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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months

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On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

It's been 21 years since Bill Willingham launched Fables, his 110-issue, wide-ranging, delightful and brilliantly crafted author-owned comic series that imagines that the folkloric figures of the world's fairytales are real people, who live in a secret society whose internal struggles and intersections with the mundane world are the source of endless drama.

Fables is a DC Comics title; DC is division of the massive entertainment conglomerate Warners, which is, in turn, part of the Warner/Discovery empire, a rapacious corporate behemoth whose screenwriters have been on strike for 137 days (and counting). DC is part of a comics duopoly; its rival, Marvel, is a division of the Disney/Fox juggernaut, whose writers are also on strike.

The DC that Willingham bargained with at the turn of the century isn't the DC that he bargains with now. Back then, DC was still subject to a modicum of discipline from competition; its corporate owner's shareholders had not yet acquired today's appetite for meteoric returns on investment of the sort that can only be achieved through wage-theft and price-gouging.

In the years since, DC – like so many other corporations – participated in an orgy of mergers as its sector devoured itself. The collapse of comics into a duopoly owned by studios from an oligopoly had profound implications for the entire sector, from comic shops to comic cons. Monopoly breeds monopoly, and the capture of the entire comics distribution system by a single company – Diamond – was attended by the capture of the entire digital comics market by a single company, Amazon, who enshittified its Comixology division, driving creators and publishers into Kindle Direct Publishing, a gig-work platform that replicates the company's notoriously exploitative labor practices for creative workers. Today, Comixology is a ghost-town, its former employees axed in a mass layoff earlier this year:

https://gizmodo.com/amazon-layoffs-comixology-1850007216

When giant corporations effect these mergers, they do so with a kind of procedural kabuki, insisting that they are dotting every i and crossing every t, creating a new legal entity whose fictional backstory is a perfect, airtight bubble, a canon with not a single continuity bug. This performance of seriousness is belied by the behind-the-scenes chaos that these corporate shifts entail – think of the way that the banks that bought and sold our mortgages in the run-up to the 2008 crisis eventually lost the deeds to our houses, and then just pretended they were legally entitled to collect money from us every month – and steal our houses if we refused to pay:

https://www.reuters.com/article/idINIndia-58325420110720

Or think of the debt collection industry, which maintains a pretense of careful record-keeping as the basis for hounding and threatening people, but which is, in reality, a barely coherent trade in spreadsheets whose claims to our money are matters of faith:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/12/do-not-pay/#fair-debt-collection-practices-act

For usury, the chaos is a feature, not a bug. Their corporate strategists take the position that any ambiguity should be automatically resolved in their favor, with the burden of proof on accused debtors, not the debt collectors. The scumbags who lost your deed and stole your house say that it's up to you to prove that you own it. And since you've just been rendered homeless, you don't even have a house to secure a loan you might use to pay a lawyer to go to court.

It's not solely that the usurers want to cheat you – it's that they can make more money if they don't pay for meticulous record-keeping, and if that means that they sometimes cheat us, that's our problem, not theirs.

While this is very obvious in the usury sector, it's also true of other kinds of massive mergers that create unfathomnably vast conglomerates. The "curse of bigness" is real, but who gets cursed is a matter of power, and big companies have a lot more power.

The chaos, in other words, is a feature and not a bug. It provides cover for contract-violating conduct, up to and including wage-theft. Remember when Disney/Marvel stole money from beloved science fiction giant Alan Dean Foster, whose original Star Wars novelization was hugely influential on George Lucas, who changed the movie to match Foster's ideas?

Disney claimed that when it acquired Lucasfilm, it only acquired its assets, but not its liabilities. That meant that while it continued to hold Foster's license to publish his novel, they were not bound by an obligation to pay Foster for this license, since that liability was retained by the (now defunct) original company:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/30/disney-still-must-pay/#pay-the-writer

For Disney, this wage-theft (and many others like it, affecting writers with less fame and clout than Foster) was greatly assisted by the chaos of scale. The chimera of Lucas/Disney had no definitive responsible party who could be dragged into a discussion. The endless corporate shuffling that is normal in giant companies meant that anyone who might credibly called to account for the theft could be transfered or laid off overnight, with no obvious successor. The actual paperwork itself was hard for anyone to lay hands on, since the relevant records had been physically transported and re-stored subsequent to the merger. And, of course, the company itself was so big and powerful that it was hard for Foster and his agent to raise a credible threat.

I've experienced versions of this myself: every book contract I've ever signed stipulated that my ebooks could not be published with DRM. But one of my publishers – a boutique press that published my collection Overclocked – collapsed along with most of its competitors, the same week my book was published (its distributor, Publishers Group West, went bankrupt after its parent company, Advanced Marketing Services, imploded in a shower of fraud and criminality).

The publisher was merged with several others, and then several more, and then several more – until it ended up a division of the Big Five publisher Hachette, who repeatedly, "accidentally" pushed my book into retail channels with DRM. I don't think Hachette deliberately set out to screw me over, but the fact that Hachette is (by far) the most doctrinaire proponent of DRM meant that when the chaos of its agglomerated state resulted in my being cheated, it was a happy accident.

(The Hachette story has a happy ending; I took the book back from them and sold it to Blackstone Publishing, who brought out a new expanded edition to accompany a DRM-free audiobook and ebook):

https://www.blackstonepublishing.com/overclocked-bvej.html

Willingham, too, has been affected by the curse of bigness. The DC he bargained with at the outset of Fables made a raft of binding promises to him: he would have approval over artists and covers and formats for new collections, and he would own the "IP" for the series, meaning the copyrights vested in the scripts, storylines, characters (he might also have retained rights to some trademarks).

But as DC grew, it made mistakes. Willingham's hard-fought, unique deal with the publisher was atypical. A giant publisher realizes its efficiencies through standardized processes. Willingham's books didn't fit into that standard process, and so, repeatedly, the publisher broke its promises to him.

At first, Willingham's contacts at the publisher were contrite when he caught them at this. In his press-release on the matter, Willingham calls them "honest men and women of integrity [who] interpreted the details of that agreement fairly and above-board":

https://billwillingham.substack.com/p/willingham-sends-fables-into-the

But as the company grew larger, these counterparties were replaced by corporate cogs who were ever-more-distant from his original, creator-friendly deal. What's more, DC's treatment of its other creators grew shabbier at each turn (a dear friend who has written for DC for decades is still getting the same page-rate as they got in the early 2000s), so Willingham's deal grew more exceptional as time went by. That meant that when Willingham got the "default" treatment, it was progressively farther from what his contract entitled him to.

The company repeatedly – and conveniently – forgot that Willingham had the final say over the destiny of his books. They illegally sublicensed a game adapted from his books, and then, when he objected, tried to make renegotiating his deal a condition of being properly compensated for this theft. Even after he won that fight, the company tried to cheat him and then cover it up by binding him to a nondisclosure agreement.

This was the culmination of a string of wage-thefts in which the company misreported his royalties and had to be dragged into paying him his due. When the company "practically dared" Willingham to sue ("knowing it would be a long and debilitating process") he snapped.

Rather than fight Warner, Willingham has embarked on what JWZ calls an act of "absolute table-flip badassery" – he has announced that Fables will hereafter be in the public domain, available for anyone to adapt commercially, in works that compete with whatever DC might be offering.

Now, this is huge, and it's also shrewd. It's the kind of thing that will bring lots of attention on Warner's fraudulent dealings with its creative workforce, at a moment where the company is losing a public relations battle to the workers picketing in front of its gates. It constitutes a poison pill that is eminently satisfying to contemplate. It's delicious.

But it's also muddy. Willingham has since clarified that his public domain dedication means that the public can't reproduce the existing comics. That's not surprising; while Willingham doesn't say so, it's vanishingly unlikely that he owns the copyrights to the artwork created by other artists (Willingham is also a talented illustrator, but collaborated with a who's-who of comics greats for Fables). He may or may not have control over trademarks, from the Fables wordmark to any trademark interests in the character designs. He certainly doesn't have control over the trademarked logos for Warner and DC that adorn the books.

When Willingham says he is releasing the "IP" to his comic, he is using the phrase in its commercial sense, not its legal sense. When business people speak of "owning IP," they mean that they believe they have the legal right to control the conduct of their competitors, critics and customers:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

The problem is that this doesn't correspond to the legal concept of IP, because IP isn't actually a legal concept. While there are plenty of "IP lawyers" and even "IP law firms," there is no "IP law." There are many laws that are lumped together under "IP," including the big three (trademark, copyright and patent), but also a bestiary of obscure cousins and subspecies – trade dress, trade secrecy, service marks, noncompetes, nondisclosues, anticirumvention rights, sui generis "neighboring rights" and so on.

The job of an "IP lawyer" is to pluck individual doctrines from this incoherent scrapheap of laws and regulations and weave them together into a spider's web of tripwires that customers and critics and competitors can't avoid, and which confer upon the lawyer's client the right to sue for anything that displeases them.

When Willingham says he's releasing Fables into the public domain, it's not clear what he's releasing – and what is his to release. In the colloquial, business sense of "IP," saying you're "releasing the IP" means something like, "Feel free to create adaptations from this." But these adaptations probably can't draw too closely on the artwork, or the logos. You can probably make novelizations of the comics. Maybe you can make new comics that use the same scripts but different art. You can probably make sequels to, or spinoffs of, the existing comics, provided you come up with your own character designs.

But it's murky. Very murky. Remember, this all started because Willingham didn't have the resources or patience to tangle with the rabid attack-lawyers Warners keeps kenneled on its Burbank lot. Warners can (and may) release those same lawyers on you, even if you are likely to prevail in court, betting that you – like Willingham – won't have the resources to defend yourself.

The strange reality of "IP" rights is that they can be secured without any affirmative step on your part. Copyrights are conjured into existence the instant that a new creative work is fixed in a tangible medium and endure until the creator's has been dead for 70 years. Common-law trademarks gradually come into definition like an image appearing on photo-paper in a chemical soup, growing in definition every time they are used, even if the mark's creator never files a form with the USPTO.

These IP tripwires proliferate in the shadows, wherever doodles are sketched on napkins, wherever kindergartners apply finger-paint to construction-paper. But for all that they are continuously springing into existence, and enduring for a century or more, they are absurdly hard to give away.

This was the key insight behind the Creative Commons project: that while the internet was full of people saying "no copyright" (or just assuming the things they posted were free for others to use), the law was a universe away from their commonsense assumptions. Creative Commons licenses were painstakingly crafted by an army of international IP lawyers who set out to turn the normal IP task on its head – to create a legal document that assured critics, customers and competitors that the licensor had no means to control their conduct.

20 years on, these licenses are pretty robust. The flaws in earlier versions have been discovered and repaired in subsequent revisions. They have been adapted to multiple countries' legal systems, allowing CC users to mix-and-match works from many territories – animating Polish sprites to tell a story by a Canadian, set to music from the UK.

Willingham could clarify his "public domain" dedication by applying a Creative Commons license to Fables, but which license? That's a thorny question. What Willingham really wants here is a sampling license – a license that allows licensees to take some of the elements of his work, combine them with other parts, and make something new.

But no CC license fits that description. Every CC license applies to whole works. If you want to license the bass-line from your song but not the melody, you have to release the bass-line separately and put a CC license on that. You can't just put a CC license on the song with an asterisked footnote that reads "just the bass, though."

CC had a sampling license: the "Sampling Plus 1.0" license. It was a mess. Licensees couldn't figure out what parts of works they were allowed to use, and licensors couldn't figure out how to coney that. It's been "retired."

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/sampling+/1.0/

So maybe Willingham should create his own bespoke license for Fables. That may be what he has to do, in fact. But boy is that a fraught business. Remember the army of top-notch lawyers who created the CC licenses? They missed a crucial bug in the first three versions of the license, and billions of works have been licensed under those earlier versions. This has enabled a mob of crooked copyleft trolls (like Pixsy) to prey on the unwary, raking in a fortune:

https://doctorow.medium.com/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator-5f6360713299

Making a bug-free license is hard. A failure on Willingham's part to correctly enumerate or convey the limitations of such a license – to list which parts of Fables DC might sue you for using – could result in downstream users having their hard work censored out of existence by legal threats. Indeed, that's the best case scenario – defects in a license could result in downstream users, their collaborators, investors, and distributors being sued for millions of dollars, costing them everything they have, up to and including their homes.

Which isn't to say that this is dead on arrival – far from it! Just that there is work to be done. I can't speak for Creative Commons (it's been more than 20 years since I was their EU Director), but I'm positive that there are copyfighting lawyers out there who'd love to work on a project like this.

I think Willingham is onto something here. After all, Fables is built on the public domain. As Willingham writes in his release: "The current laws are a mishmash of unethical backroom deals to keep trademarks and copyrights in the hands of large corporations, who can largely afford to buy the outcomes they want."

Willingham describes how his participation in the entertainment industry has made him more skeptical of IP, not less. He proposes capping copyright at 20 years, with a single, 10-year extension for works that are sold onto third parties. This would be pretty good industrial policy – almost no works are commercially viable after just 14 years:

https://rufuspollock.com/papers/optimal_copyright.pdf

But there are massive structural barriers to realizing such a policy, the biggest being that the US had tied its own hands by insisting that long copyright terms be required in the trade deals it imposed on other countries, thereby binding itself to these farcically long copyright terms.

But there is another policy lever American creators can and should yank on to partially resolve this: Termination. The 1976 Copyright Act established the right for any creator to "terminate" the "transfer" of any copyrighted work after 30 years, by filing papers with the Copyright Office. This process is unduly onerous, and the Authors Alliance (where I'm a volunteer advisor) has created a tool to simplify it:

https://www.authorsalliance.org/resources/rights-reversion-portal/

Termination is deliberately obscure, but it's incredibly powerful. The copyright scholar Rebecca Giblin has studied this extensively, helping to produce the most complete report on how termination has been used by creators of all types:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/04/avoidance-is-evasion/#reverted

Writers, musicians and other artists have used termination to unilaterally cancel the crummy deals they had crammed down their throats 30 years ago and either re-sell their works on better terms or make them available directly to the public. Every George Clinton song, every Sweet Valley High novel, and the early works of Steven King have all be terminated and returned to their creators.

