#i remember the last time i had to delete my tweets asking about the police attempted riot because everyone was like??? the protests happen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cfiesler · 5 years

Text

the tenure-track detective agency

I tweeted about a dream, then realized it should be a television show, so I tweeted the whole first season plot. Featuring an academic who has to solve a murder so she doesn’t have to teach another class, and her librarian sidekick who is very helpful because of the research she’s done while writing Sherlock and Veronica Mars fanfiction. The whole thread is on Twitter, but copied in plain text below the cut for your reading pleasure. #sixseasonsandamovie

The Tenure-Track Detective Agency: Season One

I recently dreamed that one of my colleagues was wrongfully accused of murder, and because of the trial, could not teach their fall class. I feel like an "oh god I have to solve a murder so I don't have to teach an extra class" anxiety dream is like next level #academiclife.

S1 opens in mid-summer when a tenured computer science prof is found in his lab surrounded by simple robots testing conversational agents, busily chatting about top-voted reddit posts while he dies from blunt force trauma. The murder weapon is a dusty teaching award.

Our hero, an overworked assistant prof, is updating the syllabus for her machine learning class that just doubled in size, when she receives news that she has to pick up a section of intro programming b/c the instructor was just arrested for murdering another faculty member.

Our hero has THREE WEEKS to exonerate her colleague so that he can teach the class as planned, instead of her. Her tenure case hangs in the balance. What follows is a montage of frantic syllabus writing and murder investigation.

She visits the scene of the crime. A PhD student is frantically deleting data from a hard drive, and claims the IRB made her do it. Our hero distracts her and pockets one of the prototype conversational robots in the hopes it might have been a witness to the murder.

Our hero has a conference call with the set of brand new PhD students who will be teaching assistants to the intro programming class and informs them that their jobs start now and they need to dig through Lexis Nexis for case law about chain of custody and robots.

She visits the library and finds the librarian who usually answers questions about copyright, because she must know the most about law. Cue enthusiastic quirky sidekick, who actually doe knows a lot about murder investigation because she writes Sherlock fanfiction.

She visits her colleague in prison. She should probably be investigating the murder he is wrongfully accused of, but instead has many questions about the syllabus for his class she is now forced to teach. She tries not to sound bitter as she asks him for his slide decks.

Her colleague, clad in his orange jumpsuit and holding a prison phone, is understandably very upset about having been wrongfully accused of murdering another professor. But as she stands to leave, he calls out, "Wait! Do... do you think this will hurt my tenure case?"

She visits the detective in charge of the case. He says that her colleague's alibi for a 3-hour time period surrounding the time of murder is damning. "Who spends 3 hours answering email?" he demands. "Besides, professors don't work in the summer!" She fears this may be hopeless.

With the help of her librarian sidekick who convincingly impersonates a lawyer, our hero gets her hands on the the transcripts from the police interview of her colleague after his arrest. She assigns a PhD student to conduct a rigorous grounded theory qualitative analysis.

Word has gotten out that she is investigating the murder. Someone pins a note to her office door: "FOLLOW THE GRANT MONEY." She pulls up the dead prof's CV on his website only to find that it was last updated in 2003.

She interviews his PhD students after (out of force of habit) having them sign consent forms that detail data storage practices. None of them had seen their murdered advisor in person in years except when he mysteriously appeared to add his name to their published papers.

The librarian sidekick uses a bobby pin to break into an admin's office to retrieve grant spending records. It appears that the murder victim has been funneling funding earmarked for students and travel into "equipment." Almost $1m of invoices from a mysterious tech company.

(In case you were wondering, the librarian sidekick also writes Veronica Mars fanfiction and ABSOLUTELY knows how to pick a lock because of important research. She also wrote House fanfiction so let's hope she gets to diagnose Lupus by the end of this tale.)

Meanwhile, the PhD student has finished her grounded theory analysis of the arrest interview, and concludes (with an appropriate limitations section) that the interrogation was conducted under duress. The police officer promised to write him a tenure letter if he confessed.

Our hero buys many pizzas and puts the qualitative analyst in a room with the teaching assistants doing legal research and tells them to work on a motion to get the confession thrown out. She has to promise them they can all be co-authors on a major journal publication.

Cut to a scene where our hero spends hours answering emails from students trying to enroll in THE CLASS SHE SHOULDN'T BE TEACHING b/c they're on the waitlist but they need this class to graduate & also will she be taking attendance. Between emails she studies 18 U.S. Code §3501.

She visits a clinical prof at the law school to ask for help. You remember that this is TV so wonder if he is the obligatory love interest. He suggests they discuss 18 U.S. Code §3501 over drinks. She laughs: DO YOU THINK I HAVE TIME FOR THAT. You write hero/librarian fanfiction.

She interviews more students. Admins. Faculty. They initially were shocked the murder victim got tenure, but he'd seriously stepped up his game in the last couple of years. Not just more productive research, but he spent time on his teaching! And service! And apparently... sleep!

This trend becomes more shocking when she finally visits the victim’s family. They too noticed a change. They’d seen him *more often* in the year leading up to his tenure review. Now our hero doesn’t just want to solve his murder, SHE NEEDS TO KNOW HIS SECRET.

Meanwhile, the librarian has tracked down shipments from Mysterious Tech Company not to the victim's office but to a Mysterious Storage Unit. This is a clue! They brose YouTube videos about breaking into storage units. (YT tries to show them flat earther videos but they resist.)

HOT ON THE TRAIL, our hero makes the mistake of checking her email. She has a nastygram from a journal editor who reminds her that her promised review of a paper is 1 week overdue. The murder investigation halts while she spends hours on labor for which she will not be paid.

Our hero reluctantly suggests "major revisions" even though she knows this means more unpaid labor in a few months, and then regroups with the librarian. They head to the storage unit; we discover that the librarian drives an impala convertible.

They are nearly there when our hero's phone dings with a calendar reminder; she has a committee meeting in fifteen minutes. She can't remember which committee it is, but they turn around anyway. After the meeting, she still isn't sure which committee it was.

Our hero gets a phone call from her colleague who is wasting away in prison while wrongfully accused of murder. He doesn't ask about the progress of her investigation. He's just called to ask her if she can take over some of his committee assignments.

FINALLY our hero & the librarian get to the storage unit, which with the help of YouTube videos they break into & discover... rows of gently humming servers, and also robot parts everywhere! It's very uncanny valley in there, y'all. You're like, woah is this show actually scifi.

Our hero sits down at a computer. Did you know that even CS profs can have terrible password practices? Our hero read @lorrietweet's papers so the first thing she tries is "monkey" and VOILA she is inside a private github repo. (She has an ethics-related twinge, but he IS dead.)

Our hero emails the students enrolled in her machine learning class, sends them the github repository, and offers them extra credit for a forensic analysis. This is the best service learning activity she's ever come up with.

Our hero checks her email again (WHY DOES SHE KEEP DOING THIS) and has a message from her department chair reminding her that murder investigation does not count as a service activity. ('We've already had discussions about tweeting as not a good use of your time' he reminds her.)

We're getting very close to the season finale, and there's another montage: meeting with student investigators, tinkering with robot parts, answering emails about course overloads, talking to the police, revising a journal article that is due soon, formatting a new syllabus...

Over a bottle of wine in her office, our hero and her librarian sidekick put together the final pieces by doing rigorous affinity diagramming on a whiteboard. There is one final thing to verify. They enlist one of the murdered prof's PhD students to help. This is very exciting!

She visits her wrongfully accused colleague one last time in jail to give him the good news about her findings. He doesn't listen, far more concerned with making sure that revisions on his latest journal article get in on time, so she helps him & then leaves to go exonerate him.

Our hero gathers the relevant parties: detectives, faculty, PhD students, a public defender who she forgot existed. They meet in a windowless conference room. She has prepared a powerpoint presentation. It shows a table of contents: Intro, Methods, Findings, Discussion.

She speeds through the beginning (stopping to answer a question from a prof about the sample size for the qualitative analysis) and finally gets to the point: "I have discovered that the murder victim had a dark secret. And in the process uncovered the REAL killer!"

(Her librarian sidekick cheers from the audience. She is wearing the deerstalker from her Sherlock cosplay, which our hero reluctantly refused, saying that she probably shouldn't cosplay at work until after tenure.)

Our hero continues: "Our analysis of his private github repo revealed the REAL source of increased productivity in the year leading up to his tenure case - particularly striking since he also managed to save a failing marriage. Impossible, you say? That's what I thought! But..."

"It turns out that he solved the problem of not enough hours in the day for assistant professor levels of research, teaching, and service with ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE!" The department chair nods. Artificial intelligence can indeed solve all problems.

Our hero reveals a beautiful powerpoint slide that details their analysis of the code and its conclusion: Prof. Murder Victim had programmed an AI to do all of his service and administrative work, most of his teaching, and a big chunk of his research collaboration.

From answering emails to grading assignments to delegating tasks to student collaborators to reviewing papers (ESPECIALLY reviewing papers), Prof. Murder Victim had managed to streamline his duties into the things that were most important for tenure & avoid everything else.

And he was able to do what can be so rare in some departments - have a lot of time for himself, which repaired his relationship with his family. "But then..." our hero began ominously, "he thought... why can't I create an AI for that too so I can spend more time on my research?"

Our hero gestures at the door, and in walks a PhD student with a humanoid robot in tow. It is a half-finished, uncanny valley nightmare of the murder victim. "He was murdered by his own creation!" our hero shouts, as she reveals her final slide with a list of collaborators.

There is a long, heavy pause in the room. The detective looks stunned. The librarian sidekick pulls out a flask and toasts our hero. Then suddenly, the department chair leaps to his feet and says, "HE WORKED FOR THE UNIVERSITY, WE OWN THE PATENT!"

The room erupts into a flurry of activity. PhD students start updating their CVs. The prof who teaches tech ethics immediately starts writing a paper. The department chair posthumously grants the murder victim full professor status in recognition of his contributions to robotics.

The detective quietly comes over and asks our hero for her evidence. She produces a full paper with 12 figures, 78 citations, and 17 authors. He says that it may take some time to sort this out. She says, the guy you arrested starts teaching in one week, better be sorted by then.

Our hero has approximately thirty seconds to bask in the glow of her triumph when her phone dings informing her she has a committee meeting in 10 minutes. She checks her email and 4 students are asking for copies of the syllabus for the class she's hopefully no longer teaching.

That night she receives an email from the dept chair: (1) Remember this is not part of your tenure case; (2) Our colleague has been released from jail & will resume teaching his class; (3) The ethics instructor just got a grant with a course release so you'll need to teach that.

Before she can start sobbing, she opens an email from one of the students in her machine learning class, telling her that the work they'd done analyzing that code was the most amazing learning experience of his life and can they please do more stuff like that.

After a long moment, she opens up a new document so that she can start creating a syllabus for Computing Ethics & Responsibility. She adds a sentence: "You may be occasionally asked to participate in real-world problem-solving activities as part of your grade."

The season finale ends with the librarian joining our hero in her office and producing a sign to hang on the door: THE TENURE-TRACK DETECTIVE AGENCY. It is a joke, of course. ... or is it???

If you read to the end, I feel like I should mention how difficult it is to write a story linearly while not knowing the plot and without the ability to edit at all, and also that it would make my life to see hero/librarian fanfiction on AO3. :D

And if you’re a TV exec or literary agent:

(And if you’re someone who is going to write tenure letters for me: don’t worry, I also did a lot of research, teaching, and service today. ;) )

#academia #murder #fanfiction #mystery #sherlock #veronica mars #faculty life #archive of our own #twitter #fiction

221 notes · View notes

alwaysahiccupandastrid · 4 years

Note

What happened to katherine?

Nothing’s happened to her; she got an instagram account, which is awesome, and she’s been using it just to promote a charity she’s working with called “SpareHand” that are providing food and supplies to those who need it during the pandemic. She was even out there volunteering with Jude Law at a primary school in London yesterday to sort through supplies.

So basically Katherine is a lovely human being who’s actually doing good volunteer work during this quarantine and NOT just preaching at us while she’s all cosy and safe, and we should all stan her, thank you.

Basically, the problem is that there’s a seriously creepy and messed up fan harassing Katherine/Katherine’s fans and smearing her name.

There’s a LOT under the cut - please read at your own risk.

Years ago, back before CoG came out, there used to be a fan called “Candy Working” on Twitter who was a HUGE fan of Katherine, like her whole twitter was just Katherine related and it was all she could talk about. She kept saying that she was going to meet her at the premiere, blah blah blah. Anyway, during the summer of 2018, a private account appeared that we believed to be Katherine’s - most of us followed it, which is a huge sign something was up because why would she have a private account only to accept fans as follower requests? But we wanted it to be Katherine so bad - myself included. I’m ashamed to admit I told that account stuff in confidence believing it was Katherine, which I’ll get back to in a minute. As it soon turned out, however, the account was a fake - photos posted were either extremely blurred or very generic, or they could be found online with some digging. One of Katherine’s friends, an up and coming filmmaker who regularly speaks with fans, confirmed it was not Katherine. A huge giveaway was that the captions/messages from the account were in broken English and sounded nothing like how she speaks, and Katherine’s brother wasn’t following it, neither were her friends like Henri and the Beasts cast.

To cut to the chase, it was Candy. Candy made the account posing as Katherine. A dead giveaway is that “Katherine” went on a mass deleting followers spree and pretty much got rid of everyone BUT Candy. After that, a lot of us Waterstans got more savvy about things and we told Candy to stop. Candy denied it and for a long time we heard very little. Another thing Candy did in 2018, shortly after, however is editing Katherine and Callum Turner’s wikipedia pages to say that they were dating each other.

Over the past few years, more accounts have appeared posing as Katherine; using my fan accounts, and working with other fans, we’ve shut them all down. Until recently, Katherine has had no social media whatsoever because she’s a very private person, and we as fans should respect that.

Cut to very recently. Yet another troll account appeared on twitter - you see, someone (hint hint) has made account after account, tweeting things about Katherine and her father, saying vile and hurtful things about them. For example, they’re convinced on saying that Katherine is a horrible person, that her and her dad are involved in “child sacrifices” and the pedophile ring in Hollywood, and they’ve attacked Katherine’s fans regularly. Yes, we know it was Candy - all these accounts have the exact same writing style and way of speaking. It’s painfully obvious. Anyway, this account was posting shit, and I happened to click on it whilst on my laptop instead of my phone - and that’s when I noticed that they had posted a pic of me at my uni graduation because it was under their media section. I’ve posted the screenshot before, and I’m on my laptop right now so I’m not going to go digging for it since it’s slow, but it’s on my blog (this AND the Katherine fan blog I run).

