#it has so many fans so i feel like i need to vocalize my contempt. lol

[alliluyevas]

saw a really dumb book-censorship-but-make-it-woke post but on the positive side it got me having both high school english class nostalgia and contemplating high school lit curriculum choices more intellectually. so just out of curiosity: what was your favorite book (or two if you can’t pick) you read assigned for school? also, if you had a least favorite, what was it? feel free to tell me why! also, if you feel comfortable, tell me where you went to school (state/region, country, whatever). if you did not attend school in an english-speaking country i am also interested in hearing from you!

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2024: #27

27. FRANCE Slimane - "Mon amour" 4th place

Decade ranking: 103/153 [Above The Black Mamba, below Marco Mengoni]

Slimane has a very powerrful voice. 🙂

THE RANKING

Okay, FINE. I suppose I can't leave it like that. 🙄 Although I'd much rather would.

So *SLIME*-MANE. There's a lot to unpack and a lot I know most people will disagree with my takes, but oh well. I've ranked Joost low, and Mustii low, so it's only fair the Slimane fans get some scalding hot truth tea splashed in the face from this deluded overthinker. Disliking men is a much more productive way to run away from my problems than simpling them is.

So remember how I spoke about songs designed to Make People Cry? You know I hold emotional extortion in contempt. "Pity" is just a slightly more charitable way of looking down at others, and shouldn't be strived for. These anthems are inherently designed to manipulate the undiscerning into uglycrying while offering very little sustainance. Yep, we're here yet again. Another song that doesn't pass even a tiny bit of scrutiny, except in a language most viewers do not speak.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that "Mon Amour"'s francophoneness is what made many people sleep on the fact that it's not exactly narratively sound. Most people that I've spoken about ESC to that understand French haven't responded well to "Mon Amour" (lol one of my French friends bursting into chat all "SLIMANE REPS US? EW. HIS MUSIC IS SO BORING AND CORNY 😣" hours after Mon Amour's release passed without comment from any of us ♥).

The indifference makes sense when you read the lyrics. It's filled with cliche's that scream "I YEM ZE FR0NCH~", a little bit too much on the nose. If I thought "Évidemment" was bad, this is worse. Lines such as "reviens à Paris" and ''Es-ce-que tu-m'aimes où pas?" are such clichés they feel thoughtless and expected, like someone writing out the monologue on autopilot.

But what sets me off is the overal narrative. Slimane and France have attempted to retcon "Mon amour" as "the story of an artist reaching out to his fans, seeking validation" but that is not what the lyrics read out. Instead, speak of the aftermath of a broken romance, where SHE has had her heart shattered to a degree that she LEFT THE PROTAGONIST'S HOMETOWN FOR AN UNKNOWN DESTINATION AND BROKE OFF ALL CONTACT. Instead of giving her, you know, personal space or time to reflect, or even lick his wounds, he keeps desperately asking her whether she still loves him or not. Dude, I don't know her, and I know the answer is "no". Give it a rest, and move on. Sadly, Slimane didn't move on and spends a full three minutes wailing on about it. "I want her, I need her only her, why doesn't she love me". We know where this ends - with a restraining order and either her or him dead and dismembered inside a dumpster six months later. (Australia's jury of snarky yet emotionally intelligent gays picking up on this and ranking him dead last ♥ bless them ♥)

As you can perhaps tell, the above realizations completely KILL the romantic aspect of the song for me. I cannot, and WILL NOT get into its grief and sadness. All the parties involved should be GLAD it's over.

Instrumentally, the song's just... generic piano ballad, nothing new or innovative here. Dime a dozen, we've heard it before, bla bla bla. "Mon amour" is a nothingburger, an empty vessel for Slimane's vocal chops.

Which brings me to another problem I have with it - I personally don't really care much about technical skill? Eurovision is an audio-visual SONG contest, not a SINGING contest. It is cool that you can nail those masturbatory vocal projections. You're a singer who can sing. "Loud" however is a pitch, not an emotion. It would have been more impressive if you've also discovered the cure of cancer alongside it. (Curing tumors with vocal vibrations. Medical students reading this, get on it so I can be impressed by Slimane.)

Focusing exclusively on that though, is annoying to me. Good Eurovision entrants start with a SONG. "Mon amour" barely classifies as one. End off.

That isn't to say I cannot respect Slimane's vocal for what it was. I mean THIS:

is a feat only a few vocalists can successfully pull off. It is MORE impressive the first time you witness it before the laws of Diminishing Returns kicks in. But it was immensely clever to trial it at Dora and then include it into the song itself - it gives the performance stakes and gravitas, so why not?

However that brought the song's weakness even more to the forefront to me. My logic is the following: if you can pull off such a stunt, then why aren't you the immediate fave to win? Eurovision 2024 was the most open year perhaps of all times, and I'm supposed to believe a voice THIS strong cannot win it by itself? There are enough examples of strong vocals POWERING through merely decent songs (Céline and Corinne Hermès for instance) into a first place. If you can pull that off and still lose doesn't that prove your song is fucking shite?

Going into the contest I was HOPING to get something out of the live besides Big Vocals and also that France wouldn't morph into a direct contender to win (You would HOPE that 2024's varied and exciting line-up was competitive enough as to not crown a vocal projection exercise as its winner), and ultimately, I got both of my wishes because Eurovision 2024 was BORISVISION. I was the meta this year, bitches, and I think fourth place is a perfectly reasonable result for a vocal that strong on a song that nonexistent.

But more importantly, Slimane managed to inject his performance with EMOTIONS and good god I really needed that.

It took a LOT of effort from Slimane for me to recognize that yes, this man is cooking with gas, and his expertise elevates the whole package. "Seductive" is the incorrect emotion for the subject matter but whatever. Ignoring the subject matter is the only way you can enjoy the song, so if that's what one must to do end the night on a high note, so be it. I let it pass, with few regrets.

Like Nutsa, he served enough for me to respect him ~as a performer~ who deserved the result he got. Like "Firefighter", I still have some contempt for the song itself, and there's a strict limit for how Im i'm willing to place it.

Turns out that boundary lies at Marco Mengoni. "Mon amour" always felt like a lazy, soulless answer to "Due vite" for me, and I'm not willing put it ahead, nor to re-examine my stance on DV so quickly after my 2023 ranking. "Due vite" was a song that ultimately wasn't my cup of tea, but it was the superior composition, and deserves a higher mark.

So ultimately, I end with Slimane a bittersweet note. A man with the capability to win the Eurovision Song Contest, yes and who manifested his impending loss with below average penmanship. If the French are looking for someone to blame for not winning once since 1977, they can start with their failure to recognize their 2024 song needed a revamp.

THE RANKING (again)

[twilightprince101]

Mafia!Wiggle AU

So yeah, I came up with the idea of Wiggle being a mob boss a few days ago and I succumbed to the brain rot. Wrote an entire fic for this idea, introducing her and what she's like.

I got flustered myself writing the tall crime lady. Enjoy!

Mafia Boss Wiggle

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF’A ME YOU MEATHEADS!!” A lanky, roughed up grumpus struggles in the beefy arms of two well-dressed goons. They grip his arms tight with their paws, dragging his body along behind it like an afterthought. “You have any idea what my family will do when-?!”

“Shut your trap already,” the purple goon groaned. They adjust their ornate mask, brushing the sunset and emerald colored feathers out of their eyes. “Honestly, you’re lucky we caught you before openin’ hours, else we’d have to knock your teeth in to keep you from disturbin’ the patrons.”

“Don’t act like yer better than me!” The red grump kicks over a velvet chair from a nearby table as they pass. It clatters against the polished wood floor, echoing through the well-lit nightclub. A bartender--wearing a similar feathered and jeweled mask to the goons--gets up from polishing glasses to set it right. “Don’t you know who I am?! I’m from the Turnpipe family!! My boys’ll storm this place once they hear what you’se done to me! They’ll roast you all over open flames until every last strand of your fur is singed to the flesh!! You’ll be nothing but a naked mole rat for the rest of your lives!!!”

“Heya Cold-Brew, how was your kid’s party last night?” The blue goon holding Turnpipe’s other paw waves to the bartender as he sets the chair upright.

“Went okay. Park got rained out midway through the picnic, so we went to Slaker’s for ‘shakes.”

“Ah, shame. Need any help after I’m done here?” He gestures to their victim as if it were a sack of potatos. The red grump wiggles and yells while scuffing the floor they’re dragged across.

“Nah, should be good here, thanks ‘Stein. Fifteen until the doors open.” Cold-Brew waves back to the goons as he returns to his station, both wave back and smile.

“I SAID LET ME GO YOU INVERTEBRATES!!!!”

“Ugh, honestly why can’t you all say anything original?” The purple grump shakes their head. “Always just ‘let me go,’ ‘I’m with this family,’ ‘You’ll pay for this,’ if you’re gonna keep yappin’ at least say something interesting.”

“I’LL TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB!!!”

“Hehey, he tells jokes!”

The nightclub’s attendants laugh together under the neon spotlights as the intruder’s yells fall on uncaring ears. Past the bar lined with high class alcohol and the grand stage lined with spotlights and the band pit, the three grumps make their way to a door labeled “BACKSTAGE: EMPLOYEE’S ONLY.” With a quick knock and faint response from the other side, the two gently push open the door and leave the main area behind.

“Heya boss,” the purple goon speaks, his voice much more formal. “Found this one tryin’ to bash the front lock open with a brick. Got him before any major damage was done, don’t worry.”

Both grumps lift the intruder up by the shoulders, leaving his legs kicking in the air. It takes the Turnpipe a moment to adjust to the dimmer lighting and he coughs from the lingering cigarette smoke in the air.

“Thank ya’ darlings,” a sultry voice speaks, facing away from the three. The grump thinks that the boss is some shade of pink, but poking above the large mass of pink fluff a sort of golden orange pokes out. Despite being held in the air, the orange grumpus sitting at the table in front of them reaches just below the Turnpipe’s height. “Wouldn’t want him making a mess before our loyal customers come in.”

“Are you these goons’ boss?!” The Turnpipe screams, pointing at the grumpus. “You fucked up now! When the Turnpipes hear of this-”

“They’ll tear us limb from limb, yes hun I know.” The boss speaks calmly, comfortably while applying purple eyeliner via pocket mirror.  “I could hear you all the way backstage, making me consider sound proofing.”

The red grumpus blinks. Despite the goons disregarding his threats earlier, for some reason his mind expected her to take him seriously. He takes a moment to look around the employee’s area, finding various other grumps of size and stature. Some more fancily-dressed grumps put on makeup and practice vocal exercises in large vanity mirrors, while toned tux-wearing grumps check their suits before walking out to the main club area. All of them are wearing the same mask and haven’t given him so much as a glance.

“Now tell me darling,” the boss angles the pocket mirror to address her intruder. Her ice blue iris gives off a sharp, cold gaze that clashes with the warm and comforting atmosphere before. “Why were you trying to break into our lovely establishment? Just couldn’t wait to have some fun, wanted to steal some of our booze perhaps?”

“Wh-no I’m, I don’t care about your stupid club!!” The Turnpipe yells, finding his fury again. “One’a your meatheads shook down my brother! They were on my family’s turf, and I don’t take these insults lyin’ down!”

“I can see that. So you’d rather take it in the air instead?”

Some of the other staff members chuckle as they check themselves for the third time over.

“Du-buh?!” Did you even hear what I said?!” The turnpipe explodes, his enemy’s eyes narrowing in the mirror. “YOUR goons-”

“I heard you clearly.”

The CLICK of the pocket mirror cuts through the smoky air. She places it on the table alongside the bills, fan letters and knives and begins spinning her chair around. It swivels as she sweeps her long legs along with the momentum, poking out of her dark emerald dress. The dark emerald dress’s frills flutter from the sudden movement, draping the boss from her knees to the straps on her shoulders, hidden under her flowing pink mane. With a CLACK of her deep purple heels on stone she sets her crossed legs down and stops the chair in place. Her previous playful gaze is now replaced with one of annoyance, both her icy and greyed eyes narrowed in contempt.

With her clean scar sweeping across her right eye, the boss of the Gilded Dahlias, Wiggle Wigglebottom, sits up fully and rests a paw on her chin while gazing down at her prey.

“I’m just curious as to how you thought you could barge in here and get revenge against my boys, my gang, even me, all by yourself. You certainly don’t have the physique or firepower to do the job, so my first guess is that you’re either full of yourself, or just plain dumb.”

The performers all “ooooooooh~” between them, like a class of 8th graders hearing their fellow classmate called up to the principal’s office.

“I mean-well, I…” The red grumpus searches the floor for the right words, then balls his fists and puffs out his chest. “I’d assume YOU would pay us with respect! Us Turnpipe’s been around longer than you newbies have, so we outrank you!”

“It’s stupidity folks!!” Wiggle cheers and flicks up a paw to announce the results. A few goons groan and dig into their jacket pockets, handing their smiling associates a fat wad of bills. Turnpipe’s hot air dissipates and he deflates once more.

“Damn, third in a row… I’ll treat you to a drink later Wiggle.” A brown-furred performer in a glittery red dress crosses her arms.

“Maybe a milkshake,” The boss peeks over her shoulder, “I overheard Brew talking about Slakers and my sweet tooth’s been acting up lately! Them icy sweets are ‘Callin my naaaame~’.” She sings in a wide vocal range with complete ease, giving her paw a flourish and leaning back as she hums.

“You… You know, just because you’re new it doesn’t mean you’re better than us! Don’t act like you’re a hotshot just because you did a few successful heists!”

“A few? Oohohoho!!” Wiggle peers back, sitting up straight once again. “Goodness darlin’, you are not helping your case right now. Tell me, how many bank heists has your little family done in the past year?”

“Uh… twenty five?”

A tuxed grumpus snorts as he walks out.

“Oh darling…” Wiggle places a palm against her cheek with a pitiful smile. “That’s not even cute, it’s just... sad.”

“Yeah?! Well, I’d like to see you-”

“Fifty three.” Wiggle interrupts. “In the past three months.”

“...wha-”

“Around… how much was it Abra?” Wiggle calls behind her.

“Passed the million mark just last week!” A green grumpus, wearing more casual clothing, peeks out from around a corner leading to an employee hallway.

“Got so much excess profits that even after giving everyone a bonus, I got to turn the rest to my own personal bed!” She waves a paw in the air. “Certainly wasn’t the comfiest experience, but I at least got to check it off my bucket list!”

“I… I don’t…” The Turnpipe’s words do their best to try and search for any rage or anger to grasp onto, but any attempt to feel above her hasn’t worked, not helped by the fact he’s still being held up by the shoulders like a small child. After around ten seconds of stammering, Wiggle sighs and shakes her head.

“You don’t gotta try and act tough anymore darlin’, I think I get what you’re about now…” The sunset grumpus uncrosses her legs and lets her other heel clack on the floor. The Turnpipe’s gaze goes from eye level to slowly upwards, and upwards, and upwards; the boss’s body obscuring the light from one of the vanities. She wraps one of her paws around the grip of a knife lodged into the table and yanks it out. Her prey freezes up in the arms of her trap.

“You didn’t come here so you could avenge your brother or any sappy nonsense like that.” Wiggle circles around the Turnpipe, her heels echoing their clicks with each step while fiddling with the knife in her paws. “You came here so you could try and make yourself feel big and stwong, flaunting your family name as if it were a gun in of itself.”

“I…” Clack. Clack. Clack. It becomes hard to think as each step feels like a hammer and chisel against his brain. Wiggle looks the red grump up and down, drawing invisible lines up and down his torso.

“Since you came in you’ve been talking about your little gang as if you ran it. ‘My boys,’ ‘My gang,’ ‘My my my my my.’ But all that time, being caught up in your own head? It just made your skull more dense. All you are is just some lowly lackey that probably joined, say…” She plants an elbow on the Turnpipe’s head, checking her makeup one last time in the reflection of her knife. “A month ago? Maybe less?”

The frog in her armrest’s throat nearly leaps out of his mouth. His head shrinking down is the only confirmation Wiggle needs.

“You’ve been so caught up in that little bubble of yours, thinking you’re the hottest grump on the block, just because you’re part of a gang. Think just because you have a name to flaunt around and access to guns it makes you powerful. But I’m gonna let you in on a secret little man.” The Turnpipe’s body clenches as Wiggle stands back up and Clacks her way back to his front, eyeing the knife she paws in her hands as intensely as possible.

“Having a name to flaunt around doesn’t bring you power.”

Clack.

“Having guns and knives to hold against people’s throats doesn’t bring you power.”

Clack.

“Having enough money to buy out all of Grump Vegas doesn’t bring you power.”

Clack.’

“But you know what does?”

Wiggle towers above the Turnpipe, patting her razor-sharp knife in her paw. All different rays of light are obscured by her roaring mane, leaving the grump to cower in the arms of her two goons. She Clacks forward, and her goons take a step back. Not out of fear or trepidation though; a quick glance to both of their faces shows the same devilish smile that their boss wears. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Every single step is like a jolt of ice to his heart, dragging every last little step for an eternity as his entire being trembles in the arms of the two goons. Just the slight bump of the wall on his back knocks out every bit of air in his lungs and he fights to just inhale as his natural predator CLACKS just inches away from him, casting a toothy, ecstatic smile. Her single, silver iris seems to glow in the limited light.

Wiggle grips the knife in a reverse grip in her left hand and begins to raise it. The grumpus tries to close his eyes and look away but she grabs his chin with her other paw and forces his gaze back to her. His attempts to shake his head in a desperate plea are pointless, her paw digging into his fur and keeping him from moving even a centimeter out of place. The glinted metal shines as it finally reaches the zenith of its arc, hungry to tear through red grumpus fur. With nothing left to do all the Turnpipe can do is let tears stream down his face.

With the speed of a bullet and barely giving the Turnpipe a moment to flinch, Wiggle swings down the dagger. Her victim closes his eyes and blurts out a whimper and-

THUNK!!!

…

He’s not dead. His eyes are still fuzed shut but he’s still not dead, he can hear the sounds of the backstage area around him. The Turnpipe forces an eye open to peek at the knife and his skeleton nearly leaps out and books it at the sight. The knife is only a hair’s length away from his cheek embedded into the wood beam he’s pressed against. A sting in his cheek and the running of a warm liquid helps him fill in the gap of what happened. But just a little bit away, the Turnpipe finds something else that makes his body completely shut down

It’s Wigglebottom’s face, just as close to his as the knife.

Her icy and greyed eyes peer into the Turnpipe’s irises, flickering around while high on adrenaline and terror. Her gaze looks past his false-bravado exterior and reaches further, deeper inside him into a dark pit he had tried so desperately to hide. A black, slimy, jittering piece of disgust comes out. Letting the grip on his chin go she traces his chin and speaks in a tone fitting of her now-sultry gaze. Wiggle leans in close, so close that the Turnpipe can smell her rich floral perfume, and whispers into his ear.

“Fear~”

“...”