Copyright termination should and could be improved. Giblin and I wrote a whole-ass book about this and related subjects, Chokepoint Capitalism, which not only details the scams that writers like Willingham are subject to, but also devotes fully half its length to presenting detailed, technical, shovel-ready proposals for making life better for creators:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Willingham is doing something important here. Larger and larger entertainment firms offer shabbier and shabbier treatment to creative workers, as striking members of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA can attest. Over the past year, I've seen a sharp increase in the presence of absolutely unconscionable clauses in the contracts I'm offered by publishers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/27/reps-and-warranties/#i-agree

I'm six months into negotiating a contract for a 300 word piece I wrote for a magazine I started contributing to in 1992. At issue is that they insist that I assign film rights and patent rights from my work as a condition of publication. Needless to say, there are no patentable inventions nor film ideas in this article, but they refuse to vary the contract, to the obvious chagrin of the editor who commissioned me.

Why won't they grant a variance? Why, they are so large – the magazine is part of a global conglomerate – that it would be impractical for them to track exceptions to this completely fucking batshit clause. In other words: we can't strike this batshit clause because we decided that from now on, all out contracts will have batshit clauses.

The performance of administrative competence – and the tactical deployment of administrative chaos – among giant entertainment companies is grotesque, but every now and again, it backfires.

That's what's happening at Marvel right now. The estates of Marvel founder Stan Lee and its seminal creator Steve Ditko are suing Marvel to terminate the transfer of both creators' characters to Marvel. If they succeed, Marvel will lose most of its most profitable characters, including Iron Man:

https://www.reuters.com/legal/marvel-artists-estate-ask-pre-trial-wins-superhero-copyright-fight-2023-05-22/

They're following in the trail of the Jack Kirby estate, whom Marvel paid millions to rather than taking their chances with the Supreme Court.

Marvel was always an administrative mess, repeatedly going bankrupt. Its deals with its creators were indifferently papered over, and then Marvel lost a lot of the paperwork. I'd bet anything that many of the key documents Disney (Marvel's owner) needs to prevail over Lee and Ditko are either unlocatable or destroyed – or never existed in the first place.

A more muscular termination right – say, one that kicks in after 20 years, and is automatic – would turn circuses like Marvel-Lee/Ditko into real class struggles. Rather than having the heirs of creators reaping the benefit of termination, we could make termination into a system for getting creators themselves paid.

In the meantime, there's Willingham's "absolute table-flip badassery."

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/15/fairy-use-tales/#sampling-license

Image: Tom Mrazek (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:An_Open_Field_%2827220830251%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

Penguin Random House (modified) https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/707161/fables-20th-anniversary-box-set-by-bill-willingham/

Fair use https://www.eff.org/issues/intellectual-property

#pluralistic #fables #comics #graphic novels #dc #warner #monopoly #publishing #chokepoint capitalism #poison pills #ip #bill willingham #public domain #copyright #copyfight #creative commons #licenses #copyleft trolls

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inuhalfdemon · 4 months

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Dirty Dealings (3/21)

Word Count: 1,962

Chapter 3: The Gossip

“But, I…” He swept a hand dramatically to rest on his chest. “Got my very first ‘crossroads demon’ moment.” He chuckled wickedly. - Alastor

Years passed and Addie LaRue continued to navigate her new-found life and its many challenges. Every year - to the day – on each and every June 25th, Alastor would visit her; wishing her yet another happy anniversary. He would offer her to close their deal; to give her rest from her miserable loneliness and collect her soul for his own. When she refused, he departed but not before offering her a gift; sometimes it was as simple as a new book to read or as meaningful as a pair of new shoes or clothes to wear. Addie hadn’t decided if this was something she came to appreciate from him or despise. Regardless, she persevered, determined to find her way in a world that was made to dismiss her completely.

______________________________________________________________

Despite having been busy with reaping souls on earth, Alastor still found time to enjoy a leisurely moment in Hell every now and then. He had grown rather fond of lunching or having tea with Rosie in Cannibal Town. He made it a point to stop in and share in a bit of gossip amongst her and some of the ladies there whenever he could.

It was a typical, hot and humid day there within the Pride Ring; no promise of acid rain or anything of the like. Alastor sipped happily at a cup of tea whilst Rosie and two of her cannibal-lady friends discussed the goings-on of the current reaping.

“…it’s put on by all of the Seven Deadly Sins, you know.” Rosie was explaining to the two women. “Every 10 years, eligible demons, sinners and Overlords are drawn and allowed to go to earth and reap as many souls as they can claim until the start of the next reaping. Of course, time works differently on earth. 10 years here, means 100 years there. Plenty of time to settle and collect from deals made.” Rosie paused to reach for one of the pinky fingers that was piled neatly on a small tray at the table they were all sitting. “Alastor here, is one of the Overlord demons participating in the current reaping!” She exclaimed excitedly. “And I’d say he’s already making a splash of things, what with having already passed the required quota by a landslide. He’s at the top of the collectors list, in fact!” She beamed back at him.

“Rosie,” Alastor smiled back at her, setting his tea cup down. “You flatter me. Why, from what I hear, I could learn a thing or two from you in the collecting of souls.”

Rosie blushed. “Yes, well….it’s been ages since I’ve participated. I’m much too busy keeping up with the souls I already have in contract.”

“WHERE’S ROSIE!?” A loud, grating voice cawed from nearby.

Alastor and the ladies all looked to see an ancient, cannibalistic woman shuffling right for them.

“Oh, dear…” Rosie sighed quietly before standing to meet the woman.

“Susan, dear. It’s good to see you.” Rosie greeted her warmly. “I hope you are having a lovely afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

“A lovely afternoon, my foot.” Susan said sharply. “Do you know that slut Linda went and got herself eviscerated by the hell hound that guards the butcher shop on 17th? What a dumb cunt.”

Alastor and the two ladies still seated at the table starred at the elderly woman, not saying anything.

Rosie touched Susan’s shoulder. “Now, Susan. I’m sure Linda did nothing to warrant the attack. Hell hounds are unpredictable at the best of times and that particular one is…well…I don’t think that necessarily makes Linda a…um…slut?”

“No.” Susan took a deep drag from the cigarette she was holding. “She was definitely a skank.” She finished, puffing out a large cloud of smoke.

Rosie blinked at her, unsure of what to say next when she remembered her friends.

“Susan, I would very much like to introduce you to a good friend of mine!” She changed the subject and brought the old lady toward the table with her.

Alastor quickly got up from his chair to greet the woman with his best smile. Any friend of Rosie’s deserved his utmost manners.

“Susan, you know all about the radio demon…” Rosie started.

“Ugh!” Susan groaned disgustedly. “Don’t get me started with that load of hog-wash….what a sorry excuse for a radio station, am I right? Maybe if it were just the screams but then we’ve got to listen to a wannabe Overlord and his fake, noisy, crackling static-filled voice. And, how unoriginal!? Is that mediocre broadcast actually supposed to be scary!? I tell you, Rosie, Hell was better in the old days. I’d eat my own ears off if it meant not having to listen to that racket ever again.”

Everyone was deadly quiet.

Um…”Rosie began, rather awkwardly. “This is him, Susan.” She gestured weakly to Alastor.

“Alastor…meet Susan.” Rosie finished.

His smile stayed in place, but his body was straight as a rod as he assessed the infuriating old broad before him.

“….charmed.” His normally filtered voice had dropped it’s static; whether or not that was something intentional on his part, Rosie couldn’t guess.”

There was an awkward pause, in where nobody moved for several seconds.

Then, Susan took another long drag from her cigarette, slowly blowing the smoke out to the side of her mouth.

“Your broadcast sucks.” She told him sharply.

“OK!” Rosie said, quickly leading Susan away from the table. “Trudy? Jane? Would you both be dears and treat Susan to a lively round of Pinochle!? I’m sure you both could give her a real run for her money! What do you say!?”

The two ladies slid from their seats, and circumventing Alastor safely while remaining close enough not to appear rude, they took Susan with them as they departed.

Rosie sighed heavily as the women gathered up Susan and hurriedly left with her.

“I apologize,” Rosie started to say to Alastor. “Susan, can be-“

“BRING CECIL PALMER BACK!!!” Susan’s voice could be heard yelling away from them.

Rosie stood with Alastor, not saying anything anymore. He was perfectly, frighteningly still, a smile still plastered across his face.

One of his ears twitched slightly, then he asked her, “Is that one contracted?”

“I’m afraid so.” She told him.

“Well, that’s…disappointing.” He commented cooly, going back to take his seat.

Rosie breathed a small sigh of relief, before returning to her chair as well.

Alastor straightened the lapel of his suit jacket pointedly. “You know…it’s not like I can’t take criticism. I have bettered the quality of the screams I play a fair bit from my original broadcast, and the voice…is it still too static-y?”

“Oh, Alastor!” Rosie chided. “Don’t give it a thought. Susan’s a nightmare to everyone, even in Hell. Now, enough of that. I want to know more about your earthly exploits! Come on now, you must have some interesting prospects!”

“Rosie, you know I respect the privacy of my clients.” Alastor teased her.

“Oh, but I am terribly curious…”

“Well,” He sipped his tea. “I did manage to track down a handful of serial killers; you do know how I am partial to their ilk. I find their line of work quite rewarding…when done tastefully, of course.”

“Oh, how exciting.” Rosie giggled. “Anyone that may be of interest to me?”

Alastor sighed. “I’m afraid not. Cannibals are a lot less common these days, it would seem.” Flashing his ever-present smile at her, he added, “No reason I can’t do a little digging though, see if I can turn up any leads. Just for you, my dear.”

“Oh, you are too kind.” Rosie beamed.

“Oh, yes!” Alastor straightened, excitedly. “I almost forgot!”

With a sweep, he stood up from his seat and produced his microphone staff. Spinning it about with ease, he created a small portal. Reaching into it, he pulled out a clump of something. He stopped the cane and the portal disappeared. The something he had collected started to move and one, large bright eye opened up surrounded by a row of razor-sharp teeth.

“This little amusing treat is, Niffty!” He proudly exclaimed, sitting back down. “I collected her on my last outing!”

“Hi! Hi! Hey! Hello!” Niffty sputtered, jumping onto little legs to dart around the legs of the table and chairs.

“Why, hello, dear.” Rosie welcomed. “My, you are a quick thing.” She commented, watching as Niffty darted to and fro all about the town square.

“Is her name really ‘Niffty’?” Rosie asked, her large black eyes trying to keep up with the little creature’s movements.

“I have no idea.” Alastor admitted. “I call her ‘Niffty’ because I think she’s quite nifty!” He laughed.

“Alastor!” Rosie chastised him. “She’s not a pet!”

Rosie watched as Niffty picked at a line of ants going across the sidewalk near the table. A raven flew down and hopped close, interested in what she was doing. Niffty arched her back and hissed at the raven like a cat, sending it quickly flying away.

“At least…I don’t think she is…”

Alastor chuckled. Clearly enjoying his new addition.

He and Rosie sipped at their tea some more, enjoying the afternoon quietly together. Not much longer, and he would be on his way. He played his fingers along the tables edge before saying, “There is one prospect I have that is rather interesting…”

“I knew it!” Rosie cried. “I knew you were holding out on me! What is it!? Something…political. Oh, I do love a good scandal!”

“Really, Rosie?” Alastor, smiling but still showing his disappointment. “Politics?”

“Hey, it’s a guilty pleasure…” She shrugged.

“No, nothing like that.” He told her. “But, I…” He swept a hand dramatically to rest on his chest.

“Got my very first ‘crossroads demon’ moment.” He chuckled wickedly.

“Uh…what?” Rosie asked, confused.

“A mundane human soul came to me to strike a deal. A young woman, in fact. Her aching heart yearned for freedom from the entrapment of the threat of impending death. She wanted more time to see and experience the world to its fullest, to have limitless possibility and cast aside her mortal coils.” He drawled, snickering. “Oh, I gave it to her too. With a cleverly placed clause of my own, of course.”

Rosie starred at him, unsmiling. He was still chuckling to himself over his own antics, he didn’t notice.

“You’re joking, right?” She asked him, serious.

His chuckling subsided, noticing her stark lack of humor.

“Tell me, you’re joking, Alastor.” Rosie said. “You did not make a deal with a human soul that involved the lengthening of their lifespan.”

Alastor straightened, defensive now.

“What’s the big deal?” He asked. “She’s…human. She’ll grow tired of it soon enough; if she doesn’t go mad and-“ He pointed a finger, stopping Rosie from interrupting. “I added quite a nasty catch to the deal that makes it so she can never be remembered. By anyone. She’s left to wander the rest of her days utterly and completely alone. She’ll fold.” He smirked.

“I don’t know…” Rosie began, “That might work…”

He was becoming agitated.

“I’m not trying to…undermine you.” Rosie carefully explained. “It’s just…for a human to live a life beyond what is allotted, that takes power to do, Alastor. Power that will be directly coming from you. And, a pure soul…that’s something very different from making deals with sinners or demons.”

He was smiling, but he wasn’t happy.

“Look,” Rosie said, backing off. “I’m sure you’ve got it all under control. You are a powerful Overlord, you’ve got plenty of power to work with that’s for sure. And, I’ll admit…it is a very tempting prospect, it could turn into being a very profitable investment to you.”

He started to relax, his smile coming back as more genuine now.

“Oh.” He said. “I think this deal will be very rewarding.”

_____________________________________________________________

Chapter 4

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gintrinsic-writing · 2 years

Text

Legend Meets (And Flees From) The Gang

—

Ravio looked up with a start when the shop door opened then slammed shut, shoving his hood back before it could fall into his eyes. Link stood with his back to the door, arms stretched to either side as if he was prepared to physically bar it. His chest heaved, and his cheeks were flushed from exertion. The welcome bell above him chimed merrily as it swayed side to side. “Uh, what’s up?” Ravio asked.

Link twitched. The light in his eyes wasn’t a far cry from wild. He looked like the hounds of hell were after him. And knowing his past, maybe they were. “They’re on to me,” he hissed.

“Who?”

Link shushed him, waving one hand frantically. “Keep your voice down,” he said, crouching low as he hurriedly wedged a chair against the front door.

Ravio was quick to grasp the urgency of the situation. He sprinted to the nearest window and pulled the curtains closed. “Tax collectors?” he whispered.

“Worse.” Link lifted a loose floorboard to reveal a stashed go-bag.

“Worse?” Ravio despaired. He reached for another curtain. “Worse than tax collectors? Oh Goddesses, loan sharks? It’s not that mushroom dealer is it? Because I swear I didn’t steal—”

Someone knocked on the door. Loudly.

“Motherfuckers!” Legend hissed. He gripped Ravio by the shoulders. Ravio wished he could call the situation romantic. “I’m going to sneak out the back. Buy me as much time as you can. I was never here!”

“Wh-what? You’re leaving me? To face what?”

Link visibly shuddered, and Ravio braced himself for the worst. “Heroes,” he said, with all the grimness of a guillotine dropping.