Here’s a rundown of what happened:

They used the pic of me at graduation, asked if anyone remembered my name, and then tweeted in on a public platform, saying I was from London (which I’m not exactly, I’m outside of London)

They made up lies about me, took a screenshot from my Katherine blog where I expressed my disappointment regarding a project I had done for her birthday, and said it was proof that Katherine hates her fans

When I blocked them on my fan/usual twitter, they tracked down three of my other ones and continued to tweet/harass me, even when friends of mine told them to stop.

I was truly upset about the graduation thing and asked them to take it down - they refused and said it was a google leak and I should delete all of my accounts because of it.

I just want to say that while the picture is indeed on my personal instagram and on one of my blogs, there’s a HUGE difference between ME posting it to share my excitement/joy, and some CREEP online reposting it WITHOUT my permission in order to smear both me AND someone I look up to.

This account - besides attacking Katherine fans and Katherine herself - was constantly tweeting that 5G caused Coronavirus, was a Trump and Boris supporter, and just in general a tinhatter.

By the way, they claim to know Katherine very well and keep saying about “her son D”, her “rich millionaire husband”, how “katherine is going to post her memoirs and a documentary”. I don’t believe Candy knows anything at all, or if she does than it’s certainly not because she knows Katherine; but the fact that she’s supposedly giving out private information about Katherine’s private life (her baby, for example!) is HELLA creepy and nasty and rings a LOT of alarm bells.

Eventually, with a lot of fans reporting it, the account got terminated.

On Katherine’s instagram in the last week, an account on instagram has popped up and it’s so bizarre, to say the least; they constantly spam her with comments, firstly saying somewhat nice stuff before switching to harassing and being rude - saying she has no career, her fans are couch potatoes, that she’s brainwashed her fans, that the Beasts films are only successful because of Eddie, Jude and Johnny. We all know it’s Candy, we’ve all confirmed it. Again, same writing style, blah blah blah.You can see the comments on any of Katherine’s instagram posts to be honest, but I posted screenshots of some HERE.

Candy of course started to mention ME by name again. Because she’s fucking wacko. Calling me “No 1 London fan Megan” or some shit, saying I have a GoFundMe page to meet Katherine, which I don’t - I had one for my Tina Goldstein cosplay back in 2017, and the only reason I did was because I posted about being worried that I couldn’t afford it, and a bunch of people jumped in and said that they’d be more than happy to give some money in exchange for fics and as a “thank you” for the fics I had written. Frankly, it still stuns me that happened. But that’s not the point; they’ve spouted lies and shit that make me look bad, targeting me as well as a few fans specifically (namely the KW Russia account - who are very nice, by the way!). The spamming itself if unsettling, let alone what she’s actually saying. Candy also made an account called “Katherine Waterston Toronto” that she’s since made private after being called out, again spouting the same shit as she did before and on instagram.

We’re all reporting the accounts as best we can, but Twitter and Instagram are...well, we know what it’s like when it comes to reporting accounts (side-eyeing @staff for NOT taking down the TWO blogs that were specifically created JUST to make call-out posts about ME and every bad thing I’ve done in the past 5 years - good job, guys! Adult content isn’t allowed but call-out blogs calling for someone to be fucking arrested and to be banned from the fandom are A-OKAY!!) I’m hoping that Katherine is either not reading the comments or that if she does, she’ll see it’s a troll and just block them.

What’s interesting, though, is that Candy is claiming that Katherine has “hurt” her in some way, and that Katherine or her family got the police involved...something like that. Very interesting. Again, could be more steaming shit from what is clearly the world’s biggest tinhatter, but it honestly would not shock me if Katherine/her family got freaked out and contacted cops.

7 notes · View notes

theemptyquarto · 4 years

Text

Abandoned WIP

Warstan (but John got killed off before the story starts) and purely platonic Sherlock & Mary. Quite AU... John and Mary get together before Sherlock jumped off of Bart’s. Maybe a little bit of hinted unrequited Johnlock, I honestly can’t remember if I was going there with this fic. A “Mary is the new Watson” retelling of “The Adventure of the Empty House,” rated T. This was written before S3 happened and I fell in love with BBC Mary and she actually made me view BBC John as an interesting character in his own right and I rejiggered my alignments.

I’m going to rant here, just briefly, about how ACD’s Mary Morstan is probably one of the most wronged-by-their-author characters that I can think of, which is why I started writing this fic where she takes the lead.

She appears for the first time in the second-ever (authorially, not chronologically) Sherlock Holmes story, “The Sign of the Four,” and is delightful. Watson falls hard in love right away and acts like a huge dweeb about her, she’s courageous, clever, and kind. Maybe without all the panache of the later Irene Adler, but a more traditionally Victorian heroine for our more traditionally Victorian junior protagonist. Her next appearance, “The Adventure of the Crooked Man,” is significantly more tangential, but she sets the action of the story in play and is shown to be a helpful, kind figure.

And then all of a sudden Conan Doyle ships her off to visit her mother (she was established as an orphan), stops using her at all, and finally kills her off.

Not even on the page. Between books. And it’s mentioned so tangentially in two lines of “The Adventure of the Empty House” that you can easily miss it if you aren’t looking for it.

(Incidentally this sort of shit is why ACD fandom can’t agree on how many wives Watson had or who the subject of his “sad bereavement” is. The number ranges from 1-13.)

Why, Artie? Why did you do that? I mean I get if you want to park Watson back at Baker Street you probably do have to off her but you were a fairly good hack and doing it this way made you give up the opportunity to have some sort of emotional payoff in your stories. Especially since you later introduce another wife character who is in no way distinct from Mary (a niche component of ACD fandom thinks that Mary didn’t die at all and Watson “abandoning (Holmes) for a wife,” was him and Mary reconciling after an estrangement.)

Anyway. Don’t create cool characters and then kill them for no good reason. That’s my point.

_____________

The Empty Flat (Mary)

I had been widowed for three months and was rather surprised at how badly I was doing with it. The snug three-bedroom garden flat in Maida Vale had been the perfect size for a not-quite-young couple planning on children. Now it seemed vast and empty and utterly, utterly silent. When I slept, which wasn’t all that much, I did it on the sofa. Our bed still smelled faintly of his aftershave, and I couldn’t stand either to sleep there or to wash the sheets. Arthur, the blue point Siamese cat who I had bought into the marriage, would curl up on my feet and awaken me with his yowls in the morning.

To some extent I had been able to occupy my mind with work, and the requirements of my job had kept me more or less a functional adult. But the summer holidays had begun a week previous, and I was thus thrown entirely on my own resources, which were scant. What family I had left were all back in America, and the friends I had made in England seemed to have melted away since John’s death. Some days, I thought that this was due to the universal impulse to avoid reminders of mortality. Other days I decided it was more likely due to the fact that I deleted their emails and declined to answer their phone calls.

The truth, as always, was probably somewhere in the middle.

Whatever the cause, my life was empty. I ate when I remembered that I was meant to. I wore pajamas all day. I left the flat when I ran out of cat food, and at night I would turn on the tv and stare at it without paying attention until I finally sank into oblivion.

Presumably it was on one of those descents into the maelstrom of crap British late-night TV that I first took note of the murder of Ronald Adair. The dead man was vaguely familiar to me, though I had never watched any of his shows personally. He was a scion of one of those impoverished but very old-and-noble families that the English keep on out of sentiment. Showing unusual initiative for one of his class, he’d made a success of himself by appearing on a famous reality show, then on the “celebrity” version of that show, and parlaying that into one of those mysterious but apparently quite lucrative careers that consist mostly of having your picture taken.

And now, he was dead, shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom on Park Lane.

The story struck me, for some reason. John, when he’d been alive, used to take four daily papers and half a dozen weeklies, and I had not cancelled them yet. I plucked a week’s worth out of the recycling where I had tossed them, unread, and scanned through them for articles about the murder.

Ronald Adair had been alone in his bedroom, drinking neat whiskey and updating twitter, when he died. His last tweet (@JustLukeyA, “LOL C U @ Ibiza”) had been sent at 10:11 in the evening. His personal assistant had heard the sound of breaking glass, broken down the locked door that led into the bedroom, seen his body, and dialed 999 by 10:17. The bullet had been a large caliber hollow point round that had done severe damage to the back of his skull, and he had most likely died almost instantly.

The entire affair was mysterious. While the police hadn’t released any real statements, the personal assistant had been the only other person in the house at the time of the shooting, and had been released after questioning. This would suggest the shot had been fired from outside, but the window in Adair’s bedroom, while open, was on the fourth floor. There was no evidence to suggest anyone had climbed to the window, meaning that the shot had come from somewhere outside.

This made no sense at all to the gossip rags. The window faced directly over Hyde Park, and any level shot would have had to come from over a mile away. And shooting from ground level would have been impossible: the Park was open, reasonably crowded given the warmth of the summer evening, and no one had heard a thing. The American embassy was less than two hundred yards away, and even its overblown security hadn’t noted any unusual activity. Essentially, it was impossible that he could have been shot, and yet there he was.

As I read through the papers, I thought how John would have gone through them at the breakfast table to try and figure out what had happened. Although his professional interest in solving mysteries had died with Sherlock, he never lost his fascination with the more arcane sorts of crime. He would have loved this one, and I could imagine the crinkles that would form around his eyes as he would describe the possible motives, mechanisms, and solutions. It was a Sunday, and I suspected that he would have wheedled me into taking our normal long walk in the direction of the crime scene. I’d have teased him, said he was morbid, but I’d have gone, and he’d have hypothesized happily for a while.

I could so clearly imagine it, and it made me smile, despite myself. It had been difficult to like Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to deal with the fact that their association put John into danger on a regular basis. Yet, now that they were both gone, I found myself forgiving every thoughtless insult and sleepless lonely night the detective ever gave me, since he had made John so happy.

Wishing to hang on to my happy memory, I decided, abruptly, to take the walk over to Park Lane myself, just as John and I would have done. It was past time I actually started doing things again. I would go and see where Ronald Adair had died, and I would try and solve the mystery, and I would remember John. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I showered, dressed, and left the flat.

July, in London, is one of the few times of the year when it approaches being warm enough, and it was a beautiful day. I took the long route around Kensington Park, since a straight shot would have taken me directly past St. Mary’s Hospital, where John had worked - and where his body had been taken. The trees were brilliant green, and it seemed everyone in London was sunbathing or playing football or falling in love around me.

Ronald Adair’s flat was adjacent to the Mariott, in one of the converted brick Georgian edifices that infest all of Park Lane. I had forgotten to take note of the number, but it was easily identifiable by the flowers and stuffed animals heaped up on the low fence that surrounded it. There were a fair number of gawkers, and by asking, I found which window Adair had been shot through. I was stumped, for the moment, but thinking logically, decided the best route was to see from where I could have made the shot. The busy street and the shrubbery borders of the park being ruled out, necessarily, I confined my attention to the sidewalks. I took pictures on my phone, and paced around, and tried to work out the trigonometry involved.

Then I stopped. There were half a dozen locations from which the shot could have come. It would be the hell of a task: the window was small and high, but if it were dark out and the shooter were aiming into a lit room, it would be possible. I had hunted a lot as a kid, and might have been able to make it with a rifle. John, who had been an excellent marksman, might have been able to do it with a handgun. But to do it quickly enough to avoid notice in a busy neighborhood, to do it silently? That was impossible.

All facts that were undoubtedly obvious to the police. If John had been with me, it would have been a fun little mathematical exercise. We’d have followed it with a walk home, dinner at the pub on the end of our street, and making tipsy love in the light of a summer sunset in our flat. But he wasn’t with me, and he never would be again, and the day would end as all days did, alone with the cat and the television and the dark. The whole thing was a pointless, futile exercise - a little girl’s attempt to play make-believe.

I knew, suddenly, that I was going to cry. It happened a lot, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to share with all London, so I spun around to depart and slammed full-force into a souvenir hawker who had been just behind me. Grace has always eluded me. The pole she carried, hung with ballcaps and other tat, fell to the ground, and she gave an indignant Cockney squawk of “Oi! Watch it!” I bent to retrieve her pole and handed it back to her, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” and fled outright into the park, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.

Leaving the path, I hurried through the park, not really aware of where I was going as long as it was quieter and emptier. I reached a dim copse free of children, tourists, and lovers, where I sat down, and let the tears flow.

It’s easy to see why the ancient Egyptians thought that the heart, and not the brain, was the source of love. True sadness isn’t felt in the head, it’s felt in the chest, and I could feel every choked beat of my heart as I sobbed and gasped and tried to catch my breath for what seemed like ages. But from a pragmatic point of view, I’m sure I didn’t go for long. Crying is too tiring to keep up for much time. Of course, I had come out without any tissues, so I wiped my aching eyes and puffy face on the corner of my cardigan.

At that moment, the hawker walked into the copse.

“There you are!” she called out, “Wondered where you’d got to!”

I sighed. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about knocking into you. It was an accident. If I’ve damaged anything I will be happy to pay-“

“Na, na, love. Just a load of rubbish. Can’t hurt it if it isn’t worth anything to start with. But I saw your face and thought you might be in some trouble.” The woman was elderly, with a mop of dyed auburn hair and a thick Docklands accent which I would love to render in text, if it didn’t look so silly. But her blue eyes were kind, and she handed me a miniature water bottle marked with “Souvenir of Hyde Park.”

“I’m – fine. I just got a little upset. Thank you.” The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plasticizers, but it soothed my irritated throat.

The woman seemed to take this remark as an invitation, and placing her wares on the grass, sat next to me. I have lived in London since I was twenty-five years old and I could tell what was coming. There are two main personality types among the English: the type that is intensely uncomfortable with any sort of emotion, and the type that delights in every possible expression of sentiment and wishes to hear all about it. They’re like New Yorkers in that respect.

Apparently I had found one of the latter variant.

“You get to see a bit of everything, my line of work,” she said, digging a battered packet of Silk Cut out of her pocket, “Care for one?”