The Turnpipe’s mind has gone blank. Despite the pounding jackhammer in his chest, the final whisper and breath of hot air from the Gilded Dahlia boss erases his mind, leaving him a whimpering and stuttering mess. A few of the remaining employees from backstage snicker and point at her latest victim, though he isn’t able to process the fact that he’s being mocked. Seeing that the usual routine has worked yet again, Wiggle leaves the knife implanted in the wall and pulls back with a satisfied smile.

“Boys,” she snaps a finger in the air, her tone returning to the playful nature it was before, “drop our newest employee. He won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, should be good to leave him back here for the day.”

Both goons do as they’re told without question, letting the grumpus slump to the floor, his knees having completely given out. He continues to stare at the ground and shake his head, crying as he trembles from the terror just inflicted.

“So what’re you gonna make this one boss?” The purple grumpus asks with a playful smile. “Waiter? Bartender?”

“Nah.” She shrugs with little effort. “He doesn’t really have the looks for either of those. Probably’ll make him our new janitor, been needing a new one after our last one squealed. Feel free to give him the old guy’s uniform, I feel it should fit pretty well.”

The purple goon nods and takes out a sketchpad, writing “Find old janitor’s uniform” at the bottom of the list as they walk past and out towards the main area.

“Alright everyone, hopefully this little show of mine was able to help you get fired up! We got five minutes ‘till the doors open, get those finishing touches done!” The boss claps her hands in the air to her employees, resuming business as usual. “If we’re able to double our profits today I’ll treat everyone to Slakers at the end of our shift tonight! Let’s make tonight a good one darlin’s!”

The warm and familiar chatter of the backstage area continues once more. As every last well-dressed employee strolls out to prepare for the afternoon they pass by their new coworker, neither giving the other a glance. As the front door opens and the excited clamoring of a new audience begins to fill the club, Wiggle peers down at her latest victim, slumped up the hole-ridden wood post on his back. She smirks and gives a content sigh.

“Maybe one day you’ll all surprise me… but until then, I suppose this is just as fun~”

Wiggle ruffles the head of the former Turnpipe like an affectionate puppy, and then walks back to her main office, her heels Clacking and echoing throughout backstage and the red grumpus’s empty mind.

[handlewcaare]

art by: kajuhz

The concept of Justice was a profit.

Oftentimes would Beaut replay the scene in his head. Not the ones in which he would portray the handsome knight or the chivalrous prince, but of his own savior; he who was bestowed a graceful light atop of his crown. His physique but a mountain compared to Beaut’s shuddering frame, cowardly under what he assumed to be his final hour.

“It’s fine now.”

The baritone resounded as divine as cathedral bells. A voluminous tone that held no wry contempt of what monster curled in front of him. There was no rehearsed spiel of what justice was, but it left Beaut to determine his own interpretation of it in his stunned awe.

Many would have called justice a caped Crusader, many would have called it a quivering hand that held the knife they used to impale their abuser, many would have called it the rope that suspended the guillotine’s blade. In the end, it was but a trophy to be won over the carcasses of villains Beaut would periodically encounter.

Justice was as fine as wine in his perception. It was the promise of dictating who would be fit to surpass him in the top of the A-Class threshold, it was the champagne dinners he would hold at every New Years or the awards he would win in for a role he partook when the hours were slow. It was not a gruesome lifestyle, outside of what brutality he enacted upon his villains, but it was profitable.

Until it came along.

It coming in the form of a walking cadaver draped in an old beige coat that was rancid with nicotine and whatever disease it caught this week. It’s shoulders were hunched and it never enacted in a spatting match reserved between Tatsumaki and Metal Bat. Rather, it kept to itself and only periodically placed its input in a phantasmic and haunting tone. Ironically, it ran a detective agency down in F-city and was quite renowned for its capabilities. However, what irritated him most was not because it’s regeneration, not in truth anyways.

“Why wasn’t I notified about his recruitment?”

It was often that the H.A. would negate Beaut about new recruits, especially one whom had made headlines about his week-long war with a conflagrant dullahan Griffin. Though, the sole purpose of his presence at the threshold of A-Class was to prevent lesser men to weasel their way without proving their worth. He knew that Kamikaze’s disciples attempted to do so numerous times with their false valor.

“Well, he has a high amount of endurance,” Sitch clarified. The portly man hastily patted his temple with a handkerchief. Without a doubt, Amai knew how to intensify the ambiance with but the sneer of his tawny glare. “Not just that, but I don’t think he’s human—“

When veins bloomed at the nape of the idol’s neck, Sitch hastily continued, “our intern, Iwaizawa, tried to recruit him the first time and his wounds healed while he refused. Poor man was horrified when his arm just fell off and grew another one.”

Regeneration was nothing of a unique feat, but it was one in which Amai specialized in. Clean cuts to his appendages often wrought nonchalance when he secured it back on. The muscle fibers would make haste to keep his tendons and bone secure. The carbon of his skin would shatter into a spiderweb fracture, but it would never quake under the pressure. Yet, he could only find offense that they would insinuate his was not just as good—if not, better.

“And like I can’t?” He could probably do so while performing a live concert.

“He survived numerous injuries; burns, teeth, claws—the whole nine yards—he didn’t stop walking either.”

If there was anything Amai was, he could be rational at times. His lip nearly turned stiff with a grimace, though the aspect of someone possessing a similar ability than him was enough to curdle his stomach. It was a hideous, warped perception of himself that he faced; the Beaut he was prior to his body enduring so much stress that it became a diamond. Who gave this thing the audacity to be the very thing he couldn’t withstand?

He felt his blood curdle in private rage, though he knew better than to lash out at someone who could potentially hinder his reputation. Tabloids would shrill about his monstrous temper and equate him to nothing but another Terrible hero; a spoiled brat who should have been proud of the golden spoon in his mouth.

He would have told them his spoon was spray painted, but that was too worthy of a risk.

“I want to interview him,” Amai said as he briskly stood up from his seat and collected his pristine coat, his voice stiff to bottle up his frustration. “If he’s abnormal, I want to make sure he doesn’t have ill-intentions.”

“I... highly doubt he would,” the reluctance to correct Amai was prevelant, as he was the reason they were even able to make a fortune off the expense of strong heroes with exaggerated sob stories. “He refused to enlist initially.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.” Something evoked the creature to come back, be it that someone fed it on their porch or gave it a promise didn’t matter. It was worthy of an investigative welcome.

——————————

Hounding after the cryptic amidst F-City was hardly an issue. What with the newest talk circulating the nicknamed ‘deadman detective agency’ and tourists seizing photo opportunities, Amai could only wonder what made it worthy for the city to nestle the gemstone close to its chest.

Was it being a little hole in the wall? Was it the fact that it held some nostalgia to the Griffin’s demise? He didn’t particularly care either way, other than it lived in an absolute shithole. The windows were makeshift plastered with wood and duct tape.

Not an environment he would imagine himself being in, but it was better than visiting Puri Puri Prisoner.

Knocking on the door only fueled his muted irritation. What he was greeted with was a pallid being, one who barely looked passable for an anemic. Along its lips balanced an unlit cigarette and his gaze flickered briefly to the branching sutures underneath its clavicles. The aroma it carried however was rancid, vile nicotine and ink seemed to manifest itself through the partially opened maw of the door.

For a moment, Amai brought a knuckle to clog one of his nostrils discreetly, “hello,” his Hollywood smile couldn’t have been anymore amiable than it was. His smiling equanimity easily masquerading his suppressed resentment, “I wanted to say congratulations on passing your Heroes Entrance exam.”

One could weigh the loss of interest along the creature’s stern countenance, “usually, I am involved in the recruitment process. However, I was a bit busy and I missed my opportunity to get to ask you a few questions.

“My name is Handsome Kaimen Amai Mask,” he informed as he extended a hand for the cryptid to take, “you can just call me Amai Mask.”

It was glacial, the way the detective’s hand clasped his. There was not a semblance of rough, course callouses or warmth to radiate under the skin. He shuddered under the grasp that could only be best described as rigormortis. What it lacked in conversational pieces, it compensated for in its uncanny valley of humility. He supposed not all monsters slammed their doors in people’s faces.

“It’s nice to meet you, Amai Mask,” it’s phantasmic murmur was reserved to the spirit that haunted its shell; a conch that knew too many secrets. When Amai withdrew, he felt the itching need to investigate whether he was as humble as he appeared to be. If he truly did do investigative work for the good of others and not himself.

“I would like to talk to you privately,” he said, “after all, your thoughts are very important to hear.” They weren’t, not even the H.A. Could deny that blatant fact.

The reluctance in It’s pause was also uncanny (he could never fathom why there was always a hint of hesitation with him), however the carcass gradually complied by opening the barely stable door wholly open. “Leave your shoes by the door, if you don’t mind?”

He could feel his gums bleed under his clenched teeth, only releasing them when he cheerily complied. “Not at all.”

————————————————

The office was illuminated by a single bulb. It’s jewelry but the rotating fans above and a single chain within length to pull. The interior wasn’t much in the way of impression, as half of it was hastily constructed.

Tarp laid sprawled over one side of the office, only being held down by a jar of plaster for the jagged trauma across the masonries. If that wasn’t enough of an indication there was a skirmish, the creature’s desk was haphazardly concocted with duct tape and splintered wood. The remnants of burnt petals remained prominent under the sprawled files of evidence.

Along one (partially) unblemished wall was the map of F-City’s tri-state area. Polaroids pinned to each segment as they caressed scrawled notes pertaining to specific cases. Few even had a red string connected to one another.

“You really are a detective, huh?” The idol mused as he gingerly laid his coat atop of one of the chair cushions—the one that wasn’t nearly as collapsible as the other—before he sat down, “I assumed it was just part of the aesthetic.”

“Old habits die hard,” the walking cadaver remarked. The way it settled into the seat in front of Amai reminded him of something of an old soul. Its sigh fluttered when it leaned back, “though, I can’t say I’ve done much investigation work nowadays.”

“It’s a nice hobby to have,” he didn’t want to stay too past his curfew however, especially if this reanimated corpse wouldn’t want to talk shop. Fortune came in toast master’s, “what are your thoughts on the exam? Was it too difficult?”

“Do you want my honest answer or the one you want to hear?” It asked as it flicked the lighter to ignite the end of It’s cigarette. The sizzle of tobacco and paper evoked a hint of irritation that Amai’s vocal chords were not taken into consideration.

“Preferably both,” it was unbearable the way it implored. If it was an attempt to get on his good side, it was certainly a poor one.

An eventual drag from Zombieman’s cigarette accented his robust quip, “it was stupidly easy,” he said, “though I dunno why you have questions about traffic safety.”

It was a typical query, aside from the essay questions many heroes skimmed past with a few haphazard answers. The idol simply crossed his knee over his leg, “we had a lower rank lose his lisence,” he elucidated, “ironically, he passed the exam with flying colors.”

Whether he spoke too much or there was too much perception in that thing’s brain, it raised a brow, “and why isn’t he in S-Class if he’s lower rank?”

“He’s simply not strong enough to surpass me,” he was rather pathetic in all honesty. Save for his valiant speeches and his ability to look for lesser people, the C-Rank gatekeeper wasn’t much to write home about. “If I’m being honest with you, very few people manage to get into S-Class.”

At that moment, Amai knew it wasn’t the same as the others; there was no petulant demand for higher paychecks or an un breakable instrument. It was a blind gamble he didn’t anticipate for something that looked like it could find more entertainment staring blankly ahead.

“—and you’re telling me that a ten year old is physically stronger than an adult man?” The Zombieman didn’t bother to suppress his snarl this time. His lip curled underneath the plumb of smoke, “that’s bullshit.”

“No, but he’s not physically stronger than me,” Amai clarified once more. It wasn’t in the matter of everyone else, but of whether he deemed them worthy to surpass him in rank. He felt his brow twitch when the rancid odor of nicotine whisped as dangerous as a threat. Fortunately, his furor could only bubble a laugh, “What, would you prefer us to hire podcasters to try and placate a rampaging bull from killing civilians?”

“I dunno,” the horrible cardboard cutout of a detective said as its russet glare punctured through Amai’s tawny ones, “you seem to like the sound of your own voice pretty well.”

The hospitable charade melted from the heat of his aggrevation. Hot wax of a pristine neighbor dribbled off the exposed veins along his nape and down his chest, “excuse me?”

“In one of your interviews,” oh, it knew him already, “you said that justice isn’t something wholly to a hero, that everyone has their part somehow,” it never once deviated its intrusion to the far corridors of Amai’s glare. It was dauntless, especially when it knew that his neck and shoulders began to grow slightly larger. Yet, it talked as passive as it would in front of a criminal; as if it had the right to accuse him of anything.

“Here you are, however, saying that someone needs to be beyond average in order to be adequate for saving people. Be it that they’re a kid with a high IQ, an angry jock or a chaotic pixie,” the detective paused as it obstinately clenched it’s cold hand around the partially finished cigarette. The fire snuffed out without a protesting burn to it’s skin, “makes me wonder what you’re hiding if you’re only letting ‘strange’ people in.”

Should Amai be allowed to be Beaut once more, he would have never been accepted in. Beneath the masquerade of a teen girl’s fantasy was a hulking, grotesque beast who could only watch the rose petals wilt from the outside. It was as if this thing, this abomination, was aware of that. As he abruptly stood from his seat, he felt his gloved hands clench at their sides.

“If you want to be kicked out from the S-Class, I can make it happen,” the threat did nothing to provoke the pathetic punching bag out of his seat. Rather, it only prompted him to scoff a scalding hand to rub more salt into Amai’s wound, “my regeneration can best your’s. If you really want a satisfying exam, I am more than happy to oblige.”

Eventually, the mild irritation that highlighted the creature’s glare subsided for a slight revelation. What one would have envisioned to be a skirmish only halted midway when it stated something of a reflection to his dare.

“You’re projecting.”

What?

The incredulous look that stained his handsome features only prompted the thing to resume casually, “you’re projecting. You didn’t come here for a warm welcome; mentioning strength, the regeneration, what justice means.

“if I join a pop idol group, that just about ticks off all your boxes, doesn’t it?”

Being relevant was what rusted justice. In an instant, Amai seized ahold of It’s neck, its skin nothing but cold rubber under the pads of his fingertips. There was not a pulse to drum, not even when the harbinger of beautiful reckoning sneered. His eyes wide as they attempted to search wildly for a semblance of absent fear.

What he didn’t comprehend was that there was a barrel nestled close to his sternum in the same movement. Just as he would try his hand on how effective this monster’s regeneration was, he snapped out of his blind haze when there was a subtle knock to rap along the office door.

“Mr. Zombieman?” The voice was small, a little too petite to be a woman’s, “it’s me, Dr. Hajime, can I come in?”

It was a gamble neither wanted to try their hand in. For one that it would have gotten Hajime involved and the other was that it was a sure fire way to have Amai Mask’s reputation be tarnished. What reality of him being the harbinger of rightful justice would have dispersed by his own lack of control. He would have been no better than the monsters he hunted.

As the two reluctantly withdrew, the detective made no attempt to mouth “get out” at the sneering idol.

When prohibited to enter, Child Emperor’s eyes bloomed in awe when he discovered Amai Mask simply retrieving his coat from the chair, “oh-!” The boy squeaked, his shoulders jolted and there was a tighter hold along the tiny trey of chocolate cake, “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” the detective said. Had Amai not known better, he would have assumed it could actually smile, “what’s the cake for?”

“I just thought we should celebrate you getting in and all!”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

He didn’t stay to listen to their futile conversation.

—————————————

Relevance rusted Justice.

As Amai skulked away to leave the two be, he could only glower at how the creature allowed Child Emperor to join him. His lip turned stiff at the revelation that there was hardly any private celebration he would have. It was never homely, but a grandiose party with strangers who didn’t know him by Beaut.

He’s a stupid kid.

No, Dr. Hajime is actually quite brilliant. It was his counterpart, his pseudo-father figure that was the idiot. To insinuate that he would even bother projecting his envy on the likes of some insolent vigilante was something worthy to laugh at.

When he meandered home into his mansion, there was no one other than himself to occupy the space; no one with a cake or to press a kiss along his cheek in greeting. His phone would blow up with useless messages and notifications from strangers, but it wasn’t warm. It was as cold as the handshake he had.

He didn’t bother to change out of his clothes when he went to bed.

[kewltie]

contains: slavery, caste system 

Quirkless. Lesser. Lesser than humans.

The thick metal collar goes around his neck and closes with a secured beep. "Be good to your new master, Izuku," the Headmaster instructs. "You're the pride of our academy so try not to shame us. Always remember your lessons and oath."

"We serve at the behest of those who greater than us," Izuku recites solemnly. A mantra that was beaten into him since he was taken from his mother's arms by the DQA when he was only just eight years old and deposited in one of its many training academies.

"Good, good," the Headmaster says, looking particularly pleased with himself. "You're quite fortunate that you're benefactor is such a high profile character that you might be able to pay off your contract debt in ten years or so."

"Yes," Izuku agrees, even though he wouldn't have acquired such a debt if he wasn't stolen away and forced to learn at the feet of adults who claimed to know better. Claimed they were there to help him because he is quirkless. Useless. He must be taught to serve society better.

"Will they--," he swallows the flash of nerves for a moment, "may I know who is to be my new master?" The Headmaster grins, eyes twinkling brightly against Izuku's shadowy apprehension. "I have no doubt that you may already know his name."

"A public  figure?" Izuku murmurs thoughtfully. A politician or an idol perhaps? Someone whose name and face is spread everywhere enough that even locked away in the fortress of the academy Izuku would still be familiar with him to recognize who he is. "A celebrity then?"

The Headmaster snorts in amusement. "Close enough," he answers. "In his line of work he might as well be with the way the media and his legion of devout fans like the sink their teeth into him if they could." Izuku blinks, mind racing as he connects the dot. "A prohero?!"

His eyes widen and lower jaw dropping in surprise when the Headmaster gave a short nod. "I believe he's around your age, so young still but a prodigy they say. Having broken into the top fifty ranking in only two year after his graduation from U.A, now he’s among the top ten. His performance had truly been impressive.”

Izuku's heart stops.

U.A., the school Izuku had once dreamed of going to before it all came crashing down. In another life, in another world it would have been his alma mater, but this is his reality now. Now, he can only glimpse of those heroes on TV and thinks of all the could haves, would haves.

That should be me out there, his younger self had thought with a yearnful heart as he pressed his hand against the screen of the TV, but the academy was no place for broken dreams and fanciful wishes. It carved out every weakness of his and crushed it under its firmed teaching.

Izuku may have outgrown those childhood fancies, but he never stopped looking toward the sky like a bird with clipped wings. If he couldn't be one of them then he wanted to know everything about them. News clippings, scholarly journals, and books, he had devoured it all.

"I know you always did have a fondness of the proheroes scene," the Headmaster comments idly like Izuku's earlier obsession with heroes, though argue by his handlers that it had truly never gone away, wasn't a topic of heated contention throughout his years at the academy.