There was another loud knock, followed by the ominous (and very wry-sounding) words: “We know you’re in there.”

Ravio pulled Link behind the counter and toward the back hallway. “Heroes?” he questioned in a whisper. “What do you mean?”

“Amateurs,” Link said. “Eight idiots who don’t even know how to dress the part. They were asking around town for me. Apparently they want to explore some kind of portal, I don’t know! But I’m not about to be dragged into another shitstorm. Farore’s already got me by the balls, I’m not about to lose my head because a bunch of wannabes—“

The door rattled. Thankfully, the chair held, though Ravio suspected it wouldn’t for long. Link’s ears stuck straight up, like a rabbit in the shadow of a predator. He swallowed, tearing his gaze away from the door as though it left him defenseless. “Please, Rav.”

Ravio wrung his hands together nervously, but he nodded. “Sure, okay. But you owe me.”

Before Ravio could even register what was happening, Link planted a quick kiss on his lips. “Thanks, you’re the best. Sometimes.” He darted toward the door, leaving Ravio to splutter and blush.

“Th-that’s not enough of a payment!” he lied, ignoring the way his heart fluttered. Stupid heroes and their stupid charms. This favor was worth at least five hundred rupees. No, one thousand!

Link grinned over his shoulder, too smug for his own good. “Add it to my tab,” he said, throwing his bag over his shoulder. He opened the door, shouldering his way through immediately—

And ran straight into a tall warrior with messy brown hair and a fur hood.

“Howdy,” the stranger, who didn’t even budge, said.

“Fuck,” Link answered.

“Facial tattoos?” Ravio cried.

They were in trouble.

#this fic brought to you between sets at the gym #we got airport and gym and bonfire short fics #what’s next #lol poor legend #sucks to suck #lu fic #linked universe #lu legend #lu ravio #linkeduniverse #gintrinsic writing #legend/ravio

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genocidalfetus · 1 year

Text

Wicked Game

Wrote this because the sad from losing my cat had to be turned into something else. It's a lead-in to my Post-Sun-Ending fic I'll be posting once it's complete. I'll also be posting this to ao3 at some point but figured I'd let y'all read it first.

Kerry didn't even want to go to the party at Bess' place. A strange thing, considering Kerry's profession and his normal need to be social, to mingle. Or maybe that was his 'old normal'. These days, Kerry was more content with staying at home, either writing more music or laying down new tracks for the album. Or just sitting on the couch watching some shitty sitcom, wishing the empty spot next to him wasn't so damn empty.

Kerry put on his favorite vest, then checked himself out in the mirror. His eyeliner was on point, his hair flawlessly styled as usual. He sighed and shook his head though.

"Why am I doing this again?" He asked himself out loud.

He could almost hear Vince's reply.

Because you know as well as I do that moping here ain't gonna do you any good, Vince would have told him, if he were there and not somewhere in space.

"But going to a party and getting loaded is gonna do me good?"

He once again could imagine how Vince would reply to such a question. The two of them so close, so in-tune with one another.

You know you ain't gonna get loaded. You probably won't even stay that long. But you need a distraction. So go, enjoy yourself. Don't shut yourself off from people again, Ker. Don't need you regressing back to the state of mind I found you in. You've come so far. I'll be home before you miss me.

Kerry sighed and rolled his eyes, smirking at himself in the mirror. "Fine. I'll go. For you. K?"

The party was pretty low-key. A bunch of Bess' journalist friends, but Denny was there too, as were some other musicians. Kerry found himself mingling among his fellow music makers, as he found most journalists to be boring and he was suspicious of their intentions when talking to him. The musicians hung out in the living room, on the leather couch. Kerry talked shop with them and gave a little insight into his latest album, but mostly he listened. Or at least tried to. Found his mind wandering here and there. And it always wandered to the same place. The same man, the one who was billions of miles away, up in orbit about to do something for some shady guy who may not even be trustworthy, to begin with. Fuck.

An elbow in his rib from Denny brought Kerry away from his thoughts and back to the party. She motioned him to look ahead with her neck. He saw Bess standing there with a guitar in her hands. It was an acoustic guitar and one that Kerry remembered all too well. One of his old ones from back in Samurai's earlier days. He never played with it on the stage, but he used it for writing songs here and there. He recalled selling it to some collector a few years after they got bigger. Bess handed it off to him. "Look familiar?" Bess mused with a smirk.

Kerry was wearing a grin as he looked the instrument over, turning it about in his hands. He looked up at Bess. "Where'd you find this relic?" He asked.

Bess shrugged. "Some collector died and it was among his things at an estate sale. Figured I'd bring it back to its original owner."

Kerry raised an eyebrow. "For real?"

She nodded. "This relic helped you get to where you are today. Deserves to be displayed with your other axes, don't you think?"

Kerry positioned the guitar on his lap. He gave it a strum, frowned, and then tuned the strings individually, his hearing cyberware helping tremendously. The guitar was now perfectly tuned. Kerry looked around at the musicians with a smirk. "Any requests?"

"Still remember Wicked Game?" Bess piped up.

Kerry chuckled and rolled his eyes. He learned how to play that song for Bess back when she went by Nance, after she hounded him for a whole month to do it. She tried to get Johnny to do it, but he was far more stubborn than Kerry and she knew it. Why she loved that song so much, Kerry would never know, but Bess had some very odd taste in music. He thought for a moment, then reached over to the coffee table and picked up the drink he'd been nursing, finishing it off with a big gulp, wincing as the whiskey warmed his throat up good. He put his fingers on the frets, then started strumming, the intro to Chris Isaak's song echoing off the walls, causing lingering conversations to pause. And Kerry now realized that he had an audience, and he smiled and started to croon the lyrics.

World was on fire and no one could save me but you. Strange what desire can make foolish people do….

And Kerry began to see flames dancing all around them and he was back in Kovachek's yacht. Vince was in front of him, legs spread as he sat up on the top of one of the couches. Kerry standing on top of the couch, fucking him, his hand on the back of Vince's neck. The other man's expression that of elation, desire before a playful slap stung Kerry's face.

And I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you, and I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you…

Seeing Vince for the first time, in control of his body. Kerry recalled the kid's eyes. When Johnny had been in control, Vince's eyes were dull and darker. When he woke up after collapsing on the floor, his eyes were bright and young, the emerald green emitting a friendlier aura within them. Those emerald eyes showing confidence but a little sadness when Kerry looked into them before Vince got into the Del cab and went off to do what he needed to do.

And I don't wanna fall in love….And I don't wanna fall in love….with you…

Too fucking late for that, Kerry thought as he played. He was in love. And he was worried about Vince, even though he knew Vince was resourceful and smart and tough as all hell. He kept strumming and then went into the next verse.

What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…

His drive home from the Samurai concert, thinking about Vince and how he might have done the wrong thing just leaving him there like that. Their first official coffee date, where they talked until closing at Caliente's. Kerry realizing that these feelings were not going away anytime soon. Going for the kiss at his place after breaking the kid's nose. An emotional mess began to stir within Kerry. He was feeling everything. Happiness at being able to move on from Johnny, but the bitterness of knowing Vince was still sick, and he wasn't within reach, and the fear of him not coming back at all due to some unforseen circumstances. His throat felt like it was getting smaller, but his hands never faltered on the instrument and he didn't miss a note. As he sang, his voice became louder, more full of emotion.

What a wicked thing to say, you never felt that way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…

Sitting with Vince after their first time together, after Vince's first time with anyone. Hands interlaced, Vince's head on his shoulder. Then and there, Kerry knew he had found someone worth staying around for and someone who was different, someone who just made him want to do better and be better. Kerry's voice got a little softer as he sang the chorus. He could feel so many eyes on him and as much as he loved performing, he almost wished they would stop paying attention to him. And yet, the show must go on and so it did. He repeated the first verse again, feeling his throat becoming more restricted but that only made him sing with more ferocity. He needed to finish the song, to conclude the performance, even if his heart was feeling heavier by the second. All he wanted was for Vince to be home again, back in his arms again. Safe and unharmed. His fingers were aching from pressing on the strings so hard, but he kept playing. Then he felt the tingling sensation before tears start to form in your eyes. He was at the end of the song.

Nobody. Loves No one.

The journalists and the musicians all clapped as the final notes of the guitar echoed through the living room. Kerry nodded, feeling the tears begin to climb into his eyes. He handed the guitar off to Denny and excused himself from the couch. He walked quickly and found the sliding door that led to the balcony, pulled it open, and stepped outside. The air outdoors was no better than the air inside, but it was less constricting. He took a breath and approached the railing, leaning against his elbows as he looked up at the stars, his eyesight briefly blurred by tears that he blinked away and freed. They slithered down his cheeks. His heart felt like it was about to drop from his body, feeling heavier than the densest material known to man. He was really missing Vince this evening. He lowered his head and heard the sliding door open and then close, a pair of soft footsteps coming towards him. Bess settled next to him. She looked up at the stars.

"You miss him don't you," Bess asked, then looked over at Kerry. "That merc of yours?"

Kerry nodded, fresh tears falling down his face. He sniffled. "He ain't been gone that long and yet it feels like it's been a month. Pretty fucking pathetic, right? An old man like me pining for his younger mainline like this?"

Bess lit up a cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. "Well, at least you're no longer holding a candle for some gonk who was never going to return your feelings. Thought you would never get over Johnny. I'm glad you have, and I'm glad you found someone who's just as crazy about you as you are about him."

Kerry sighed as he wiped his face on his forearm. "Just want him back home. Been trying to keep busy, but during those times when there's a lul…sucks. Badly."

Bess sighed and nodded as she rubbed her shoulder against Kerry's. "V will be fine. He's one of the best mercs in all of Night City. At least that's what I've been told by countless people as of late."

"He's Night City's bad boy," Kerry mused with a smirk. "And he's all mine."

"Come on back to the party."

Kerry yawned and shook his head. "Actually, think I'll delta. Kind of feeling wiped out."

Bess smirked. "You really have gotten old, haven't ya?"

"Fuck off Bess," Kerry growled, but then laughed. "Can still keep up with the twenty-somethings in this city."

Bess shook her head, but gave Kerry a hug and a kiss on his cheek before returning to the party. Kerry lingered for a moment longer on the balcony. He took another glance up at the sky and smiled. Vince always told him that star-gazing was something they ought to do more often together. Perhaps once he gets home, they will. The stars were more visible at Kerry's villa, which would mean weekend trips back there. And maybe, just maybe, Kerry would endure the badlands for a whole weekend. Fuck, he definitely would if Vince asked.

Kerry left the party quietly grabbing his re-acquired guitar, and drove home. He got into the big and quiet penthouse and placed his acoustic guitar in the studio, then stripped down and got into the shower. He just stood there, under the hot steamy water, letting his mind wander. He really despised showering alone, especially now. He sighed with annoyance at his predicament and washed, then turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the rack, drying himself off and getting into bed naked, the blanket on top of his lower body. He closed his eyes, but sleep did not claim him. He rolled onto his side and tried again with diminishing results. The other side was less successful. Kerry balled his hands into fists and slammed them on the mattress, growling in frustration. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, checking the time. Three in the morning. Fuck. He sadly grinned at the lock screen on his phone. Vince, giving him a smirk and laying on his stomach on their bed, very much naked. One of the many sexy pics Kerry had of him that he rotated for his lock screen every couple of weeks. He unlocked his phone and pressed the icon for Vince's phone and waited. It rang. And rang. And rang again. Kerry's heart lurched as it went to voicemail. But he decided he needed to get things off his chest, so he started talking.

"Hey Vince," He said, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's three in the goddamn morning and I can't sleep so thought I'd…thought I'd give you a call, even if I have to ramble to your fuckin voicemail."

Kerry could feel the emotional lump in his throat begining to rise. He sighed and tried to swallow it down. "I know you said you'd be home before I could miss you," Kerry uttered a weak chuckle. "Well, I think you failed in your mission cuz…Fuck…Babe, this is hard as shit right now…I can't--"

He stopped himself for a moment as his voice began to tremble and large tears fell down his face. He wiped them away and cleared his throat.

"Just…just get back here in one piece..please," Kerry begged as a few sobs slipped out of his throat. "I…I love you…Never forget that…fuck…I'm gonna hang up now. I love you Vince."

With a shaking hand, Kerry ended the call. And wept.

#fanfic #fanfic writing #cyberpunk 2077 #kerry eurodyne #a little angst for the readers

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claggorstuff · 5 months

Note

‐ 🦝

claggor x male!reader (CLAGGORS POV)

claggor meets reader at benzo's shop one day, he falls hard and fast over this one interaction

Sir yes sir!!!

Claggor meets big booty babe man at benzos or whatvs 🔥

It was gloomy as always, hell maybe even more than usual, vander asked me to pick up this months collection from benzo so I guess I kinda had to.. the walk over was miserable, the air was thick and foggy, I had to use my goggles to see through the cloud of smoke and sut, I wandered until I saw the sign, "benzos", swinging back and forth in the winds on this particular day, in the shop through the tinted windows I could see benzo and his usual collector, and what seemed to be another person, a real tall guy, I couldnt see his face yet, but shit I could tell he was intimidating. I opened the door and all of them looked at me

"Ahhh claggah'! I knew youd be round ere' soon enough!" Benzo yelled my way excitedly

"Yeah yeah.. I-.." soon the boy I saw through the windows face was clearer, ebony hair and caramel skin, with dark eyes, a masterpiece of a man, I couldnt help but have my jaw drop

"I-I was just.. here to collect for vander n stuff.." the boy noticed my gaze and chuckled walking over to me

"Hey.. so youre the hound of the undergrounds oldest pup huh?" He smirked, staring into my eyes

"Oh err.. yeah.. yeah I guess I am." It was hard to speak, red tint littered across my face, lump in my throat and averting his gaze, I tried making eye contact but it was too hard.

"Nice, I'm y/n. My dads here to drop off his collections but uh.. yknow. I just stand around waiting."

"Yeah yeah your dads uh... a nice guy!"

"So is yours from what I hear!" He chuckled and tilted his head, "you seem cool enough, why dont we err.. hang out. After this. Or some other time yknow."

"Yeah yeah uh- damn right now aint good for me, I gotta get the stuff for vander.." In my head I was cursing the gods for that stupid task, wishing I couldve taken up the offer.

"Alright then, nice seeing you anyways.. claggor." He shook my hand and I yelped not expecting it, going to benzo collecting this months offer, I stumbled out, cursing and scowling at myself, but after I couldnt help but smile, which when i got home, vander noticed.

"Meet a girl on yer way there eh'?"

