#newspaper raid

[socialjusticefail]

That former chief is getting charged for that newspaper raid. May he get convicted since the paper was trying to find out why he took a job.

[meteorologistaustenlonek]

(47 exclamation points? Really?)

“COUNCIL WILL NOT COMMENT ON THE ONGOING CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION AT THIS MEETING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” the agenda says, according to the Kansas City Star."

[landlordevil]

What if I smashed Jacob frey to death with a hammer. What if I killed him and then threw him in the Mississippi

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“PRESSING” THE PANIC

Those who control both the propagation and dissemination of moral ideas and the machinery of sanctions — the law and the penal system — are in an unusually strong position to project their own ideas as being the only ones (Terence Morris 1976, 33).

Deviance is a phenomenon which excites much public interest in the press. Accounts of deviant sexual behaviour and desiderata provide the general public with an opportunity to live through a forbidden experience, titillated by all the details and salaciousness, finally condemning the acts. Experiencing deviance in this secondhand manner, the reader has broken no convoluted rules and is afforded the additional pleasure of moral indignation (Pearce 1973). Press accounts of deviant sexual activities (such as baths behaviour), may allow certain tensions to be dealt with and conventionalized, acting to “stretch” the limits of our morals (Douglas 1970; Nettler 1974). However, lest the story be too appealing, the moral message is always clear; the “bad” end miserably, even if they enjoy themselves on the way, and the “normal” who forego gratifications, end well. The underlying message of consenualese is clear:

The rational is pleasurable, is the handsomely rewarded, is the freely chosen, is the meaningful, is the non-deviant; the irrational is the painful, the punished, is the determined, is the meaningless, is the deviant (Young1974, 247).

The media may also play an integral role in the initiating ofdrives against “new” kinds of deviance (Hagan 1977), and in attempts to sustain or “save” a faltering crusade.

Media accounts of the 1981 bath raids again concentrated upon the activities of the Barracks, emphasizing bondage practices, and the “filthy” conditions of the premises. This form of selective reporting represents a strategy of persuasion calculated to offer atypical items or events, which are then presented in a stereotypical fashion contrasted against a backdrop of normality which is overtypical (Young 1971). In this manner, as Halloran et al. (1970) have suggested, crime reporting may treat as highly salient what is, in fact, a peripheral facet of the behaviour, focusing upon immediately visible or dominant symbols. Indeed, what is newsworthy often tends to be the bizarre or untoward, the very unrepresentativeness of the item ensuring that it is reported (Rock 1973).

Through separate accounts (“the other three were steambaths but not the Barracks”), the press led one to conclude that the presence of steam somehow alters the nature of activities within (perhaps it fogs them). A similar form of characterization to promote a separation of gay interests was applied to those who protested police actions and organized rallies. These persons were portrayed as a “lunatic fringe” unrepresentative of the gay community. “Good” gays in this schema seek out sexual gratifications in normal baths (or their homes) and, if arrested, keep quiet. “Bad” gays attend S&M baths and, if arrested, protest.

The cumulative effect of press coverage of the raids was to emphasize what I have termed the “knowledge gap” which allows press and police alike to present their views in a manner which emphasizes their familiarity with the “awful truth”. The implication is that if the public was cognizant of this knowledge, they would not support gays. This gap is not about to be filled by the police, as the public must not only be saved from deviants and deviant temptations, but from exposure to the “truth”. The authorities will deal with the deviants, and so totally fulfill the role of moral crusader, refusing to let the contagion spread, in its fullest form, or in any form other than that which they wish to portray.

...

The media extended its distorted picture of gay sexuality by concentrating upon a second predominant theme, “the paraphernalia of perversion”; specifically sexual aids, or toys (in gay argot), and various forms of lubricants. Reports stockpiled these items, leaving readers to imagine just how much perversion they could produce. Items seized during the raids included whips and leather bonds, handcuffs, studded thongs, a 40-inch dildo, an enema kit, cricket bat, slides of male pornography, a “vat of cooking grease” (a tin of Crisco), jars of vaseline, and various brands of commercial lubricant.