I had officially quit smoking years ago, when I finished my doctorate, and stopped even having the occasional one when I started dating John, since he loathed the things. Just at that moment, though, it sounded like heaven. “Yes, thank you.”

She shook two out of the packet, and passed one to me before getting out a transparent plastic lighter. She lit hers, and then handed over the lighter. A brief breeze kicked up, and I bowed my head over the tiny flame, trying to make the cigarette catch, as she said, quietly, “Now, Mary, you need to remain calm.”

The cigarette caught, and I took that first delicious, poisonous drag, before the fact that this stranger knew my name really filtered into my mind.

I looked over, and where the woman had been, sat Sherlock Holmes.

The Sign of Four (Sherlock)

The art of disguise, as I have often remarked, is in context far more than it is in costume. Truly approximating the appearance of someone else is only possible from a distance: in ordinary situations major alterations to the face appear theatrical and attract more attention than not. If, instead, you select a character who would be entirely appropriate in the context in which he appears, you need make only minor changes to your own appearance. The observer’s mind will then do ninety per cent of your work and you will be de facto invisible. I intend to write a monograph on the topic when I have the time.

Mary Morstan may have had some subconscious understanding of this. On the occasion of our first meeting, I observed that she was wearing a carefully calibrated disguise, although I doubt she would have referred to it as such. Very high heels, but an intentionally prim and boxy suit, severe makeup and hairstyle, heavy-framed glasses. She introduced herself with a flat, middle-American accent, only slightly sharpened by years of living in London.

Just after she arrived, John walked into the flat, his arms filled with carrier bags of groceries, which he set down with great rapidity in order to shake her hand.

“Mary Morstan, my associate, John Watson. Miss Morstan,” I said, “Teaches maths at Westminster School.”

She stared at me when I said that. John, I noted, didn’t let go of her hand when her attention was distracted.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

I sighed, though in truth I always enjoy it when they ask for the reasoning.

“You’ve obviously come straight from work, meaning that you work Saturday mornings. Chalk dust on the right cuff, which is worn in a way that you only ever see with people who spend a great deal of time writing on blackboards. There are traces of red ink on the heel of your hand and a splotch near the tip of your index finger. Thus, teacher.”

As I’d expected, she dropped John’s hand to examine her own.

“You took the tube to get here, and in those shoes you probably didn’t walk far before you boarded at Westminster station: there’s construction digging up the street there and the fresh splashes of yellowish mud on your left stocking are quite distinctive. Half a dozen schools in that area, but your ensemble suggests older students and moneyed parents. Hence, Westminster School.”

The last was a gloss, as her ensemble suggested nothing of the sort. It said quite plainly “I teach older boys.” Her skirt was unfashionably long, her blouse was buttoned up to the neck, and her jacket was boxy in order to conceal her rather large breasts. Having attended an all-boys senior school, I recognized the style, and the motivation behind it. But since I was undoubtedly going to receive the ”abrasive” and “show-off” lectures after her departure, I saw no reason to add the “inappropriate” one, and simplified the matter.

“And… maths?”

I sighed again, this time sincerely. The easy ones are never any fun.

“There’s a graphics calculator in the right pocket of your overcoat.”

At that, she laughed. Giggled, really. But almost instantly, she caught herself, cleared her throat, and dropped back into the lower vocal register that she had previously affected. Everything I could ever have wished to know about Mary Morstan’s character was thus revealed in the first five minutes of our interview. Nature had given her a respectable brain and deposited it in a body that was small, blonde, and rather fluffy. Her disguise did a reasonable job of concealing this, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to make people take her seriously.

“That’s amazing,” she said, “I read in your blog, Doctor Watson-“

“John, please,” he interrupted. Oh dear.

“John. I read about this kind of analysis but it’s remarkable to see it in real life.”

“Can be a bit creepy if you’re not used to it, though,” John replied, which I thought extremely unfair, given that I had been very polite and not mentioned that her teeth demonstrated her adolescent bulimia or that her fingers and eyebrows strongly implied a mild obsessive-compulsive condition. I maintained my dignity, and said only,

“Thank you, John. State your case, Miss Morstan.”

“Right. Well. I suppose I have to go back to the beginning. My father, Thomas Morstan, was English. I was actually born in Sussex, but when I was two my parents divorced and my mother and I moved back to America. I never got to see him much, growing up, but he always kept in touch, by phone and letters, and then by email when that came around. Sent birthday gifts and that sort of thing. Ten years ago I finished grad school, and he offered to buy me a ticket to come and meet him in London. I hadn’t seen him for several years at that point and I didn’t have a job so, obviously, I said yes.”

“Mmm. Continue.”

“He’d booked us rooms at the Langham, which I thought was much too expensive for him, but he said it was a treat for my graduation.”

“What was his profession, then?”

“He started off in the Army, but he resigned his commission after the first Gulf War and joined the diplomatic service.”

“As?”

“An attaché. Just an office job, basically. Visas and helping distressed tourists and so on.”

“And his rank in the army?”

“Ah, he ended as a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe.

“Go on.”

“I flew to London, expecting him to pick me up at Heathrow, but he wasn’t there. No answer when I tried to call him. I took a cab to the Langham and asked if he’d checked in, and he had, but there was no answer when they called up to his room. Eventually they agreed to open the door – he’d had a heart attack a few years before, and I was getting very upset - and all of his things were in there, but no sign of him. I never saw him again.”

“Interesting. Did the police investigate?” John was patting her shoulder, sympathetically, which seemed excessive given that the death (and yes, it was death, almost certainly) was ten years in the past. She should have been well beyond it by this point. But upon closer observation, I could see that he was right: a slight swimminess around the eyes and the set of the jawbone indicating gritted teeth. Oedipal complex. She replied, calmly enough.

“Yes. They didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t. They never do. Did your father have any acquaintances in London?”

“Only one that they could find: a Major Sholto. He had no idea Dad was even in town.”

“Mmm. I doubt a disappearance ten years ago would incline you to seek the services of a consulting detective today. What has changed?”

Morstan cleared her throat and opened the battered leather attache case that had been sitting at her feet. From a manila folder, she removed a broadsheet page of yellowing newsprint, with a quarter-page sized advertisement in the upper right hand corner circled in red ink. The paper was the Omaha World-Herald, the date was May 4, 2004, and the advertisement simply stated:

“If Mary Morstan, daughter of Captain Thomas Morstan, will contact the address below, it will be to her advantage” followed by an email address.

“Half a dozen of my friends from high school saw this and forwarded it on to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I sent them an email. I said I was Thomas Morstan’s daughter, that I’d relocated to London, and asked what they wanted.”

“Any reply?”

“No. And when I sent on a follow-up a few days later, it bounced. It was just Hotmail… could have been anyone. But then a few days after that, I received this in the mail.”

Reaching back into the attaché case, she pulled out a small pouch made of black jeweler’s felt. Loosening the drawstring, she tipped something small and square into her palm, and passed it over to me.

I could hear John inhale sharply through is teeth as I reached for my lens. Mary said, wryly, “Yes, that’s pretty much how I felt. It’s a three carat, blue-white, flawless diamond. Probably dug up in India, if that’s any help. It’s worth around $150,000, retail.”

“Unusual cut,” I murmured, looking at the magnified lump of crystallized charcoal, “It’s called the-“

“The old mine cut,” interrupted Mary, “Meaning it was most likely faceted sometime between 1700 and 1900. I know. After the police gave it back to me, I had it appraised at Sotheby’s.”

“You went to the police again?”

“I did.”

“Any good?”

“Not really. They hung onto it a while, but nobody reported any similar gems lost or stolen, and then they gave it back. Apparently it’s “not illegal to be given things.” So after that I was on my own. But I still didn’t feel right about it, so I had the appraisal to see if a real professional could find anything more useful.”

“Well done,” said John, heartily. He was in a fair way to make an idiot of himself over this woman, although she seemed flattered by the compliment.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, “And then, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, that it didn’t stop with this. Every year since then, on May 14, I get another one of these in my mail. I’ve changed addresses and it didn’t make a difference. Perfectly matched, very expensive diamonds. I left the rest of them in my safe deposit box: even carrying one of them around makes me edgy. And then, yesterday, there was this.”

She passed over a letter. Fine, high linen content paper, no watermark, 10-point… Trebuchet font, printed on an HP laserjet printer. It read, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday, July 9 at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

There was no signature or address.

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“Yes, here. And here,” she said, passing over a small heap of padded mailers sealed into plastic zip-topped bags, “Are the envelopes the diamonds came in.”

“Well, you do have the right instincts. Not much to see here, though… the letter and the last three packages had their labels off the same printer. The first four were from another. It stretches credulity to think that there are separate groups doing this so we’ll assume for the moment it was simply a matter of replacing an outdated device. The mailers can be bought anywhere. Various London postmarks… thumbprint on this one, Miss Morstan, may I see your right hand please? Thank you. Your thumbprint. I’ll put them under the microscope later but I doubt there’ll be that much to learn.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who may have sent these? No… admirers, things like that?” John asked.

She laughed at that. “Generally, when men are interested in me they go more for things like asking me to dinner rather than anonymously sending me a million dollars in gems over the course of seven years. I’m not that unapproachable.” I rolled my eyes at their stale flirtation, although I don’t believe either of them noticed it.

“But…” she continued, more hesitantly, “Mr. Holmes, do you think that there’s any possibility that these are from my father?”

John was glaring at me, and so instead of saying “Of course not. He’s been dead for ten years,” replied “I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.”

“I see,” Mary replied, quietly. She drew a deep breath and continued, “Well, regardless, I had planned to go… unless you can give me a real reason not to. If whoever it is wants to hurt me it seems like they’ve chosen a really baroque way of going about it. I mean, they already know where I live so it’s not like there’s much point in avoiding them. And I’m getting sick of this mystery.”

“There are, however, a few points of interest in it. As you are allowed to bring two friends and John is already planning on accompanying you, I believe I shall join him.”

She darted her gaze back and forth between us, smiling, “Really? You will? Both of you? Oh, thank you, thank you so much! This whole saga has just been so shady and I didn’t know anyone who’d be any help with this kind of thing. It’s such a weight off my mind. Thank you.”

She was gushing, and her voice had inevitably pitched up again. I responded calmly with, “Yes, well. Can you be here by five thirty on Saturday? And leave us your contact information.”

“Of course!”

And, writing an email address and a phone number on a sheet of scrap paper, she disappeared in a whirl of gratitude.

John rose to escort her to the door. I remained seated, and began texting.

“That, he said, picking up his carrier bags and taking them into the kitchen, “Was a very attractive woman.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Really. I knew you were a human adding machine but I never thought you were actually dead. Sherlock, it’s an objective fact! She’s got a beautiful smile.”

“Very short.”

“Oh, come on. She’s an inch or two shorter than I am.”

While this statement would not actually exclude “short” from consideration, I simply raised my eyebrows and replied, “Women have developed this remarkable technology called shoes which they use when they wish to increase their height, John. She’s no more than five feet tall.”

“Yes, well, shortness is not a handicap, Sherlock. And she’s clever.”

“She’s adequate.”

“And brave. She was going to walk by herself into a threatening situation just because she wanted to find out the truth.”

“So are you. So am I, for that matter. I fail to see why it’s so much more meritorious when it’s her doing it.”

“I’m a combat-trained military reservist, and you are England’s only consulting detective. It’s our job. She’s a very small maths teacher.”

I set down the mobile and glared at him, “Mary Morstan, John, is in no need of your protection. This affair of the diamonds is a mere personal intrigue. She’ll meet with the woman and resolve it without the benefit of your attention.”

He paused from putting the potatoes in the bin and inquired, “It’s a woman sending the diamonds? You’re sure?”

In general, I don’t admit which of my deductions I’m certain of and which are (very good) guesses. Maintaining a reputation as infallible isn’t a trivial exercise. But John had repeatedly earned the truth from me, and so I said, “No, I’m not. I’m reasonably confident, given the font choice, the computer used, and the wording, that it’s a woman, and a rather melodramatic one. But there’s more – uncertainty in these things than I would like.”

John chuckled. “I should take a picture of you right now and call it ‘Sherlock Holmes admitting he might be wrong’. They’d love to have it down at the Yard. So why take the case if you don’t think there’s any mystery?”

“Oh, there is one, just not the “why is someone sending me expensive gemstones” one she came in with. Can you log on to the GRO database and look something up for me? My email address and password will get you in.”

“Sure,” he said, walking back into the sitting room and picking up his laptop, “What?”

“Deaths. Start by looking for “Sholto” in late April, early May of 2005. If that doesn’t bring up anything, look for ex-military, older, in London, same time frame.”

“Right. What are you going to do?”

I held up my mobile. “I’ve done it. I’ve sent a text to brother Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“Watson, when a man leaves a high rank role in the army to become a low-end functionary in the diplomatic service, what does that suggest?”

“Er, PTSD?”

“No. It suggests spy. I want to find out exactly what Thomas Morstan did for a living.”

A week after that, Mary Morstan arrived punctually back at Baker Street. She’d replaced the dowdy suit with trousers and a blue blouse cut low in the front, left off her glasses, and undone her severe bun to let her hair hang over her shoulders. She had chosen flat shoes this time, which was a relief, as it showed the target of all this display was John rather than me.

Six hours after that, I saw that the display had been successful. I had to physically restrain John from going to her as she was handcuffed and loaded into a black maria for the murder of Barbara Sholto. As typical of Americans, she was explaining loudly and slowly to the arresting officer that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, clearly expecting this to rectify the situation.

“John, look,” I said, sotto voce, as I pinned him to the wall of the alley, “If you go over there you’ll only be arrested too. Athelney Jones has already picked up the entire domestic staff and Theresa Sholto and would be only too happy to increase his bag. The man’s an idiot, even by the standards of the metropolitan police. We’ll text Lestrade to let him know, and the worst she’ll have is a few uncomfortable hours, but we need to be on our way if we’re going to actually catch the killer which is the only thing that will do her any good.”

Even that early, I suspected that Mary would not be as swiftly forgotten as the rest of the girlfriends.

Three days later, Mary was a free woman again. The lost crown jewels of the Russian Tsars, of which she had been offered a one-third share, were scattered along six miles of the bottom of the Thames. She had accepted this development with equanimity. As she said to John, “Even if they hadn’t been lost, it’s not like I was expecting to keep them. I’m sure there’s still some Romanovs somewhere who’d like to have them back. The whole time Teresa was telling me the story of how she got them I kept thinking “Yeah, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life.””