"Uhh nah.. a.. guy."

"Oh." He smiled "Whatd he look like?"

"Dark hair.. kinda dark skin.. dark eyes.. all that.. heh uh.. i guess his clothes were white and grey.. blue bracelet.. runic symbols on a pendant.. Real. Real. Cute.."

"Ahh.. so. What youre sayin is you like em?"

"O-Oh well I..!"

"Im just messin around with ya.. go on now. Get downstairs." He took the bag chuckling, I stepped down the stairs unable to stop thinking of the boy I saw, as I sat I thought and thought, it was impossible to get him out of my head, all I could do was chuckle to myself.. I cant wait to see him again.

#arcane #claggor #arcane claggor #claggor arcane #fanfic #x reader #claggor x reader

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colleenmurphy · 1 year

Text

Full Name: Ronan Daithí Devine

DOB: May 1

Star sign: Taurus sun II Libra Moon II Leo Rising

Parents: Lydia Keene-Devine & Connor Devine

Siblings : Ian James Devine ( younger by a year )

Occupation: He's had many odd jobs over the course of his life. The first being a rare book buyer for a collector out of New York. The second as an Elvis tribute artist ( please kindly don't call him an impersonator ) and the third as the owner of a small second hand music shop that allows him to be the front man for a band that plays a hodge podge of music at various festivals and the occasional job at the Cross Keys pub on the weekend.

Herb: Passionflower

Myers Brigg: INFP

Favorite song (s) - He doesn't really have a favorite artist/song. Only songs that remind him of his favorite people.

Van Morrison's Moondance and Tupelo Honey will always remind him of his Colly.

Let It Be is the song his mother used as a lullaby when he was a child. Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World and

Morrison's These Are The Days will always remind of his son Lorcan.

Here Comes The Sun will always remind him of his wife's best friend Helene.

Hound Dog is an instant thought of his brother Ian and

Queen's We Will Rock You is Helene's husband Joey to a tee in Ronan's mind.

Favorite Scent: A forest after a rainstorm and the scent of the ocean.

Pet: The Devine family has one dog, a mutt found behind the Cross Keys late one night after closing. They dubbed him Magner after Ronan's favorite cider.

Embarrassing moment:

- The night he met Colleen he was so tongue tied he could barely form a coherent sentence. Back then next to no one had heard of Devine Intervention unless they were familiar with the festival circuit so when she mentioned that she had hoped that they would play as well as they had had when she'd seen them the last time he was floored. He finally found his voice and felt so self consciously creepy that Colleen just waved it off and gave him her number anyway along with a comped set of meals for the band and half price drinks.

Tidbits:

- The song This Time was written with Colleen in mind after she and Ronan moved in together.

- At one time before Lorcan was born Ronan's brother, Ian and his band mates Cage and Angus took turns sleeping in the guest room and the couch in the living room because they couldn't afford a proper flat of their own. Colleen had no objections until their weekly shopping bill increased to three times as much as they normally spent thanks to Angus's huge appetite ( may have also had to do with the fact that she came home early to find Ian was 'entertaining' in the master bedroom.) After that only the Cage stayed on, quietly keeping to himself and contributing anything he could towards food and the water bill. He still occasionally baby sits for Ro and Col if Helene and Joey are busy though other than that he's content to live he bachelor's life and work his way towards becoming a licensed tattoo artist.

- He proposed to Colleen on the fifth anniversary of the evening that they met. He had asked permission from both Col's mother and the man she considered a second father, Harvey Starling. They were married quite quickly only two months later at the Dublin registrar's office with only their mothers, Joey, Helene, and Harvey Starling in attendance.

- Has a small rose tattooed over his heart as they're Col's favorite flower.

- One of his favorite dishes is Marmite chicken.

- Was a history major in college.

0 notes

meghchowdhury · 1 year

Text

big teddy bear price in bd

3 Feet teddy bear is a stuffed toy in the form of a bear. Developed apparently simultaneously by toymakers Morris Michtom in the U.S. and Richard Steiff under his aunt Margarete Steiff's company in Germany in the early 20th century, the teddy bear, named after President Theodore Roosevelt, became a popular children's toy and has been celebrated in story, song, and film.

Since the creation of the first teddy bears which sought to imitate the form of real bear cubs, "teddies" have greatly varied in form, style, color, and material. They have become collector's items, with older and rarer teddies appearing at public auctions. Teddy bears are among the most popular gifts for children and are often given to adults to signify affection, congratulations, or sympathy.

The name teddy bear comes from former United States President Theodore Roosevelt, who was often referred to as "Teddy" (though he loathed being referred to as such). The name originated from an incident on a bear hunting trip in Mississippi in November 1902, to which Roosevelt was invited by Mississippi Governor Andrew H. Longino. There were several other hunters competing, and most of them had already killed an animal. A suite of Roosevelt's attendants, led by Holt Collier, cornered, clubbed, and tied an American black bear to a willow tree after a long exhausting chase with hounds. They called Roosevelt to the site and suggested that he shoot it. He refused to shoot the bear himself, deeming this unsportsmanlike, but instructed that the bear be killed to put it out of its misery, and it became the topic of a political cartoon by Clifford Berryman in The Washington Post on November 16, 1902. While the initial cartoon of an adult black bear lassoed by a handler and a disgusted Roosevelt had symbolic overtones, later issues of that and other Berryman cartoons made the bear smaller and cuter.

Morris Michtom saw the Berryman drawing of Roosevelt and was inspired to create a teddy bear. He created a tiny soft bear cub and put it in his candy shop window at 404 Tompkins Avenue in Brooklyn with a sign "Teddy's bear." The toys were an immediate success and Michtom founded the Ideal Novelty and Toy Co.

A little earlier in 1902 in Germany, the Steiff firm produced a stuffed bear from Richard Steiff's designs. Steiff exhibited the toy at the Leipzig Toy Fair in March 1903, where it was seen by Hermann Berg, a buyer for George Borgfeldt & Company in New York (and the brother of composer Alban Berg). He ordered 3,000 to be sent to the United States. Although Steiff's records show that the bears were produced, they are not recorded as arriving in the U.S., and no example of the type, "55 PB", has ever been seen, leading to the story that the bears were shipwrecked. However, the shipwreck story is disputed – author Günther Pfeiffer notes that it was only recorded in 1953 and says it is more likely that the 55 PB was not sufficiently durable to survive until the present day. Although Steiff and Michtom were both making teddy bears at around the same time, neither would have known of the other's creation due to poor transatlantic communication.

North American educator Seymour Eaton wrote the children's book series The Roosevelt Bears, while composer John Walter Bratton wrote an instrumental "The Teddy Bears' Picnic", a "characteristic two-step", in 1907, which later had words written to it by lyricist Jimmy Kennedy in 1932.

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pluttskutt · 2 years

Text

Eddie "the freak" Munson never thought he'd find love. Outcast, a bit dramatic, nerd, and also not academilly inclined. There was always better than him to be found.

So when he found future Ms Munson (although that took some asking on his part) he thought he couldn't be happier. She didn't just accept his interests, she took part in them. She didn't hound him to take a job but kept pushing him, and the members of Corroded Coffin, encouraging them.

She painted. That's why she refused to move in with him. Her apartment was her studio. She couldn't part from it. When she struck a deal with a friend to illustrate children's book, the future Munson family found themselves with enough down payment for a home.

Small, but more than enough for the two. Corroded Coffin still didn't make as much as it cost, but Eddie worked at his uncle's shop to pull his weight and help with the bills.

Once she said yes, they married in the courthouse. Held a party with their friends and his uncle. Small, but meaningful. The Munson's track record on marriage (or anything really) wasn't great but Eddie never worried. Not with her.

She sold a big piece to a collector. Children with rich parents were suddenly a blessing. He still plays with his bands on smaller festivals, even going away from time to time.

He thought it'd be a nightmare but she made it worth it. Couldn't cook for shit but she baked the best cookies he'd ever had.

They bought a house. Nothing fancy, nothing big, but enough for the two of them and more. If they wanted. They hadn't talked about it. Children, Eddie still feared. His father hadn't been a great one. He'd never even met his grandfather.

Friends asked what they planned to do with that empty room in their house. So they talked about it. Many times. Never argued. She wasn't one to raise her voice, get mad, and he never did. Not with her.

When they're at the library for a book signing with her friend, they talk about it again. One child. Just the one. And she assured him time and time again that she would love their child. Their little Munson.

She had agreed to take his last name if she could name their child. He hadn't thought about the deal back then but came to realise he'd walked into a trap on that one.

She paints the room for their baby, just like she's painted many walls in their house. The pregnancy is hard; she's creating life after all. It goes fine though. He's there, and he helps, and he gets up in the night to buy a milkshake she no longer wants when he gets back because she just had some nuggets instead.

He's with her in the room, of course. Would never miss it. Would never not be there for her. He holds their baby, and she sees them, and she smiles because she can't believe how lucky she is, and then she closes her eyes.

Something went wrong. The nurse takes him outside, takes his baby, and asks him to wait outside.

He does get to hold his baby again, but not his wife. Doesn't fully listen to why. Doesn't understand why he's standing alone with a small life in his arms when they were supposed to be two. A team.

He drops out of the band. Works full time at the shop. It pains him, but he sells her paintings when he must to afford to live. Raises his voice when he sees crayon markings on the walls where she has painted.

When asked where mom is, he doesn't have an answer. So he writes. Contacts that old friend, the writer, for the first time since her passing. They write a book together. Life is different, but it goes on.

Steve's at the library for the first time in a while. Not an avid reader since, well, ever. But he recognizes the art on a cover that's similair to what had been his kid's favourite books to read at bedtime.

He rents the book and has never felt so seen. The emotions are raw, unfiltered, and the anger at the unfairness screams at him as it reflects his own emotions. It's been out for a while now and there's nothing new from the author but he returns to the library anyways to inquire about them.

They happen upon each other at the children's section, both looking at the same series that has been long since abandond. Steve asks if he knows anything about the artist and it's awkward because Eddie doesn't want to say she's dead, leaving him a widower, and when asked why he wants to know, Steve doesn't want to say that the series was his kid's favourite before he died.

#angst tw #della muses #della has ideas #they dance around it until steve meet's eddie's kid and asks about her mom and she just oh no she a mermaid now or a dragon #and eddie knows who steve is the moment he hears his surname because the car crash was all over the news #it's very much a play on the i have loved before so much that my heart aches for her still #their love is different and it doesn't diminish the love they once had for someone else but it's not a competition #long post #like super duper long ass post

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richricciardo · 2 years

Text

The Camera Of Tomorow

Fiction - Mystery - Thriller - Old Fashion

Ryan Perkins is a gentle and quiet thirty-one-year-old office worker who likes collecting antiques. He lives in New York City and is well acquainted with the antique shops there. However, this afternoon while walking to the convenience store, he looks down an alley. He notices an old-fashioned symbol of three gold balls hanging over a door signifying a pawnshop. He hadn’t seen that particular sign in years and, with caution and curiosity, enters the alley to have a look.

The alley is a narrow, dirty dead end with all the trash cans so packed that it looks as if they haven’t been emptied in a long time. Ryan startles a cat that yowls loudly at being disturbed. Then, careful of where he is stepping, he moves toward the recessed door and stops. A dim light shines through the grime on the door’s glass window, just enough to read the lettering, “Pawn and Loans-proprietor G.Schmit.” Try as he might, Ryan can’t see clearly enough through the grime to tell what is inside the store. He looks back toward the entrance, thinking of leaving, when he realizes that he has turned the doorknob and pushed the door open enough to cause a small bell above it to announce his arrival.

Stepping inside, Ryan makes a quick observation and concludes that this pawnshop is very old indeed. Four old fashion lights hang down from the tin embossed ceiling. The walls are painted a dark tan with rich deep walnut wainscoting halfway up. Ryan notices that all the display cabinets and counters are full of antiques, most extremely old and in excellent condition. He looks around the shop slack-jawed, wishing he had enough money to buy its entire contents, when he hears a voice with a slight German accent call.

“May I help you?”

Startled, Ryan turns and sees someone standing inside the broker’s cage that he hadn’t noticed before. Approaching the counter, Ryan sees that the broker is a small old grey-haired man wearing a green visor and arm garters while smoking a vintage Hubertu pipe. Ryan finds the smoke from the pipe intoxicating as he apologizes to the keeper, “I’m so sorry. Please accept my apologies. I didn’t see you standing there.” The broker merely slowly blinks his sad Bassett hound eyes and smiles slightly.

“I am so surprised to have discovered your shop!” Ryan exclaims excitedly. “I thought I knew every antique store in the city. Have you been here long?”

The little man takes a long pull on his pipe, causing it to crackle loudly. Then, as he exhales, he responds, “Since 1903.” Ryan is surprised by the date but now understands why there are so many antique items in the store.

“The alley out front used to be a throughway from Broadway to West 236th street until the city built dat large post office over there, cutting the street down to the dead-end alley it is today. Consequently, not many people know I’m here.” The pawnbroker returns his pipe to his mouth for another drag.

Ryan tells the pawnbroker that he is an antique collector and is quite impressed by the many exquisite items and jewelry he sees here.

“Ya,” he responds. We’ve been in business for a long time but have not traded in too much modern stuff. So please take your time and look around. If you see anything you are interested in, just ask, and I’ll do mine best to tell you about it.”

Ryan thanks him and begins looking around at the treasure trove before him. He studies the jewelry with so many items looking like they were made in the early nineteen hundreds. So many gems are huge diamonds set in what has to be fourteen karat gold. He browses among the steamer trunks, some with clothing still inside, and is amazed at the travel stickers because they looked as though they were just placed there yesterday. Ryan’s eyes grow large when he sees an old bellows-type camera on a shelf with other old Brownies. It reminds him of a late eighteen ninety-six Marion and Company camera. When he lifts it from the counter, he is amazed to discover that a thick metal box has been attached. Turning it over in his hands, he can’t see the manufacturer’s name and turns to the old man for help.

“Mr. Schmit, pardon me, but what can you tell me about this camera? Unfortunately, I don’t see a name or patent number on it.”

Schmit smiles from one corner of his mouth, his pipe hanging from the other.

“You have an excellent eye, mine friend, for dat is a very rare piece indeed. One of a kind, actually. It was invented by a man named Hollenberg in the late nineteen hundreds. The box on the bottom is supposed to develop the picture right on the spot. No need to take it to a photography studio.”

“You mean like a Polaroid?”