"This is the best match up we could ever hope for. You're one of our most brightest students--one I, dearsay, haven't seen in decades," he says, looking fondly at Izuku as though Izuku hasn't been dragged into his office so many times for corrective behavior measure.

Izuku has always been a good boy, but never an obedience one, his former teachers would often lament about that fact. It's precisely why although Izuku had had broken so many grounds and records at the academy, consistently ranked at the top of his class, but finding him a proper sponsor was hard.

On paper, he was perfect, if choosing to ignore his long disciplinary paper trail, but once the sponsor had met him in person and saw all the cracks of his polished submission in the rigid of his shoulders and eyes unwilling to fall to the floor, they knew right away--there was something terribly wrong with him.

Like, how he was a failure for being born quirkless so they had to carefully train him up with the best money the government could buy in hope that one day he could serve their best and brightest. Even then he'd failed to live up to their expectations of him.

"This pro-hero," Izuku says slowly and carefully. "Does he know of me?" Will he also be disappointed when he meets Izuku like all the rest?

"He specifically requested you. He was very insistent about it," the Headmaster responds, and then he frowns. “Rather forceful actually. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I'd even suggested going through our catalogues of other Lessers first before he make up his mind, but he nearly rip my head off." His frown deepens as his face pinches at the memory. "Such a crude behavior indeed. I almost wanted decline if it wasn't for his reputable reputation as a hero."

Izuku's eyes widen. "He asked for me personally? Who is he then—tell me?!" he demands, taking several steps toward the Headmaster with hands extended out as thought he was going to shake the answer right out of him. 

"Izuku," the Headmaster snaps, eyes narrowing in contempt. "Calm yourself! You’re not a child anymore. You're a representative of this elite academy, so such ill manner does not become us!”  

Izuku freezes, quickly dropping his hands to his side once more. "I--" His gaze fall to the ground as heat rises to his cheek. "I deeply apologize, sir. I don’t know what came over me like that." He quickly falls back, putting enough distance between them to regain his composure. 

The Headmaster sighs. "I know you're excited because this may be your last chance at getting a benefactor after so many fail sponsorships, but do not forget your place, Izuku." 

Izuku’s mouth dries and there’s an awful twist in his guts as another lecture starts rolling in. 

"It's with your head bowed, eyes down, and on your knees at the feet of your master. You're incredibly brilliant and talented student, but no matter how good you are you're still a Lesser," he explains as though Izuku hadn't heard it a hundred times before. "You'll never amount to anything spectacular compare to the rest of us. Such is the plight of the quirkless." 

Izuku bristles, hands clenching and unclenching at his side but he holds his tongue. If he says the wrong thing again, it'll cost him maybe everything. 

It only takes one chance. That's all he need. A reason to get out of the academy's iron grip and its intense scrutiny so he'll have room to breathe and plan his way out of these shackles that bind him.

Freedom on bent knees and a collar around his neck. Oh, the irony.

"I keep that in mind, sir," Izuku murmurs, plastering a smile that he doesn't quite feel on his face. "When will I meet my new master then?"

"Now," the Headmaster says with a wave of his hand toward the exit of his office. "I'll take you to him right this instance."

Izuku jerks in surprise. "So soon?!" he asks. Though he'd long accepted his fate is not his own, but he hasn't been mentally and emotionally prep for a meeting with the man whose name will be carved onto his collar. 

The Headmaster purses his lip unhappily. "He wants to meet you right away even though I'd insisted we give it a few days to prepare you first, but he's--" he scrunches up his face in annoyance, "extremely vocal about what he wants. Twenty billion yens will get you a whole lot of favor it seems."  

Izuku chokes on air.

Twenty billion yen?! "Is that--" Izuku starts and then stops, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "I-Is that how much he'd paid for me?" 

The Headmaster frowns, scratching his chin as he steers Izuku out of his office. "It's how much he's sponsoring you for." 

"Ah, I see," Izuku replies, even though he doesn't see how is that any different. No matter how they may have prettied it up, it's still an exchange of money for a service and in any other world that would be frown upon but here's it's a way of life for the quirkless. 

The Headmaster escorts him through the winding halls of the academy where several students--their age vary as young as seven to even older than Izuku at twenty-seven--roam unrestricted in the hallway during their free period. 

The campus is a sprawling education complex.

They're always learning to be good, better, for their master. Everything is for their master. From basic domestic skills like cooking and cleaning to learning violin first hand under a maestro, and then there's math and physics. The education here varies and complex.

It's all in service of their master in the future. They must be mold to be whatever their master needed. Trained to be the best so they can serve to the best of their abilities as companion, assistant, and consort. They have to be everything and nothing at all.

Coveted by those who only saw value in the rarity and the novelty of owning a Lesser, Izuku and his kind are ornament pieces meant to decorate the arms of their master but once their master get bored of them, they're quickly discarded and are no longer of any worth.

They are consider a priceless treasure up until the point when they're not anymore. To be treated like a commodity, with no inherent worth until others deem it so, is not the way Izuku wanted to live.

But nobody had given him a choice in that regard. Him and thousands of others like him. 

"We're here," the Headmaster says as they stand outside of one of the private VIP rooms where they often entertain special guests visiting the academy. It's a place Izuku had been to many times before, presented to potential sponsors like a piece of meat to be sold.

There's a price on Izuku's head, a price on the head of all the students here. It an arbitrary number, but it's important enough that people have live and die by it. Izuku knows his worth and it has little to do what anyone else think, but it all comes back to money in the end.

Money from sponsorship that lined the pocket of the academy, money that kept Izuku and others collared and trap in their gilded cage and it is ultimately money that brought Izuku right in front of this door to meet the man who will decide his fate. Izuku puts on his warpaint.

He wears an indomitable smile on his face as though it was carved from stone as the Headmaster pushes the door open and leads him in. His eyes flutter shut for a moment and he breathes as he steps forward onto the battlefield with nothing but his wits to guide him through.

The room opens up to marble titles lining the floor, lights cascade down from a crystal chandelier hanging above, several muted grey accent chairs surround a glass coffee table, the walls are painted white on white, and even the rest of the decor stay resolutely neutral in colors. 

It's simple, clean cut, and modern. And it left Izuku feeling cold and bereft every time he walk into this room. The only jarring difference this time around is the other person in the room beside him and the Headmaster. His presence alone immediately takes up all the space in Izuku's head and leaves him startlingly breathless and dazed with confusion.

Domineering is a word, Izuku would use. All-consuming is another. It's like stepping into a vortex and getting swept right up in the eye of its storm. A furious red storm that Izuku had been caught in since he was a child, fallen under its spell with a single infuriating glance. It's those same pair of eyes that had looked at him with contempt and scorn back then as though whatever they found of him it was sorely lacking. 

The man doesn't rise from his seat and didn't offer a single word, but Izuku knows him, knows him like he knows his own heartbeat. The slope of his shoulders, the wide expanse of his back, the hard plane of his chest, every inch of him Izuku had a glimpsed of on the TV screen, he’d committed it all to memory.

It been more than ten years since they have stood right in front of each other, Izuku had changed since then but so did he. He's taller. Bigger. His presence more pronounce and dizzying in way like he'd finally grown into the great person he always boasted to be.

But then again, he wasn't ever boasting. He had meant every word of it. Believe it like it was a certainty that carried him through every one of decision and action. Izuku have always admired that decisive nature of his and here he is again, appearing before him like a dream made real.

The Headmaster lowers his head slightly in greeting. "Zero-san, I have brought him just as you requested," he says, stepping aside to let Bakugou Katsuki have full view of Izuku like he hasn't been boring a hole in Izuku's head since the moment they'd walked through the doors.

All the training that got him here, he had things he been primed to say, it all went out the window the second Izuku had seen him because nothing had prepared him for this, for reuniting with his former childhood friend again after more than a decade. Bakugou Katsuki is the one person he would have never expected to come here, let alone if it’s for Izuku. The last time they had seen each other, they’d parted with a lot of tears and vitriol thrown at each other.

“—I never want to see you again, you useless nerd! I hate you, I fucking hate you. Go away!”

The marks left over from that fight had never truly healed. Years later, he still carried those bitter words to into his dream, always wondering if he had another chance maybe he could have mended their tattered friendship again. Now, staring into the eyes of the nightmare that had haunted him ever since then, a strange mixture of wariness and curiosity warring within him.

“K-Kacchan—?” he asks, moving in stuttering steps as though he was pulled forward.

“Izuku! What are you doing?!” the Headmaster hisses, scandalized tone leaking into his voice, but Izuku found it was impossible to heed his words. “Stop that now!”

He takes another step and another, and then the collar around his neck constricts and sends a jolt of electricity throughout his body, dropping Izuku to the floor in shock. Izuku’s trembling hands fumble at his collar as he desperately tries catch his breath.

Out of the corner of his panic stricken eyes, he catches the sound of heavy footsteps as Katsuki makes his way to the Headmaster in three long strides. He grabs the Headmaster by the collar of his shirt and shakes him. “What the fuck did you do him, you bastard?!” is the first thing Katsuki says, and it’s so, so fierce and cutting that the words cut through the air like lightning.

Izuku recoils, fear taking hold of him for a second.

The Headmaster’s mask of composure doesn’t slip one bit, not even in the face of a top twenty rank pro-hero. Wordlessly, he carefully removes Katsuki’s hand from his person and smiles reassuringly. “Zero-san, it was just a precaution to control him in case the Lesser acted out. Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he promises, his voice slipping into a melodious and soothing tone.

Right away, Izuku can feel the earlier rise of panic and anxiety stirring inside of him is quickly disappearing under the Headmaster’s emphatic quirk. As a level four, the Headmaster has masterful commands of his quirk that let him use his voice to inject emotions into everyone nearby. It’s one of the many reasons he was left in charge of the Lesser Sponsorship Program because he could easily defuse any complicated situations if it arise to that. “Your merchandise remains unharmed,” he is quick to assure Katsuki, instilling as much calm as he could in those words that Izuku’s head is fuzzy with warmth, choking on a sweet toxic scent and if the Headmaster had asked, Izuku would have walked into fire for him.

But Katsuki is not Izuku, he isn’t defenseless babe against such a measly mind altering quirk. Katsuki snarls, shoving the Headmaster abruptly back. Hastily, he wraps a hand around his biceps, nails digging into his skin as he winces in a pain but whatever he did, he sobers up quickly after that.

A level four quirk user going up against a level six, who had been training and perfecting his power since he was young to able to use it at professional level and fight for his life and the lives of millions of other, is a joke in many ways.

The Headmaster is completely outmatched this time.

“Cut that shit out or I’ll blast a fucking hole in your head,” Katsuki bites out, vicious and meaning every word of it. Both of his palms are crackling with intent.

For once, the Headmaster acquiesces as he steps back and fixes his shirt. He remains cool and unperturbed, but the slightest tremble in his hands says otherwise. “I apologize, Zero-san, if I offended you somehow,” he offers, and slowly the tense air around them clears out.

Izuku can finally breathe properly now as thought a spell was lifted from him.

“Yea?” Katsuki sneers. “And who said you can put a fucking collar on him?! I didn’t tell you to do any of that shit.”

“Sir with all due respect, it’s standard procedure to assure the safety of our clients. We put it on every one of our Lessers when they’re meeting with their potential sponsor for the first time and during their probationary period,” the Headmaster explains as calmly as possible against Katsuki’s rising anger.

“He’s quirkless! What the fuck can he even do to me, huh?! The day I let a loser like him get the better of me is the day my old hag of a mother stop nagging me about useless shit,” Katsuki spits out.

Before Izuku can even let Katsuki’s jab against him sink in, he is drag up from the floor by the arm. Just as he got both feet planted on the ground, Katsuki’s hand reaches for him, his palm hovering right over Izuku’s throat. Eyes wide with shock, Izuku can feel the heat emanating from Katsuki’s touch and he quickly squeezes his eyes, mentally preparing for the pain to come.

It never did. A crackling pop erupts near his ears and he hears nothing else except for the burnt smell of metal teasing at his nose.

He gingerly opens his eyes to see whatever remains of the collar on the floor and Katsuki already retreating several steps back with a scowl on his face. Pawing his hands clumsily at his throat as though to make sure it’s real, his neck feels strangely bare and light for once.

“You won’t be needing this anymore,” Katsuki asserts, but it wasn’t aim toward Izuku.

“That was unnecessary, Zero-san,” the Headmaster rebukes, but he moves no actual move about it. Izuku casts a quick glance at the Headmaster beside him and sees while he’d managed to keep his voice even, he is clearly shaken by the Katsuki’s abrupt and forceful action.

Izuku has no doubt the Headmaster has every reason to be terrified.

Even at eight, Katsuki was rated by the Bureau of Quirk Testing to be a level three, making him leaps and bounds ahead of kids their age. Under the Number System, the government gives the most benefit and support to those people with higher quirk level. In a caste like class system where society value those with active overt quirk that are flashy and useful, Katsuki was already set apart from everyone else a young age. He was already overpowered and talented back then, but it was untrained and wild.

Now, seeing tit up close and personal, the way he had blasted the collar off of Izuku without leaving a single singed mark on him, it was so precise and in control that Izuku can’t help the swell of admiration rising up in him. Their years apart had done wonder for Katsuki’s burning talent. While Izuku was learning to get on bent knees and serving his future master properly, Katsuki was honing his skills and fighting villains in order to keep their world safe. The difference in their two diverging paths is a bitter pill for Izuku to swallow.

He digs his nail in palm as he curl right fist, but his expression doesn’t change. Katsuki’s entire series of action remain a puzzling mystery to him. Izuku knows Katsuki, of the young boy who was once his friend and then nothing at all, but that was back then; he doesn’t know of the man who stands before him now.

Katsuki is silence for a moment, his eyes unflinchingly rakes over Izuku as though he prying apart Izuku piece by piece to see what he is made of. Izuku shrinks into himself unconsciously under the intense scrutiny.

“Fuck this shit,” Katsuki declares finally, breaking the stilted silence, “we’re getting out of here.”

Izuku’s jaw drops in surprise. “W-What?”

“Wait—sir, you can’t take him yet!” the Headmaster interjects quickly.

Katsuki’s head swivel toward him with a glare. “Didn’t you get the money I wired to you?” he demands .

“Well, yes, but there are still paperworks for you to sign,” the Headmaster answers. “And I would like go over our ninety days grace period in case you any sort problem arise or you find our Izuku lacking during that time.”

“No need. Send it all to my lawyers,” Katsuki instructs, and before the Headmaster can get another word wedge in, he takes Izuku by the hand.  “Come on.” He drags Izuku forward with a forceful tug. “This entire place creep me the fuck out,” he says, cursing a storm under his breath as they leave behind a disgruntle looking Headmaster, who clearly never dealt with such a whirlwind in the likes of Bakugou Katsuki.

Izuku quietly lets Katsuki drag him of out the room and into the wide hallway, and leads him out across the campus without any further exchange. They didn’t speak much or at all in the VIP room previously, but the things he wanted to say and ask were things he doesn’t know if he could.

It’s all very, very different now. They’re not kids anymore; Katsuki who stands at the pinnacle of society while Izuku is just a lowly Lesser. He doesn’t know what he can hope to expect from this version of a much older and mature Katsuki.

He can only hope to find out in the following days, that is if Katsuki doesn’t send him back right away once he realize Izuku is not what he wanted.

In their silence, they march through one of the big botanic gardens where most of the students congregate in their free time and in their hurry they stir up enough commotion with Katsuki’s recognizable face and fame, and then there’s Izuku’s notoriety.

Loud whispers swirl around them as they make their way the garden.  

“Is that Ground Zero?!”

“Wait, what is he even doing here?”

“—and with Midoriya of all people?”

“Did nobody warn him that Midoriya is a defected goods with how many sponsors he had turned over?”

“How much you bet Zero will send him back here in a week.”

“Not even. Watch, it’ll be just three days.”  

Izuku grimaces. They haven’t step off the academy yet and the rumors are already running amok. Izuku’s stellar reputation in the academy precedes him once more.  

“Ignore those fuckers,” Katsuki hisses, tightening his hand around Izuku’s own as they make it pass the garden and enters the main pathway toward the visitor plaza, where the entrance and exit is tucked away in. “I’ll kick their ass for spouting bullshit if I didn’t want to get out of here as soon as possible. The longer we stay here the more I want to blow up this entire place up.”

Katsuki’s hatred for this place is made obvious, but then why did he even come here in the first place? Is it really for him? But, then why? What did Katsuki even want from him? All these questions dog his step and confuses him even more. But in that moment he realizes there’s something even more important that he was forgetting.

“Kacchan, wait,” Izuku calls out, pulling to a stop.  

Katsuki’s arm is yanked back and he too halted in his spot because of Izuku. “What now, Deku,” he snaps, turning around with an impatient expression on his face.  

“I have to clean out my dorm first,” Izuku tells him, shifting his foot nervously. “There are things I want to get.”

Katsuki clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Just leave it. Whatever you need I’ll get buy it for you later.” At Izuku’s frown, he sighs. “What other useless things do you even that is important enough to stay at this cesspool any longer?”

Izuku bites down on his lower lip, pauses, and looks away. “My mother’s mementos,” he answers finally.

A beat, then. “Fine, we’ll go get your stuff first but after that you’re coming home with me,” he states, like it’s an unshakeable true. “No more fucking detour, you hear me?”

And that’s all it take, just those few words is all the assurance he need that maybe this wasn’t some cruel joke after all. Home. With Katsuki. He is going home with Katsuki. Katsuki wants him enough to take him home. For what reason, Izuku doesn’t know yet but he takes note that Katsuki hasn’t let go of Izuku’s hand since they’d walked out on the Headmaster.

Katsuki’s hand rough, full of calluses and little cuts and scars, but it’s warm and he holds Izuku’s with immeasurable care. Though Katsuki’s words hadn’t been kind, his hands speak for what couldn’t be translate into words.

This he will trust. In this he hands over his fate to Katsuki, so please, please don’t disappoint him like the rest of the world had. Katsuki has him by the his heartstring and Izuku hopes he doesn’t regret it.

[littlemisssquiggles]

You know this has been bothering me for a while now... How do you feel about people dropping the show? I mean, I'm currently not that close anymore and I am willing to give Volume 7 another chance (but I keep my expectations veeeery low since I am so tired of being disappointed like I was with Volume 6 - it started out good and I really much liked the two Apathy episodes, even though they had narrative weaknesses in my opinion), also thanks to you. I just want to know what you think about it.

Hello again Mizu! Firstly, let me apologize for taking so long to respond. I’mbacklogged on questions to answer in my inbox so I’m slowly working my waythrough them. Secondly pleased to hear you’ve decided to give the new season achance. 

To be honest with you fam, I honestly have nothing against folks who wish to drop RWBY. As I’vebeen telling you before, folks are entitled to feel the way they feel---be itgood, bad or indifferent. 