I heard, while they were falling in love, enough of “The Things Mary Says” to gag a cat. I heard about Mary’s feelings on politics, the arts, and current events. I heard about Mary’s emotional turmoil on the discovery that her father was an intelligence agent who had taken the pay of so many competing nations and organizations that even now nobody could say who he had really worked for. And that was apart from his being a jewel thief. I heard enough recitations of her personal charm, intelligence, and integrity to gag a dog.

Not being enamored of her, I was able to observe her far more clearly. I saw that she omitted to mention during the investigation that she was already in receipt of seven perfectly-matched flawless three carat blue-white diamonds, pulled from a coronet made for some forgotten Tsarina. I saw no reason to bring it up to anyone, if she had overcome her scruples about receiving stolen property. I would rather the money have gone to John than to anyone else, and it was clear by that point that it would.

Over the next months, Mary incorporated herself into John’s life, and thus, into mine. I grew accustomed to the scent of her cosmetics in the flat’s shared w.c. (she was a disgustingly early riser and had usually gone before I woke up), and the sounds of their post-sex conversation from the upstairs bedroom (they kept the actual lovemaking quiet, out of politeness, but the after-chat was quite distinct). I drew the line, however, at allowing her to tidy the place. She didn’t understand the system and would have made a hash of it.

Ultimately, just over six months after the day she rang the bell at Baker Street, I found myself ordering a round of tequila shots at the bar of the White Lion and slipping chloral hydrate into three of them. Earlier, Mary had balanced on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear “Can you please try not to let them get him too drunk?” I carried the round back to the table where a flushed and grinning but not yet weaving Watson listened as a dozen of his Army and medical school friends speculated on whether Mary would qualify him as “Four-Continents Watson” or if the actual location of the coitus mattered more than the origin of the lady in question. I passed the shot glasses around, judging that the administration of three Mickey Finns to three particular members of the party would bring the night to a graceful but early end in about an hour.

I judged, as usual, correctly. After decanting the three dazed ringleaders into a cab, the party broke up, and John and I made it back to Baker Street with only slightly more difficulty than usual. The stairs did give him some trouble, but ultimately I was able to successfully deposit him on the couch. I shook two aspirin from the bottle and handed them to him along with a glass of water. He took both uncomplainingly.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For whatever you did back there. I’d hate to be a mess tomorrow.”

“I looked up the duties of the best man and apparently making sure the groom is present and presentable are tops on the list.”

“And you even agreed to wear a tie!” This non sequitur amused him, and he chuckled at his own joke for a moment, before sobering (comparatively), and staring around the flat. “I’m going to miss all this.”

“No, you won’t,” I predicted, climbing the stairs to fetch the blankets off his bed.

“I will!” he insisted, “I’m happy, really happy, about Mary. She’s wonnerful. But I’ll miss this life. And you.”

“It’s not as though I’ll be dead. You’ll be ten minutes away. I’ll be sure to call you whenever I need my cases blogged.”

“I love you, mate, you know that? Even though you are- just such a prick.”

I smiled and pitched the blankets at his head. “I do. Tosser. Now go to sleep. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

He was out and snoring, wearing everything but his shoes, five minutes later. I refilled his water glass and left it on the end table.

At noon the next day I (wearing not only a tie but my entire morning suit) stood at John’s left shoulder and watched Mary Morstan walk down the aisle. I doubt she saw me: her eyes were fixed on John, who was sober, alert, and in full dress uniform, as requested. The expression of love and joy on her face obliged me to concede that, at the moment, she was in fact a very attractive woman.

I don’t think I could have given him up to anyone who loved him even a bit less.

At the reception I gave a speech which everyone said was very interesting, and drank one and a half glasses of inferior Prosecco. I watched them cut the cake, noting that the new Mrs. Watson was far more comfortable with John’s ceremonial saber than he was. She’d lost the callosities of the dedicated fencer, but the skill remained. Then, as Molly Hooper was prowling around with an eye towards dancing and my actual duties were complete, I slipped out of the hall and walked back to Baker Street.

I stopped in at the chemists and bought a packet of cigarettes, then let myself into the flat. There was a peculiar sensory illusion that it was larger and emptier than normal: nonsense, of course. John was routinely absent when I was there. The fact that the absence would now be permanent didn’t alter the actual physical size of the place.

There was always work, and heedless of my dress clothes, I went to it. Three months later, I “died.” And three years after that, I returned to a London which seemed larger and emptier than I recalled. Sensory illusion again. The softer emotions have a very negative impact upon accurate observation, and the world in general doesn’t change at all when a single person drops out of it. On an individual level, though, a single death can rip the bottom out of everything. Such was the case with Mary Watson, who I encountered on a bright August day in Park Lane. She’d lost a stone in weight, which was significant at her height, and was wearing an oversized camel-colored cardigan which I recognized with a pang as being one of Watson’s. She had, in general, the appearance of a child’s toy where the stuffing had been pulled out. I approached her, unseen, as her attention was on Ronald Adair’s flat. When she lost her composure and fled, I hesitated. Then I followed. There were two reasons for this. The first, as always, was John. I couldn’t envision a situation where he would not have come to the aid of a crying woman. In the particular case of Mary, he’d have sprinted to it.

As for the second, well… On the occasion of the case of Neville St. Claire, John had said to me that, “People in trouble come to my wife like birds to a light-house.”

And I truly had nowhere else to go. Chapter 3: The Death of Ronald Adair (Mary)

In general, I am not a fainter, and I didn’t faint then. But a grey mist swirled in front of my eyes, and when it subsided I noticed I had dropped the cigarette onto the well-clipped Hyde Park grass. I picked it up with numb, nerveless fingers. With my other hand I reached out to Sherlock and pushed on the flesh of his bicep. He was reassuringly solid.

“So I haven’t gone mad.”

“No.”

“Not dead, then?”

“Yes.”

I took a drag from the Silk Cut and asked, “Does anyone else know besides me?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“And Molly Hooper.”

“That bitch!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself. I wouldn’t quite have called Molly a friend. We didn’t see much of one another, but her quiet competence had gotten me through the hellscape of the funeral. I found it startlingly painful to believe that she had been concealing a secret like this- especially from John.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me and said, “You’re harsher on her than on Mycroft?”

“There is nothing that I would put past one of the Holmes boys.”

He sighed, and drew on his own cigarette. The sun dipped below the treetops and set us into shadows.

“Sherlock,” I asked, eventually, “What do you want?”

“I need a gun.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Of course you do.”

“Mary, please-“ and he hesitated. He and I had never been more than “friendly”, and he certainly had never been inclined to ask any favors of me.

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you?” I accused.

He hesitated again.

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said, brushing off my pants and rising, “We’ll talk. Baker Street, or our place? My place.”

“Baker Street is being watched.”

“Can we take a cab?”

“Probably.”

It was actually very impressive, how he collapsed his face into that of the Cockney souvenir hawker. He even seemed to lose several inches in height. The stage lost an excellent actor when he decided to go into detective work.

We walked in silence back to Park Lane, and took a cab (after he’d dismissed the first one that tried to stop). He sat next to me in silence, until a horrible thought overtook me, and I said, “Oh, God, has anyone told you? About-“

“Your… bereavement? Yes. I was… very sorry to hear of it.”

It was a relief. It had already happened several times: some colleague or acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in a while would, in the course of ordinary chit-chat, drop, “Oh, and how’s John doing?” into the conversation. And then I would have to watch their faces change from polite disinterest to horror and pity as I gave them the news. I would say it was the worst thing I had to do, but I had developed an entire new suite of worst things in recent months and was somewhat spoiled for choice.

We didn’t speak any further until I let us into the flat.

“Have a seat. I’ll just go get it.”

John, given that he was occasionally prone to physically violent nightmares, had always kept the Sig Sauer semi-automatic securely locked away in a box in the master bedroom closet. I retrieved it, and returned to the living room. Sherlock had installed himself in his old favorite spot on the sofa, and Arthur had climbed onto the arm next to him. They were watching each other with matching expressions of flat-eyed distaste.

“I don’t know where the key is,” I said, passing the box over.

“It’s fine,” he replied. And indeed, he materialized a lockpick from somewhere and opened it within ten seconds.

He’d removed his auburn wig, although he still had on an excellent shade of lipstick for his complexion: a glossy transparent berry-stain. It was almost the only color on his face. Whatever he’d been up to, it was doing no favors for his health. I wouldn’t have thought he could have gotten thinner or paler, barring his contracting tuberculosis or vampirism. And yet, he had managed. At some point, he’d cut his hair off close to the scalp, and it was faintly peppered with grey. Sherlock was a year or two younger than I, but at the moment I could see what he would be like as an old man.

“You know that thing’s illegal, right?” I said.

“It’s not something that’s a real concern just at the moment,” he returned, calmly.

“It should probably be cleaned. It’s not been touched since… well, I’m not sure of the last time John cleaned it.”

“It will be fine. They’re very simple instruments and Watson was always over-cautious. I didn’t clean my old one for years and it never had any problems.”

“That’s because John would secretly do it for you every few months.”

One of the small pleasures in life that everyone should get to experience at least once is to watch Sherlock Holmes’ face when he is informed that one of the normals has gotten something past him. I had to suppress a flicker of a smile at how thunderous he looked.

“Look,” I said, “Give it here and I’ll do it. The cleaning kit’s on the top shelf above the stove in the kitchen, if you’ll reach it down for me.”

I could hear him rummaging around in the cabinet as I released the clip, disconnected the slide, and popped out the spring. I laid everything down on the coffee table and accepted the kit when he returned and gave it to me. When I sighted down the barrel, I could see ample dust, and a fair bit of corrosion from the soggy English atmosphere. It only made sense, really. When Sherlock had died, John had lost any professional reason to carry a gun, and gained a strong personal reason to lock it away and leave it to rust. Dipping the cleaning swab into the wide-mouthed jar of solvent, I began passing it through the barrel.

“’In a self-defense situation, there will be many things you can’t control. The condition of your weapon is not one of them,’” I quoted.

“Did Watson say that?”

“No, though he’d have agreed with the sentiment. That was my stepfather. He was the one who taught me about shooting.”

Sherlock blinked at me. “I didn’t know you had a stepfather.”

“Like everyone else, I do actually have an objective existence apart from the parts you find interesting, Sherlock.”

I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care. I had been the one to put John back together after Sherlock’s quote-unquote death, and having him sitting calmly on my sofa irked.

“I only meant,” he replied, “That he wasn’t at your wedding.”

“He has congestive heart failure and travel is very difficult for him!” I snapped,

“Sherlock, why the hell did you do this?”

“Well, I had in fact been exposed as a fraud and-“

“Bullshit. You have been more or less cleared for two years and I’m sure your brother told you that. D.I. Lestrade had to demonstrate that you weren’t, in general, a criminal, because he wanted to keep his job. Fifty people, including me, by the by, came forward to tell stories of how you had solved cases that you couldn’t possibly have faked. The only real mystery remaining is this whole affair with Richard Brook, and frankly the best person to justify that would have been you.”

He scrubbed his hands through the bristles of his hair. “There was more.”

“So tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, and stared off into the space over my left shoulder. “When the head of an organization is removed, the organization generally remains. John Kennedy is shot, the United States persists. The death of Jim Moriarty left a thriving multinational criminal organization with a vacancy at the top for which there were numerous keen candidates. I have spent the last three years attempting to take advantage of this situation and dismantle its operations entirely.”

Something about the cold way he said “dismantle” made me think I really didn’t want to hear much about this process. I asked, “And you couldn’t have done that in your own persona?”

“No. Because- Moriarty was in many ways a remarkable man.”

The tone of this statement was pure admiration, and I rubbed my forehead where I could feel the old familiar “Sherlock” headache coming on. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say he founded a cult of personality, but in his immediate circle were several men who genuinely did admire him and support him in his goals, as opposed to the ordinary hangers-on who simply were in it for the profit.”

“So, his friends.”

“What?”

I sighed. “Never mind. Continue.”

#quarto's fics #warstan #Sherlock&Mary #major character death #Mary morstan #mary morstanning #ACD Mary in BBC Sherlock #which used to be a thing

1 note · View note

onisiondrama · 5 years

Photo

PART 18 - videos #34 &35

(Click here for video mirrors) - These are not my words or thoughts, I’m just summarizing what Greg / James is saying in his videos. Apologies for any offensive language or comments that may appear. - I am not repeating stories anymore and will replace these stories with brackets describing what he’s talking about. If you don’t know these stories you’re going to have to go back and read previous parts or watch his previous videos.

asking you [deleted?]