“Err, sure. And it worked too. The problem was that no one believed him. They all thought he was mad or dat the camera was some sort of trick camera like a magician would use, so no one was interested in it. Having spent his life savings building the camera, creating the right chemicals to develop the photo, and transferring it to the proper paper, he ended up penniless. He brought the camera to me, and I gave him one hundred dollars for it. It was the least I could do.”

Puzzled, Ryan asked, “Did you say you gave him one hundred dollars?”

Flustered, Schmit exclaimed, “What? Did I say dat? Oh no, no, no. It was mine grandfather who did dat. You’ll have to forgive me, you see. I’ve been here so long and know all the stories about every item dat it seems like I was the one to make the transaction, you see?”

Ryan nods in acknowledgment and asks, How much do you want for it?”

The old broker puffs on his pipe a few times while considering a price and finally replies, “Seeing as it is a rare one of a kind piece, I think twelve hundred dollars would be a fair price, ya?”

Ryan turns the camera around in his hands a few times and, glancing up, asks, “You say you have all the pieces that go with it and that it still works, yes?”

“Ya, ya it stills works.”

“Then I’ll take it!” exclaims Ryan and removes a credit card from his wallet. Upon seeing the piece of plastic, the broker seems confused and says he only takes cash or maybe a check if Ryan has one. Ryan just so happens to have his checkbook with him and writes out a check for Mr. Schmit. Schmit disappears into the back room and soon returns with all the accessories for the camera in a box.

“It has been a pleasure doing business with you, “er, “ Schmit stops to scan the check for Ryan’s name, “Mr. Perkins.”

“Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, Mr.Schmit, and I promise to be back soon to buy more!” Then, as Ryan opens the door to leave, Schmit calls out to him.

“I almost forgot to tell you that all sales are final. I hope you understand.” Ryan nods and leaves.

Schmit hears the bell above his door tinkle wildly as Perkins bursts in two days later.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Perkins, but I did say all sales are final, ya?”

“Yes, yes. But that’s not why I’m here! This camera, there’s something wrong with it.” Perkins pauses to catch his breath and puts the camera on the counter. “Mr. Schmit, every time I take a picture, the picture that develops is not the same one I’ve taken! For example, I took a picture of the apartment building across from me, which was fine, but the picture I got back showed it on fire! It clearly was not, for I was looking right at it. I then went downstairs and shot a picture of the intersection at the corner. The traffic was flowing smoothly, but the resulting photo showed a five-car accident with one dead body lying in the street!”

Schmit raises his hand to stop Perkins, “Dat was the problem Hollenberg was having trying to get buyers to believe him. He called it the camera of tomorrow because it only took pictures of things that hadn’t happened yet but would in the future. So that’s why no one would believe him or thought he was trying to hoodwink them for a fast buck.” Perkins’s color pales as he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and removes a photo to hand it to Schmit.

“Then, Mr. Schmit, can you kindly explain this?”

Schmit looks at the picture and says, “Hmm.” Then he walks to the front door and locks it. Upon returning, he tells Perkins that he had better sit down. Schmit goes behind the counter and comes back with a bent and creased photo, the same as Perkins but older. Both pictures show Ryan Perkins lying on the pawnshop floor with a bullet hole in his forehead and a pool of blood behind him.

Perkins cries out, “What does it mean!”

“I’ll tell you what it means. Back in nineteen o five, when I pawned the camera for Mr. Hollenberg, I took a picture of mine shop to see how it worked. What I got was this picture of you, Mr. Perkins. As I’ve already explained earlier, picture rendering always comes true. You just don’t know when. It could be in a couple of hours or days or even years.” Schmit’s demeanor changed from calm to rage in a manner of seconds.

“DAT MEANS I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO WALK THROUGH DAT DOOR FOR A HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN YEARS! I have been trapped in the time by the camera so it can complete its forecasted future event. You and I are going to end this hellish nightmare right now! Schmit points a small pistol at Perkins, who covers his face, sobbing.

Schmit has genuine compassion for Perins and explains that he tried to take his own life in the past and failed. He then placed the gun barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger three times, click, click, click. Then to prove his point, he fires a single shot into the pawnshop ceiling with a loud bang. Finally, as dust and dirt drift down, Schmit says through tears, “See? I don’t want to, but I have no choice. I am so sorry. You see, Mr. Perkins, it can’t be changed once the photograph is developed. It WON’T be changed! The course is set and will not be completed until everything is as in the picture.” Schmit points the gun at Ryan and pulls the trigger.

Perkins falls from the stool he is sitting on and lands on the black and white checked floor as a pool of blood forms around his head.

Almost immediately, the whole pawnshop starts to change and crumble, catching up to the present time.

A few weeks later, the convenience store owner phones the police to complain about a terrible stench that seems to be coming from the alleyway. Upon investigation, they discover in an old store the remains of Ryan Perkins, seemingly an apparent victim of a robbery gone wrong. One of the coroner’s assistants comments on how the old store looks as if it had been a pawnshop at one time and picks up a curious-looking camera.

“Hey, Charlie, look at this. I collect old cameras, but I’ve never seen one like this before. Do you think anyone would notice if I took it?

Charlie says, “Nay, but if it still works will you take my picture with it? I’d like to see how I would have looked in a tintype.” Both men laugh and place the camera on the stretcher along with Mr. Perkins.

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ask-the-clergy-bc · 4 years

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Anniversary Gift (Papa I x Reader)

Made something soft and simple for Opus today! :)

Papa I x GN Reader - unbeta’d! Please enjoy some soft!)

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Your beloved Papa was not hard to find after a ritual. His schedule was always like clockwork and rarely ever broken for anything. You personally knew that today he was due for paperwork and preparations for the newest ascension in the Papacy. One that he took with such decorum and grace it shocked even his younger brothers. But that was your Papa, always doing what was best for the clergy no matter how it might personally scathe him. That was why you, in turn, dedicated your being to him and the word of Lucifer. And Today was the perfect day to show your dedication.

After conducting his latest spine chilling mass, one you eagerly devoured every word of like a communion, you watched as he retreated from the pulpit. An excited grin on your face spread when you carefully picked your way out of the pews and past your fellow siblings. You nearly ripped the black gift bag in your hands from nerves alone! The only thing keeping you from trembling with nerves was caressing the blue ribbon streamers from the paper handles. The same ones you had spent an exasperating amount of time curling until they were uniform and perfect.

Waiting was the hard part, you knew. Sure, you stationed yourself out of his door but you knew Papa wasn’t alone. You memorized the routine. He would conduct his Sunday Unholy Mass, receive siblings, hobble back to his office, be hounded by various deacons and bishops for Lucifer knows what, then he would be left to his paperwork. Muffled voices reached your ears as you patiently waited against the wall, phone keeping you entertained for the moment. None of the clergymen even bothered to look at you twenty minutes later when the heavy oak door finally opened. You watched as they filed out. Some looking quite pleased and others sour faced like they just ate a whole lemon.

You gave Papa a few minutes to himself before politely knocking on the door. Granted, you could have just waltzed in, but you liked to respect him. You tip toed in and noticed the Anti-Pope wasn’t even bothering to look up. There was a scowl present on his face under his comically small reading glasses. A pen scratched furiously at the desk as his gravely voice rumbled out, not waiting for you to fully enter.

“The decision is final, Bishop- I will not speak of it again-”

“I’m no Bishop, but I’ll take the title if you want!”

Papa seemed more startled that it was you and immediately looked up. A small smile tugged at his painted lips as his eyes softened a fraction- the way they always did when you came to him. He tried to sit upright as much as his crooked back would allow and held out his hand.

“Beloved lamb,” he rasped pleasantly, “ What a beautiful sight for sore eyes.”

You eagerly shuffled over, taking his hand immediately as he pulled you to his side. You loved the way his eyes crinkled in adoration and how those endless depths looked at you. Papa suddenly looked down as your bag hit the side of his arm. The chance for him to ask what you were up to wasn’t even given as you plopped the bag in his unsuspecting lap. He chuckled low and rich and looked up at you.

“Is it my birthday already? How generous.” His dry humor never ceased to make you smile. But you shook your head and rubbed his arm.

“A birthday, you could say that! Not EXACTLY for you but just- just open!”

He raised a brow at you, mirth evident in his face. Perhaps he was getting too used to the small gifts you showered him with, as he took his time to undo the ribbons. It was practically torture for you to watch him be so meticulous and respectful of the decorations you hand prepared. You practically wanted to rip the paper bag open just so he could see what was finally inside! But you stayed your hands, instead tapping your foot in anticipation. Papa let out a surprised click of his tongue, one only a trained ear could hear if they knew the old man.

A sleek, black wrapped sleeve was produced- attached to it was a little card. Papa nodded and took the envelope, popping it open with practiced ease. You watched him read lightning fast as he looked up to you with the softest expression. The last time he looked at you like that was when you confessed your feelings, or the first time you made a special cake for his actual birthday.

“Beloved- has ten years passed so quickly?”

You grinned.

“Yes- but that’s not the best part!! Open!”

He chuckled again as you eagerly tapped the gift with your nail. He wasted no time in ripping open the black paper and you heard him give a soft inhale. You twitched your hands, hoping it was a good sound.

“This is-”

“It was from the first batch circulated… still sealed.”

Papa didn’t look up at you, he instead chose to gently stroke the sealed plastic over the logo. You watched him smile fondly down at the ‘Rise Above Records’ label. And you weren’t lying. You spent so many months searching and bargaining for this. It took you two months just to get the printing information, and then many more scouring record shops and dedicated private collectors. Quite frankly, you were beginning to lose hope of getting one in time. The only reason you got one collector to part with it was by getting Papa himself to sign a few items to send from the Clergy. (At the time you lied to him, saying they were for a huge fan giveaway. He’d never say no to his fans.)

You were torn out of your thoughts from the sound of his glasses chain being removed from his neck. Papa stood up and took your hand gently- his eyes gleaming in barely concealed tenderness and love. The other hand cradled the vinyl like a precious artifact.

“All this trouble for an old man and his music?”

“I remembered you said you never got a chance to get your own record… just the test copy. You deserve it. Happy Anniversary Papa!”

The record was left nearly forgotten on the desk as he pulled you in for a gentle, long kiss. When you two finally parted he held you still, studying your features as you reached up to cup his painted cheek. You knew he wouldn’t mind when it would inevitably smudge.

“Thank you my sweet… such a gift will be with my heart forever.”

You smiled back before giggling.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t find one with your signature.”

The room erupted with his hearty, booming laugh.

#papa emeritus i #opus eponymous #ghost bc #ghost band #ghost fic #reader insert #soft #fluff #gender neutral reader #unbeta'd

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thezodiaczone · 4 years

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Gemini Compatibility

GEMINI + ARIES (MARCH 21 - APRIL 19) ♥♥♥♥ You're two high-strung, passionate Fire signs who both like to be the Alpha dominant. As such, you'll need to toss the hot potato back and forth, submitting to the other's rule—at times through gritted teeth. Acquiescence may not come naturally, but it builds a necessary trust. Aries is a paradox: you're the zodiac's infant (its first sign) and its gallant hero (you're ruled by warrior Mars). You want to save the world and be saved at the same time. You'll need to occasionally allow yourself to play wounded knight or damsel in distress, and let your mate charge to your rescue. However, don't spiral into neurotic helplessness or analysis paralysis. Nobody can beat a topic to death quite like you can—but that's what therapists are for, Aries. Neither one of you can be saddled with the emotional care and feeding of an adult baby. You're too independent for that. When your problems gain too much mental gravitas, it's time to move—literally. Disperse your Martian angst and anger with lots of physical exertion. As fellow adventurers, you travel well together. Try snowboarding, exotic bike tours, Costa Rican rainforest expeditions. Passionate sex is another antidote to prickly feelings for your high-touch sign. Like Aries Hugh Hefner, you have a champion libido (and an awesome sense of entitlement). Some Aries couples may mutually agree to flex the terms of your monogamy, although the jealousy it stirs might not be worth the trouble.

GEMINI + TAURUS (APRIL 20 - MAY 20) The stubborn Bull locks horns with the willful Ram, nostrils flaring, heads bowed in determination. So begins a fierce but fiery courtship, as splashy and menacing as a Pamplona stampede. Aggression, however uncivilized, is part our Darwinian natures. It certainly is for your signs—who possess an arsenal of steamrolling tactics, from doe-eyed charm to old-fashioned philistine strong-arming. No weak-willed mate will survive your natural selection process. Nor should he. Neither one of you feels safe in the arms of a mate who can't protect you. Thus, your initial faceoff is simply a warning shot: Show me your strength so I can trust you. Once the fanfare is over, you make a great team—like British pop royalty Victoria (Aries) and David (Taurus) Beckham.

As tight as two mafiosos, you like to dress up and flaunt your natural superiority over the rest of the animal kingdom. The deal is sweet for both of you. Taurus gets an attractive show pony and a lusty mate to satisfy his Earthy libido. Aries has a lifelong provider and benefactor to supply creative freedom and endless playtime. Issues can arise if Taurus grows too possessive or tries to tame independent Aries. Indulgent Taurus will need to remain active to keep pace with the energetic Ram (read: lay off the nightly steak frites and vino). You both crave attention, but don't go looking for it outside the relationship, unless you want a real showdown. Like two tots in a nursery, you share a favorite word: Mine!

GEMINI + GEMINI (MAY 21 - JUNE 20) We'll spare you the joke about there being four people in this relationship, mainly because it's an understatement. Like twin kaleidoscopes, you're each a fractal pinwheel of personalities that re-pattern at the slightest twist. Good news: versatility is a virtue in Gemini-land. Monogamy, not always easy for your restless sign, becomes a non-issue when your mate embodies more personas than Sybil. Dyed-in-the-wool dilettantes, you never run out of things to discuss. Clever Gemini rules communication: your ideas come fast and furious, and you love to debate. Intellectual tussling is a turn-on, although you must take care not to talk over each other. Remind yourself: listening skills are just as important as a well-crafted sentence. The pop psychology technique of "mirroring" (listening, then reflecting back your mate's communication) can be shockingly effective. Your main challenge is making time for each other, since you're both forever juggling any number of jobs, businesses, classes, hobbies, social circles and whatnot. Gemini is a collector; your home can resemble a natural disaster zone, piled to the rafters with books, newspapers, DVD sets from your favorite screenwriter, old-school vinyl, vintage costume jewelry. Forget couples' counseling: a cleaning service or storage unit can save this marriage. (Thank God for the Internet and YouTube.) With your wonder-twin powers, you can start a creative business together. Just make sure to hire a team of Earth or Water signs who can finish what you start, since you'll both leave a trail of loose ends. Light the spark, and let others keep the flame.