Basically what I’m saying is, I understand that everyone’s viewson RWBY aren’t the same and I respect that. I respect the fact that there arefolks who are genuinely loyal to the series and will continue to support it tothe very end, just as much as I acknowledge and respect the views of the folkswho are genuinely disappointed with the series or rather, they’re disappointedwith the direction in which the series has changed since V3---the last seasonits original creator---Monty worked on, I believe, before he sadly passed away.

When it comes to indulging in media, myideology stands as this: if you’ve come to a point where you’re watching apiece of media that you used to indulge in but the overall positivefeelings--- love, joy and entertainment--- you once felt for it when you firststarted is no longer there, then you’re more than welcome to drop it if you sodesire. 

Or you can take a break from it and come back later. Heck you can evendrop it but still remain a part of its FNDM, not necessarily following the showanymore but still enjoying other things like fanart and fanfic. No one is atfault for wishing to stop watching a series they once loved nor are they atfault for wanting to leave it/ take break from it only to come back later. Youdo you, dude.

In terms of RWBY, I’m half and half. Iunderstand why folks would wish to continue to watch the series; but at thesame time, I understand why folks would wish to drop it. The series, whilestill entertaining and enjoyable in some parts (at least to me) has admittedly madesome rather questionable choices in regards to certain aspects of the writing within therecent last arc. 

Questionable choices which unfortunately left a lot of fansdisappointed. As a matter of fact, I think disappointed is an understatement.But like I said before, folks are entitled to feel the way they feel andthey’re allowed to express their feelings, thoughts and opinion if they feelthe need.

Where I may take issue with folks whodrop RWBY, however, is if they turn into one of those kindred spirits over inthe RWBY Hatedom. RWBY is the one series I know where it has a community of people who dislike the show as much as the ones who love it. And they’ve very vocal about it too. 

It’s perfectly cool if you feeldissatisfied with the way things are being done with RWBY but where that becomes problematic, in my opinion, is when it turns to bitterness which then leadsto you attacking people and downright disrespecting them. This is inclusive of notjust the fans who still support RWBY but also the members of theCRWBY.

I get that people didn’t like the waythings were done with the show but that still doesn’t give you the right todisrespect the people working on it. One habit that I’m tired of seeing from theHatedom is their incessant use of throwing Monty’s name around as a means toridicule the current state of the show. 

Regardless of whether or not you don’tlike the way the showrunners have written the show, you still have to show themsome level of respect. And continuing to use the name of the show’s deceasedcreator to scrutinize the efforts of the same people---some of which wereMonty’s friends and original colleagues---is just beyond disrespectful.

If I may talk about Monty here for abit, it honestly disgusts me whenever I go into forums discussing fan reviewsof RWBY and still see people leaving comments such as “Monty wouldn’t have liked this” or “You’veruined Monty’s vision”  and all that jazz.

Seriously, how entitled of a fan must you be to act as if you knew Monty personally enough toimply that he wouldn’t have liked the way RWBY is now?

Who do you think will have the moral high ground in this predicament of deciding how RWBY should continue? The people whopersonally knew and worked with Monty when RWBY first started and are doing thebest they can to keep the show running? Or the so-called fans who continue towatch the series just to mock the efforts of Monty’s former friends and colleagueswhile constantly throwing his name in their faces as an insult.

You tell me.

What happened to Monty was sad and I’mmostly saying that as a longstanding fan of his. Like many RWBY fans, I didn’tknow Monty personally. I knew him mostly through his work. Monty was a creatorwho got an opportunity that most of us creatives with our our stories to tell couldonly dream of. He got a chance to bring his story to life only to unfortunatelypassed away while working on it.

It’s one thing to be disappointed withsomething you used to love but it’s another thing when your anger andresentment makes you disrespectful. It’s not cool when former fans of RWBY become people whoconstantly look for ways to talk down the show. I can sympathize with the FNDMfam members who were upset with the development of the show but where Ican’t take your side is if that dissatification leads to contempt.

I’ve said this before and I’m going torepeat it again. RWBY isNOT a flawless show. It never has been and quite frankly,it’ll probably never be as perfect as fans want it to be. But what I havelearnt is that RWBY is a show that’s much like the man who created it. It keepsmoving forward. Each season it tries to do better than the last and it shows.

I know certain parts have not been sogreat but I have to acknowledge the ones that were. I know some of usweren’t 100% pleased with how V6 turned. However, I will say this. Prior tothat season, the Writers promised that they were looking into some of the criticismsleft behind from past seasons and were working to fix him. Did they live up tothat? To quote Ozpin, in some ways yes and in other ways, no.

V6 still unfortunately suffered fromthe same issues with the writing that fans disliked back in V5. But what I willpoint out that it didn’t start off that way. I think we can all admit that thefirst half of V6 (C1 to C7) was done well. The other half….....er....not so much. Butit’s still worth noting that there is good within the bad.

This is why I personally will keepgiving the series a chance. Speaking for myself here, I’ve been on the RWBY train since thevery beginning and sink or swim, soar or crash, I’m staying on-board till thisseries reaches its final destination. Because outside of that fact that thereare still things about the show that I enjoy and love, I’m also very, verycurious to see where exactly the CRWBY Writers are taking this story of theirs.

Monty may not have been able to joinMiles and Kerry in progressing the show he made; however Miles and Kerry arecontinuing it. They are telling theirstory now in direct correlation to the onethey kicked off with Monty. 

What that story is overall? How is it gonna go for future seasons and arcs andmore importantly, how is it all gonna end? Those are questions with answers I’mstill interested to know. And until the day comes when I no longer care aboutthese things with RWBY, I’m gonna stick around and try my best to enjoy the ride alongthe way---whether it cruises calmly or runs over a couple of rough patches andbumps. It’s fine. I’ve got plenty of tolerance. 

I see a lot of potential for betterwriting in RWBY. I’m just patiently waiting for the season where the Writersfinally find their groove since I think they were struggling during the MistralTrilogy. RWBY isn’t perfect but it’s a show with folks who admittedly do theirbest to improve on it as the seasons go. 

They may not land every time but theeffort is still worth appreciating in some sense-- well at least I know appreciate it especially when they get things right cause, contrary to what othersmight believe, not everything about RWBY is completely bad. As a matter offact, some of it is arguably not as bad as folks let it out to be. But I understand that’s amatter of opinion. Can’t honestly speak for other FNDM members. Only my squiggly self here.

Now mind you, none of the stuff I’vementioned about the RWBY Hatedom applies to you Mizu. I know we’ve only chatted once or twice between Q&A but forthe most part, you’ve been quite humble and a pleasant person to talk to. 

Despite your voiced issues with the current run of RWBY, you’vemaintained a cool, respectable air about yourself and that’s great. Please keep that up. Regardless of what happens during V7. Regardless of whether youchoose to stay or go with RWBY during or after V7, do your best to remain as humble as you as much as possible. That’s basically the bottom line point I’m trying to say here.That goes for you and anyone else who’ve been feeling the same way you haveabout the show.

Just stay humble guys. Opinions can be different but still maintain that R-E-S-P-E-C-T and that goes for both sides.

And, yeah, that’s pretty all I gottasay. I hope I actually answered your question. I feel like I did. As always,feel free to let me know. In the meantime, take care.

~LittleMissSquiggles(2019)

[hatari-translations]

Klámstrákur - analysis

Here I am, back again with some lyric analysis!

I think that it’s valid to interpret a song to have whatever meaning it evokes for you personally - but that it’s also useful, or at least interesting, to take a close look at what the lyrics say and what they imply if taken to be a reasonably literal whole, which will probably give the best possible insight when it comes to speculating on what the original intention behind the lyrics was, whether you then choose to make that guide your personal interpretation of the song or not. In this analysis, when I speak of ‘Klemens’, I’m referring to Klemens’ character, the narrator of the song, not to actual real-life Klemens, unless otherwise stated.

Content warning for discussion of sexual assault below.

What is Klámstrákur?

“Klámstrákur” is an unreleased song by Hatari, which you should listen to if you haven’t because it’s good and features some excellent Klemens. I’ve transcribed the lyrics and translated them into English to my best ability here. As Matthías writes the lyrics for Hatari, the lyrics can be presumed to be written by him, even though Klemens performs the song. You should read the lyrics in full to follow the rest of this post!

“Klámstrákur” is a favorite among Hatari fans, largely for Klemens’ seductive, emotional vocals and the way that, during live performances, Matthías will point into the audience, often specifically at people who are recording the song on their phones, and mercilessly growl “Þú ert klámstrákur” at them, which translates to “You’re a porn boy.”

So what is it about?

Well. The lyrics aren’t super explicit about what’s going on. But we can definitely glean a few things.

Klemens is unwell

In the first verse of the song, Klemens sings about an illness that he seems to be afflicted with - he’s shivering, coughing up stuff, getting weak. Klemens at least believes that he’s dying, but the doctors he’s seen about it are dismissive.

There are a couple of possible interpretations of this. The most straightforward is that Klemens is right: he really is dying, but the doctors aren’t listening to him. This probably suggests that he’s afflicted with a life-threatening condition of some kind, but dismissed because of social stigma against his condition or who he is generally.

It’s also possible that he only believes that he’s dying, but he’s really not, and that’s why the doctors are dismissive. In this case, what the verse is getting at is not physical illness, but mental: Klemens is so miserable and traumatized that he imagines he’s dying, even though he perhaps only has a common, non-life-threatening illness. (He probably has some kind of illness; the shivering could be psychological, but the specific reference to coughing up more as opposed to just coughing more is genuinely pretty worrying.)

Klemens is mentally unwell

Even if he’s really dying of a physical illness, Klemens is clearly not okay mentally either. He describes having a weak self-image, being an anxious wreck (in Icelandic he says kvíðasjúklingur, or literally ‘anxiety patient’, though it doesn’t sound that clinical), crying, lying alone unable to sleep. Moreover, “Sometimes I lie alone / utterly lonely / tied down, insomniac / a sticky boy” is kind of ambiguous (“tied down” suggests this is while engaged in a BDSM scene, but “insomniac” kind of suggests he’s in bed and supposed to be sleeping), but it makes me imagine him kind of lying there catatonic, not even cleaning himself. All in all, he’s in a poor state, suffering anxiety/depression.

Klemens is engaged in some kind of sex work

I say this mainly because of “I’ll do anything that sells”. Given the whole ‘porn boy’ thing, he may literally mean that he’s a pornographic model, or it may be less literal. Either way it seems pretty clear he’s engaging in sexual acts for money.

Klemens has been made to do things he’s not comfortable with, but blames himself

Okay. Let’s not kid ourselves; this is my big thesis here. This is the bit I don’t really see people talking about.

Let’s take a look at these lines:

Vomiting, crying, whining

I’m a mess

Easily hurt

I’m that type, a total prude making a scene

Klemens described himself as horny and doing anything that sells earlier in the song. So what’s this “total prude making a scene” thing about? Well, to me it’s pretty clear that he tried to refuse to do something, but was then convinced - by his clients, or simply by himself - that he was being a prude, that he was making a scene about nothing. And he bought it. He thinks he’s that type, an easily hurt mess, one who’s whining. He’s fine, right? He’s a horny little guy, isn’t he? A porn boy, a bad boy? He wants this, doesn’t he? Only some kind of spoiled creature would be complaining.

I think it’s pretty well implied that the Klemens character has suffered one kind of sexual assault or another here, but has convinced himself that wasn’t what happened, that he was making a big deal out of nothing, that he deserved it. He is a traumatized victim drowning in his own self-loathing, and this is probably a large part of why he has anxiety and finds himself crying uncontrollably and unable to sleep.

Matthías thinks he’s disgusting and despicable

So who exactly is Matthías in this song? I see three main possibilities here.

The first is that Matthías represents Klemens’ abusers, who personally feel nothing but contempt for him as a sex worker. If he has a physical illness, given the rest of the song, it’s probably sexually transmitted - very possibly AIDS - and they think it makes him disgusting.

The second is that Matthías represents society as a whole. There’s a huge amount of stigma against sex work, and especially during the AIDS crisis back in the 80s, it was hugely stigmatized as well. Society considers him disgusting and refuses to see him as a human being. This would also explain the doctors, by the way; I think it’s pretty likely he is meant to have AIDS regardless of who Matthías represents.

The third possibility is that Matthías represents Klemens’ own self-loathing. He thinks he’s disgusting and repulsive, and just has a constant angry voice of judgement in his head reminding him that he’s a porn boy, despicable, a disgusting brat, the lowest of the low.

Perhaps he’s a bit of all three.

Klemens needs all of the hugs

I think I’ve made my case.

Okay, now I feel weird about being turned on by that song.

That’s a fair reaction. I think Hatari deliberately present the song in a way that’s seductive and suggestive while the lyrics are positively chilling and really anything but sexy, probably because the Klemens character has persuaded himself that this is all pretty sexy. You can appreciate the sensuality of actual-Klemens’ performance while aware that the fiction of the song describes something deeply messed up. I suspect that’s kind of the reaction that they’re going for.

To me, the song is about [x], though.

And that’s cool! Songs can be about many things at the same time, with a metaphorical layer as well as a literal layer, and even if it’s not what the author was actually thinking about while writing it, each listener brings their own experiences to the table and can find meaning in a song that the author didn’t even know was there!

But is it really about Klemens selling himself to act sexual on stage even though he doesn’t really want to?

Almost definitely not, since the song is 1) almost definitely not written by Klemens, 2) significant portions of the song don’t make any sense in that light, 3) I’m pretty sure Klámstrákur predates Hatari being famous or known for sexiness enough to feel any kind of pressure to put on a sexy show for the audience, and 4) have you seen Klemens, he really goes above and beyond what anyone would expect of him on stage, there is obviously such a thing as being in denial but if that were the case he wouldn’t be singing a very self-aware song about how much he actually hates doing this. While different interpretations of what it’s about are valid, I personally think it’s a bit tasteless to advance interpretations of what the intention behind it is that baselessly posit edgy things about the guys’ personal lives.

[timeagainreviews]

Thoughts leading up to series 12

Happy holidays, friends! I know, I know. It's been a while. I would love to sit here and say I have been away doing important things, but really I've been hibernating. The results of that awful election, mixed with the holidays had left me feeling a bit lethargic as of late. That being said, I had a nice Christmas. Being an immigrant, I don't see my family on holidays. My boyfriend and I spent the day piecing together a Babylon 5 jigsaw puzzle. I made my pal Gerry a celery for his 5th Doctor cosplay and he gifted me a replica of the Li H'sen Chang poster from "The Talons of Weng-Chiang." It was a very Doctor Who Christmas! Sadly, there was no Doctor Who Christmas episode!

Alas, it hardly matters, as new Doctor Who is mere days away! As I did last year, you can expect weekly coverage for each new episode. I'm looking forward to getting back into the groove of consistent writing. Usually, the fandom is more abuzz when the show is actually airing, so please remember to check in with this blog, as I will be watching along with the rest of you!

If you recall, prior to series eleven, I made a list talking about some of my hopes and expectations for the new TARDIS team and the new production team. Seeing as series twelve is just days away from premiering, I thought I might do it again. Let's get to it, shall we?

The Thirteenth Doctor

Seeing Jodie Whittaker back in the TARDIS for another round of adventures has me massively excited. One of the downsides to Christopher Eccleston's run is that we never really got to see him develop the role of the Ninth Doctor. I'm hoping we'll get to see more aspects of her character. Seeing as I don't expect her to regenerate any time soon, there's still much of her personality left to explore. We've met the friendly adorkable Doctor, now let's see her bend a little.

One of my primary complaints about Jodie Whittaker's portrayal as the Doctor was that I didn't think she got scary. While I love her bravery, running headlong into danger, I would like to see a shade or two of her dark side. Up to this point, she's been too friendly to be scary. I know I'm not the only person with this complaint, so it will be interesting to see what a year of hiatus and refocusing will do for her. Honestly, I hope they don't change her too much, as she's pretty great. I'd just like to see them flesh her out a bit.

Other than her personality, I'm also hoping to see some costume variations. The trailer for the new season does give us Jodie in a bow tie, which I am all for. I've also seen a picture where her trousers are black. I'm hoping they continue to tweak her costume here and there, as watching the Doctor's costume evolve over time has always been one of my favourite things about the show.

Chris Chibnall's return

Was there anyone from series eleven that drew more ire than Chris Chibnall? Sure you got the people who hated Jodie solely because she was a woman, but on the level of legitimate concerns, Chibnall was up there. I myself threw a bit of mud in his direction, and I don't feel as though it was without good cause. The general management of the show seemed a bit aimless, despite many promising elements.

Something about the way series eleven was received gave the BBC pause to reevaluate the show's trajectory, and I have a distinct feeling that Chibnall was at the heart of a lot of it. From his lack of a season-long story arc, to the villains being a bit shit, to an overly dour tone, his first year as showrunner left something to be desired. The fact that we didn't even get a single webisode during this gap year shows me that they're still not 100% sure what to do with Doctor Who.

However, having said this, Chibnall's core TARDIS team is one of the most exciting aspects of series twelve. I can't wait to see more from this great line up of characters. And if the exciting trailer for this new series is anything to go off, we're in for quite a ride. Chibnall's most recent endeavour as showrunner was last year's "Resolution," a much-needed bit of classic Who villainy in the form of a Dalek. I was left feeling optimistic that Chibnall was capable of delivering solid storytelling. And that's the operative word- optimistic. As long as he doesn't get needlessly gritty, I'm cautiously optimistic that this year-long hiatus has yielded positive results.

The Companions

Like many other viewers, my chief complaint about the companions has to be Yaz. She really got shafted on the level of character development last year. When you have someone as talented as Mandip Gill, it's a shame to waste her. I know the fandom was quite vocal about this fact, so I fully expect to see the show give her more time in the spotlight. I don't know anyone who disliked her character, which is a good sign that the fandom wants more of her.

Ryan and Graham were two characters that I felt got a great bit of character development. The moment when Ryan finally calls Graham "granddad," was a truly exciting moment for two characters we had grown to love. The logical next step, at least in my mind, is to test the boundaries of this new relationship. I'd really love to see Graham meet a new love interest. Introducing someone into Graham's life would make Ryan have to broaden his definition of family even further. It might also be a catalyst for his own personal growth.

I wouldn't be surprised if we didn't also see one or more of the companions depart from the TARDIS. My gut says it would be Graham, but I wouldn't be surprised if all three of them left at the end of the series. As much as I love the current companions, I would love to see what energy a new companion or two might do for Jodie's Doctor.

The Villains

Prior to series eleven, I was feeling very optimistic for new Doctor Who. That is until I read an article where Chris Chibnall announced there would be no returning villains. Other than the announcement that Chibnall would be showrunner, nothing had made me more concerned for the show's future than "no returning villains." It's not that returning villains are a must for Doctor Who. It's actually a rather brave thing to attempt. The reason it's brave is that if you're going to leave out classic baddies, you've got to justify your decision by crafting new classics. And I'm sorry, but some Slipknot dude with teeth in his face is not classic.