Since public knowledge [at the time] concerning gay sexuality was limited, the simple listing of various aids without connection to people, may be construed as an attempt to contribute to a highly imaginative “titillation-revulsion” attitude experienced by the unexperienced reader (Jones 1974). The imagination is afforded a great measure of leeway in deciding how two men employ such devices as a 40-inch dildo, and it is the stuff of which ribald party jokes are made (see Morris 1976). However, all of the aids listed in media accounts are readily available to the general public in several Toronto sex shops and the presentation of lubricants such as vaseline, which are utilized by heterosexuals as well as homosexuals, assume a far less sinister tone when reported in the context of a mother applying the preparation to her baby’s bottom."

- Thomas Fleming, "Criminalizing a Marginal Community: the Bawdy House Raids," in Thomas Fleming & L.A. Visano, Deviant Designations: Crime, Law and Deviance in Canada. Toronto: Butterworths, 1983. p. 52-54.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Sub-Inspector Myrtil Aubin and four troopers had raided a sleeping camp at Morinish in the hinterland of Rockhampton to avenge the theft of a pound of tea from a shepherd's hut. The Brisbane Courier reported that the miners, woken by shots, went to the scene.

The camp was deserted, but around the fires nearest to the township lay the scanty garments of men, gins, and piccaninies, many of them saturated with blood, while the track of the fugitives could be easily traced by the trail of blood leading from the fires in every direction. At the fire nearest to the Creek, which separates the camp from the township, and around which a number of blacks apparently had been sleeping, two pools of blood and brains showed where foul murder had been perpetrated.

"Killing for Country: A Family History" - David Marr

[willow-thicket]

"The police chief was aware the paper was looking into his background. Meyer said a Record reporter approached Cody seeking comment on the allegations. In response, Meyer said Cody threatened to sue the paper."

Must be nice to be newly elected Chief in Marion, a former Kansas City Police Officer, and feel like you have the right to hide your history from the community you serve. Must feel pretty above the law to threaten to sue a newspaper for looking into your background & then stomp all over the First Amendment in a raid. Must have felt pretty smug and self-righteous to take all the evidence of their communication with the police, when you took all the equipment during the "raid".

How does it feel now that you've called down the national and international press, not to mention the ACLU, upon your head? Those background checks aren't likely to go unnoticed now!

[aint-love-heavy]

In an unprecedented raid Friday, local law enforcement seized computers, cellphones and reporting materials from the Marion County Record office, the newspaper’s reporters, and the publisher’s home.

Eric Meyer, owner and publisher of the newspaper, said police were motivated by a confidential source who leaked sensitive documents to the newspaper, and the message was clear: “Mind your own business or we’re going to step on you.”

The city’s entire five-officer police force and two sheriff’s deputies took “everything we have,” Meyer said, and it wasn’t clear how the newspaper staff would take the weekly publication to press Tuesday night.

The raid followed news stories about a restaurant owner who kicked reporters out of a meeting last week with U.S. Rep. Jake LaTurner, and revelations about the restaurant owner’s lack of a driver’s license and conviction for drunken driving.

[...]

The search warrant, signed by Marion County District Court Magistrate Judge Laura Viar, appears to violate federal law that provides protections against searching and seizing materials from journalists. The law requires law enforcement to subpoena materials instead. Viar didn’t respond to a request to comment for this story or explain why she would authorize a potentially illegal raid. Emily Bradbury, executive director of the Kansas Press Association, said the police raid is unprecedented in Kansas. “An attack on a newspaper office through an illegal search is not just an infringement on the rights of journalists but an assault on the very foundation of democracy and the public’s right to know,” Bradbury said. “This cannot be allowed to stand.”

Uuuuhhhhh holy shit...

[socialjusticefail]

So it sounds like KBI did have knowledge that a raid was going to happen to a newspaper office in Marion Country.

[meteorologistaustenlonek]

"The department has taken a different approach to defending its raid, insisting, “No one is above the law, whether a public official or a representative of the media.”

That’s true — including for government officials who trample the First Amendment.

Even if Marion police had reason to believe the newspaper skirted the law’s edge, it wouldn’t justify invading a newsroom."

[schmidttys]

Looking for a Raid Group!

I’m not entirely sure how to go about doing this lmao…because I’ve never actively gone searching before but!!! I am putting it out in Tumblr land and other social media sites that I am on lmao (suggestions would be appreciated…I suppose there would be forums but I have no idea where to look heehee).