- He’s asking you to do something because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. He forgot to crop the top of a screen shot and he lost his Patreon, Younow, a couple other things, his twitch was temporarily suspended. He can’t do much to defend himself so he’s asking people to not be a sheeple. Look closely at what Sarah said in the beginning about grooming and photos and look at what she said recently. This is how you expose a liar. Their story changes based on their emotions and not reality. Classic BPD. Sarah’s twitter might disappear because of this video. [Threatened him, laughing at burning house, cocaine, prescription drugs] Document all these facts for him. She got a lawyer to silence him. Download all her videos about Greg and Kai. All someone would have to do is show them in court. Boom. Conflicting statements. When nothing adds up, you lose the court case. He asks you to make a video of all her statements. - He wants people to research. [She went after him because his BPD video.] Someone on discord said everyone involved has BPD. Greg says Billie doesn’t. The person says it seems like Billie just does what everyone tells her to do and agrees with them even if it’s not true. Greg says Ayalla has BPD or bi-polar and is Billie’s best friend. When Social Repose was threatening to expose Ayalla if she kept hanging out with Greg, she was running around crying. He doesn’t know if Ayalla will admit this, but she was marching around in his basement doing the sieg hail while saying the n word. He says she might be Jewish so he doesn’t know if that’s ok. Greg says he’s speechless. There were witnesses. Billie and Sarah saw it and Kai might have been there too. Greg says he dressed up as Hitler for a comedy sketch and has done the sieg hail as that character, but the hard r. He says he’s bleeped out “nidder” to sound like he’s saying it. - They have a text from Sarah saying it’s funny Ayalla is going after them when she tried to get Sarah to starve herself and sleep with her. This whole thing is a mess. - You can get this info yourself. You can look back at everything he said about Shiloh in the last 8 years. He says it’s weird Shiloh is older than Kai. - Someone wrote to Greg about when Shiloh was talking about BDSM, Greg doesn’t think their relationship was BDSM. He wasn’t into the collar stuff until Billie. She was the first person he explored that with. She was cool about it, even the basement thing until he broke up with her. This person said listening to Shiloh aroused him and he couldn’t control himself. Greg says that’s weird and he can’t use that in a video.

the episodes

- Greg announces he has things to do today so he doesn’t have a lot of time. - He was written again by the guy that gratified himself after hearing someone’s story about their relationship with Greg. This person offered Greg $250, Greg doesn’t know why. The guy’s email pointed out it’s weird everyone who is talking about the past seems so satisfied with themselves and not very sad about it. Greg says it’s weird Sarah created a twitter account just to attack him. You have to ask yourself what a victim would do and what someone who’s malicious would do? Would a victim start a twitter to obsess over and attack someone for 6 months? Probably not. [Real victims don’t want to talk about it, blah blah] It’s not like anyone who has PTSD from going to Iraq want to talk about how they accidentally shoot a little boy in the desert. One of Sarah’s first tweets was “I F-ED ONISION.” He says a real victim’s first tweet would be “please respect this. I’m talking to the police or a lawyer. I need to keep this private to keep the case integrity intact.” Going on a tirade of hateful tweet after hateful tweet and laughing at this person’s misery is what she did. [Laughed at his house burning, she said she would assault him.] Says a real victim might threaten to assault someone, but not laugh at the thought of someone’s house burning down. - Apparently a pizza delivery guy’s name was Greg and Sarah recorded herself telling him he has the same name as her ex boyfriend. She told him he was cuter than her ex, then gave him the tip. This is obviously not normal behavior. - Person in the email points out Chris Hansen’s dissatisfaction when Sarah admitted nothing happened when she was underage. Apparently Hansen was very upset about that because his whole thing is catching people who do things with underage people. When the main person who is behind all this is saying nothing happened when she was underage the whole thing would fall apart. - Greg has a theory you guys are dysfunctional or you would have seen the signs of Sarah doing things victims don’t normally do. You don’t go around bragging about it. You enabled her because you wanted it to be real, You need to look in the mirror and see what you’ve done. You raised tens of thousands of dollars paying a liar, good job on that [sarcastic]. - Multiple people sent him all of Sarah’s tweets so he could use them in court. He hasn’t reviewed them yet or the streams because they're painful to look at. That’s what people normally do when they don’t feel good about someone. They don’t start twitter and obsess over them. They want to avoid that person, that’s why he kicked her out of his life. - The person in the email said they gratified them self after hearing Shiloh’s story. Greg says that’s weird and odd, but this person told Greg what Shiloh said and that was the first time he heard it. [He broke up with Shiloh, she cheated, baby] Ever since then she’s been creepy with him. Shiloh, Sarah, and Billie apparently have been very good with keeping up with him, which is weird. Move on already. - He says apparently Shiloh said they would do it three times a day. Greg says that’s accurate, but then says it’s not. The first time they met, they had sex 8 times in 12 hours. The second time, he was moving to Canada for 3 months, they slept together 7 times in one thing. He was puking orange juice because he had too much vitamin C. She was rubbing his back and was very sweet and considerate. Says Hansen implied BDSM, but he doesn’t remember being kinky with Shiloh. He just got out of a marriage with someone who he barely slept with. - Greg says there is a person on adult sites who always rolls her eyes back and has seizures from the joy her body’s feeling. That’s what Shiloh would do all the time, which was crazy and awesome. Shiloh would tell him it was insane he could keep going and going with her. That was intense and cool. The first girl he was ever with and Shiloh had a weird thing in common. At some point they would zone out while doing it. [He demonstrates] He would ask if they’re ok and if he should keep going. They would tell him, “yeah, keep going [in a whisper]”. Greg says it’s weird, like they’re taking a break. That’s why he doesn’t know what anyone’s talking about with BDSM. That’s the weirdest thing they did. - Greg says there’s a similar video to the fake seizure video, the video where Shiloh keeps saying she loves him while pretending to be in an altered state. If you watch it you can clearly see something is mentally wrong. If a therapist or a psychologist looks at the footage they could probably diagnose her. It was one of the weirdest things in the world. She portrayed it to be real. He thought it was partially fake, that’s why he recorded it. Back then he was one of those Youtubers who would film anything because he wanted views. - There was another video where she reverted back years in her life and acted like she didn’t know who he was or where she was. If you see these videos, you know they’re fake. She’s very good at pretending. He recommends you watch them all to build a mental profile and realize there’s something wrong with her. [cheated, baby, Aliana] - Chris Hansen was willing to believe the most nonsensical stuff because he wanted something to be there. People watched Billie, Shiloh, and Sarah. He doesn’t know how people feel about Billie. They were upset she was boring because she didn’t have enough dirt, probably because she doesn’t have BPD. Sarah and Shiloh most likely have BPD. Sarah was on meds. If you look up Shiloh’s last boyfriend, he went in depth about what she did to him. [He went to jail, text got him off.] You see a lot of intent and evil. [Not how victims behave, he dumped them, malicious] It’s obvious when you look at it for what it is. Get woke.

11 notes · View notes

barbarawilson-moved · 5 years

Text

some other beginning’s end

this is a snippet from my dceu au WIP (in which i force the batfam into the snyderverse) that i’m posting here because it’s not actually ever going to make it into the fic! major trigger warning as dick is Not Doing Great emotionally and this is about a VERY near suicide attempt.

Dick wakes up, comes to, rolls out of bed—well, lifts himself off of floor—with an overwhelming sense of urgency, the drive that’s been missing from him for weeks, for months, for as far back as he can remember before the pounding headache takes back control of his thoughts.

It’s nearing two in the afternoon, so he drags himself to the bathroom and dry swallows six extra strength aspirin before making the call he knows he needs to make.

Bruce asks him to dinner, but something in Dick makes him flinch at the thought of sitting down to eat a full meal, at the lie he’d be telling the only family he has left. He makes some excuses to limit it to a meeting instead, an appointment. It’s better that way—detached and clinical. Bruce will understand that better than anyone.

Phone call made, Dick turns his attention to methodically cleaning his apartment. There’s not much food in the fridge: it’s been a while since he’s dragged himself out to get groceries, but that’s a bit of a saving grace now, because it means there’s less to chuck. He dumps all the trash he can find, mops the kitchen for what might actually be the first time, even heads down to his building’s laundry room to run a load.

He leaves the door unlocked when he leaves for Gotham. No point forcing Rohrback to damage decent real estate. He sees Bruce. He sees Alfred. He thanks them. He leaves.

He stops by Amusement Mile to fill the dead space in his schedule. If people want to tweet photos and speculate about why Dick Grayson is back in town, let them—it won’t be for long, anyway.

It times out just how he knew it would; the Brown Bridge is empty by the time he stops in the middle of it. He lifts his bike over the railing protecting the passenger walkway so any late night cars passing by won’t call the police or, god forbid, actually stop.

There’s one last call he has to make though, so he perches on the outer railing and pulls up the contact he could never bear to delete, taps on the number he never bothered to learn by heart.

Jason had never gotten around to personalizing his voicemail box. Dick clings to the robotic voice that answers his call, reciting numbers at him like it’s some sort of salvation, some foreign hymn.

The tone sounds. He takes a shaky breath, staring out over the river and trying not to see rooftops in the waves.

“Hey, it’s me. I—I know you aren’t listening, but. I went everywhere else, talked to everyone else. So now I’m only missing you.”

Over on the Gotham side of the bridge, sirens scream out in the near distance. Not approaching, just passing by.

“I just—I’m so sorry, Jay. I wasn’t, I didn’t…it wasn’t fair for you. I was never what you needed me to be, even when I started trying to be—to be a better brother. I told you, I said that…I said I’d be there and I wasn’t. J'ai merdé.”

The thoughts scramble in his brain faster than he can find the words with his tongue. “J’souhaite que—j’aurais…J’aimeras que tu sois ici.”

“I don’t regret taking either of you in,” Bruce had said, when Dick spoke to him at the manor today, when Dick had asked Bruce if he ever wished he could just undo everything, unfuck it all. “But I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay.”

“J’te regrette pas,” Dick tells Jason’s ghost. “mais…j’te dois—j’te dois le monde.”

He hangs up the phone, still staring down at the water through the tears blurring up his eyes.

Sirens ring out again from the city, and he turns to see the Batsignal lighting up the skyline. First time since October that GCPD have used it, probably.

A text rings through on his phone—from Bruce’s personal line, not the Bat’s.

Dinner next Sunday? I’m afraid Alfred’s going to insist.

Dick locks his phone and takes a deep breath. He wipes the tears from his eyes and takes one last look out below.

He unlocks his phone again, shakily types out a Sure, and climbs back into the walkway.

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #snippets #lms if u read also feel free to rb but if you tag as incest ill physically fight you #don't tell me dick's the robin who died in the dceu DEATH OF THE AUTHOR BABEY #this was Barely edited so look away from any awkward sentences #suicide #dceuau

4 notes · View notes

honeybadgerradio · 7 years

Text

Born Without a Gender? | Polecat Cast 116

The gender police begin their crackdown, the Chicago Pride march expresses their anti-semitism, and Vice doesn't like to have their stuff archived. Let's do this.

Support us monthly! http://www.patreon.com/honeybadgerradio

Support us one-time! http://www.feedthebadger.com

Subscribe to us on minds https://www.minds.com/HoneyBadgerRadio

Join our Facebook group! https://www.facebook.com/groups/honeybadgerradio/

Host Links:

Max Derrat’s YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCj8orMezFWVcoN-4S545Wtw Dr. Randomercam’s YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/user/DoctorRandomercam Scott’s Big and Robot Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCUqhBQXO2g08BmpftUZnXfg Hannah Wallen’s YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_7Bt0vnvdJqAwF8Ow8iT0g

[Download link] -----

Canadian Authorities Can’t Recognize Child Abuse When They See It By Max Derrat

Remember when you were in elementary school… and all the kids had regular, boring names like Scott, David, Kelly and Emma? Yet, there was that one kid who had a weird name like Ferdinand or Amaryllis… and all the kids picked on them for their name? We’d be all like… “god, their parents must really have it out for them to give them a name like that.” Well, I’ve got a story for you that is sort of a… let’s say… modern update to that childhood trauma. Let me introduce you to a Canadian parent named Kori Doty. She is a self-identified ‘non-binary trans person’, and is also a Max Derrat-identified child abuser. She recently had a child she named Searyl Atli. Since Searyl’s birth last November, Kori has been fighting to keep her baby’s gender off government records. In an interview with the CBC, Kori said she is “raising Searyl in such a way that until they have the sense of self and command of vocabulary to tell me who they are.”

Kori added: “I’m recognising them as a baby and trying to give them all the love and support to be the most whole person that they can be outside of the restrictions that come with the boy box and the girl box.” In order to reinforce her world view, she has been trying to get the provincial government of British Columbia to issue a birth certificate without a gender marker. While the baby has received health cards with an “undetermined” gender, Searyl has yet to receive a birth certificate to Kori’s liking.

So not only is Kori’s baby named Searyl, but the baby doesn’t have a gender. It’s almost like she wants the school-kids to crucify her child during recess. By the way, to all of those who are offended that I was referring to Kori as “she” rather than “they”… two things: 1) I don’t give respect to child abusers, and 2) suck my big fat yellow cock. Original Article: https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/3934423/gender-unknown-baby-registered/

The Pronoun Police By Mike J.

Canadian police in the Halton region have tweeted out the following last week, "DYK (Did You Know) If you're not sure what pronoun somebody uses, just ask. What are your preferred pronouns?". The now deleted tweet also included a handy chart denoting the proper usage of gender pronouns. The chart included traditional pronouns such as he, she, and they and lesser known pronouns such as ze, zir, and eir. It's no secret that this tweet follows in the wake of Bill C-16, the very same bill Professor Jordan Peterson criticized as infringing on freedom of speech. Bill C-16, which passed June 19th of this year, criminalizes using incorrect gender pronouns with fines and possible hate crime charges.

Original Article:https://heatst.com/culture-wars/police-advise-people-to-ask-others-preferred-pronouns-publish-gender-neutral-pronoun-chart/

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-37875695

http://archive.is/WA4YM

Progressivism Collapses Under Its Own Logic By Max Derrat

There’s nothing that makes me feel more satisfied than when I see the internal inconsistencies of progressive leftism exposed. Pro-tip to anybody who detests a particular segment of the radical leftist movement and wants to see it collapse: single out the lead voices and ask for their thoughts on Jews (I’m being facetious by the way).

About a week ago, during a gay pride parade in Chicago, three people were ejected for carrying pride flags emblazoned with a Jewish Star of David. When organizers tried to rationalize their decision later on, some bizarre statements were made. In a blog post on chicagodykemarchcollective.org, the flag carriers were accused of “expressing Zionist views that go directly against the march’s anti-racist core values.”

One of the flag carriers, named Laurel Grauer, said that she has marched for ten years with the flag. During the march, organizers, volunteers, and other marchers expressed views that can be summarized into one sentence: “You have to leave because you are making people feel unsafe. You are putting them in danger by being here.”

When Laurel expressed support for the State of Israel, she also tried to state a belief that there should be a free and independent Palestine. But nevertheless she was shut down with the following: “You cannot be Zionist and believe in a Palestinian state, Zionism is inherently racism.” Laurel followed up with the following question to one of the organizers right before she left: “So you are asking the two people carrying Pride flags with Jewish stars on them and the ‘God hates fags’ contingent?” The volunteer answered: “yes”.

Original Article: http://www.haaretz.com/us-news/1.797845

Vice Fighting Back Against Archiving

By Andrew G.

Archiving Services such as the Wayback Machine, archive.is, megaladon.jb and others, are now joining the ranks of Discord and 4chan as “right-wing” websites and online services, according to Vice News. Vice has changed its website so that it is very difficult to view some archived articles posted on their website. For example, while attempting to archive some Vice articles using the Way Back Machine, users will be greeted with a 404 error: “page not found.” While one can still take screenshots of webpages, screengrabs are always susceptible to claims of modification. A webpage can still be saved as html to one’s computer, but Web Browsers FireFox, Chrome, and Edge will have problems displaying the saved webpage, while only Internet Explorer is able to display the html in its entirety.