From what I've seen of the trailer and promotional stills, we're looking at at least three returning creatures from the Whoniverse. We've all seen the picture of Jodie staring down the Judoon. If I am completely honest, those have left me with the least amount of hype, as they weren't ever even full-on villains. I've always found the Judoon slightly hokey, so I could take or leave them. The plus side is that there is still plenty of room to develop them as a species. Are there non-Shadow Proclamation Judoon? Are there evil factions? I'm curious if nothing else.

Another familiar face is the Cybermen. While I feel like both the RTD and Moffat eras used the Cybermen ad nauseam, they're still a classic baddie with a solid track record. It appears they'll have something to do with the finale and that "timeless child," storyline I'm uninterested in, so fine, sure, ok. The real alien species I'm excited for is the Racnoss! Much like the Judoon, the Racnoss are also underdeveloped. I wasn't a big fan of them the first time around, which is why I'm excited for more. I'm curious to see what depth can be found in these campy arachnids. If nothing else, the makeup is fun.

The Guest Actors

Series eleven treated us to a surprisingly tender performance from Lee Mack in "Kerblam!" We got a decent turn by Mark Addy, working with not a lot to go off as the underwritten Paltraki. But without a doubt, the best performance came in the form of Alan Cumming's King James. Not only was he as hilarious as he was loathsome, but he also elevated what could have been a more straightforward performance, by finding that sweet spot of camp and contemptible.

That being said, with actors like Stephen Fry, Lenny Henry, and classic Doctor Who alum Robert Glenister joining the show, I'm hopeful we'll get at least one memorable performance out of the lot. I've not followed many of the ins and outs of the storylines, so I have no idea who anyone is playing other than Goran Višnjić as Nikola Tesla. That being said, the addition of Tesla to the series seems an obvious fit. He was an eccentric man who was a bit weird about his pet bird. I expect his story to be one of the stranger ones we'll enjoy this year, or at least, it had better be.

The BBC's involvement

I'm hoping that in this last year, the BBC weren't just reevaluating Chris Chibnall's direction for the show, but their own involvement as well. They got rid of Bake Off and Formula One, Top Gear's audience followed Clarkson over to Amazon. All that's left are partisan news coverage, QI, Countryfile, and Doctor Who. Oh and I guess "His Dark Materials," but I don't know anyone who's talking about that show. As I said earlier, it's been a year of nothing from Doctor Who as a series. Other than comics and a less than perfect VR game, we've gotten nothing from the Thirteenth Doctor and the fam. Not even a novel or webisode to tide us over. How hard would it have been, while filming series twelve, to shoot a quick little skit on the TARDIS set? The Moffat era did this a lot, and it was always nice to see a little bit of Doctor Who while waiting for more episodes.

As the last vestige of the BBC's once-great television empire, you would think they might start to give a shit about Doctor Who. I know it's a crazy concept, but perhaps shelving one of your best shows for a year wasn't the best option. It would be nice to see them put more money and effort into the show. It would be a welcome sight to see them also put more money into the budget for things like merchandise or extended universe media. We've got three books for the current Doctor and that was last year. David Tennant had over thirty novels, while Matt Smith's Doctor appeared in over 15, and Capaldi only appeared in nine. Do you remember the last time we got a Character Options figure that wasn't a repaint of another figure? The most recent one we got was Harry Sullivan, and I'm pretty sure the only new element to that figure was his head. I've seen previews of the new companion figurines, and they're great, but I want more.

Perhaps I sound a bit spoiled. Many shows never expand beyond their allotted episodes, but this is Doctor Who, a show with a broader reach than your telly. It seemed last year that they were finally giving the show its dues. There were billboards of Jodie's face everywhere. The hype was palpable. Now, it's just four days from series twelve, and I've not even seen a bus ad for the new show. A woman I see out on dog walks was surprised when I told her the show was returning on the first of January. She had no idea. This is the Doctor Who audience that they're failing, not people like me who count the days like an advent calendar. The BBC needs to decide once in for all if they're going to give Doctor Who the respect it deserves, or sell it someone who will.

And that's it for now, friends. I hope you're all just as excited as I am to be back in the blue box. If all goes as planned, I should have a new review up the day after each episode. I'm optimistic that I'll have some great things to say!

[sweetdreamsjeff]

LAST GOODBYE the lost Jeff Buckley interview

One of the most revealing – and spine-chilling – interviews of Jeff Buckley’s short life was conducted for a fanzine with a small readership. Phil Smith resurrects it here, with thanks to Andrew Truth for the interview and extensive contributions

In 1995, fanzine journalism was giving the established music press a run for its money. Andrew Truth had been producing Plane Truth since 1988 but issue 15 (circulation: 500) was to be his last. It had interviews with the usual unusual selection of bands, some fondly remembered and some largely forgotten.

Lurking at the back of the fanzine was an encounter with Jeff Buckley, son of Tim and on the way to becoming a legend in his own right. Andrew had conducted the interview on 3 September 1994, before Buckley’s show at what was then The Hop & Grape (now part of Manchester Academy). Buckley had only just released Grace and started touring with a full band, which Andrew remembers him enthusing about. The album was yet to slow-burn its way into the hearts of millions. He had been recording a Mark Radcliffe session and playing Reading Festival and likened the part he played at the latter to being “a circus performer”. He was about to leave for the continent for further dates. His father’s reputation preceded him and for that reason, Andrew steered away from questions about family. They got on like a house on fire, Buckley rambling excitedly about his favourite music, playing live, his choice of cover versions, songwriting and immortality.

Buckley introduced himself by impulsively diving onto Andrew’s cafeteria table. He launched unprompted and with a distant air into part of one of his favourite interview topics, a solo LP by Deep Purple’s Jon Lord, as if transmitting thoughts from a superior galaxy and with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He dabbed sandalwood oil behind his ear while mimicking a cockney accent and singing jauntily: “‘Now we’ve made it, I’d like to do my orchestral piece called Gemini Suite about the signs of the zodiac.’ [Lord’s LP is] Great! It’s partly Bonanza, partly every horrible cliché. Like in Warner Brothers cartoons, Bugs Bunny music. It’s the funniest shit alive, all that 70s stuff. I can’t listen to it for long [though]. There’s a difference between indulgence and exploration.”

It had been Buckley’s questing approach in addition to his poetic soul and natural vocal talent that had drawn Andrew towards him at this early stage in his international career. Buckley settled into the interview, describing his nomadic upbringing as “a preparation and a curse, but everyone’s childhood is. It’s made it easier [for me to tour]. You’re the stranger constantly. People will find occasions where they’re readily accepted but other times, equally [the] weight of hostility comes towards you for no reason at all. I still attract the same things from childhood. People come to the shows and either run away screaming or really like it.”

Andrew expressed his contempt for middle-ground mediocrity in music. Buckley was more nuanced in his response, describing its fleeting effect: “Nothing [from the middle ground] comes to mind, that is ’cos I’ve forgotten it already. I’ve forgotten the effect and which art it was that gave me the effect. Either you remember Bob Dylan or you remember Michael Bolton.” Bolton was another Buckley interview hobby horse and appears to have been the bane of his life, and he was arguably a collective figure of hate for all alternative music fans at the time.

At the gig, Andrew described Buckley as bouncing about in a style that induced cries of “Kangaroo!”, his face dramatic and furrowed in anguish, seeming to curse injustices with disbelief. “People project tremendous amounts of personal low self-esteem and high self-esteem upon the stage, in equal parts sometimes. That’s the catharsis of going to a live show. If the performer is right, this is very co-dependent, but people go there to unload. There is this loud person who has come to a few of my gigs and her friends insist that she’s a very nice person but she can’t help but shout at me up on the stage. It’s something I just accept. It’s not like when Murphy’s Law played at The Plaza and four or five fights erupted within the space of 46 minutes. I don’t look out to see whether I’m connecting because it’s not up to me. I look out to see where the music should go. If the crowd is hot because their skin is hot due to the temperature, the set will be different. Or if it’s very cold outside and still, I’ll want to be the fireplace as best I can though sometimes I can’t accomplish it. I’m aware of the energy in the room. Moods and music fly about of their own will and they have no order and you can be either open or closed to them and that’s how the gig will go. Either from the stage or the audience, people open to emotions, movement, stories, feeling and dancing.”

Andrew asked Buckley about the unusually high number of cover versions on his first couple of releases. “It’s usually everything about [the song that attracts me], not just one thing. It’s different in the case of [Van Morrison’s] The Way Young Lovers Do. That came about because my friend Michael, who eventually joined the band, had a dream about me and him singing [it]. On a whim, I got it together and performed it one night. Then it became something else because the tempo I liked, the feel of it; the words and the song got into me. Any time I take a cover and wear it on my sleeve, it’s because it had something to do with my life and still marks a time in my life when I needed that song more than anything ever.”

Andrew expressed some shock at how good a rescue job Buckley had done with his Lilac Wine cover, as he previously disliked the Elkie Brooks version. Buckley said: “The version I’ve heard is Nina Simone’s. I’m not even sure who Elkie Brooks is. I don’t think it’s always a fair decision to have homogeneity for its own sake. I think that human beings contain many people… I do believe that there’s this one soul that lies directly through Edith Piaf and the Sex Pistols, I really know that exists: Joni Mitchell and John Cage; Billie Holiday and Bad Brains. An album in itself is a moment and the music may require for me to make an album that’s totally homogenised but not as a rule. It’s good to be varied because without knowing what sides there are to you, knowing your depths, you pretty much die. You never change and you stay in the same unbeatable format but, sooner or later, you become obsolete.”

Failure to evolve is to stymie yourself, suggested Andrew.

“That’s true. I’m not even that concerned with changing,” Jeff replied. “Just with discovery, because through discovering you may stay on one thing for a long time. Just evolving is important. Deliberately changing all the time is like making off with somebody who must change position in order to get into every [sexual] position and you never get anything started. ‘Would you please keep still, throw away the Kama Sutra and love my ass!’”

Buckley confessed to a couple of songs to which he would feel unable to add anything: “Parchment Farm Blues by Bukka White and Well I Wonder by The Smiths because I always end up doing it exactly like Morrissey does. The impetus for having covers was necessity. In the middle of a show taking people into a world that was completely my world, ‘boom’, right over there we’re into I Know It’s Over from The Queen Is Dead.”

In a segment of the interview which Andrew admits makes him a little queasy now, he picked up on Buckley’s Eternal Life and asked him if he desired immortality. Tim Buckley died young of a heroin overdose and his son was to tragically drown in 1997, only a few years after the Plane Truth interview.

“It is possible and it happens all the time, but just not in the way you want or expect it,” Buckley Jr said. “Beyond death, I know nothing but in human life… some people have a love for people around them that is so powerful and carries so many gifts with it that even when they die, people are still accomplishing things through this person’s love in them, because this person said, ‘I see you’re a writer. I see this postcard here and you’re killing me in this, you’re a great writer.’ And he’s saying, ‘I never thought about writing before. ‘But anyway, you’re a great writer and this is a great piece of work. I don’t even want to touch War And Peace, this is it,’ and, ‘boom’, he gets hit by a car and this person goes on to be a great writer or remembers that belief, against his own hope. It’s very strange, in that way, he’ll become immortal, he’ll always be remembered. He’ll be alive in people’s hearts, inside people.

“Then there’s books, records, movies, images. Here’s immortality in a nutshell: Marilyn Monroe, James Dean. They’re all around you but they don’t exist. That’s immortality in my cynical world. That’s Tinsel Town immortality, which is bullshit. They’ve lost immortality because they’ve lost their appearance as mortals. They’re symbols, gods, tools and puppets for people. There’s a fine line between being a god and a puppet...The Bible is used as a puppet and it’s untouchable and sacred but people use it as a pair of roller-skates or joke toilet paper with a psalm on every sheet. Being mortal and rooted in the earth is a very excruciating joy and not a lot of people can take it. Sometimes they just want to be famous, with no substance underneath, no work, no reason. To be famous and known and loved. They think it’s being loved but it’s just being worshipped and idolised and that’s not even being understood. It’s not even in the ballpark. It’s better to have people around you who understand you and when you come up to people in the street and talk about bagels and talk about the game, to have that connection there, it’s very important to me.

“If I wanted to be famous, I’d assassinate the President. There’s no life in it. There’s nothing wrong with being famous for something you do well or uniquely like if I invented the cure for AIDS, I wouldn’t mind being very famous. It’d be a great achievement. Or if I wrote a song that everyone loved, I wouldn’t mind that. It wouldn’t mean everything. That wouldn’t be the object or I’d be a junkie for fame, ‘I wasn’t famous for my orange juice song. It’s a great song but nobody likes it! I must suck!’ I have to be attuned to that and must have an everlasting relationship with this particular thing that there’s a public and then there’s me. At any given time, I am the public and Evan Dando [Lemonheads] is him and I understand that exchange. It’s a very strange arena and lots of people get thrown to the lions. Lots of people come away victorious for a time but then they’re out of the arena, that’s the end of it.”

Andrew ended the interview by asking about whether Buckley regularly wrote songs based on dreams, as Mojo Pin had been. “Dreaming, both waking and asleep, [is] a reservoir of mine. The thing is, there’s no difference for me between dream states and living. They both carry truth to them. I can read them both. I feel things in my dreams and I feel all the things that human beings’ lives bring them, except sometimes there are purple monsters or a chocolate dog trying to wake you up, but it’s still all very valid to me and I read situations in waking hours just like I read them in my sleeping hours, my sleeping hour, my lack of sleep world.”

[happymetalgirl]

As I Lay Dying - Shaped by Fire

Whatever this album ended up sounding like, it was never going to be an easy one to talk about, and when the band released their sixth studio LP in 2012, I would never have anticipated its follow-up to be one of its year’s most controversial albums. 

I’m sure most reading this already know the horrible history between 2012 and this album: lead vocalist Tim Lambesis soliciting an undercover cop who he was led to believe was a hitman to murder his estranged wife. Lambesis was of course arrested, charged with attempted solicitation to commit murder, and eventually plead guilty after putting up a meager fight for under a year with the flimsy defense of the adverse effects of his ongoing steroid use driving him to do something so psychotic and abhorrent. At some point before his incarceration, Lambesis released a candid apology video in which he explained what had happened, his sentencing, and his shameful acceptance of the consequences, sans excuses for himself. He was originally supposed to be imprisoned until 2020, but was released on parole in late 2016, about which he was quiet, but of course word got out, and immediately speculation began to swirl about whether the fractured (if not shattered) As I Lay Dying would reunite, which essentially all parties shut down at any initial inquiry, with multiple relationships between band members already soured before the hiatus aside from their shared contempt for Lambesis since his imprisonment. Seemingly miraculously though, here we are with a seventh As I Lay Dying album that, just two years ago, was never supposed to exist.

This album was always going to be shaped by and responsible for justifying its existence within the context of everything that happened before it, and the astonishingly reunited band knew that when they released the song “My Own Grave” last year, whose lyrics read of upfront humbled acceptance of responsibility, obviously from Lambesis’ point of view.

Since that song’s release and the realizing possibility that the band might actually release an album, discussion surrounding the justification of it erupted within and around the band’s fan base, with most fans supportive of Lambesis’ efforts to make things right and forgivingly welcoming his and the band’s return, while many others remained skeptical of Lambesis’ and his bandmates’ sincerity, if not outright unforgiving of all involved. And since the album’s release, there still really isn’t any consensus or development on that front, and it makes sense.

My feelings on the whole thing are a bit of both honestly. I understand Lambesis wanting to move on from what he did as well as make up for what he did in a way he knows how, and the idealist in me wants this to play out well and redeem such a terrible act as much as it possible can be. I do agree with the sentiment that many fans have echoed that he shouldn’t be treated like someone who hasn’t served time and began to redeem his heinous actions, essentially as a prisoner still and undeserving of finding his way in society again despite being released. But I simultaneously completely understand those still skeptical of him and the band based on their pasts and those who feel like he still has a lot to do to make things fully right again. I agree, he’s far from done yet. But I don’t think that disqualifies him from making the kind of art he knows how to make about his circumstances, especially if he is going to sincerely use it to make positive redemptive effects. Essentially, I don’t think Tim Lambesis is fully redeemed by what he’s done yet, including this album. I don’t think that means he’s not allowed to have made this album (or shouldn’t have), but I’m saying that it’s still not over for him or As I Lay Dying. If he is indeed sincere about everything he has come out and said since his release from prison, I would think he would agree that he still has a lot to do before the more skeptical side of the community starts to trust him again (which he has also said he understands). If the band’s accounts are to be believed, Lambesis’ acceptance back into their lives didn’t happen overnight, and the rest of his story within the metal community is definitely the kind of thing that only more time will reveal to be redemptive or ill-fated. For now, all we can do is assess this early snapshot of the whole situation in this album.

Anyone expecting Shaped by Fire to shatter the As I Lay Dying mould lyrically or musically to fit the newly solemn context surrounding it will not find such adjustment. The band are clearly aware of the album’s context and the music shows how conscious they were to approach it in a way that materialized a project that addressed the things they needed to while still being the kind of album the band’s fans could connect to (and not just an album for the band themselves). And at this I think the band did a mostly pretty admirable job. Stylistically Shaped by Fire picks up right where As I Lay Dying left off in 2012, making some of the most muscular and moving NWOAHM metalcore during and after the movement’s peak of relevance. I mentioned the song “My Own Grave” earlier, the band’s unlikely triumphant return from all that had happened. And musically the song fits that triumphant return and serves as a fine representation of the album as a whole as well, with hard-hitting, thrashing metalcore from start to finish with no room for dropping slack, and bassist Josh Gilbert’s empowering clean vocal melody about accepting guilt and humility cutting through straight to the heart of it all.

Through nearly identical stylistic methods, the still incredibly powerful subsequent single “Redfined” captures a sentiment similar to what was expressed on “My Own Grave”, one of fierce determination to undo one’s wrongs and flaws and recreate one’s self in to become a more positive part of the world, something obviously applicable to Lambesis, but certainly not just him as no one is too perfect for self reflection and improvement.

Lambesis expresses his gratitude for his facing the consequences for his actions most candidly on the wonderfully tremolo-picking-infused “Only After We’ve Fallen”, on which he says “My deceit was displayed for all to see / The only thing that could have saved me”

Gilbert’s clean vocal melodies shine again on the track “Undertow”, whose breakdown is similarly inspiring and heartfelt, and again his pairing with Lambesis takes the band’s signature thrashy melodic metalcore to emotive heights on the appreciative and crushing “The Wreckage” on which the band express their appreciation for their rebuilding from the ruins of the past several years.