GEMINI + CANCER (JUNE 21 - JULY 22) Cancer is an emotional Water sign who loves to nest and bond; Gemini is a restless Air sign who prefers intellect over sentiment. You have similar interests, different temperaments. In many cases, this works out anyway. You both adore culture, the more obscure the better. You love to discover new bands, read novels by controversial authors, gorge yourselves at the jewel of a restaurant tucked into an undiscovered neighborhood. You bond over TV shows and bargain-hunting for treasures (you both have a thrifty streak). No flea market, tag sale or eBay store is safe from your scouring, and your home can resemble a bizarre gallery of antiques and modern gadgetry. The tricky part is when you lapse into astrological auto-pilot. Cancer is the zodiac's mother, who heaps on affection, nurturing and well-intended care. To Gemini, this can feel like clinginess and smothering. Gemini is the zodiac's fickle tween, waffling between bouts of dependence and asserting autonomy. There will be moments when Gemini greedily laps up Cancer's doting, and others when mama bird is roughly pushed away with a sarcastic, heart-piercing insult. Cancer must work hard not to take these moments personally—otherwise, the Crab lashes back with a below-the-belt barb, and it turns ugly. Remember, Crabcake: it's not you that Gemini is rejecting, it's your overprotection. Get a pet to dote on instead. Gemini needs space, Cancer needs reassurance. Memorize this formula.

GEMINI + LEO (JULY 23 - AUGUST 22) ♥♥♥♥ You make great friends, since you both love to gab about everything from the Times to the tabloids, Ferragamo to flea markets. Conversations are fever-pitched and fascinating; you're both well-versed culture hounds. Romantically, the temperature may be tepid, though. Leo is a Fire sign ruled by the blazing Sun—the regal Lion wants to be consumed by passion, heat, devotion, attention. Gemini is an Air sign driven by speedy, information-gathering Mercury. Listening to The Leo Monologues, which span from political diatribes to emotional melodramas, is sheer torture. When Gemini dares to interrupt the King or Queen, suggesting that s/he actually GET TO THE POINT, hell breaks loose. Leo must learn to take Gemini's tough love and unvarnished feedback in stride, not as an ego assault. Unconventional Gem should assent to traditional romantic gestures: red roses, the Tiffany bauble du jour. Learn to adapt. Gemini rules the hands, and will need to put them on affection-hungry Leo more often, since the Lion is greatly reassured by touch. And yes, as an Air sign, Gemini will need to blow a little smoke you-know-where; Leo can be a nightmare without regular doses of praise. Gush and flatter—it won't be the first insincere thing to pass through Gemini's lips. Leo should keep a battery of patient friends on speed dial. Gemini may have multiple personalities, but as a romantic partner, s/he can't be your de facto shrink, psychic hotline, career coach, parent and social director. Spread the demands around.

GEMINI + VIRGO (AUGUST 23 - SEPTEMBER 22) Gemini and Virgo share a common ruler: speedy Mercury, who zips around the Sun gathering light and information, then disseminating it to the masses. You're both natural communicators with a thousand ideas and opinions. Romance is a cerebral affair for your intelligent signs. Conversations spark into lively debates; asking each other "What do you think?" is akin to foreplay. Although Virgo is a more staid Earth sign and Gemini is a breezy Air sign, you share a "mutable" quality. That means you're flexible, and you can adapt to each other's quirks. Good thing, since you each have a bevy of rigid, borderline obsessive-compulsive habits. (Virgo's can include folding underwear into identical, neat little squares; Gemini's usually involve hoarding, starting new hobbies or impulse shopping.) You both love control, though Gemini is loath to admit this, while Virgo flies the flag. At times, you may wrestle for dominance, a habit you'll need to overcome for this match to work. Virgo's nagging can take the wind out of Gemini's sails; Gemini's sketchily researched half-truths set off Virgo's trust alarm. But combine the depth of Virgo's cautious planning with the breadth of Gemini's boundless curiosity, and you've got the total package. You can make great parents, too, since your styles tend to complement and you'll divide up roles with ease. Gemini can help serious Virgo lighten up, and responsible Virgo can help ground the easily distracted Twin.

GEMINI + LIBRA (SEPTEMBER 23 - OCTOBER 22) ♥♥♥♥ You're compatible Air signs with silver tongues and gilded wings, a magical match indeed. Libra is a pretty pixie and Gemini is an impish sprite. Your meeting rouses the fairies and gnomes, stirring up mischief in your midst. You love to mingle and schmooze, and you'll chatter like two little tree monkeys, gabbing a mile a minute. But will the breathless excitement last? Getting past the superficial romance stage is the challenge. You're both so indecisive that nailing down a commitment is like catching moonbeams in a jar. That said, the illusionary quality of your relationship is a magic you both enjoy. It's when life becomes too real that you vanish in a pinch of enchanted dust. To make this last, you'll need to dip your toes into the murky morass of intimacy, then learn to swim. Money can become an issue between you, particularly the way you spend it. Gemini is ruled by intellectual Mercury, and would rather invest in college degrees, a film collection, enriching travel. Libra is governed by beauty and pleasure-loving Venus, and splashes out on art, couture, custom suits, spas. You'll need separate wings for Gemini's books and Libra's handbag or shoe collection. You have different approaches to romance, too. Libra loves a lengthy courtship with all the trimmings, but Gemini bristles at picking up too many tabs, especially with Libra's extravagant taste. You'll probably need to keep separate accounts to avoid meddling in each other's purchase habits. Cut up the credit cards, too—many happy relationships can be destroyed by debt. Don't let that happen to you.

GEMINI + SCORPIO (OCTOBER 23 - NOVEMBER 21) You live on completely different planes, which either turns you off or utterly fascinates you. Both of you are accustomed to reading people like flimsy comic books, then tossing them aside. Here, your X-ray vision fails to penetrate each other's psychic shields. Mutable Gemini is the shape-shifting Twin, home to a traveling cast of personalities. Intense Scorpio is shrouded in mystery and bottomless layers of complexity. Being baffled leaves you without the upper hand, but it also stokes your libido. You're piercingly smart signs who love a good puzzle—this is your romantic Rubik's cube. The challenge sets off sexual dynamite. You tease each other with cat-and-mouse evasions, neither of you making your attraction obvious. This prickles your insecurities, daring you to strive for the other's unbroken gaze. No two signs are as quietly obsessive as yours! There will be frustrating moments, too. You're both prone to depressive spells, and swing from giddiness to unreachable shutdown. Clever mind games edge on cruel or callow, breaking the trust that Scorpio needs. At times, airy Gemini may not be emotional or sensual enough for watery Scorpio; in turn, the Scorpion's emotional and physical passion can be overwhelming to Gemini. However, if you combine your strengths, you'll go far. Gemini is dilettante and a trivia collector who's always got a pocketful of creative ideas. Instinct-driven Scorpio rules details and research—this sign hones in like a laser and masters his chosen field. Whether it's starting a family or running a business, you can be an indefatigable team, with Gemini playing the rowdy ringmaster and Scorpio running the show from behind the scenes.

GEMINI + SAGITTARIUS (NOVEMBER 22 - DECEMBER 21) ♥♥♥♥ You're opposite signs that actually have much more in common than this label suggests. Gemini rules the so-called "lower mind": common sense, reasoning, facts, hard data and intellect. Sagittarius governs the "higher mind": wisdom, philosophy, consciousness, ethics, metaphysics. Together, you find sweet neurological nirvana. You're both restless adventurers who hunger for knowledge and experience. With Gemini's curiosity and Sag's nomadic nature, you get antsy in commitments unless there's a lot of excitement and variety. Boredom is simply not an option for your signs, and you're both involved in a billion projects. Scheduling issues are your biggest hurdle, but for true love, you allow nothing to interfere. Take globe-trotting Sagittarius Brad Pitt and Gemini Angelina Jolie, who traipse the continents with their ever-growing brood. As best friends and playmates, they make their own rules about love and family—and you will, too. Conventional coupling holds zero interest for your signs. Your main difference is in disposition. Air sign Gemini is cooler and distant compared to Sagittarius, harder to read emotionally. The fiery Archer has a hot temper and wears his heart on his sleeve. Still, you make each other laugh; you're both clever, entrepreneurial and quirky. You do best with a common goal that's a thousand times bigger than yourselves, and you'll dream up many. However, you may need Brangelina-sized paychecks to fund your lofty visions. Who has time to consider the bottom line when you're focused on reaching the top? Take time to consider the practicalities before leaping off the cliff. Knowing you, you'll jump anyway.

GEMINI + CAPRICORN (DECEMBER 22 - JANUARY 19) A metaphor for this match: a music producer combines a soulful 1970s classic (Capricorn) with funky electronic hooks (Gemini) and delivers a mashup that's either a mess or a chart-topping hit. You couldn't be any more different if you tried, yet you can really benefit from each other's natural resources. Gemini is ruled by speedy Mercury, the lightning-fast trickster who speaks in silver-tongued half truths. Capricorn's overlord is Saturn, the cautious, conservative planetary patriarch, who only trusts that which stands the test of time. Gemini is versatile and restless, like a fusebox with a million criss-crossed wires. Capricorn is the dutiful ox who carries the yoke and plows the field, rarely diverging from routine. While Capricorn's dogged consistency and family loyalty can frustrate Gemini ("How can you let these people walk all over you?" Gemini asks, referring to Cap's elderly parents), it also grounds the scattered Twins. Gemini is Capricorn's one-man circus, keeping the Goat amused and entertained, adding color to his monochromatic world. You both have a lusty, experimental side, too. The magic really appears when you get physical, which happens fast, since your sexual attraction is intense. In fact, Capricorn is one of the few signs that can spike Gemini's jealousy. There are so many people who rely on sturdy, supportive Cap, and Gemini doesn't like to compete for the spotlight. To make this work, Gemini will have to accept that Capricorn's loyalty extends to family and lifelong friends. Stoic Cap will need to show a little more emotion, since impish Gemini needs to know he can get under Capricorn's skin. It will take time to work out the kinks, but the erotic tet-a-tets will be worth the trouble.

GEMINI + AQUARIUS (JANUARY 20 - FEBRUARY 18) This match of compatible Air signs can feel a bit like high school romance—teasing, texting, movie dates with jumbo popcorn and licentious groping during the previews. You bring out each other's breezy, buoyant spirits, and that's a plus. You'll bond over TV shows, favorite sci-fi novels and superheroes, obscure philosophers, music. With your clever comebacks and verbal repartee, you could take a comedy act on the road. Although you can both be overly cerebral at times, you prefer laughter and light conversation to emotional melodrama. Eventually, though, you need to get out of the shallow end of the pool. Intimacy is a challenge for your signs. We're talking true intimacy—being caught with your pants down and no clue how to get them back up. Telling each other your entire life stories in monologue form (which could have happened on the first date) doesn't count. You must soldier through the post-infatuation "awkward phase," or you'll end up feeling like buddies. That would be a shame, as you can make excellent life partners and playmates. The biggie: you'll both need to give up fibs and lies—particularly lies of omission. You're excellent storytellers and politicos, gifted at crafting a spin to fit your agenda. However, the naked truth is the only way out of the Matrix. Though it may topple your PR-friendly public image, it's a necessary risk you must take to build the character and depth of a lasting commitment.

GEMINI + PISCES (FEBRUARY 19 - MARCH 20) You're both dual signs: Gemini is the Twins, and Pisces is symbolized by two Fish swimming in opposite directions. You're pop psychology's poster children for commitment-phobia. Are you in or are you out? It depends on the day, the mood, the cosmic alignment. Obviously, this is no way to run a relationship—but wait. Here's a golden chance to peer into love's looking glass and see your own shadowy Id mirrored back. Yes, your psyches and hang-ups are as bizarre as Alice's rabbit-hole tumble into Wonderland. Pisces, you really can be as needy, emotionally exhausting and manipulative as Gemini says. Gemini, you are indeed capable of being a double-talking, evasive ice-tyrant with a heart like polished marble. And…so what? If you can actually own your dark sides—which we all have—you're also capable of spreading tremendous light. You must negotiate your differences with transparent honesty, though. Pisces is an emotional Water sign; Gemini is an intellectual Air sign. Unless you balance the proportions, Gemini drowns in Pisces' undertow and the zodiac's Mermaid suffocates from breathing too much oxygen. Gemini must strive to connect emotionally, and Pisces will need to lighten up. Perennial dissatisfaction is also a killer. Don't say you want something, then refuse to be happy when your partner provides it. Gratitude is an intimate act: it requires you to acknowledge that your partner can reach you, a vulnerable place. Two words to save your relationship: "Thank you" and "You're right."

#gemini #compatibility #astrology #zodiac #love #relationships #gemini compatibility

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voidendron · 4 years

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First Meeting

One-Shot, 1′883 Words Star Wars/JSE Egos Crossover

I’d like to direct you to the one-shot Supply Run if you haven’t read it yet; may want it for context on Sam and Marv for this AU. Italics are a translation and mean they’re actually speaking Mando’a in this. Also, this version of these two have admittedly poor impulse control and think more with their fists than their heads ^^”

Warnings: Language, Guns, Mild Violence, Choking Characters: (humanized) Septic Eye Sam, Marvin the Magnificent, Chase Brody

Sam was glaring behind their helmet. What else could they do? It wasn’t like Marvin was going to listen. The other Mandalorian had taken his helmet off a while ago; it was sitting proudly on the console overlooking the stars beyond their ship. He’d been so focused on avoiding the bounty hunter’s shots he hadn’t put it back on yet.

“You’ve really done it this time,” the younger muttered as they crossed their arms huffily.

“Sami. Zip it.”

“I can man the—” their ship lurched as a shot hit the shield, forcing Sam to momentarily brace themself on the console, “—gun.”

Marvin huffed a laugh and spun the ship into a disorienting spiral. “Gun? It’s still out of commission from the last time.”

“I thought you got it fixed!”

“I got it scheduled to get fixed.”

“So what you’re telling me is you pissed a bounty hunter off—on purpose—and now we can’t even defend ourselves? Marvin!”

“Hey, don’t blame me! I maybe…didn’t think it through like I should have?”

“You’re entirely to blame. They weren’t even after us until you decided to upset them!” Even so, Sam had to bite their cheek to keep from grinning behind their helmet. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the mature one.”

Sam wasn’t even sure either of them had bounties on them to begin with. Maybe if they’d ticked off the wrong person in a tavern or some collector wanted genuine Mandalorian armor, but that was all they could think of.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. Bounty or no, a hunter was still pissed off and trying to shoot them down.

The next time the ship jolted, both humans were thrown forward and into the console. Sam’s helmet smacked against it, easily protecting their skull from the impact.