Vice has decided to go this route because they are “taking a stand against Racism, Bigotry, and Islamophobia,” and that archiving services are being used by “right-wing activists to discredit us and other reputable news outlets.” Vice claims that by archiving articles, Vice isn’t given the chance to “update, remove or edit” the original posts and that their reputation is being damaged in the process.

However, isn’t the point of archiving services supposed to “archive” what was originally written, as well as show the changes that have been made? And, should we be putting the trust in “news outlets” such as Vice to show any edits to articles they post?

Sources

http://theralphretort.com/vice-disabled-archiving-sites-against-them/

https://i.redd.it/hswa5437mg7z.jpg

A site that is able to be archived

https://web.archive.org/web/20170704133209/http://nj1015.com/spadea-addresses-officers-at-nj-police-honor-legion/

Check out the latest Honeybadgers episode.

5 notes · View notes

moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown · 7 years

Text

So...another post....because....i feel it needs to be said just one more time....with more understanding.

*sighs deeply* why do people assume because i write x reader fics i don't care about lin? Or any one i would write about, be it rami malek, or dan and phil when i was younger, or norman reedus when i was a big ol whore for the walking dead. Look, i have made many an angry post, many a post trying to defend what we write about. Here is the thing. In any fandom, for any human, fictional character, inanimate object anything! There are fans who will be crazy obsessed, hell in the kpop world, fans have sent bloody letters and shit. Those are obsessive people. That being said, that is out of line, that is crazy, and should not be tolerated. Breaking personal boundaries or stalking is not ever okay. If i wouldn't like it to happen to me, i wouldn't do that to another human being. Us who write x readers, well known blogs, we respect lin and his family, we have set tags for our own needs. So others don't see our i guess internal fantasies. Now, because i write fics about real people, it in no way, means i am A) going to send it to that person B) stalk said person C) call them daddy in real life. People who do that in periscopes or instalive or what have you, are either being funny, to themselves or friends they are with, or have mind vomit and that happens. To everyone, word and brain vomit just happen. We write because its nice to place ourselves into a fake world, note i said Fake, not real, not ever going to be real, world. I do not ever think anything i am saying, or writing, is real, so if i have a head cannon of lin thats - lin is the type to let you sit in his lap even when you complain that you are too heavy. Thats just me observing him in interviews or listening to him on a podcast and making an idea of maybe he would be like that. Head cannons and fics are based on our own ideas of what we think lin or any one we wrote about would be like. They could be true or so far from the truth its insane. But we will never know because we do bot no lin in real life, and never will, just the fact of life. So we all have to make our own, guesses of how we think said person would be like. If Lin was still on tumblr, which he isn't, not because shipping, or x reader fanfics. But because people in a whole different section of the fandom, were asking for the bootleg link to hamilton that someone who went, filmed against lins wishes, and people were making gifs and asking for the link, it made him very upset, because like he has said The video of the OBC is coming, we just have to wait for it. Simple. That is why he is no longer on tumblr. And he's a goddamn 37 year old man with a family and a 2 and a half year old, an actor filming a movie and so much more, he has twitter and that's all he has got time for. Meanwhile daveed is so privet with his life he has twitter and insta...and he barley uses those. He is just very focused on clipping and his projects. So yes we write about them. But we respect them, we keep to our side of the web, and we act respectful to lin by not sharing our stories and ship things with him, we retweet his tweets or make mood boards or other non shippy or x reader things and show those to him. Because he is not a fictional character to us. He is a role model, an idol, a hero, a human with a heart bigger then this world can hold. He is a loving father, husband, and son. He is an award winning genius. Who i have looked up to since i discovered hamilton. You wanna know why? Because as the only half POC in my entire family, i saw hispanic/latinx representation on broadway, in a place i loved, i saw a passionate latino man unafraid of who he is. I saw a real human, not a talking dog, or the things people say we are on the news. I saw myself, because since i was young me being half mexican was the joke in my family "Haha did you run jump or swim here?" "Shit cheynne get down the police are coming" "So i guess we have to change your last name, don't want the patrol to chuck you across the wall" Me being half mexican, was a joke, and i never realized until i was old enough and i saw how fucked up it was. Lin made me so proud to see a latino man, a latino in general be praised for breaking the wall, and most of the time no one commented on his race, why? Because it didn't matter. He wrote a beautiful story, he told a forgotten persons life, he made me cry, and laugh. Lin will always be my idol, my true role model on how to live, on how to treat people, to show that kindness is the key, to not fight back with harsh words, i have done that i know, i have been rude and snarky, yes. And that was not okay. I am sorry. To me, i am able and have been for years, i have been able to separate the fantasy lin, in my mind, the 'Daddy AF, plow me, etc.' Lin, from the very real in my heart idol and role model, father type figure lin. I can have my own world and write it out for fun, for my own sort of writing things, but always knowing, always, ALWAYS, knowing he is a real human, with emotions and feelings and a family. But people who call us creepy and gross and weird and obsessive and fucking disgusting. You don't seem to see we are also humans, real people, with feelings and emotions and take what you say to heart. A person wrote to me after i made a post and said, because of what people said in such a post as this, that they felt so guilty and had a full blown panic attack, and were going to delete all of there social media because of that. How is that okay, how is that fair, we respect everyone we write about, but people can't understand words they say or type can be just as hurtful as ours are to you. Now, we stay away from the main tags, or try to, its tumblr its gonna happen, we write we tag, if it gets a lot of notes, that is not in our control, block us so you don't see our fics...or scroll past it or select photo or gif. It is so much easier to scroll past us, then to be hateful or hurtful. As aaron burr once said in a marvelous musical. "Talk less. Smile more" In this i mean, scroll past, smile more. Cause guys "Love is love is love is love" kindness is what the world needs, lin said it himself. Remember, write what you want. Sing what you want. Dance how you want. Because we only have a grain of sands worth of time to do what we love, so don't waste it. "We only have a grain of sands worth of time on this earth...."

#lin manuel miranda #lin manuel #lin miranda #daveed diggs #hamilton #broadway #x reader #rpf

82 notes · View notes

breakingtheglasses · 7 years

Text

Born Without a Gender? | Polecat Cast 116

The gender police begin their crackdown, the Chicago Pride march expresses their anti-semitism, and Vice doesn't like to have their stuff archived. Let's do this.

Support us monthly! http://www.patreon.com/honeybadgerradio

Support us one-time! http://www.feedthebadger.com

Subscribe to us on minds https://www.minds.com/HoneyBadgerRadio

Join our Facebook group! https://www.facebook.com/groups/honeybadgerradio/

Host Links:

[Download link] -----

Canadian Authorities Can’t Recognize Child Abuse When They See It By Max Derrat

The Pronoun Police By Mike J.

Original Article:https://heatst.com/culture-wars/police-advise-people-to-ask-others-preferred-pronouns-publish-gender-neutral-pronoun-chart/

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-37875695

http://archive.is/WA4YM

Progressivism Collapses Under Its Own Logic By Max Derrat

Original Article: http://www.haaretz.com/us-news/1.797845

Vice Fighting Back Against Archiving

By Andrew G.

Sources

http://theralphretort.com/vice-disabled-archiving-sites-against-them/

https://i.redd.it/hswa5437mg7z.jpg

A site that is able to be archived

https://web.archive.org/web/20170704133209/http://nj1015.com/spadea-addresses-officers-at-nj-police-honor-legion/

New Honey Badger stuff

1 note · View note

guwop-aye-bro-blog · 7 years

Text

Some thoughts on the Facebook Killer and how we reacted to it.

Nothing good stems from Facebook live. The only time I remember it exists, someone is getting murdered on it. Sometimes I wish I could see the meetings that hatch these ideas. Does every social networking company gather around solely to ask each other how to (slightly) repackage what the other one is doing? Are Snapchat, Facebook and Instagram all under an umbrella, in some clandestine cabal? Let me know if I am on to something. Apparently, it took Facebook two hours and 14 minutes to take down the video of Robert Godwin Sr.’s murder. Mark Zuckerberg, likely reflecting on what a shitty idea Facebook Live is, said they’ve “got a lot of work to do.” Well, Mark, I’d suggest faster moderators. More importantly, however, a watchlist for whoever shares an article from Thought Catalog. The cesspool that resides in any and all Facebook comment sections, though? Beyond repair.

A little background on Sunday’s events. The 45 hour manhunt started with Steve Stephens going on Facebook live and literally killing somebody for the world to see. The victim, Robert Godwin Sr., 78, was a stranger. Stephens forced him to say his ex girlfriend’s name (Joy Lane) before shooting him. I haven’t seen the clip and don’t plan on it. However, I unknowingly heard the audio when 93x played it on Monday morning as part of their news segment. I would ask who was responsible for letting a snuff film play on the airwaves, but then someone would say 93x and I’d believe them. In a nutshell, he lost it over some relationship troubles and decided to take it out on the world. Almost two days later, Stephens was caught at McDonalds when he was waiting for some nuggets and fries, per the request of the quick thinking employee. This was the only sensible thing he did. If I’ve mustered up the lack of shame to order McDonalds, I will wait until the fries are ready, even if I’m on the run. All jokes aside, the idea of an elderly man being killed in cold blood on Easter shakes people up, understandably. In this instance, though, it shook them up enough to strip themselves of empathy and politicize it immediately. Good work.

The state of discourse is warped. Given the short shelf life for stories, stormy political climate, and ideologies weaponized ad nauseum, a productive approach to the conversation is, at best, uncommon. If you’re a rational person, this isolated, domestic incident is better left apolitical in its early stages. Even if your argument holds weight, you’re just going to piss people off. During the last election cycle, however, I’ve noticed the Internet throwing their two cents in all at once, hoping to be the first with a take. Some immediately shoehorn an agenda, which is obviously the tasteful option. Others, become forensic detectives and blood spatter analysts overnight. Ever heard of a crisis actor? A stranger with an Android screenshot wants to tell you about it. All of this, of course, under the guise of empathy for Godwin Sr. and his family - or in their words, “that old man that died on Facebook Live or whatever.”

If you’ve spent any time on Twitter lately, social justice is as present as ever. Saying anything deemed “problematic” will make you go viral in the worst way. You don’t want those problems. Frankly, they aren’t out of line most of the time. I’ll always encourage mobilizing against racism and careless language. A few of the younger users tend to virtue signal and leave it at that, but whatever. When I was 17, I liked Ron Paul. They’re far better off than I was then. But, we’re all at risk of getting lost in the sauce.

Within an hour of the story breaking, there were tweets pinning the Cleveland shootings on complex things like hypermasculinity. For the record, it’s no secret that patriarchy played a role here. Men will be destructive, selfish and crazy and still manage to do the mental gymnastics to blame a woman. It’s a tried and true trope. However, “snapping” over a woman versus commanding a stranger to recite their name before ending their life is a little different. Call me crazy, but I think Steve had some screws loose.

Twitter user GeauxGabby, dubbed “The Most Annoying Person On Twitter” by the good people at Bossip, had this to say:

“14 people were just murdered because this man is hurt over his girl. THAT IS HYPERMASCULINITY.”

This was part of a rant about men being murderers. I’ll never attempt to invalidate a woman speaking up about something like that, but it took a strange turn when she got specific. Suddenly, she started to focus solely on black men. I didn’t know who she was so I decided to do my Googles. In a few articles, GeauxGabby is named as a “member” of Black Twitter, although I don’t think she is warmly embraced as such. Her bio is adorned with a #BlackLivesMatter hashtag, as well as a reminder that a retweet does not mean an endorsement. The latter may come as a relief to many.

One of the (deleted) tweets in the thread said “N*****S ARE PISS” echoing sentiments shared with Darren Wilson, George Zimmerman and probably the entire Trump administration. She came to this conclusion so early that the information isn’t even correct - we’ve yet to hear about the 14 other murders. Usually I’d give a pass for misinformation when a story is developing, but not when it’s used to support flippant, dangerous accusations. It’s disheartening to see a valid critique of hypermasculinity mutate into an attack on black men. There’s a lot of opportunities to be thoughtful being squandered by “drag culture.” Nobody wants to unpack ideas when they’re wielded as social currency and provocation.

On the other side of the spectrum, Pepe frogs were doing what they usually do. The reactionary right wing response was expectedly tone deaf, clamoring for a response from Black Lives Matter. How stuck on semantics can you be? An organization against police brutality and systemic oppression isn’t obligated to speak on some lunatic. Immediately, conservative pundits began digging for evidence that Stephens was affiliated with BLM and Islam. It’s almost like they’re trying to smear people they hate, if you can believe that. A comment on the Blue Lives Matter website (I got there on accident, don’t bother visiting unless you want to buy a wristband or something) said that they were expecting an “outcry” towards police when they catch him. How nauseatingly out of touch (or just plain racist) do you have to be to assume that the same people that defended Eric Garner are going to be crusading for this asshole?

Finally, the conspiracy theorists. Now that Alex Jones is doing the pump fake in court, I was worried that I’d be without my dose of crazy when I need it. My fears subsided when I saw a Facebook page juxtapose Christopher Dorner and Steve Stephens, suggesting they were the same person. This was after someone posted an anecdote about their Dad breaking down why the video was fake. Usually I trust Dads, but I don’t think everyone is Dexter Morgan. There were points about the blood drying too quickly, the shot not being realistic, etc. In fact, this theory is dumber than “Dexter” got after John Lithgow called somebody a c*nt. That’s saying something.

These conspiracy theories imply that professional actors are used by the government to deceive the public. They believe that the same people are used in multiple instances. For example, the Boston Marathon bombing and the Sandy Hook massacre were theorized to use the same Academy Award winners. They have gone so far to personally attack the parents of children slain in the 2012 school shooting, and I’m assuming the same will be done to Godwin Sr.’s family if history is any indication.

I’m at a loss as to why they would hire the same person to appear in multiple publicized tragedies and events. Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep a few on retainer? Can they not afford more actors? Actually, can I be a crisis actor? If someone could suggest a template for a resume or do some press shots for me, I’d really be interested. All I have to do is show up and cry, which is what I usually do when I log on to Facebook anyway.

