing my bloodstained clothes with clean ones. I stuffed the bloody clothes into the satchel and exited the outhouse. I spent the majority of the rest of the day searching for someone to take me back to my farm.

Upon arriving back at the house, I remembered the sheriff and came up with a plan to fool him. I knew of a homeless drunk named Max who lived in the woods behind the house. I had discovered his camp by accident one day while exploring. He lived in a small tent made of old bed sheets that people had thrown away. I kept him secret and my father never found out about him. I decided this was a good time to pay him a visit. I gave him some money and promised to feed him and let him live in the house if he did me one favor. He didn’t seem to see anything suspicious about it or perhaps he just didn’t care. Either way, Max agreed and I told him that if the sheriff comes to the door, he should pretend to be my father and tell the sheriff that everything is alright on the farm.

Sure enough, the sheriff arrived the next day. But thanks to Max, he returned to town without much concern.

I didn’t want to hurt Max, but I knew he could become a problem if I kept him around. So the night of the sheriff’s visit, I took the knife and stabbed him to death in the kitchen so that he could never betray me.

But my troubles were not yet resolved because the day after she sheriff visited was a Saturday. And every Saturday, three friends of my dad would come over to play poker. I had forgotten about this until the knock came at the door. And suddenly I remembered. I checked to make sure the guns were loaded and put on the holsters my dad kept on the mantel. I also put on a sheath for his knife that I had found in the toolshed earlier. When the knock came again, I was ready.

I opened the door and they asked me where my father was. I told them he was out on an emergency, but should be returning the next day. They were surprised (my dad never missed his poker games), but they bought it and tipped their hats before turning to leave. Once their backs were turned, I took a deep breath to calm myself before pulling out the two revolvers. They were still difficult for me to hold considering their weight, but the men were in close enough range. I carefully aimed at the backs of two of them and fired the guns. As the two fell, I dropped the gun in my left hand and stepped towards the third, re-aiming the other gun. I somehow shot the third man clean through the neck.

Then, I systematically slit the throats of the first two to ensure they were dead. For a moment, I stood over them, triumphant over my victory, but it soon occurred to me the very obvious problem with this situation: having three dead men lying in the front path to the house was sure to arouse suspicion should another person venture onto our land.

I tried to drag the bodies, but I was too weak to budge them. They were grown men after all. I could try to get the horse to pull them, I thought, but considering I can’t even really ride them, there was a slim chance of getting that to work. Then I remembered the hatchet in the toolshed. If I could make smaller pieces out of them, surely I could carry those.

So I fetched the hatchet and got to work. I hacked the first body clean in half at the abdomen, quickly realizing my error as his guts spilled onto the grass. I would need a bucket to carry that stuff. I chopped the limbs off the other two instead which turned out to be much cleaner.

After I had sufficiently cut them up, I put their body parts into the toolshed. I decided that the shed would be where I would hide the bodies. This prompted me to chop up my father, mother, brother, and Max in the same manner so that I could bring them all together and clean up the house.

Once the bodies were gone, I tried cleaning up the blood, but there were too many stains. I had to then put any fabrics or rugs that were stained in the shed as well and decided to repaint the walls. I didn’t want to have to get a ride in another person’s buggy again, so I spent the next week teaching myself to ride the horse as best as I could. Finally, I was able to travel to town. I bought paint and ammunition for the guns and returned. It took two days to repaint over all the bloodstains, but finally it was passable. By this point, the shed had developed a horrible stench. To eliminate this irritation, I set the shed on fire, and burned it down with the bodies and bloodstained fabrics.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, the townspeople (especially the wives of the three poker players I had killed) had begun to suspect that something peculiar was afoot. As it turns out, when multiple people are suddenly removed from society, people will notice their absence and ask questions.

Zachary Sullens