The song “Blinded” finds Lambesis trying to convey his mindset surrounding his previous actions, though I think just a little bit too romanticized lyrically, which the assurances of trying to change do thankfully counter. Gilbert’s clean melodies, especially as he reaches high in his range near the end stand out as the song’s driving force of heartfelt repentance, and the vocal performance is so powerful I’m even reminded of Spencer Sotello’s impressive performances on Periphery’s latest album.

Lambesis gets aggressive over some heavy, aerobic, Austrian Death Machine-style thrash without the assistance of Gilbert’s cleans on “Gatekeeper”, one which he (seemingly) understandably lashes out at those hard-heartedly unwilling to forgive him and actively trying to keep him out of music. He doesn’t say it’s explicitly about his situation; he’s as open-ended here as he is on all the other songs applicable to other’s situations but clearly inspired by his experiences, and again I understand the frustration at those determined to hinder what he seees as his path to making things right, but this song effectively burns those bridges between him and people who might well just need a lot of time for their hearts to be softened. Lambesis though does counterbalance this song’s raw frustration with a declaration of commitment on the closing track, “The Toll It Takes”, to doing everything possible to help heal the hurt he caused knowing full well that his true sentence extends beyond his prison time and that there are things he cannot undo.

While certainly not offensively lazy lyrically or musically, the title track is an example of the album at its most rarely formulaic, with the band embodying the good-cop-bad-cop trope of the genre in a less emotive manner that pales in creative comparison to tracks like “Redefined”, “My Own Grave”, and even “Blinded”. It’s just more familiar and rule-following metalcore than the band’s more vulnerable and powerful moments. Most of the album, to the contrary, steeped in the band’s clearly cathartic redemption arc, is brimming with the kind of crushing, open-hearted metalcore that the band crystallized on 2010’s The Powerless Rise, and to an even greater degree as the band’s gratitude for their resurrection is quite tangible from track to track.

For all the controversy and tension surrounding this album, Shaped by Fire followed beneficially the path laid out by its preliminary singles to serve as the right kind of album As I Lay Dying needed to make, given the circumstances. Tim Lambesis clearly understands his responsibility to continue serving in ways to make up for what he did, and his raw emotional vulnerability across the album as a result of his already being humiliated by his actions shows indeed a portrait of a man determined to go the long haul and right his wrongs after losing everything and grateful for what he’s been given back so far. Even his more aggravated expressions like “Gatekeeper” that might be interpreted cynically as undue complaining about justified skepticism and criticism towards him are important to the truthful and tangible picture of human imperfection (at it most humbled in his case) Lambesis is conveying through his lyrics. He clearly understands he has a lot to do still, and a big part of this album is expressing his understanding of what the traumatic past means for his present and future. He and his bandmates are clearly aware that they will face backlash, they know that they are very blessed to have received the support they have, and they know it is still a long road ahead.

Musically, the band sound as if they never stopped playing together and even knew to temper the clean melodies of Awakened to the more optimal balance of thrashy metalcore aggression and powerful soaring choruses on The Powerless Rise, and the tough context surrounding it makes Shaped by Fire one of the band’s most cathartic albums to date.

The support the band has received has indeed been tremendous and certainly helpful, and I imagine some might look at their sold-out tours and think it unjust that the band receive such a magnitude of support at this stage and worry they might interpret the forgiveness of their devoted fans as complete redemption. I certainly understand that concern and I hope that the band don’t settle for just the approval of those who are glad As I Lay Dying is back together and instead continue to strive to make a positive impact with their music and their service to their communities. If this album is truly indicative of their shared emotional state and their mission, I think they will stay on the right path.

Redefining/10

[sokumotanaka]

Last train home: An ode to Rwby

It’s over...it’s finally over.

Prepare for a long and tired final post.

Look, let me say this;

RWBY volume 6 is a mess and I think that's the most charitable thing I can say after spending several years of being invested in it’s crumbling world.

Maybe it was laziness, rushed or sheer incompetence that made this season crumble, so in my final review on rwby as a whole I may have to do some guess work at points; and after several wasted years, I’m not in a position from this point on to be charitable.

I gotta tell you, volume 6 tricked me, hell from what I seen it tricked alot of us, it started off good, we learned thing we should of learned volumes ago. But then I soon realized that this volume was; damage control. We learn of ozpin origins with salem only to not get to absorb it cause we soon learn through obvious reasons that maria was a silver eyed warrior and when ruby finally starts training, we meet one of jaune’s sisters, also pyrrha’s statue is there, but also neo is back, but so is adam and cinder, also mercury has no semblance, tyrian has a new tail-

see what I mean? before you could absorb one thing, two more pop up in its place and there’s such a lack in structure in the world, characters, their growth, development and their dimensions. The magic and power system that rwby has is just a mess that gets increasingly worse as it progresses, they take one step forward only to stumble several feet back and fall on their ass. And maybe one of the problem is I listen to writers commentary; to someone who doesn’t they won’t see as many problems as I do with the series, but when you actually listen to it you see the many problems it has with how this series is handled.

A reboot is at this point completely necessary and needed for this series to make even a semblance of sense. Semblance, Aura and Dust are so poorly handled and explained that they changed at several points to the point of being contrived.

Semblance was originally something you could use when your aura was completely depleted before requiring aura to use.

Except when it’s not but also when it can be, it changes at the drop of a hat, we see yang use her semblance with no aura in her vol 5 trailer, then sun in vol 4 loses his semblance when his aura is depleted.

despite miles changing it almost instantly afterwards...

When I started rwby I was optimistic it could be a great show probably not spectacular or amazing but great, and while it had it’s flaws and potholes at the time they were relatively small at first, but they just kept growing and more issues popped up and...christ if you like rwby and notice it’s flaws that’s fine, but I can’t say the same for people who outright ignore the flaws people critiquing the series bring up to get mad and preach about how only positive criticism can save the show.

Look as a person who started off with positive criticism I’m not saying it has no place, but you also can’t say critics be it negative from your perspective, is objectively bad or unneeded. Sometimes a firm but fair hand is needed.

Ruby’s issues are like a small flame building up, you can close your eyes and ignore the problem but sooner or later if something’s not done your house is gonna be completely on fire, and you don’t know how that may affect your surroundings, for all you know ignoring the issue caused the trees behind your house to catch fire, maybe one toppled over and landed on a neighboring house and now it’s spreading. The bottom line is weather you can get past the issue to find the things you like isn’t the problem, it’s ignoring them in the first place, if you aren’t willing to help something growth and change for the better with non rose tinted criticism then you’re not offering any help at all, you’re hindering it because you yourself refuse to change and that can be just as harmful if not worse to coddle something.

Rwby increasingly became more unhinged as a series, the flaws turned into overlapping problems, this went from a world that felt had love and care crafted into it to a plot and world with more holes than swiss cheese, which is why so many people felt disappointed and rightfully annoyed, could you sit there and tell me if I made a series and told you one thing yet showed you another only to tell you “yeah that’s not what I meant.” in post that you wouldn’t feel even the slightest bit of cheated, lied to or had your time wasted? If not do I have a camel to sell you among other things!

As a person who sat through so many lovely crafted media; I sat through paper mario and it’s whimsical tale, I watched avatar and fell in love with it’s amazing characters, world building and music, same goes for things like steven universe, final fantasy 6 (a game ironically about togetherness) ff9, the persona series, hunter x hunter, soul eater, gravity falls, Disney flicks, the dragon age series every super giant game, all these and more were handled with so much love and care and hold their structure throughout.

I.  LOVE. MEDIA.

I spend most of my time absorbed in their stories worlds and characters, laughing and crying and growing with them to the point I studied it, twice to get two separate degrees in it because I wanted to write at a time. So when I critique rwby, call out it’s flaws and so on, it’s not a personal attack on you if you like it, but I also can’t be satisfied with where the series has gone, not because it’s not ‘my’ take but because I enjoy narrative flow, I find interest in the characters if the plot isn’t too good and vise versa, media can touch on so many amazing things and I felt at a time...that miles and kerry could do well if they tried, if they applied themselves, before becoming such mean spirited, greedy and unwilling people, and this was long before I came into the picture, long before rwde no matter how much you disagree or what to place blame.

Cause trust me I seen rwby stans (fans unwilling to hear criticism out and will display many hypocritical and messed up tendencies over a cartoon)  not only ignore issues, tell people to kill themselves over a typed critique of a series they like, be irrational, sexist, racist or just plain stupid at times, you realize soon that the rwby tag is a cesspool of horrible people mixed in with a minuscule amount of fans willing to discuss the issues offer fixes and healthy non annoying chats on what they like and dislike.

Which confuses me as an individual cause I feel personally you can and should review rwby without threat of an anonymous person telling you to die over your opinion or one of the writers telling people to...enact physical violence on fans who don’t watch the supplemental material they hide, don’t promote to a casual audience and contradict and retcon on a constant basis. And sometimes it’s through a panel or a tweet, a casual rwby fan wouldn’t even catch unless they constantly follow the writers around or have someone dedicated enough to do so.

And all the stuff I mention and want isn’t impossible or asking too much honestly, I’d like the writers to be honest and fair to their fanbase, like anyone would, I’d like them to listen to actual critique and hire someone who can guide them so it doesn’t turn into one big “damage control” arc, The characters need more substance and need more screen time to grow as characters and fighters, when your fans excuse character growth with “Well animation is hard, not everything could be onscreen it could happen offscreen.” you have a problem, can you imagine ed just showing up with alphonse and it never being explained and I go “well animation is hard.” yeah that goes without saying but at the same time there are writers, creators and so on who get paid less, have smaller teams and sometimes just teams of two people to work hard on their craft, amazing teams with money, production and care like supergiant games get overlooked, so never EVER excuse jump cuts and lack of characterization, structure and development when better writers are out there busting their asses.

Do not be that guy.

*sigh* I been sitting here thinking how how I could end this, how after several years of a fast decline in quality, what’s something I could possibly leave this on? What can I say past this point? I been actually sitting in stunned silence trying to mull it over. I guess all I can say is, if you like rwby fair, fine, despite the major holes I discuss fixes with the series, I draw characters, try fixing the crumbling road of rwby trying hard to understand it, make no mistakes that when I critique it it’s not coming from a place of contempt for the series, but of disappointment in how far it’s fallen and how it could have been good if miles and kerry took the hand offered, it wouldn’t lead them down the most comfortable road, but they’d gain experience from it and could fix the series possibly for the better, and if you again like rwby, do not allow rose tinted goggles to blind you from the issues of the series, the ever growing problems with the series and the unwillingness for the writers to change and grow, do not allow more writers to turn into david cage, M Night Shyamalan, or stephenie meyer.

If you want the best for the rwby series and the rwby brand then you cannot accept mediocrity, you need to be vocal otherwise the writers won’t be incentivized to do better. And it doesn’t have to be straight up criticism, you can word it your way as long as it helps the writing grow, but at the point we’re at and how nice or not miles and kerry take current criticism rwby will continue to plummet and honestly that’s a disappointment.

To all fellow rwde and non rwde who have supported me thus far? Thank you, this has been a wild ride and while we possibly haven’t seen eye to eye I enjoyed and learn alot from watching you over the years, and now I think it’s finally time for the vet to retire and give the reins to new people, I received alot of kind messages from this and they touched my heart, take care rwby critics, it’s been real.

-A past fan of rwby

[ghostiehatesithere]

Carry On Chapter 3

Lotor wasn't surprised when he learned of Malrvotor’s escape. He wasn't surprised but that didn't stop the disappointment from forming in his chest. It also didn't escape his attention that the Galra Empire had almost immediately lost Malevotor's home planet mere days after his escape.

His generals had also been greatly disappointed by his absence, especially Zethrid and Narti. Narti was the first if his generals to ever be introduced to Mal. She had been a mere servant girl that had been placed in his care to serve him. She didn't say much but her reaction times were amazing as well as the way she could sense the world around her without eyes.

Narti found comfort in the fact that the Prince was just like her but was nearly cowarding behind the prince when he first took her to meet Mal. She had heard the sickening sounds of his battles on the rare occasions that she was forced to work at the Pit and made sure to avoid trouble so that she wouldn't be thrown in with him. No one would miss a blind cub that never spoke and she tried to use that to her advantage to escape the ire of her superiors.

She knew Malevotor by the scent of blood that lingered around him after every match. Death has almost become something she directly associated with the Kelekonian king. She had thought that she had somehow angered Lotor and that he was going to allow Malevotor to dispose of her. However to her surprise the Prince spoke casually with the large Kelekonian. He introduced her as his friend and she had to fight herself from cringing when the stench of blood grew strong with Malevotor's approach.

He sniffed at Narti for a while and she couldn't bring herself to move, thinking that one wrong move would be her last.

"She has no eyes," he had noted aloud with neither disgust or derision in his tone like others.

"She was born without them," Lotor had excitedly explained to the former king. "I think father assigned her to me because of that and because she's a hybrid like me!"

"Why because of her eyes?" Mal had asked in confusion.

"She can't see! Can't you tell?"

"I can see that she lacks eyes but plenty of my people can be born without eyes or just one. They have more difficulty than others getting around but they find ways to see in their own way."

This intrigued Narti. People without eyes? Just like her? She had been led to believe that the very absence of eyes was an abomination as well as the impurity of her blood. Yet he had completely brushed off the latter and changed her life about the former.

Acxa had came next. She was a hybrid slave, mockingly given to Lotor by one of Zarkon's generals. Lotor felt as though his father was placing the "undesirables" under his command to remind him of all that he was and all that he wasn't. His contempt for them will always extend to his son despite their shared blood, maybe even because of it. Lotor had been the first to actually care about her.

She had stumbled upon Mal's lessons with Lotor and Narti completely by accident. Or not depending on who you asked. She had noticed the way that Lotor and Narti would sneak off in the middle of the night cycles and head down to the Pits. One night she had followed them and nearly caught a heart attack when she caught the Prince and Narti fighting an alien nearly twice their combined size.

Without a second thought, Acxa leapt into actionn ready to defend her prince against the imminent danger. It wasn't until she had been pinned down by Mal's tail did she realize that the fighting had ended. They had all stared at her with wide eyed shock. It was in that moment that she realized that she had entirely misunderstood the situation and got into to something that she didnt know that she needed.

Mal had liked her loyalty and devotion to Lotor but had also admonished her for it. "It's admirable that you want to protect Lotor but you must always understand that there is a time and a place for protecting. You have to decide when you must protect and when you must win."

This was a particularly hardd lesson that Mal had to beat into her with each lesson but she did it. Though there were still times when she would throw caution to the wind and stick her neck out for Lotor at the entirely wrong time.

Ezor and Zethrid came as a pair. They had been appointed as bodyguards which was a slight on both them and Lotor. Ezor and Zethrid because Zarkon refused to have half-breeds in his military, able to hold a position of power and Lotor because Zarkon gave his son bodyguards that he deemed was scraping the bottom of the barrel. What does it say about Lotor if his father employed the very half-breeds he deemed worthless as his personal guards. 

Zethrid was very vocal about how she felt about Lotor, thinking him a spoiled prince who knew nothing of the struggle of the people beneath his station. Ezor didn’t care one way or another about the small prince. Zethrid was full of rage and stronger than the average Galra. It actually amazed Mal when he learned that Zethrid was actually a huge fan of him. She had attended many of his matches and admired how he had yet to lose a match. He always looked so calm in even when you could practically smell the rage that permeated his being while there. 

She wanted to be as strong as him and was incredibly jealous when she found out that Lotor had been training with her idol. She demanded to join the training session and was shocked and impressed when Lotor stood up to her. Despite his shorter stature it felt like he was towering over her when he met her gaze and told her no. He didn’t back down even when she threatened to tell his father and that made her reluctantly respect the runt. He made it explicitly clear that he would introduce her when he was ready and not a moment sooner. He even took a little petty revenge by dragging his feet to introduce her. 

Mal was particularly amused by her because she always demanded that he fight her. She was particularly impatient when he took his time consider how he would train her, It was obvious tat she was strong and even had the potential to become stronger than him in terms of pure strength. However, it was as she was sparring with the others that he realized that Lotor’s greatest strength was her greatest weakness. 

She didn’t think. She would get easily frustrated and fly off the rails into a violent rage. She had skill but very little considering she solely relied on her brute strength. It would be easy for a quick and clever opponent like Lotor or Ezor to be able to manipulate her uncontrolled anger into a victory. 

Ezor’s biggest problem was that she was too easily read. You could tell what she was about to do just by looking at her face. Upon telling her as much, she huffed and glared at Mal. “Yeah, I know.”

Mal gave her the best “oh really” look, not appreciating the teenage attitude. “Knowing doesn’t mean anything if you’ve learned to accept it. This is a fatal flaw that could end up killing you Red. Do you want to die?”

Ezor pouted sheepishly and crossed her arms, properly cowed, “No.”

“Then quit the grumpy teenager act and listen. You need to find your game face,” Mal had instructed and continued to explain upon receiving a confused look from Ezor. “It’s the expression you’re most comfortable with which means that you won’t have as hard of a time keeping it up.”

It took a while but Ezor found her game face in her smile. She explained that she enjoyed the way her blood would roar in her ears and her heart pounded in her chest when she fought and she couldn’t help but to smile while fighting. It wasn’t a knowing or bloodthirsty smirk like Lotor or Zethrid. It was a genuine smile of amusement. Mal congratulated her for her achievement.

“You’ve got a good grin Red. It would unsettle lesser opponents and frustrate others,” he’d said.

Lotor was riding a high after his fight against Throk that helped him gain the favor of the empire. He’d ordered Throk to be transferred to the Ulippa System to prevent any possible trouble later on before heading back to his rooms where he changed out of his military garb and into a loose pair of pants as he examined the geode that Mal had gifted him.

It’s warmth was still steadily pulsing, although he couldn’t help but to notice that the pulse was a lot slower than usual and he couldn’t help but to worry. Even the glittering white flecks in the dark crystals weren’t shining as brightly as they did before. What did this mean? Was something wrong with Mal? He’s not dead otherwise it would have gone cold and lost all color so what is going on?

He found neither answers nor rest that night as he prayed to the stars that Mal was alright. He needed to know that there was still someone in the universe that he could trust no matter what. His generals were around but they didn’t completely understand. Not like Mal. 

He promised himself to set aside time to establish some form of contact with Mal or his people as soon as he stabilized his position as ruler. He needed the people’s support whether his father miraculously got better or not. Maybe he could even study why Kelekonians’ bodies rejected quintessence and how they managed to survive without that which seemed to be present in every other living being that he’d come across. But that will have to come much later.

Hey everyone this is the end of the third chapter and I’m glad that you all have been enjoying the story so far! So far I’ve been presenting things solely from Lotor’s POV and what Mal means to Lotor. In the next chapter I will be delving into Mal’s side of things. How he feels and thinks in relation to Lotor and his generals. Keep in mind these are his babies but he is at the point where he’s letting his babies make their own mistakes. It won’t stop him from agonizing over where his kids are and “casually” asking about them occasionally but I digress. 