All in all, I don’t really have a thesis here. Sorry to say, but these knee jerk reactions rendered Godwin Sr.’s death into a contest to see who was the loudest in the room. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure whether we project our narcissism whenever we can or have just turned into desensitized shitheads. Look at the president - both options are viable. Regardless, someone died, and I was a bit disturbed (albeit not shocked) at the immediate attempts to politicize and twist the situation to fit a narrative. It’s not a bad thing to just write someone like Stephens off as crazy and leaving your critique to the wayside while families mourn and communities heal. In fact, it may stop us from treating the news like a microwave.

John Dorcy

0 notes

rennyji · 3 years

Text

June 3rd tweets...wondering, thoughts, relationships, past, normal tweets...

June 3rd tweets...as follows...-

-You know something, I mentioned how I like the name Rachel and once “knew of”(not know) a girl named Rachel. I remember being in one of the reading rooms in the library at Binghamton, during my last year there. -

-Before I figured this girl was going out with someone, random girls would shout the name “Rachel” in the quiet of the reading room- alluding to my interest reaching an audience-

-...but in hindsight, why shout the name...was i to react to it in someway? Or was it because this cr*p started a little earlier?! I mean, what?, shout the name and see how I react? On “what ‘level?’” This girl would always post a profile pic with two of her best friends.-

-On one occasion, I told a guy I was interested in this girl. One of her best friends was sitting a distance away, diagonally, at another table, in the food court. I’ve always wondered if this girl had super sonic hearing...-

-or is something relaying what I’m saying...the very next day, after my conversation,-

-I go to the coffee kiosk in the library and there are girls acting differently...when the girl dates a mechanical engineering major, after Easter or spring break, I go through the dining hall and there are random girls with the look, “lol you lost ur chance”...-

-then when I’m at the Starbucks up in Binghamton, there’s another best friend taking a picture of me through the glass window of the starbucks. Was that to show her friend that I’m not bothered about anything or because they were feeding into a medium? It could be-

-the medium as there were other kids with cameras...I think I remember telling my own friends about it. When I wrote about the girl on Facebook in Albany, a friend from a part time job in Binghamton messaged me on Facebook saying it’s a bad idea. -

-I guess I forgot 2remove him before writing was intended. But the thing with this is, in my calculus class in Albany, there was white male - little older than the rest- on 1day, who seemed enthusiastic to talk to me. Post writing on Facebook, he looked serious and ignoring me.-

-How could all of these social or environmental reactions happen within a day?! While I was in freedom apartments in Albany, there was what sounded like these slight male/female voices for a brief time while I was only there. Were those my roommates or...-

-questions questions, is cr*p American psychology waiting for something like this as part of their ridiculous methodology for some sissy American girl treatment? Trust me, in saying that I’m not advertising myself as “gangsta.” What do you think of me? -

-You see a soft angle to a multi angle personality and think I’m going to sensitively handle or cannot handle everything? What is my focus, and who is my audience?- remember that from the complaint form writing?! Am I not repeating everything from 11 years ago?-

-Compared 2habits now like buying sh*t, back then I was working out &swimming @ the local YMCA. So what is this cr*p about?! When I went to the FBI office in Bethlehem, NY , before the agent I spoke with, spoke to me, him &a woman on the upper floor of that area had these looks -

-on their faces like why is “he” here... when I wrote on a complaint form he suggested-probably as part of the f*kin country’s conspiracy to get me to write all day everyday- about certain kids, they walk past me, enraged, the next day. -

-When I went to Guilderland police department in the middle of the night, there was an officer behind a computer screen and an female officer talking to me. After talking to me partially, the female officer goes to the guy at the computer and I hear “what! You means it’s true?!”-

-Then she returns and tells me that what I’m saying is nothing. This much denying and getting people to follow instructions. I tell people to do something good with their lives, for themselves, they won’t do it. But you manage the world to be fake around me!-

-How is that, why is that? Remember you racist f* of orchestrators, in the end of this, one of us will be ruined. Whites and blacks, see your country in all its glory.

now in shifting the mood, focus...moving onto the next thing...

so a thought on relationships...-

-I believe before meeting a woman to be your girl friend or wife, having a career or at least a promising academic career, is essential. I means it’s different if ur just friends. When I first started college with my first major of engineering, it wasn’t going well. -

-In trying 2also have a good routine/schedule/full life, I still made time 4working out, part time jobs, &a girl friend. But as engineering went south, despite the great girl friend (she would walk from her off campus apartment to the campus library to study with me at 6 am),-

-I didn’t feel comfortable being in a relationship or asking someone out, when priority wise, my academic career was on the line. I want to have a life like my friend Sean and his wife. -

- Both of them have degrees, both of them are lawyers, both of them have each other’s back in all aspects-what a quality life you can build like that. They were best friends when we were all in college-What a privilege. -

-In my opinion, a career or academic career is essential 2a relationship, because when, in whatever regard, things get serious, u have a way of supporting each other or a potential way of supporting each other. When married or in a relationship, I want 2be an asset 2my partner, -

-I want 2make her day, and I want her to make mine. Even with the concept of flings, a career or academic career is essential. I mean regarding that, I feel Im from a different time. Amongst present college kids and that age group, things seem to be liberal and ok being liberal.-

-I mean, I went 2college in 2006 when Facebook 1st started- from a different time. When I’d interact with kids as a Residential Consultant ( label for IT Support part time jobs for college dorms) while living in the dorms in 2007 and 2008, I noticed every year, students change-

- in personalities. I think 2006 freshman were the last of an era, at least at Binghamton. I went to schools in the 90s where they tell you to act responsibly and be mindful of the consequences of your actions in a relationship and elsewhere- different time.-

-When I transferred to the party school, maybe my peers of the time thought I’m a freshman or that I’m a teenager. But I was in my very early 20s. I grew up with a private education and transferred to a state school- a different sub culture. -

- I was in grade school when Britney Spears came out with “Oops I did it again,” the age of the Spice Girls, and the maca rana (the dance, if that’s how it’s spelled). If a fling goes south, with no career or academic career, how do you take care of things?...-

-I mean in most cases, not the kinda thing you’d ideally want to go to your parents about. In the time I grew up, having a lot of girl friends or flings put women off. It ruins ur chances of meeting that dream girl for the future. -

-But nowadays, I think people think or are taught differently or are set one way by their friends. Honestly, I don’t know what to make of things anymore - not in a good way or a bad way. -

-I think women as a whole have changed. U always hear guys are after only 1 thing, but there was 1 girl I liked, who I wasn’t sure liked me, there were some interactions like we became Facebook friends, then all of a sudden she deletes me without cause &goes a step further to -

-block me- a little extreme. You get curious and manage to see the profile pic of her under the covers with the lead guy in a band. To make someone jealous? Or wanting to fulfill a - I guess - a girls dream of being with a guy in a band?..-

-no offense to him, but I don’t think on my worst day, I’d lose a girl to him, but whatever. Even compared to her, or in general, I don’t get how girls pick guys. -

-Point being women can be strange and have changed over time. On that note, I think it happened in April. In Binghamton, it was a time for spring dances at the school, and I couldn’t help but think, amidst her friends, -

-this girl would wanted to take part in something like that or might feel left out. There was a time I’d see her going up the stairs to the dorm as I’d go down, and she was carrying a red suitcase with I think wheels and a handle. -

-Might remember it wrong. I thought maybe she has a strict family and they make her go home on the weekends in the beginning and she just wants to live her life to the fullest, like in what she may feel her friends are doing. -

-While I’m a solo act since the first grade despite passing friends and the interest of others(due to the story that comes after this whole thought/section), she needs friends and clearly gets supportive friends..I mean I could be reading into the whole thing...-

-but that was my impression...when her mother (or I think it was cuz it’s different from the pictures online) came to pick her up at the end of the school year, I kind of waved goodbye to her, and as they were driving, they paused for a moment, and I couldn’t help but wonder if-

-her mother wasn’t asking her about the boy that waved at her. My school wasn’t going well and I couldn’t dance. I was hoping she would find someone, but letting go of an interest for responsibility is a sacrifice that requires effort.-

-I mean you wait for a combination of characteristics and the universe delivers at the most inconvenient time. When I’d go to Church around that time, out of my interest and resulting thoughts for the girl, I’d pray she’d find someone good for her.-

-Kind of feel like doing stuff like that as part of the aforementioned effort a sentence or two ago. If there was anything to be angry about, it was the psychotic after effect. She gets the guy and randomness follows for me.-

-In order to be away from familial and cultural obligations on a level beyond college, I need a career, and for that I need a good degree, all so that I can live and experience life to the fullest. I couldn’t help but feel there were those who’d read into my actions. -

-All that said, pull something like that while dating me, I’m Not so well wishing or understanding, or forgiving that is if it happened to a couple dating. -

-My whole life of going to catholic schools and all boys high school, I aimed for the dream of making the prettiest woman my best friend in college and marrying her.-

-Then this present day 11+ year “situation” happened, messing up my academics, limiting my career options, keeping women as a whole away from me...I mean, such was my dream, as mentioned, as a kid and in my teenage years and 20s. -

-Now I’m in my very early 30s and my dream about a woman seems to carry no value or effect. The dream just seemed like a waste of time (although no dream, especially marrying a best friend should be) cuz life itself went out of its way to go upside down for me. -

-I mean in hindsight, you wonder, did you have high morals, think too much, or are you in fact right that the rest of the world didn’t think enough or think things through. I mean, in all humility, 11+ years ago, I was a pretty decent looking guy...-

-.if nothing else, I had the thickest of hair and it was long...at that time, I had so many female prospects but stayed focused on my dream...-

-here I am 11+ years later, bald, losing muscle and gaining weight from inflicted lifestyles by the orchestrators, tired, and having the world on one team or one side while I’m on another.-

-It makes you think about morals, right and wrong, and a bunch of things like that, as ur left alone and bored out of ur mind, feeling like in a pretty jail cell’s bed, for all these years. -

-I think right & wrong, boils down 2 whats right “for an individual,” at a particular point in their life. In life, there are rules, religion, traditions, cultures...but ur job as a person is 2 live in each second, making both smart & wise decisions, as appropriate 4 ur life, -

-without caring about what others think. Don’t model your life on anyone, but your goals and dreams. Going back to the main point, Time and opportunities were stolen from me, and here I am today, in a different world, with the dream squashed.

Regarding something mentioned in the previous section/thought/set of tweets, here's a tale from the past:-

-You wanna know how long my dream of marrying my best friend dates back? Here’s a story. Although born and brought up here, when I was in pre-k, I didn’t speak that much English, because I spent time with my paternal grandmother mostly. -

-She would speak to me in our Indian dialect, and with my parents being Indian immigrants, she was of the belief, “why does their son need to learn English?” In pre-K, there was an Indian girl that I friended and spent all of my time with. -

-Our parents friended each other and carpooled and we went over each other’s houses and birthday parties. While she gathered together in a circle with her girl friends, I’d hover around her.-

-In the same way, I expect potential girl friends and my wife to teach me how to dance, my kindergarten friend would teach me how to bike ride and roller blade. She was my courage. -

When we were in kindergarten, if she was absent from school, I would run away from school. I managed, on one such occasion, to escape my kindergarten teacher’s notice, and ran for home, as the school was 5 min away from my old house near central ave in Yonkers.-

-My dad was walking home and caught sight of me, and I forget if he took me back to school or took me home with him. When I graduated from that school, the kindergarten teacher was sure to write about that in my year book. That was my relationship with this girl. -

-Then, as first grade approached, her father, a doctor, had a job transfer far away. She was going to leave me. It was something I had to accept about my first friend as first grade approached.-

-But at that time, I decided I would find a replacement to be my best friend, and marry her. That’s the origin of the dream the orchestrators squashed.

and now, normal tweets...-

Was listening 2"All 10's" playlist on Spotify the other day. Heard this girly song called Shower, by an artist w/a very girly name of "BeckyG"..Despite transitioning from Memories-Kid Cudi/David Guetta-I couldn't help but think ofMyself dancing w/a potential daughter 2that song.

Bad Blood music video from Taylor Swift...with all those Wonder Woman like women in the video, makes a guy wish he was taller to be with them...

I heard on the news that you should wash you hands with soap for 30 seconds after touching money, as cash and coins have been handled by who-knows-how-many-people-doing-whatever... I wonder if anyone else does it...kind of a pain, and more incentive to use the card...-

-especially if you get rewards for using it or get benefits...

How do eat your yogurt? When I eat my cup of Greek yogurt, with one lick off the spoon-without too much tongue exposure-I consume my yogurt. I mean, I eat it kind of like a chocolate soft cone from Carvel, not like cereal.

Yeah life is a journey...awaiting my destination, as I’ve been traveling for 11+ years...

Why isn’t there a Wegmans in Yonkers/Bronxville?! You can still shop there through InstaCart App...you get some exotic stuff like Japanese energizing cold green tea in a can...

0 notes

mondkendrick · 6 years

Text

Meet Blithe. She’s an excellent new pop entity

Blithe Saxon’s single Mission came out this week, and jolly good it is too. The song first made its way to Popjustice alongside the rest of the tracks that will probably form her debut EP, and there’s some big stuff on its way.

What most stood out from listening to the new tracks was just how much personality seemed to be tumbling out of the songs. Blithe seemed like a new popstar worth getting to know.

So a few weeks ago we met in London for a fact finding mission disguised as lunch. An interview, is how some people would describe the whole scenario.

Here’s what was unearthed.

Blithe says she sounds contemporary and relatable and “very pop but with a dark undertone and a soulful influence” which, well, is the same as everyone else, but Blithe does do it very well. “The subject matters can be hard hitting but the music sounds quite fun,” she continues, explaining that artists she would be happy to see on the ‘Fans Also Like’ section of her Spotify profile include Billie Eilish, Troye Sivan, Khalid, Rihanna, Camila Cabello and Bebe Rexha.

Blithe’s first concert involved seeing Beyoncé, with her mum, in 2007. “The concert that changed me was Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream tour when I was 14: I elbowed my way to the front and cried my eyes out. I knew I wanted my pop career to look something like that — a spectacle, and beautiful, and amazing. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. It really changed me.”

Blithe grew up in Rugby. Her dad (“an arsehole … I don’t care if we’re related or not”) is out of the picture but Blithe’s mum brought her up on Mariah, garage, and mixtape CDs she got off her mates. “She’s super independent,” Blithe says. “She was piss-poor and moved from Coventry to Rugby with nothing, but she worked her arse off and eventually started managing cafés and restaurants. She’s the most inspiring person ever.”