Marvin…wasn’t so lucky. The helmet he’d rested on the console had fallen off and rolled away somewhere while its wearer crashed his unarmored head against the steering. He instantly fell limp in his seat.

“Marvin!” Argh, this is why you keep your helmet on unless you know you’re safe, Sam thought with gritted teeth as they lunged from their seat to drag Marvin out of his. Moving the far taller man into the seat behind the pilot’s was a struggle, but they eventually got the harness strapped snugly across his chest and took the pilot’s seat for themself.

Okay, okay, this was so much more complicated than the single-manned ships Sam had flown before, but. They could do this.

…They hoped?

Coruscant was close, their shield was holding, they could—

They grunted as another shot connected. Sam took control of the steering and accelerated the ship as much as it would go. Coruscant, Coruscant, get to Coruscant. Dammit, this shouldn’t even be happening, Marvin!

Sure, they’d both be laughing about it later, but—another shot connected—but it wasn’t exactly fun in-the-moment when they were left without a way to defend themselves.

Entering the atmosphere, Sam checked the blip on the radar. The hunter was still following.

Nearly crashing into a docking cargo ship, Sam swerved and brought the ship lower. Speeders were left nearly crashing into each other and buildings and pedestrians to avoid them as the Mandalorian ship flew far lower than it should have, as it took too-sharp turns that clipped an awning and knocked out the window of a shop, as it skidded to a jarring stop into the intersection of an alley with a nearly empty street.

Tripping over themself, Sam scurried out of their seat and to one of the lockers, fumbled with blasters and ammo. Over other vehicles, they couldn’t pinpoint which one, if any, belonged to the hunter, but they weren’t going to take any risks. One more peek at Marvin—still out cold—and they were slamming the release for the door. The ramp descended as it slid open and Sam risked a peek.

There it was. It was landing, blocking them in. There wasn’t enough space to turn around and leave the way they’d come, and the hunter hadn’t left enough room in the street to fly forward.

Great. Wonderful.

The hunter to exit the rival ship was Trandoshan, and he looked furious. Ah, even better…

Next time they sparred, Sam would have to be sure to knock Marvin on his back end for this one.

Kneeling just behind the exit and peeking around it at the hunter, Sam waited, watched, as the Trandoshan approached.

Deep breath, raising the blaster to their shoulder, one, two—

Sam jumped to their feet and out of the ship when the hunter started firing. One shot hit their shin, beskar easily protecting it as Sami tried to activate their jetpack. A blaster bolt hit it instead, and they were left scrambling to pull it off and throw it aside before it combusted.

Just as the device left their hand, they were being shot at again. Another bolt hit their pauldron, throwing them off-balance and ruining their shot.

They’d never faced a Trandoshan. He was stronger and more experienced than the young human; before Sam even knew what was happening, they were pinned with a clawed foot pressed against their throat. Gagging as they tried to suck in a breath, Sam wrapped their hands around the man’s ankle and tried in vain to shove it away, feet kicking in an attempt to strike the Trandoshan.

He hissed at them and growled…something. It was in Basic, but Sam’s mind wouldn’t register it.

They pounded on the man’s ankle, tried digging their nails into it but their gloved hands only slid against his scales without purchase. Their head started swimming; they couldn’t breathe.

Then, the weight was gone, and they were left gasping and coughing as both hands came up to clutch at their neck. When their vision stopped spinning, Sam sat up and crawled to where their blaster had fallen.

The Trandoshan was stalking back to his ship while spitting curses at… Huh. Someone else had decided to join the party.

A Bothan. Sam had never seen a Bothan in person before. They were shorter than they’d expected.

The Bothan had two Corellian hounds on thick leads; both were growling at the Trandoshan and looked moments away from attacking him. There was also an assassin droid crouched on the ramp to his ship with a blaster readied.

Sami swallowed, rubbed at their throat once more, then brought their blaster back up to their shoulder. The Bothan completely ignored them (though the droid took to aiming at them instead), opting instead to watch the bounty hunter until his ship finally took off.

When he did finally look to Sam, he rolled his eyes and spoke…Ithorese? to call the droid off.

“Hey, easy, man.” His Basic consisted of a thick accent, like Sam would expect an Ithorian to sound if their throat was shaped right to actually speak Basic. Throaty, growly? They weren’t sure how to describe it.

“Hello? Coruscant to Mando?”

Sam blinked and hesitantly relaxed their stance slightly, though kept their blaster poised.

“What? Is it your turn, now?”

“Hey, no need for hostilities. I hate hunters as much as the next guy. ‘Sides, we had nothin’ better to do than lend a hand.” He holstered his blaster and loosened the hounds’ leads. They looked more or less calm, now, but Sam still eyed them.

“What do you want?” Their eyes flicked over the man’s attire—loose, comfortable, easy to move in. At his droid—in good shape, but its parts looked like they’d been taken from multiple sources and not repainted to match each other. His ship—oh, that’s definitely a repurposed junker. Sam’s mouth twisted downward. Smuggler? “Lemme guess. Payment?”

“Look, buddy. If I’m being honest, I originally wanted to just hang back and scavenge whatever was left of your ship when that bounty hunter was done with ya. But my droid wanted to help out and it’s pretty hard to say no to him.”

Sam arched a brow skeptically. “…The assassin droid wanted to help?”

“Slink..? No, no! My astromech—he’s still on board.” His fur startled bristling slightly, eyes darting to the streets beyond. “Look, man, authorities are on their way ‘cause they don’t exactly take well to blaster fire. ‘Specially not in the city’s upper levels; probably gave a few rich folks heart attacks if I’m honest. But, ah…” he gestured for their ship, “you’re probably not gonna want to take off in that.”

Whether it had been Sam’s poor flying, the hunter’s shooting or…Sam’s jetpack. it had been Sam’s jetpack blowing up, hadn’t it? that had a fuel line leaking, they weren’t completely positive, but certainly had a good idea which of the three it was, if not a combination of all of them. They couldn’t help a frustrated groan.

“Yeah… Uh, look. It’ll probably be dragged off to a warehouse somewhere where you can either buy it back or steal it back. I could care less. I suggest taking your valuables out of it, planting a tracker, and going elsewhere for now.”

“Can’t you fix it?”

“Sure. Just not before police droids start showin’ up.” The Bothan clicked his tongue and turned to the assassin droid (Slink? Was that what he’d called it?) and started speaking in Ithorese again. The droid hummed and took the hounds from him, then disappeared into the junker. “Okay. Uh. I was gonna head off for Ryloth, but I could give ya a ride…wherever you needed to go, I guess?”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Deal. Fuck my head…”

The Bothan looked momentarily surprised at the new voice. Sam just rolled their eyes and crossed their arms. There was Marvin with helmet tucked under one arm while his other hand rubbed at the welt in his head.

“You missed all the action,” Sam teased in their native tongue.

Marvin scoffed. “Just go get our weapons and credits.” Then, turning to the Bothan, he gave pause, thought for a moment; he didn’t know Basic as well as Sam or the other man did. Then, “If you could take us to Mandalore? I’ll pay you well for it. But try anything…” He rested a hand over the blaster on his hip.

“Sure. Whatever. Y’know I’m not stupid, right? Not puttin’ my dogs or crew at risk by pissin’ one of you off. Just get your stuff and hurry up.”

Weapons and credits collected, a tracker placed where it wouldn’t be found, then back to the junker.

Sam couldn’t help but eye it skeptically. “Is that thing even safe?”

“Pretty sure she’s the one standing while yours ain’t even fit for takeoff.”

“…Touché.”

The Bothan laughed at that. “C’mon, police are just about here.” He tapped an earpiece, then gestured at his ship. “I’ve got one of my droids watchin’ street cams—” he (or his droid) had hacked the city’s cameras? “—and we’re gonna be closed in on shortly.”

Sam cast one more look to his comrade. Marvin had slipped his helmet back on at some point, and only offered a shrug.

“I’m Chase, by the way,” the Bothan threw over his shoulder without looking at them. “Anything I can call you two?” Neither answered, to which he just snorted. “Eh, suit yourselves. Setting course for Mandalore.”

#fanfic #jacksepticeye #marvin the magnificent #septic eye sam #chase brody #star wars au #blitz indites #swearing /#guns /#mild violence /#choking /#i've...never actually written something from sam's pov??#let alone a humanized sam's??#hope it turned out all right ^^"#also i've always thought of sam as being sassy #so that paired with being fairly young here #makes for what you see of them in this au

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countesspetofi · 5 years

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I thought I'd like to share with you this little story that my family used to read aloud every Christmas. It's got all the mid-century holiday anxieties: fear of overconsumerism, distrust/dislike of the younger generation, distrust of technology, war toys, "I am a human being: do not fold, spindle, or mutilate," fear of loss of individuality, and a general fondness for complaining. I've tried to preserve all the old-timey formatting choices.

But we always got a lot of laughs out of it, and certain lines have become stock phrases in our family jargon. Plus, it flashes me back to two of my former jobs, assembling furniture and technical writing. Consider it our gift to you this holiday season, and you don't even have to assemble it yourself.

MERRY CHRISTMAS IN TEN PIECES

by Robert Yoder

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he has a home near the North Pole, where it is colder than a bathroom floor. But don't believe that story about his having a lot of little dwarfs who put toys together for him, singing as they hammer. Nobody puts toys together, until Christmas Eve. Toys come in sixteen pieces, with one missing, and are put together by a large band of Involuntary Elves who call ourselves Santa's Press-Gang Helpers. We don't exactly sing, either, although a certain low, ominous murmur can be heard rising from a million homes on Christmas Eve. Put it this way, kid: that ain't no dwarf; that's your old man, beaten down. The luckless peon bought the toys; now he is learning that he has to finish manufacturing them, too, and by one A.M. his mood will make Scrooge seem like Sunny Ebenezer.

The first thing your frightened eye lights on, in the store, is a nice little red wagon, and you think, in your fatuous adult way, that this is just the thing to brighten the young heart. If you weren't partially paralyzed by the fear that you were shopping too late, you would realize that if the kid wants a wagon at all, it isn't this chaste little model. He would want one twice the size, with demountable tires, a ram-jet engine, electric lights, an overdrive and a windshield wiper, at $79.75. The kid next door has had one like that for two years and uses it only to haul his good toys in. Then you see the rocket-firing antiaircraft gun and realize that this is the answer. While it will not do bodily harm, and is therefore a partial bust to start with, it is a realistic-looking little number, and you buy it, at an exceedingly realistic price.

About the hour on Christmas Eve when you are in mild shock for fear the thing won't arrive, the delivery man stumbles in with a large package that can't be anything else. Will you put it under the tree that way? Or will you have it out in the open, so the child may see this splendid sight first thing in the morning? Full of Christmas sentiment, you decide to expose the gun to full, gladsome view. So you tear off the wrapping. Here is a dial, here is a leg, here is a muzzle. You thought it would look like the model in the store, did you? Well, Santa has a little surprise for you. It's in pieces, and you are going to have to put it together. Merry Christmas, in at least ten pieces.

There is a sheet or folder of directions which could not get under your skin worse if they were in Spanish. They are written in the special language of directions, a mechanical gobbledegook achieved by writing the directions first in Ruthenian and then allowing the translation to curdle. A stop sign from the same mumbling pen would take 200 words. In the language of directions, "Close the door" would read like this: "Grasp door-opening device with right knob grasper and exert pressure outward until Panel A fills Aperture B. If scream is heard, other hand may be caught in opening." Along with being as turgid as possible, the directions are printed in a miniature type face known as Myopia Old Style, which is two sizes smaller than pearl and is otherwise used only to print the Declaration of Independence on souvenir pennies. Well, lying there in pieces, the gun looks like nothing at all; it's got to be assembled. The first line you encounter in the directions says: "Using ring grasper from Assembly Kit, grasp collector ring near tube spar tightening guide rod"... but, thank heaven, that goes with some other toy. Your own directions start out more simply: "Connect round opening at end of Feeder Spring A with hooked end of trigger lock restraining bar by placing round opening over hook and pressing." What'd he think you'd do - spot-weld it? (The answer, unfortunately, is that he expects more than that, but not just yet.) Now the guy begins getting esoteric.

"If retaining mechanism fails to admit trigger, horizontal opening of drum impeding stopper should be widened horizontally." He means if the damned trigger won't go into the guard, you got to cut more room, and sure enough, it won't. This is going to be the only gun in the neighborhood with a demountable (falling out) trigger, unless you fix it. If retaining mechanism fails to admit what it's supposed to retain, then it should never have left the factory, but it's too late for that kind of recrimination now. Getting a hammer from the basement, a good paring knife and a screwdriver, you manage to make the trigger go where it should, with one very bad moment when you think you've split the thing.

Well, the barrel, H, slides into place nicely; maybe things are beginning to go your way. The next step is to fit Firing Platform Z on Tripod, the Tripod being made by inserting Metal-tipped Ends of Legs into Sockets, which is child's play. Now all it takes is two bolts, L and M, which you slip into place with great efficiency. They must be firmly in place, the directions say, or gun will not swivel on Platform Z; you might say, it won't swivel on any platform. A neat little bag contained the bolts, and in it you find the nut for bolt L But half an hour later you are still rummaging through wrapping paper in a grim search for the other nut, the crucial nut, the nut without which, as the Latins say, nothing. You may have 128 nuts of assorted sizes in a jar in the basement, but you will not have one that fits Bolt M. That is a freak size used nowhere else in the whole panoply of American industry. It is part of a shipment the toy manufacturer bought up from the Uruguayan War Assets Administration.

it is 11:45 by the time you manage to make the bolt hold with a piece of wire wrapped around it, and if the kid looks at that part, he will feel sure this toy is something the firemen repainted for the poor. Meanwhile the house is grown cold, three of the Christmas-tree lights have winked at you by burning out, and your cigarette has fallen out of the ash tray and burned a six-dollar hole in the carpet. But the gun is starting to look like a weapon, and there can't be much more - only a couple of odd-looking metal pieces are left and a cardboard circle marked "Cosmic Ray Computer Dial."

One of the pieces of metal is easy enough to use. It's the missing plug, for lack of which the barrel has had that tendency to point to the floor like the tail of a whipped hound. The other is the crank with which the young gunner moves the barrel to keep on his target. You tackle the easiest job first - the computer is nothing more than two sections of light cardboard. "Bending tabs A, C, E and G," the directions say, "fit them into Slots B, D, F and H." The cardboard is a special kind which is a stiff as metal for a minute and then relaxes completely as you push, so that in twenty minutes you have four dog-eared tabs holding one crumpled dial marked with a little blood from the finger you cut trying to enlarge the slots.