@starfaring-princelotor @motheroflittlelions @fandomsoffeelings @done-with-your-shit-shirogane @kirahhhh @legendofcarl @lotor-for-emperor @marvelheaux @yanderemommabean @lotorrential @planet-jumping-warrior

[emmaekay]

Keiyaku III for TPTH Vegebul Smutfest

AN: It’s gettin’ fuckin’ seeeeeeeerious now. All my @tpthvegebulsmutfest fans, please enjoy this exposition heavy chapter! I promise there’s still some nice smut.

Day 3 – Tornado

 “And so, Nappa, that is my plan.” Vegeta summarized for his subordinate, with a self-satisfied smile as he leaned back into the plush couch in his sitting room.

“But Vegeta,” Nappa began, “What if they call your bluff? And why is your father so insistent on this happening now? He has never indicated illness, weakness or abdication, not to me. You still have many moon cycles before your 30th sun cycle, and many royals don’t even begin the selection process until their last moon.”

Vegeta glowered darkly. Nappa had known his father longer, and had fought with him in many campaigns during the Cold War. He had hoped that the older man would be able to tell him why his father was threatening him into a fasting. “If they call my bluff, I guess she dies.”

“You guess?”

“I guess.”

Nappa studied the prince, still in his estimation quite a young Saiyan. A young Saiyan who Nappa had watched battle his way across the galaxy in tournaments and death matches, and in great battles as a general in his father’s army. Vegeta had lived his life like a true Saiyan – fighting for honor and riches and the sheer exhilaration of it. He had often killed and twice nearly died, yet never had Nappa seen his face twist up into such a grimace as it did when Vegeta said I guess she dies.

“Vegeta, are you attached to this woman already?”

The grimace left Vegeta’s face, immediately replaced by a look of utter contempt and shock, his brows high into the widow’s peak of his hair and mouth agape. “Shut up, Nappa.”

 ***

 Bulma emerged from her second shower of the day to find a tall, well-muscled woman waiting for her, with lengths of fabric in her arms and various gold and silver trinkets laid out on the bench that just a while ago held her own, and Vegeta’s , naked body.

“His Highness the Prince Vegeta bade me come and teach you the appropriate manner of dress before your meeting with the King and Queen,” the woman said, handing Bulma a fluffy cloth that she assumed was, and she used as, a towel.

“Oh,” Bulma said. “Well, thanks, I guess?”

“The Prince said you were unable to arrange your kulthan so that it would remain on your body properly.”

Bulma couldn’t help but laugh at that. Sure, she thought, blame the kul-thingy. “Well, I appreciate the opportunity to learn. Thank you.” Bulma walked a few steps toward the woman, the fabrics and the trinkets. The woman held out the fabrics for Bulma to see and feel, so she could choose whatever she liked best. Bulma selected a liquid smooth gold fabric that was very like silk – maybe it was silk, who knows.

The dressing woman nodded her head with a slight smile. “I would have chosen that for you. Your taste is appropriate. Your coloring is … rare.”  “Is it? Are there no women here with bright hair or eyes?” Bulma wondered aloud. It was true – the dressing woman’s coloring was like Vegeta’s. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin several shades darker than her own. Her hair was thick, like Vegeta’s, and stuck out in spikes.

“No, all Saiyans have black hair and eyes.”

“Saiyans? Is that what you call yourselves?” “Yes. As a people, we are Saiyans. As a person, I am Beri.”

“Beri, that’s a lovely name. I’m Bulma!” Bulma smiled at the dressing woman, at Beri, and felt herself breathe a little easier. At least she had a friend. “What planet are we on?”

Beri’s eyebrows drew up, but she didn’t vocalize her surprise. She had helped many of Asket’s strange visitors, and Vegeta’s were always the strangest. His penchant for intergalactic travel far and wide often lead to him bringing odd men and women back to the royal residence, which she then needed to make decent before turning them loose on the royal court, or official feasts, or even just in town. “We’re on Vegetasei.”

“Vegetasei,” Bulma repeated. “As in Vegeta.”  “Yes. The firstborn son of the royal house is always called Vegeta. The Prince Vegeta was named after his father, the King Vegeta, who is the 112th King in the line of Kings.”

“Guess that keeps the monuments accurate!” Bulma quipped, holding a green fabric up to her chest. No, the gold, I think. She placed the green fabric back on the pile, and Beri nodded imperceptibly, but approvingly. 

“Shall I teach you how to wear it?”

 ***

Beri had finally answered the question of underwear, and the answer was – not really. The Saiyans wore form fitting suits to train or to battle, and the suits were outfitted with protective… accoutrements in tender areas. For all other modes of dress, the Saiyans either wore tiny form fitting shorts under their clothes, or nothing at all. Bulma didn’t like the shorts and she really didn’t want to walk around going commando.

“Beri, is there a small length of fabric I might be permitted to cut and fashion into something for myself?” Bulma asked. If I can make Capsules, I can make panties.

“I think that would be permissible. Here, use this.” Beri handed her a short length of black fabric, the same liquidy silk. “This is intended as a hair wrap, but I hope it will suit your purposes. Do you require tools?”

“Scissors, needle and thread.”

“What are those?”

Bulma pursed her lips. This was something that had actually been bothering her even more than the lack of underwear. “How can you understand me? Don’t we speak different languages?”

“The 110th King Vegeta was a man of science and of intergalactic trade. He traded a powerful protection relic to a scientist from the planet Ecilps in exchange for an alteration to the atmosphere of Vegetasei – a chemical is present in our atmosphere and in what we breathe that allows for the free understanding of all language. The 110th King felt this would prevent spies from landing here, and would help decrypt enemy code.

“Interesting!” Bulma exclaimed. She already felt a lot more at home – on a planet that appreciated science, the scientist could serve a purpose.  “So… why don’t you know what scissors are?” Beri smiled indulgently, “Some things, we don’t have an exact word for. You’ll have to describe it.”

Bulma quickly described what she needed and Beri, being the royal dressing woman, had all three. Bulma set herself to work and quickly fashioned a pair of comfortable panties from the black silk. Cute, too! I’ll have to think about a bra, later. Maybe.

“Those are,” Beri peered at Bulma as the blue haired woman did a twirl and angled her hips prettily, “strangely arousing.”

Bulma grinned at Beri. “Want me to make you a pair? Bet your husband goes wild!”

Beri flushed. “Perhaps another time, I should begin your dressing instruction now.”

****

After at least an hour of fold this here and never tuck this there and always finish with this end, Bulma was sheathed in gold. The fabric had been arranged full over her hips and with a tulip opening whose shortest point was at her knees and longest edges kissed the floor. Wound tight around the waist, but barely draped over her breasts, leaving a deep V of chest visable. The remaining length trailed behind her shoulders, like a caplet of liquid gold. Her hair was left down, long over her shoulders and straight.

Bulma wasn’t sure she could ever replicate the process, but she looked as good as she ever had. Maybe better.

Beri chose a gold bracelet with white stones inlaid and a matching necklace – a simple gold chain with another white stone, large and teardrop shaped.

Vegeta opened the door to the bathing chamber and stepped inside. Beri took two steps backward, away from Bulma, and greeted him.  “Prince Vegeta. I believe she is ready.”

“Hm. She looks very … appropriate. Almost too appropriate,” he said, raking his gaze over her animally. “Shall I unmake you?” The flowing gold fabric hid nothing of her curves – her magnificent hips, the swell of her round bottom, two twin handfuls of her breasts just peeking out of the sides of the fabric that barely contained her chest – and suddenly, everything he wore felt too tight.

Bulma couldn’t help but crack a smile, as Beri’s hand rose to her mouth. “Uh, p-p-prince Vegeta, she only now finished and – “

“Calm down. I will leave her intact,” he smirked, devilish grin spreading, “for now.” As Beri breathed a possibly-too-audiable sigh of relief, Vegeta crooked his arm. “Come, woman or spy or dragon-sent temptress – let’s go trick a King.”

***

Vegeta’s royal housing was separate from, but on the same estate as, the King and Queen’s. Whereas his home was grand, comfortable and opulent – but still “home-sized,” the ruling family lived in an honest to goodness castle. Stone walls and high battlements surrounded an inner courtyard, and indoors – black marble inlaid with silver and plush velvet accents in jewel tones. Vegeta lead her by the arm through the massive gate and through the foyer – directly into the throne room.

King Vegeta sat on a high backed throne atop the dais. The throne was black marble and looked – well, uncomfortable, despite the seat draped with furs and cushions. Queen… Hey! What’s the queen’s name? Bulma thought. The queen, whatever she was called, sat in an equally high backed throne at her husband’s side, but hers was gilt totally in gold with jewels inlaid. A fluffy cushioned seat and back rest made the queen’s throne look much more comfortable, in Bulma’s estimation.

“King Vegeta, father,” the prince at Bulma’s side began, “and Queen Pea, mother. I have been instructed to choose a woman for the fasting, and I have done so. I choose Bulma Briefs of the Planet Earth. Please set the date of the antefasting battle immediately.”

King Vegeta flushed with rage, fists curling into tight sledgehammers. The man looked like Vegeta, but had time, height, breadth and strength beyond his son’s. Vegeta looked dangerous, sure, but the King looked positively murderous now. Bulma resisted the urge to run. She forced steel into her spine. She forced herself to remain still, not to quail, not to quake. She was Bulma Briefs – and Bulma Briefs is no coward.

“This is NOT,” the King boomed, “a GAME, Vegeta! You cannot seriously be presenting this weakling as your choice – she will die immediately in the battle for your fasting! Probably before that – any host of Saiyan women, real Saiyan women with power to match you – will kill her the moment they hear of this farce!”

Bring it, bitches. Bulma thought. Wait, aren’t I supposed to be happy about this rejection? It means I get to go back to Earth and Vegeta gets to go gallivanting off in the universe for another few years.

“I should have you JAILED!” The King continued his tirade, “I will have chains brought and you will sit in STOCKS for your disobedience, your disresp-“

The Queen placed her hand on the King’s forearm as he made to stand up. “Enough.” Queen Pea’s voice was calm, and smooth, and warm like caramel and carried through the throne room easily without blustering. “Enough.”

The King sat down on his throne, visibly calming and the ready-to-brawl tension leaving him at her touch. “Vegeta, my son. My firstborn Prince,” Pea spoke. “Is this your choice? Are you sure this woman is your choice.” Vegeta straightened his back and looked his mother in the eye. “Yes… mother.”

“Vegeta.” Pea began to step from the dais and walk directly toward her son. Her skin was the same sunkissed tone as Vegeta’s and her black hair fell in a smooth waterfall to her hips. She was well muscled, but lithe instead of bulky and more feminine than Beri. She walked lightly, like a sprite or a spirit and she was beautiful. Her voice now carried a dangerous tone – like a mother who is giving her child one last opportunity to stop his fit before a punishment is carried out. The air around Vegeta began to crackle – Bulma could feel the electricity through their still linked arms. She watched as Vegeta continued to make eye-contact with the Queen, but also noticed a single bead of sweat begin to drip down his forehead. She squeezed his arm with her hand – to reassure him, to remind him that she was still here – and very breakable, she thought.

Vegeta gave Bulma a sideways glance and the barest hint of his cocky grin.

Queen Pea stopped, two steps in front of her son and Bulma. She stared at Bulma, analyzing her and with a haughty sniff, looking away and at Vegeta. She walked back to her throne on the dais, and arranged herself leisurely into a comfortable sitting position. She took her time, arranging this fold of her gown, fluffing that pillow, rearranging her jewels. The tension slowly melted out of the room, but no one spoke.

Finally, after the queen had settled on her throne, and placed her hand again on the King’s arm, she broke the silence. “I approve.”

Mouths dropped open, beginning with the King’s and ending with Bulma’s own. She what now?

“Mm.” The queen nodded happily. “I approve. This woman will have the right to battle for fasting to my son, the Prince Vegeta. I will announce the terms and date of the battle after consulting with the King in private. You are dismissed.”

Vegeta spun on his heels, wheeling Bulma around with him and made quickly for the exit, fury steaming from him in waves. He didn’t speak a word, not as they left the castle, not on the walk back to his quarters. It was night, sudden night, as whatever sun illuminated this world seemed to cower from the prince’s rage.

“Vegeta.” Bulma wrenched her arm away from his, but he gave no acknowledgement. “Vegeta!” The man continued forward, stomping back into his home. “VE-GE-TA!”

Wild eyed, he turned to face her in the doorway. “You’re going to die.” He turned away and went inside, slamming the door to his bedroom behind him.

Motherfucker! Bulma raced after him, banging the door open. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you slam doors on me! Who the fuck do you think you are!”

Vegeta was standing at a small table below his window, glaring up at the castle through the dark of the night. “Who,” he growled, “the fuck do you think YOU are? I am the Prince of all Saiyans! I have killed, and battled, and fought for honor and glory all my life! What have you ever grappled with – a jar lid? A gown? You’ll be murdered, vivisected before my whole RACE because of me!” He snatched a crystal decanter from the table and smashed it against the wall, snarling in rage.

Bulma’s eyes were wide with anger, and fear, and shock as Vegeta tipped up the table, smashing everything on it and kicking the table into the wall, where it was obliterated into splinters. His tantrum continued unabated – walls, furniture, floor, nothing was safe as he radiated furious light and the waves of power coming from him peeled paint from walls and whirled papers and folders full of fasting candidates around him. He screamed, deep from a primal place within him, and Bulma could only stand – stuck to the spot – and watch.

Some object caught up in his furious whirlwind swung wide and struck Bulma in the forehead, hard. She fell backward onto the bed, and the bluster stopped.

“Bulma?” Vegeta’s voice was hoarse from the screaming, and quiet now from shame. “Bulma?”

“You. Fucker.” Bulma pushed herself up on one elbow to glare at him. “You son of a bitch. You fucker! This hurts!” Tears began to prick her eyes, from pain and from rage. “Prince of all Saiyans, big fucking deal. You throw tantrums like a baby!” Blood trickled down her face.

Vegeta crossed the room to the bed and sat next to her. “You bleed so easily,” he muttered softly, reaching down to wipe the blood away from her eye. “I do not…”

Bulma turned her eyes up to his, and was shocked to find sadness etched painfully into his features. She felt her rage begin to melt away, as he tucked her wild hair behind an ear and deftly wiped the blood from her face with a corner of the bedspread. His mouth was drawn into a hard line and he was scowling, but his touch was delicate – gentle and so, so careful.

“I did not intend for you to become injured. Not by my wrath, and not by the trick I thought I was playing. I do not wish to watch you die. I do not… wish for any harm to come to you.” He kissed her wound gingerly, then her nose, then her lips. “You are rare and beautiful, and such things should not die.” He kissed her again, gently, agonizingly slowly. “I will not ask you to forgive me.”

“Good,” Bulma breathed. “Because I don’t forgive you. And I’m not about to die.” She pulled him on to her, his weight delicious against her, and snaked one hand up into his hair. She kissed him again, his tongue surprisingly cool and light against hers. He ran his hands over the liquid smooth softness of her dress, fondling her breasts and tweaking her nipples as they peaked underneath it. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, as she felt the pressure of his hardness against her. He kissed her throat, down and down into the exposed V of skin that her dress left on display. He pressed his lips and his tongue to the flat of her breastbone, as if he could infuse her with some of his strength.

As if he could save her.

Bulma sighed and panted, arching her back against him as he wrapped one strong arm underneath her, clutching her tightly to his chest and running his tongue over her breast as he slipped the loose fabric away from her body. He picked her up from the bed and pushed the bodice and skirt of the dress away, and Bulma reached up to run her hands against his chest underneath the shirt of his suit. “Take this off.”

In a flash, Vegeta’s suit was on the floor, and Bulma was lying nearly naked in a pool of golden silk that used to be her dress. Only her silky black panties remained. Vegeta was on her in the next instant, running his hands over her and under her and down the length of her body, stroking her sensitive spot through the silken underwear, the sensation of softness on top of softness filling Vegeta’s erection with a powerful hunger. Slipping first inside her panties, he slid inside her. One, two strong fingers rocking in and out of her as his palm slicked against her nub, thrilling her until she squirmed and cried out, throwing one leg over his hips to thrust his hand deeper into her.

Vegeta pulled off her panties, then pulled her closer still, up onto one of his thighs so that they were pinned together – by each other’s bodies and each other’s need. He buried his face between her breasts, swiveled his hips and thrust himself inside her. Bulma wrapped her arms around his neck and he began moving inside her, more deeply and yet more slowly, savoring every smooth thrust into her wetness. Bulma pressed against him, moaning low and lustily. “Vegeta… more.”

He twisted his hips and thrust again, again. Twisting and grinding against her, lips and mouth upon her, tasting every inch he could reach and relishing in the way she tightened and tightened around him – the wet walls of her, lingering on and clinging to him in need and desire. She breathed and moaned and every sound he drew out of her pierced him moreso than the nails she drove into his back as she clung to him and cried.

The sweetest vice around him throbbed and shuddered while Bulma cried out and drove her teeth into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms underneath her, crushing her to him as he growled and moaned out his own release inside her.

He bent his elbows, hovering low over her, and kissed her again as he drew himself out of her, laying her gently on the litter of gold that gleamed now with their sweat and their scent. He cradled Bulma in his arms as she began to drift off to sleep, soothed in the afterglow of something that felt like more than sex.

“You will leave this planet tomorrow.”

[edhayne]

Finding Our Religion — The gospel according to Hereford

[NB. This was written for Ogilvy & Mather’s ‘Get Out There’ initiative and was originally published in April, 2017]

The Church.

“The first great global brand.”

Wise words as ever from Sir John Hegarty. But is this another famous old institution that has lost its way in the UK? A global heavyweight lacking relevance in a country it used to dominate?

At a glance, you would say no.

Despite being an increasingly multicultural nation, 56% of the UK population state that they are “Christian” when asked their religion in the national census. A healthy number that no doubt keeps the global bosses happy.

However, this only tells half the story. Latest figures show that 1.4% of the UK population go to Church regularly. Are these statistics surprising? Perhaps not. But they certainly raise questions that the data alone cannot answer.

We therefore decided To Get Out There and explore what it now means to be considered a “Christian” country. Canterbury and York made the shortlist of prospective locations, but we settled upon Hereford, a cathedral city that attracts more weekly worshippers than anywhere else in the UK.

From casual chats on the streets to attending a Sunday Church service in a converted cinema, we met some fascinating people and learnt valuable lessons along the way.

The silent majority:

First up, we wanted to understand why people ticked the “Christian” box in the national census. For regular worshippers, the answer was obvious, but things got more interesting when we asked those that rarely set foot in a Church.

“I’m not sure what I believe, but I celebrate Christmas.”

“I was baptised when I was younger. I’m a Christian whether I like it or not.”

“It means I’m not a Muslim.”