Blithe’s releasing her music independently, which is what a lot of artists say when actually they’re secretly signed to a big record label, or are about to be. “It’s really independent!” is her comment on that. “I don’t think I do anything the right way, or how other people perceive I should do it,” she adds, saying that she’s using her independence to “release what I want when I want, and choose my team, and who’s involved.” So there you go. We’re saying Polydor by Feb.

Her Instagram feed 1 reveals that, yes, she’s been to LA, and, yes, she’s had a photo taken at the pink Paul Smith wall. The pink wall is strange, isn’t it? If Paul Smith had tried to create something Instagrammable it probably would have sunk without a trace, but simply painting a wall pink became something unstoppable. WHAT, ONE WONDERS, will be Blithe’s ‘pink wall’ — the thing about her persona that future fans obsess over? “I tried to manufacture things early on and I realised it’s so secondary,” she says. “Early on I really wanted that manufactured thing: I wanted to be perfect, I wanted it to be ‘oh my God she doesn’t do anything wrong’. I’ve scaled all that back and I’m trying to focus on what’s primary to what I’m doing: making music I like that hopefully other people will like. Everything else will come naturally. I’m still on an artistic journey and there’ll come a point where there’s a ‘thing’ I do, I’m sure, but I’m not there yet and I don’t have the energy to focus on that now.”

Sainsbury’s is Blithe’s supermarket of choice. She likes contactless payments. She is not collecting Lego cards, she does not have a Nectar card and no she does not want a receipt. “They do ask you a lot of questions,” she says, and she is right.

We all like an honest popstar, don’t we? But there are shades of grey here. Take Lily Allen and Jesy from Little Mix: both are straightforward people, but at the end of the day only Lily would be likely to tweet that they’d shat themselves. “There’s stuff I’m not ready to talk about,” Blithe says, mysteriously. “I’m not sure yet what it’s appropriate for people to know.” Is some of this stuff already in her songs, if we look hard enough? “Probably,” she laughs. “I’m more on the Lily Allen and Cardi B end of the spectrum than, say, Jesy from Little Mix, but I’m not totally unfiltered.”

In her first flat in London, when she was 16, she and her friends threw stuff off the balcony and accidentally hit a police officer. She didn’t get arrested, but she did have a ‘run in’ with ‘the law’ on another occasion, for WHAT SHE SAYS was being on the receiving end of a fight. “The police were nice actually,” she remembers. “They gave me a Vogue magazine and extra blankets in my cell and the police officer complimented my mugshot, but I didn’t get to keep a copy.”

Blithe’s worked in a lot of London nightclubs. She has, for example, worked on the door at atrocious venues like Mahiki. This leads to the inevitable question: how many ex-members of Blue has she encountered? The answer is: two.

If some of this is starting to sound slightly familiar, read on!!!

Blithe went to Sylvia Young’s school and was in the same year as Dua Lipa. Blithe was only a part time student at Sylvia’s — it’s not as expensive as the full-time option, and she used to catch the train down each week. “I made friends with the teachers and used to sneak into the adult classes,” she adds. “We couldn’t afford to pay for them. Sometimes you’ve just got to find other ways in haven’t you?”

A spell at Sylvia Young’s usually results in hilarious TV ads and appearances in Holby City. Blithe insists none of these exist but she did get some panto work, including Cinderella in Coventry. “It was my first paid performing job and I got fired on the spot for spending too long on my phone and bad time keeping,” she remembers. “I was young. It hurt at the time but then I was like, ‘oh fuck you’. They still paid me and I got Christmas off.”

She admits that things on the panto and theatre school scene probably weren’t helped by the fact that she would turn up “with a nose ring, highlights, tiny shorts with my bum hanging out, and biker boots”. Why did she wear that stuff for a panto? “I didn’t really care,” Blithe decides. “I felt comfortable like that. My singing teacher would make a remark every time but I was like, ‘send me home, except you can’t send me home because I’ve paid to be here’.” So why was it so important for Blithe to challenge authority? Was she wearing all that stuff because she wanted to, or because she knew teachers didn’t want her to? “I think I challenge everything I can,” she sats. “But it was an insecurity thing. I knew subconsciously that those things would bring me attention. Maybe not the most positive attention. But now it’s part of my being. If I tried to contain it I couldn’t.”

But things are better now, right‽ “I get fired a lot,” she admits, when she talks about occasional stints working in clubs. “I don’t really like authority or being told what to do or being treated ‘less than’, and I’ll tell people when that happens, which people aren’t a fan of.” An example, if you please? “Someone will say, ‘Blithe, can you do this thing?’, and I’ll say no, then I’ll go out for a cigarette for half an hour, and then I’ll get fired.” Right. “The last place I got fired from, I called my boss an arsehole. Actually it might have been cunt.” Who among us, etc etc etc.

Blithe believes we should all embrace each other for who we really are rather than some nebulous idea of of perfection. But what about the social media arseholes who ‘really are’ a load of bellends making lives miserable? And what if we think we might be psychopaths or something? “Well, don’t hurt anyone,” Blithe clarifies. “I’m a bit rough round the edges at times — I can be outspoken and trying to hold that in gave me anxiety. I hate being ‘nice’ and forgettable. I’d rather be remarkable, when it comes naturally to me. I don’t want people to walk away and go, ‘what’s her name again?’”

You can tell a lot about someone by how they respond to the question “have you ever fallen in a hole?” In this instance Blithe’s immediate response is to ask whether this relates to “k-hole or pothole?”; she has fallen in neither, she says. When asked what holes she has been in her response is: “Vaginal?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, feels like an appropriate spot to bring this trot around the paddock of Blithe to an end. There is more to Blithe than meets the eye and there’s presumably more to Blithe than she’s letting on, but in summary:

Blithe is a good popstar.

Blithe makes good pop music.

And that’s just the ideal combo really isn’t it?

. Blithe’s Mission is out now, there’s an EP on its way and she’s all over ‘the socials’.

Note: this feed has undergone an EXTREME tidy up since we spoke, ie she basically deleted everything↩

from Popjustice https://ift.tt/2OMRiTW

0 notes

sumofmanythings · 7 years

Text

Must We Always Take the Blame? (Toxic Masculinity and Violence)

Easter Sunday a man by the name of Steve Stephens murdered Robert Godwin, Sr., live on Facebook. This murderer randomly targeted Mr. Godwin and made him say the name of a woman who we later discovered was his ex, before shooting him dead. The entire act was shown live on a now deleted Facebook video. This man, who ironically works as a case manager with a children’s behavioral health agency, went on a rant and proceeded to blame his ex for his actions. His ex is in protective custody and committed suicide this morning. Many people ponder why someone would do such a heinous act. Many believe he is mentally ill but I’m just not buying it. To make matters even worse, there are quite a few who blame his ex-girlfriend. I cannot tell you how disgusted I have been reading the comments on social media. It’s easier to blame this on a mental illness than address the elephant in the room.

Toxic Masculinity…

Toxic masculinity is the socially constructed and widely disseminated perception of men as dominant, violent, and controlling of the feminine. This type of masculinity sets men up to hate women, fear the LGBTQ community, and harbor an especially violent and vehement hatred for Trans women and gay men of color. The prevalence of toxic masculinity does not imply that all men are inherently violent. In fact it suggests the opposite: that men (or anyone of any other gender) are inherently neutral, and social and cultural conditioning creates violent men. This version of masculinity is unemotional, sexually aggressive, and heterosexual by default. As Amanda Marcotte writes, "it is a specific model of manhood geared toward dominance and control." It is everywhere we look, yet it is rarely named or explicitly discussed as cause for our social ills. Toxic masculinity is closely tied to rape culture, homophobia, gun violence, and domestic abuse. – Emily Price (Toxic Masculinity: Why aren’t we talking about this epidemic and its role in violent crimes? Xojane.com 6.24.2016)

These are just a few of the women murdered at the hands of ex-boyfriends and ex-husbands in the past few months. Just last week in Chicago, a judge was murdered and it was revealed today that his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend is being charged. According to reports, the suspect stalked the girlfriend for several weeks before the attack.

CALL A THING A THING…

"This toxic idea of masculinity, therefore, pressures men to view women as inferior, perceive sex as an act of conquest, and see violence as a way to establish dominance over others. Toxic masculinity isn’t only harmful because it condones only one way for men to behave; it also contributes to domestic violence by leading men to believe that they must establish dominance over women, and that they can do so through violence. Toxic masculinity hurts male domestic violence survivors as well. When men experience domestic violence, they often face very little support and resources. Toxic masculinity keeps men in perpetual fear that they might seem soft, weak, or emotional. It stigmatizes men who cry, denigrates men as “pussies” if they show emotion, and teaches men from a young age that it’s not manly to show weakness. As a result, male survivors of domestic violence are unlikely to report their assault, and even if they do report, they are often not taken seriously by the authorities—especially if the perpetrator was a woman. In this way, both men and women can be victims of domestic violence, and both men and women are hurt by unrealistic and violent standards of masculinity" -- The Harvard Crimson 9/22/2016

There is a pattern in this case that doesn’t involve mental illness; it involves men who are narcissistic and driven by a deep hatred for women and the need to control them. It is the mindset of an abuser and a predator. According to domesticviolence.org, there are several common characteristics among batters, they are controlling, manipulative, often see themselves as victims and believe that men have a pre-ordained right to be in charge of all aspects of a relationship. It’s all about power and control and it’s not always physical. Batterers use sexual abuse, verbal abuse, psychological and emotional abuse, spiritual abuse, economic abuse and social abuse to control the people they are in relationship with. Domestic violence happens frequently with 1 in 3 women and 1 in 4 men who have been victims of physical violence by an intimate partner. Over 1500 women are killed each year by husbands or boyfriends. The consequences of leaving an abusive partner can be deadly. Those are alarming numbers!!! For those who survive, they often live a life of fear, constantly wondering if they are being stalked or wondering if they will ever be truly safe. The court system offers little to no comfort, as abusers frequently ignore orders of protection. Abusers are rarely penalized for their actions because society looks at domestic violence as a personal issue. In addition, many do not understand how a person could allow someone to manipulate and control them in that manner. So instead of compassion, there is plenty of judgement and disdain for victims of abuse.

We let abusers off the hook and blame their victims instead.

"Abuse is not an accident. It doesn’t happen because someone was stressed out, drinking or using drugs. Abuse is an intentional act that one person uses in a relationship to control the other. Abusers have learned to abuse so they get what they want. It may be physical, sexual, emotional and psychological. They often have low self-esteem and do not take responsibility for their actions, frequently blaming the victim for causing the violence." -- Domesticviolence.org

A Culture of Victim Shaming

Chris Brown beats Rihanna and I see meme’s cracking jokes about it and then the slew of questions like, “well what did she do to make him so upset”? Evelyn Lozada gets head-butted by Chad Ochocinco and the victim blaming continues, “well she fights with women on that show, so you know…Karma?”, Columbus Short and his now ex-wife have a domestic incident and celebrities such as D.L. Hughley slam her for “messing up his money and putting their business out in the street”. Floyd Mayweather serves time for domestic abuse then “slut shames” his ex on social media posting information about her abortion and we laugh about it. The first video of Ray Rice dragging his now wife out of an elevator unconscious had folks like Stephen Smith say women should be careful not to provoke a man to attacking her. Solonge attacks Jay Z and men and women mock him for being a punk for not hitting her back? Ceelo green tweets comments about rape saying is it rape a woman can’t remember? Sandra Bland is murdered and people question why she felt the need to “speak up” to police. Now this, a man has murdered another human being and I see “She should have just called him” or “she should have slept with him”.

Seriously?

I’ve seen some of the most ignorant statements regarding the horrific murder of Robert Godwin, Sr., but none more disturbing than the idea that somehow his girlfriend could have stopped this crime from occurring simply by “calling him” or “giving him some”. When dealing with an abusive individual, there is no pleasing them. You can do everything they ask and still find yourself in harm’s way. Abuse is the act of controlling another person and exercising power over them and it doesn’t stop when you “do what they want”. I know from experience. I spent 10 years of my life walking on eggshells, trying to be the “perfect wife” for someone who sought to silence and control me. Even when I left, it didn’t end. The threats, the intimidation, and the manipulation continued. Quite honestly, 8 years later, I still deal with this. My life has never been the same. This is my “new normal”. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think he may “pop up” or “reappear”. They (abusers) act like their actions are acts of love but they only want you to return so they can control and manipulate you again. It’s never about wanting you; it’s about the desire to control another person’s life. The idea that this woman could have prevented anything is absolutely insane and ignorant. The fact that this murder specifically said, “Say her name because she is the reason this is happening to you” lets me know that this man was completely sound in his decision. It’s an ultimate act of manipulation; he wants her to think that this is all her fault and that she made him do this. In his final act of manipulation and control, he leaves his girlfriend with the lasting idea that, ALL OF THIS WAS HER FAULT! It's the ultimate act of cowardice from the mind of a narcissist. The fact that there are men and women who actually perpetuate this ridiculous idea is disgusting! He made a conscious decision to end an innocent man’s life because he lost control and power. HE DID THIS! NO ONE ELSE IS TO BLAME!

When does it end?

When do we deserve the right to exist as we are and be looked at with some humanity? Where arethe men defending our right not to be hit, our right not to beaten, our right not to have our bodies violated against our will, our right not to be violated and publically humiliated? Why are we telling our daughters, how not to get raped or abused (as if there is such a thing) instead of teaching our sons to not rape and not abuse? Why are we constantly telling women how emotional we are instead of teaching men how to manage their emotions? WHERE ARE YOU? When did it become the norm to blame the victims instead of the perpetrators? The current trend of “victim bashing” pushes more and more victims in the closet to suffer in silence. Victim Shaming takes the focus away from the real problem…the abuser.

We really need to do better. It’s time to address the idea that toxic masculinity and violence are deeply related. That’s the real issue we should be discussing. Victims of abuse of any kind aren’t ripping the hearts from family’s across this county, Toxic Masculinity is, and if we don’t teach our sons and change our mindsets about what being a man is all about, this horrific cycle will continue and more lives will be forever changed for the worse.

It’s time to deal with the real….TOXIC MASCULINITY CAN BE DEADLY.

Until next time,

Take care of yourselves and one another

D. Sanders

#feminist #toxic masculinity #violence #domestic violence #Black Women

0 notes