Now you reach the part of the directions that tell you to fix on the telescopic sight. The diagram shows a handsome metal gadget coming to a square end, fitted into a ring fastened neatly around the end of the barrel. The only piece of metal you have left, outside of the crank, is a cotter pin. Even if you had missing part R, you would have nothing like missing part Q which fits into it. You ransack the wrapping paper again, in what the novelists call cold fury, but with no luck. Finally, with great self-control you smooth the wrinkled directions and read that jargon over again out loud. It is then that you come across Step 2. "In assembling Model A-200 Junior, our second-rate cheaper model for pikers, Step 2 may be disregarded," the directions say. "No sight comes with this model. There is, however, a cotter pin. You can stick it on the barrel with adhesive tape and play like it's a sight. It ain't much, but neither are you."

There is one final step - mounting the crank. "Slip Directional Crank 16 through Arm Y into Slot EE," the directions say. "When in position, give crank one quarter turn counterclockwise. Trigger should then fall sharply back into firing position." This is simplicity itself, and the only trouble is that if the crank goes through Arm Y, it misses Slot EE by a good quarter of an inch. The bitter thoughts that arise on Christmas Eve about the sleepwalker who bored that slot must visibly affect the temperature.

But the direction writer thought about this impasse, forehanded soul that he is. "It may be necessary, for best results - meaning, to make the thing work at all - to enlarge aperture in Arm Y. This can be done quickly and easily by using a 16.3 metal file without tang, a 13-oz. dinging hammer, and some Australian canoe-builders' flux." This is equipment the ordinary household would be just as likely to have as a Javanese blow gun and a guroo bird, and you know, as your thoughts profane the early Christmas air, that the only 16.3 file in the world is one resting in the manufacturers plant 850.3 miles away across the snowy landscape. So you gouge out a new Slot EE four times the proper size, the crank falls into place, wobbling foolishly, and the task is done. If it holds together until Christmas afternoon you will be agreeably surprised, and a glance at the clock tells you that won't be long.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. If there weren't, ugly mobs of maddened parents would rove the streets Christmas Day armed with bolts, pins, wheels and axles, and some toy manufacturer would end up assembled on Movable Rail A wearing Tar B and Feathers C, after a slight going-over with No. 16 emery paper and a common hydraulic half-knurled center punch.

#christmas #christmas story #Ikea #some assembly required #midcentury #Christmas angst #christmas traditions #family tradition #piker #consumerism #yes Virginia there is a santa Claus #santa claus #santa #vintage toys #christmas presents #it aint much but neither are you

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doomedandstoned · 5 years

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THE DESERTFEST DIARIES: Destination Antwerp ‘19

~By Willem Verhappen~

Photographs by Stefanie Dörnbrack and Willem Verhappen

Day 1

The good beer, tasteful food and beautiful inner city, together with the fact that even though I live close to it, it makes me feel like I’m on vacation, make that Antwerp ranks high on my list of favorite cities. Every once in awhile my girlfriend and I like to spontaneously cross our southern border to go shopping (seriously, check out Chelsea Records if you're ever there) or watch a movie in their massive cinema complex. There is however one weekend when nothing can stop me from going to Antwerp and that's the weekend of Desertfest. For three days, Antwerp turns into the Mecca of all the music I -- and since you're reading this, probably you, too -- hold dear. So on the 18th of October I made my fourth pilgrimage to this epicenter of riffs.

My timing could hardly have been better, since my friends with whom I was going to share a hotel room for the next three nights showed up at pretty much the same time. After dropping our stuff at the hotel, we went downtown to meet up with some more friends and have a pizza and some beers.

With some proper groundwork laid, as we say in Dutch, it was time to head to the Trix, as the venue's called. There was some discussion as to whether it was faster to go by tram or subway, so we decided to turn it into a race. In the end, we still all ended up going by subway, since there didn't appear to be a tram going that way. I was told, however, that the subway was way quicker than the tram the guys took in previous years. That still counts as a victory in my eyes.

When we arrived at the venue, we were greeted by the sign shown at the top of this article. What a way to get your crowd hyped up for all the goodness that was to come.

The first band we got to see, was Monomyth. The band, featuring former Gorefest guitar player Boudewijn Bonebakker, plays an addictive mix of styles ranging from kraut- and space rock to more progressive and psychedelic exploits. The Dutch instrumental rockers might be reminiscent of acts like My Sleeping Karma, but with five people, there's never a boring moment.

After that first headbanging session, it was time for some more partying with desert rockers Nebula, where the title of their new album 'Holy Shit' sums up the experience quite well. This was followed by my first Duvel beer of the day and the Dutch '60s heavy psych inspired wolf pack named Temple Fang, both at the cafe. For a band that hasn't even released a single yet, they've got quite the following. Taking into account that two members used to be in the cult band Death Alley, gives some understanding as to why. Witnessing them live makes you a believer yourself.

As a music collector and lover of artwork, I decided to pay a visit to the merch area. I was very happy to see that my personal artwork favorites Branca Studio decided to take the car to bring some of their t-shirts to Desertfest. Now I finally have my very own "Doom life" shirt. Could my day get any better?

Of course it can! With some more cds and some less money in my pockets it was time to go to the main all for Truckfighters. When we walked through the door, one of my friends asked when the show had started. This was more than five minutes before the show actually started, but the hall was already crowded. This was the first time we had difficulties getting in before a band started playing, but it turned out to be only the first of multiple shows where this phenomenon occurred.

As you might know, Truckfighters was on a hiatus for a couple of years. Lucky for us, the Swedes have returned. I'm happy to say that the show hasn't really changed. You still get your high energy rock show lead by Ozo. Dango still runs through the crowd shirtless. There's still a different drummer than the last time you saw them. And of course, every place turns into absolute mayhem once they play Desert Cruiser. Honestly, the only thing that changed is Dango's beard. That's fine, but other than that, a Truckfighters show is perfect as it is.

Sadly, there wasn't much time to catch my breath, for after witnessing a bit of Beglian band 30,000 Monkies, Yatra was about to take the upstairs stage. I wasn't familiar with the Maryland doom crew, but someone (sorry, I don't remember who) recommended them to me. I cannot thank that person enough, for Yatra is by far my favorite discovery this Desertfest. It was the first doom band of the eveningThis trio spices up their low 'n' slow doom with a whiff of black metal dirt, just the way I like it.

Since I've never been much of a Zeal & Ardor fan, I decided to socialize and go looking for stories instead. That's when I ran into the Yatra gang, who were talking with Dango from Truckfighters. The latter mentioned to me that we can expect a solo record from his hand somewhere in the near future. Needless to say, this encounter needed to be documented, as shown in the picture above. Afterwards I decided to check out some Z&A, only to arrive when they started Devil is Fine. It was a good reminder of why I'm not a fan.

The first day ended with a banging show from Polish psych doomers Sunnata and a fun after party. I had to promise not to write about the after parties, even though I could write an entire article on just that. Let's just say that lots of fun and beer was had by all, up to the point where we were kicked out of the venue.

Day 2

Saturday started, not entirely unexpectedly, with a hangover. Usually I get over them pretty quick, but this one kept lingering on for quite some time. Not even the great sandwich I had, seemed to have any effect. The thing that eventually cured the hangover, was Bismut. The Desertfest website describes them as "instrumental psych desert metal", which is an apt description for these young Dutch hounds. We're treated to some heavy spaced out jams, mixed with some colorful shredding. Day two is a go!

The Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell put up one of my favorite shows this weekend. This is their second year in a row and third in total of playing here and if you've seen them live, you know why that is. The band are like the demented love child between MotÃ¶rhead and Hawkwind (like that would ever happen), blasting some dirty biker rock, but with some stoner groove in there. It's also the first band I witnessed on the Canyon stage that made full use of the video screen.

Not every band can be a winner and if there's a loser this weekend, it's Fireball Ministry. Personally, I really enjoyed their distinct brand of desert rock, featuring vocals from both guitarists James A. Rota II and Emily Burton. The only point of critique is that Emily should stick to background vocals.

Even though the band gave their everything, they we're playing to a half filled hall at most, with many people leaving after a song or two with some just taking a couple of pictures. These pictures were of course from former Kyuss bass player Scott Reeder. This behaviour made the band look more like a freak show than anything else, which is too bad, since Fireball Ministry deserves better.

The Desert stage is far more crowded for Church of Misery. I can't say I'm surprised, since the Japanese quartet knows how to deliver a solid slab of old school doom metal. For 50 minutes, the band proved to know exactly how to keep heads banging in unison.

Following Church of Misery, I decided it was time to give the muscles in my neck some rest. And what better place to do that than in the food and relax area. This is like the school yard where all the cool kids hang out, drink beer and smoke, but mixed with a food truck festival. I'm usually not big on festival food, but the food here is certainly an exception. From homemade fries and vegan burgers to Mexican and tribal food, there's something here for everyone. It's a great place to just sit down, eat and talk to random people.

This moment of peace was very much needed ahead of Bongripper. This was one of the most crowded shows of the festival. The band created a most impressive wall of sound, or should I say wall of noise, during their show. Although the show was very impressive, I'm still surprised by how insanely crowded it was.

After the intense show from the Chicago doom crew, desert rockers Steak are a welcome change of scenery. They might be from London, but these guys sound like they came straight from the California desert, although with some Pink Floyd thrown into the mix. I was very charmed by their sound, since it sounds familiar, but with a British twist. Highly enjoyable.

At the Desert stage, we remain in the instrumental musical spectrum with Pelican. This was one of the shows I looked forward to the most. The post-metal from these Americans manages to find that sweet spot between heavy dark riffs and a touch of light. The hour of playtime was over way too soon.

The other band I was really looking forward to, was Dopelord. I'm not sure what's happening in Poland that's causing the rise of so many good old school doom bands, as proven by Dopelord's recent excellent 4-way split with Weedpecker, Major Kong and Spaceslug, but it's clear these guys are leading the revolution. This show had everything I love: great songs, heavy riffs, exploitation cinema on the background and rowdy crowd. There even was a new song, called 'Hail Satan' and some moshing during the epic 'Reptile Sun'.

On my way to Ty Segall & The Freedom Band, I heard some music coming from the Vulture stage that caught my attention. Crowhurst was supposed to be performing here, but they had to cancel last minute. Their replacement were the Antwerp locals Your Highness.

Earlier that day, I was told they were a doom band and that I would like them. That turned out to be very true. The band plays traditional doom metal, but with a hardcore ferocity. I clearly wasn't the only one who enjoyed their show, judging by some of the most intense mosh pits I'd seen all weekend. I was so entertained that, for the first time in four years, I missed a Desertfest headliner. Not that I mind, these guys are worth it.

There's no rest for the wicked and Inter Arma made sure of that. The death/black.sludge doom band pretty much set the Canyon stage ablaze. It was past midnight but that was no excuse to take it slow. Vocalist Mike Paparo was running the stage like a ravenous beast. The band was a great warm-up for yet another night of mad partying.

Day 3

Usually the last day of a festival is somewhat of a cooling down. Festival days are long days and involve lots of walking and a lot of things to take in, resulting in you being exhausted, both physically and mentally. For this Desertfest, being tired was not an option, since the lineup is nothing but spectacular. Luckily for me, I woke up relatively fresh. I still don't know how I pulled that off, but I'm not complaining.

Since not everyone was as awake as I was, the first band we got to see was Wolvennest. I've seen the band perform many times in the past four years or so and I've yet to grow tired of their music. Their excellent mix of black metal, doom, psychedelic and krautrock still entrances me every show. And every show, they seem to get better. At least it helped me clear my mind in preparation for the rest of the day.

Wolvennest may have brought me to a higher plain, but after that it's a slap back to reality, courtesy of The Progerians. Their sludge mimics their hometown of Brussels. It's dark and nasty, but with just enough melody to make it appeal to the masses. This makes it a good warming up for the impressive set from Lord Dying, although they look towards more progressive and psychedelic horizons.

Monkey3 is one of those bands that always manage to deliver. Their instrumental space rock usually attracts quite the crowd and that was no different here. Sadly, nature called, resulting in me not being able to get back to the Desert stage. On the other hand, I did get to see High Reeper. These guys manage to play an energetic, balanced mix of stoner rock and Sabbath-y doom metal. A perfect blend of old school and new school.

The NOLA sludge kickers of Eyehategod are on a roll today. The band is clearly in a good mood and frontman Mike IX Williams is playing the crowd like a fiddle. The crowd, on their turn, is eating the slow, nasty blues raw. This was without a doubt my favorite show of the day.

After EHG I'm in doubt, stay where I am and be assured of a good spot for tonight's headliner, or go and see Un. I decide on the latter, even though many people seem to be saving their spots. I don't regret it though, since the Seattle band delivers some beautiful, heavy funeral doom. Especially fellow Seattle natives Bell Witch come to mind while riding Un's emotional roller coaster.

When I got back to the Desert stage, some 20 minutes before showtime, I was happy to see that it wasn't as crowded as I'd expected. I managed to get a nice spot in the center of the hall before the countdown started for the band all of Desertfest was clearly waiting for.

At a quarter to 11, the famous audio recording leading up to the moon landing started playing. What happened next felt like a ritual. Joints were lit across the audience, with some also being passed along through the crowd. People moved towards the stage like Muslims to the Ka'aba.

At 11, the almighty Sleep took the stage. Even though it was my fourth time seeing them in 15 months, the band still manages to impress me. All through the weekend, bands have been projecting everything from band logos to movies on the backdrop, but not Sleep.

Sleep doesn't need a backdrop. Nor a dynamic light show, for that matter. Sleep is all about the music. And the music is all that matters. Witnessing a Sleep show is like witnessing a voodoo ritual. The band's goal is to get you in a trance, to get you to follow the smoke to the riff filled land. For 75 minutes the music is all that matters.

Black Pyramid holds the thankless honour to close off the festival after Sleep. Their psychedelic brand of metal sounds good, but honestly, Sleep is still stuck in my head. Judging from the size of the crowd, many people have decided to head home early, but not us. We stayed until the bitter end.

On monday morning, to my great joy, the headache remained absent and I was feeling relatively fresh. I was looking forward to my own shower and couch, not necessarily in that order, so I was packed and ready to go in no time. My friends had some more difficulties to get their motor running, so we ended up getting brunch at one of the countless Panos sandwich bars in the city. Of course, we ran into some familiar faces there. Going over the weekend, we could all agree it was a festival with many highlights and next to no low points. Another one for the books. Why can't all festivals be like Desertfest? I'm not being melancholic, I'm seriously asking.

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