Should the Church care about these varied reasons, or have they done their job by convincing over half of the UK population to tick the box? To use a football analogy, the Christian faith seem to attract a lot of fair-weather supporters — ‘fans’ that rarely come through the turnstiles, don’t watch the action on TV, but have a team when pushed for their allegiance. This might suggest that they have little in common. In fact, many of the people we spoke with shared traditional Christian values.

“I want my children to be generous, humble and respectful of others.”

“Telling the truth matters. I wish politicians would remember that.”

In a divided country with increasingly binary narratives, this was particularly refreshing to hear.

However, a more candid member of the clergy, outright questioned what these ‘passive observers’ actually bring to the Church. Perhaps naively, he pointed out that they’re not a source of revenue and their primary reasons for identifying as a ‘Christian’ were hardly positive.

The elusive youth market:

The same Vicar was equally outspoken about where the Church has been going wrong. Like so many 21st century brands, an inability to attract the next generation was cited as the biggest issue. This was a view shared by Church goers, box tickers and outright rejecters.

“Why should I be told what to do?”

“I’m not sure what the role of the Christianity is in modern life.”

These attitudes partly explain why Hereford has several Churches where the average age of the congregation is well over 70. However, unlike other parts of the UK, the city has had some success going after the youth market.

Our visit to The Freedom Church gave us amazing insight into the type work that has been undertaken.

Everything from the building, a converted cinema to the VIP welcome we received, made for a surreal Sunday morning. The service felt like a well-rehearsed Ted Talk, had the raucousness of a rowdy gig and the energy of a highly charged political rally. The congregation was vocal and passionate.

“You’re SO right Pastor.”

“Ay-men to that.”

The whole operation was more attune to a Silicon Valley start-up than a 2000-year-old global institution. Pastor Gary aka ‘Pastor G’ took on the role of Steve Jobs, but we also heard from a variety of other well-groomed individuals.

Consistently the focus was on what you can do as a Christian, rather than what you can’t. Extracts from the Bible were simply used as points of reference and the service was live streamed on the internet. The Crucifix ‘logo’ was nowhere to be seen and an array of artisan coffees fuelled the merriment. Their narrative was simple:

“Our vision is to connect anyone, anywhere to a life-changing relationship with Jesus.”

“We’re inclusive of all types of Christianity.”

“We practise a religion that’s for everyday life.”

It was impressively slick and had evidently struck a chord with a more youthful congregation. A chat with a member a few hours after the service summed up the pervading attitude of regular attendees.

“The Freedom Church is like a caring father. It guides me through everyday life without talking down to me.”

With all this positivity, we were keen to explore how this Church was perceived from ‘the outside’.

Tellingly, many hadn’t even heard of it. Those that had were dismissive and even viewed it with some contempt:

“A collection of happy clappy weirdoes.”

“Americanised nonsense.”

“They’re still ramming the religious message down your throat.”

With time a precious commodity, especially over a weekend, people cited the lack of a more mainstream middle ground as the biggest problem facing the Church.

“Why can’t the Church just be normal?”

“They always end up saying something that makes me feel awkward.”

“I’d rather watch Match of the Day with my kids on a Sunday morning.”

“To appeal to everyone we need something more in the middle (something between Freedom Church and more traditional services such as Church of England).”

Familiar franchisee problems:

Given the willingness of Hereford locals to openly discuss religion and their many shared values, perhaps it’s surprising that a more mainstream offering hasn’t surfaced. The city is awash with varied Christian places of worship and there’s a noticeable lack of other religious buildings.

One local was particularly proud to have “kept other religions out,” citing Judaism and Muslims as “the enemy.” An isolated opinion of course, but still alarming to hear.

On a more positive note, communication between some Hereford Churches has grown much stronger in recent years. Members of a Protestant congregation spoke of different Church communities sharing ideas and empowering each other to adapt.

“There’s far more that unites us than divides us”.

However, infighting, even between the same Christian sect, has proved to be a big barrier to reaching out beyond regular attendees. One Catholic worshipper even outright accused The Freedom Church of:

“Bastardising the Christian faith”.

Whilst people understood that constant meddling wasn’t the answer, the complete lack of a consistent message between Churches was cited as a major obstacle to more mainstream appeal. Furthermore, the calibre and training of some of the clergy was also called into a question.

Populating popular culture:

Throughout our visit it became clear that Herefordshire residents weren’t afraid to express an opinion. People’s views varied, but the conversation often centred upon upping the Church’s cultural relevance.

“Yoga and mindfulness are more popular than ever before. Going to Church isn’t that dissimilar. They’re missing a trick.”

“Why does the Royal Family dress so formally when they go to Church? They’re setting the wrong example.”

Above all else, people agreed that all Christian faiths needed to be far more open-minded and willing to re-think their messaging to tie in more closely to modern life.

Navigating the ecclesiastical boardroom:

We left Hereford with more questions than we answered. One weekend in the city was never going to be enough, but even a fleeting visit gave us valuable insight.

In particular, the trip revealed that there’s plenty that can be done to get more people actively involved in the Church.

So, what were the three biggest lessons?

1) You’re only as good as the experience you deliver on the front line — everyone rightly marvels at John Lewis’s creative work, but the experience at the point of sale is equally on point. Most of the people we spoke with in Hereford, including members of the clergy, felt that whilst freedom of expression was a good thing, a clear mission statement and some inspirational guidelines were equally important.

2) If you’re a global brand, fight powerfully for a UK relevant version of the brand narrative — letting the global bosses rule the roost is a huge barrier to attracting new customers.

3) Be clear about how any sub-brand launch complements the Master Brand — the Church has a brand architecture that’s become so complex, newcomers and those looking to re-engage don’t know where to start.

Evidently, the task for the Christian faith in the UK is huge and daunting, but many of the raw materials are in place. In a divided country, we found plenty of evidence to suggest that fundamental Christian values still matter to many people. Furthermore, how many other brands would love to have stunning buildings, big calendar events and array of charismatic employees in their armoury? Having 56% of the UK population on your books is handy too.

Challenge one is to make sense of these varied assets for a modern-day mass audience. Easier said than done. Challenge two is convincing those at the top to make some fundamental changes. That’s the really tricky part.

In fact, maybe it’s a brief for Sir John himself?

Listening to the people of a Hereford wouldn’t be a bad place to start.

[thesinglesjukebox]

SAM SMITH - TOO GOOD AT GOODBYES [4.89] But only middling at songs about goodbyes.

Scott Mildenhall: Ever since you've been leaving him, he's been wanting to cry, and much like with Julian Lennon that process seems to be an ongoing one. It raises philosophical questions. How long can a departure be dragged out for? And if someone is not leaving Sam Smith, does he make a sound? (That's unknowable -- when he goes home, he tends to close the door.) Admittedly it's very easy to make fun of Sam Smith, but that's not his only skill: he can also produce a serviceable ballad, and often the same one multiple times. And maybe he's learned. Maybe the familiar "you" in the pre-chorus is a clever generalisation of a string of prior exes. Or maybe, in yet another instance of bad lyricism, it refers to the same one person that he also says he's "never gonna get too close to." It's OK, he'll survive somewhat better than Emeli Sandé has, and this will sound alright before "Drive" by The Cars on Magic in the rain, but that's about it. [6]

Maxwell Cavaseno: The easy contempt for Sam Smith, much like a lot of successful British Middle of the Road pop stars, is sometimes a bit too performative for my taste. Yes, Smith being used as an easy out by the BBC in their 'urban' programming to ensure a featured artist and industry support isn't exactly right or fair, but none of it is Smith's fault as much as it is an industry that recognizes your Sheeran/Smith/Adele types are easy and reliable cash cows in an age of pop stars who are adventurous in a world that, let's be honest, seems to love to reward musical conservatism no matter who they appear to represent or court. "Too Good at Goodbyes" is guilty of being boringly safe, but little else, because Smith's vocal, lyric, production are frankly solid through and through and whether or not it sticks with the people who need a tearful outro on the next hospital drama or to suit as the 'sad comedown' track on pop radio is kind of irrelevant. Smith and so many others are often found guilty of the weirdest crime: not trying hard enough to seem like they make music for Fans. [4]

Alfred Soto: I haven't believed a Sam Smith performance since his Disclosure collaborations, or, rather, I've believed his masochism so much that he repulses me. The space and warmth of this production -- the strings, rhythm guitar strums, taps -- helps. So does timing. In 2013 and 2014, Smith was ubiquitous enough on the chart and radio to keep repulsing me. Now he's a tonic. [6]

Anthony Easton: This is audaciously cynical -- completely without feeling, but robotically constructed to be about all the feelings. Extra points for the deeply anonymous church choir.  [7]

Iain Mew: The mismatch between "Every time you..." and "...the less I" still leaves me mentally trying to match up moving parts of tenses in a way that takes me right out of the song. No chorus has been this badly hamstrung by its grammar since The View left off the "be" on the end of "has never been played before and it never will." The verses would offer some respite if they didn't sound distractingly like "Sun Comes Up." It does tone down some of the worst aspects of his previous songs but I'm not left with much to salvage. [3]

Thomas Inskeep: I loathe polite, tasteful music; music is supposed to cause some sort of emotional response, and polite music is too concerned with being inoffensive to do so. And it doesn't get more polite than Sam Smith, a label head's "R&B" singer dream come true. This just sits, inert, like a scoop of vanilla ice cream dropped on the pavement.  [2]

Stephen Eisermann: Listening to this song makes me feel like an active participant in misery porn. Sure, Sam sounds flawless and his voice aches with meaning, but at what point does it all become too much. These lyrics come across as someone trying to be sad, versus really hurting, and that comes off not only as fake but slightly offensive. I know "sad songs" are his thing or whatever, but that doesn't mean he has to try this hard to make songs this sad. [4]

Edward Okulicz: "I'm just protecting my innocence/I'm just protecting my soul": gross, eww, no, no. Lyrically, Smith is still too much of a child here, not coming up with the words that match the hurt he wants to communicate. And the choir is one studio expense too far for a three-minute pop song. It's trying too hard in the worst way, but it's good in spite of that. When I've listened to this song and ignored who it's by, and imagined that the words are as elegant and honest as the voice trying to sing them thinks they are, I enjoy it the same way I enjoy some of Adele's best songs, or any sad song I listen to as a salve from my own intermittent sadness. If Smith is able to get smarter as a writer, emphasising his voice without being glib, I might yet understand his popularity. [7]

Joshua Copperman: Musically, this is an improvement over his previous solo singles: the issue I had with  those was the lack of pulse (especially with the lugubrious "I'm Not The Only One"), and this actually does have a nice groove. Even the "Stay With Me" choir and strings don't feel completely recycled from "Stay With Me." But when a song is this sparse, there's more focus on the lyrics... and those are what really sink the song. They're whiny, melodramatic, and insufferable, and performed that way as well, like even Smith's tired of these sorts of songs. There's probably a song in being tired of goodbyes instead of being all "woe is me" over it, but as it stands, if you fall for him, he's not easy to please, he'll tear you apart, he told you from the start, baby from the start, he's only gonna break-break-your-break-break-your heart... [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[morningrainmusic]

Untangling the Enigma that is Portugal. The Man’s Live Show

Photo courtesy of Joe Bertoni

6/16/17

It’s been a while since I’ve written a concert review, but I felt compelled to cover Portugal. The Man’s show Wednesday night at The Riviera. I went with my sister and brother-in-law. It was a warm, wet, overcast night in Chicago. We arrived in time for the last few songs of Electric Guest’s set, which I enjoyed. The show was 18+ so it was a relatively young crowd. Nothing unusual or outside the norm happened in the first hour upon arriving.

Before I go any further, I think I should break down where Portugal. The Man are at in their career and give some general background. The band is from Portland by way of Alaska and formed in 2004. They’ve put out seven albums since 2006. Their fourth, 2009’s The Satanic Satanist was their big breakthrough album and their last, 2013’s Evil Friends is their poppiest and arguably their best, though it has a couple duds on it. They had a big following before then, but the Danger Mouse-produced record really raised their profile. Their next album, Woodstock came out the other day. I haven’t listened to all of it yet, but if the four tracks they released before the full LP are any indication, P.TM is continuing down the road of shameless hip-hop-tinged pop-rock. Which isn’t surprising because the band has an excellent track record in that wheelhouse, and the album was produced by the Beastie Boys’ Mike D.

T-shirts at the merch table read in large capital letters “I liked Portugal. The Man before they sold out.” Another said something like, “Nothing can be counted on except love and the first twelve Portugal. The Man albums.” While P.TM’s new merch has some clear tongue-in-cheek connotations, I’ve always interpreted their lyrics as nothing but fully sincere and at times almost painfully obvious. Let’s put it this way: the band has a knack for making catchy, sometimes quite musically interesting tunes, but there’s not much digging to be done in terms of what they’re trying to communicate in the words. I doubt even diehard P.TM fans would refute that with much vigor.

But back to the Riviera. After Electric Guest finished up the three of us made our way to the back of the floor level, taking advantage of the post-opener shift that typically occurs, cautiously nudging past folks who’d already planted roots. Is it a bit of an a-hole move? Yes, I will acknowledge that. But it is also not at all uncommon at GA shows, plus there were only three of us and we were being mindful of the people around us so as to not blatantly block anyone’s view.

Whilst performing this delicate dance, the three of us settled (very temporarily as it would turn out) upon a spot near a group of girls that would best be described as “highly abrasive” and “having none of it.” One in particular, a young lady in her mid-twenties who was presumably paying rent on the spot she and her crew of urban pirates had claimed, got in my face spewing disapproval. She and her early bird cronies had been in that spot FOR HOURS and some 6-foot dickwad in a soccer jersey was not about to stand in front, next to, OR behind her. (For the record she didn’t call me a dickwad, she actually at one point said “you seem like a nice guy but…” in the way hostile/touchy people sometimes try to express that they don’t think you’re a total piece of shit despite their disgusted tone suggesting nothing but malice and contempt). On we moved down the line to a more accepting region of less territorial folk. A good spot was obtained, but it was also in the unfortunate position of within earshot of what must haven been the most annoying guy in the building. Way too vocally expressive of his effusive enthusiasm, chatty, yelling drum fills seconds before the actual drum fills, etc etc. “Let me know if I’m bothering you man” he kindly told me at one point. Looking back, I sort of wish I was the kind of person who wouldn’t think twice about telling him my honest thoughts.

Did these two instances taint my experience? Yes. Is it fair to judge a band based on your impression of some of its fans? That’s a tough question to answer, but in this particular instance, I’m going to say no. Nonetheless, it will very likely impact my impression of all P.TM fans going forward. These few folks probably aren’t representative of them all, but also, who’s to say for sure? I had zero negative interactions when I saw the band at the Eagles Ballroom in Milwaukee in 2014, so I’m going to attribute this to Shitty Chicagoans, P.TM’s continued ascension in popularity, and all around bad luck on my part.

These unfortunate crowd encounters excluded, the show was equal parts entertaining and confounding. Portugal. The Man can be called many things, but slackers is certainly not one of them. They are performers. One might even call their set list “adventurous,” though I’d have to disagree. Opening with a Metallica song and playing a 15-plus minute opus of “All Your Light” with an Abbey Road track peppered in are certainly interesting choices, but I don’t really understand them. So many great tracks left out because they’ve made a habit of tossing in covers and closing with the Oasis anthem, “Don’t Look Back in Anger.” I get it, it’s a great song and a lot of fun to shout the chorus with 500 other people at a concert, but hit me with some prime Majestic Majesty tracks or one of your dozens of other good tunes. As for the drawn out “All Your Light” take, it was impressive, but also just exhausting, wasteful, and indulgent. Missed opportunity city.

Sometimes a band will have a track that’s so nice they can’t help but play it twice. For young bands one or two albums in with a huge standout crowd favorite, this makes sense. P.TM are definitely not one of those bands. And while “Feel It Still” is a really good song (their website describes it as a “global hit” which kinda makes me wonder who they’re trying to impress), there is absolutely no need to play it twice. Again, play more Portugal. I’m not being a hater…that is downright unacceptable.

I also don’t know that P.TM are quite qualified to have any business covering The Beatles. Here’s who should be allowed to cover The Beatles live: -Kids in high school bands who don’t know any better -tribute/cover bands -Superstar acts that have achieved or have been in consideration for “biggest band in the world” status -Rock’s living legends -Noel and Liam Gallagher in solo shows/side projects

P.TM fit none of these criteria.

Minimal talking from any band members between songs except for Zachary Carother’s comments about Chicago being a city they love to play because they’ve had so many wild and crazy nights in this town. He added “let’s party” before busting into the encore. “Let’s party” feels like a very appropriate phrase coming from the lips of any member of P.TM. It encapsulates the band’s ethos pretty nicely. These guys make such a concerted effort in their songs to put forth their anti-establishment attitudes, “fight the power” mentality, and rebellious “just for kicks” nature, it becomes a bit redundant at times. At least in a live setting, the band is at their best when they’re playing the catchy sing-alongs with lyrics seemingly built to be shouted by audience members doing that emphatic extended arm waving thing more common at hip hop shows. I’m thinking specifically of songs like “Hip Hop Kids” and the slightly better “Head Is A Flame.” These are not “thinkers” in any way, shape, or form. Party on, indeed.

Lastly, I want to address one of the more distracting elements of P.TM’s live experience: their video backdrop. In what appears to be part of their overall effort to incite strong reactions, the band has elected to use a series of befuddling, bizarre, and vaguely off-putting images of androgynous humanoid figures, usually in some sort of sexual position. The least androgynous one came towards the end: it was a largely jet-black mannequin-type figure thrusting against a beach ball held between its thighs in slow motion. This wasn’t all their backdrops, but it was a lot of them. I don’t really have anything to offer in the way of decoding or explaining this. I didn’t like it. And to say it was overdone would be THE understatement of this entire post. Be better, Portugal.

I came out of the show feeling like my relationship with the band had changed. Perhaps they’re more of a headphones band and not the kind I’m into enough to pony up $40 to be harassed/annoyed by concertgoers and visually assaulted with “artistically bold” rotating, flesh-colored crash test dummies. I wish they’d played a set closer to the one I saw in Milwaukee years ago. That being said, I had a great time and so did my sister and brother-in-law. And hey, they got a reaction out of me. It’s been two days and I’m not done thinking (and writing) about the show. May be over now, but I feel it still.

Setlist

1. For Whom the Bell Tolls (Metallica cover)  2. Another Brick in the Wall (Pink Floyd cover) / Purple Yellow Red and Blue  3. Feel It Still 4. Head Is A Flame (Cool With It) 5. Got It All (This Can’t Be Living Now)  6. Once Was One 7. Waves 8. Modern Jesus 9. All Your Light (Times Like These) / A Kilo / The Home / I Want You (She’s So Heavy) (Beatles cover) 10. So American 11. Hip Hop Kids 12. Holy Roller (Hallelujah) 13. Feel It Still 14. Don’t Look Back In Anger (Oasis cover)

Encore 15. Atomic Man 

 *People Say was also mixed in there somewhere