Recently I have started end game raiding in FFXIV, and I would really like to continue doing so. I have done the first tier of the pandaemonium savage, Barb ex, and a couple other current extremes as well. I also did the Shadowbringer extremes when they were current. I main WHM and MNK, but I have all classes to 90 with relatively up to date gear (I can be flexible).

My current raid team is…like…all over the place? And I would like something that’s a bit more stable with people that are a bit more reliable. I love them to death, but saying they’re going to find subs and then being completely silent for 2 weeks is pretty frustrating.

I am quite shy, but I do consider myself a fast learner 🫣

[mahmoud0qassas]

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to you, everyone who donates and shares the blog in order to save my family of 42 members, and my brother who has been suffering from quadriplegic cerebral palsy since birth.

Everyone knows what we live in Gaza, and before the day of Eid, I published a blog post about my family being exposed to shrapnel falling on our tents, and I was injured by these shrapnel, and Allah wrote a new life, as a shrapnel entered my back, next to the spine, by a few cents. If it had pierced my back and hit the spine, my injury would have been serious.

The Israeli enemy media publishes in its Hebrew news and newspapers that it is close to withdrawing from the Rafah area and the end of the military operation there. This is an indication that the crossings may be opened and restored, and here, if we intensify the efforts and collect the travel price for my entire family, we will move to a safer place.

Please, my friends, watch the previous post, and watch the video posted of my family, with shrapnel falling on our tents, and my disabled brother and our children appear, screaming and saying, “Shrapnel is falling on us.”

I ask you to stand with us and save us before it is too late. We do not know if we are exposed to the same situation. We may be dead or seriously injured. I want you to feel your humanity and conscience to help us for my family’s travel and for us to get out to safety.

I beg you to stand with us, with my disabled brother, and with our children who are not to blame for living in these conditions and bloody war. We are not numbers for the numbers of martyrs and wounded. We are human beings like you. We want to live in safety and remain alive. Therefore, I beg you to contribute with us, and every contribution will make us We reach the goal of our campaign and we are able to travel with all my family because travel costs are very high. Thanks to you we reach it, and with your humanity we will remain alive and you will save us to live in safety and a new life away from the sounds of bombing and annoying planes.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Flooded Red (pt.1)🩸🌧️

some lore for the reader character!! this takes place during the raid on the mansion in X2: X-Men United. please enjoy some Gore and some BAMF reader :)

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader

Rating: 16+

Wordcount: 4.7k

Warnings: gore, violence, Carrie-levels of blood, mentions of child abuse/abandonment, child endangerment, mentions of experimentation, depressive thoughts, drugging, choking, mentions of serious illness

Series: Flooded Red

You were no stranger to nightmares. Whether they were your own, making you toss and turn and wake up feeling exhausted, or Logan’s, leaving him shaking and panting. Yours were more infrequent than his. Every other night or so, your dreams were edged with that toxic darkness compared to his nightly torment. Anxiety-fuelled imagery that made your heart pump and your skin sweaty.

Tonight, it seemed, was your turn on the nightmare-express. Flashes of your life before joining Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters pierced your mind like a hot poker. Your father dying of polio, your mother abandoning you when your mutation showed itself, you begging for food on the side of the road for twenty years. 

In particular, one evening in the ‘50s decided to plague you. 

You, a 54-year old who appeared to still be twelve, were hunkered down in the abandoned building you called home. It was raining, humid summer air leaking in through the boarded up windows. Mildew spots covered the aged wallpaper. A distinct, old-house smell permeated the aged floorboards. 

You sat on your collection of moth-eaten blankets. An array of warm reds and cool blues created a cushy, makeshift bed that you spent your nights in. Pale orange filtered in from the streetlamps outside the abandoned house. You had tried your best to block out light by sticking newspapers to what windows weren’t covered by pine boards.

A group of men stood in front of you. Varying heights and weights. One had darker skin and cropped black hair, another had a neck tattoo and a cleft lip. Those two stood at the front of the pack of five. All wearing dark clothes and brandishing various household items as weapons. Steel pipes, wrenches, tire irons.

“You guys really don’t want to do this,” you squeaked out. You silently cursed your prepubescent voice. The man with the tattoo scoffed, squinted eyes peering around where you sat.

“And what’re you gonna do, pipsqueak?” he sneered. He smacked his palm with the pipe in his hands. The others moved to form a line next to him, blocking you from any exits.

“You’re not gonna like it,” you muttered under your breath. The man on the far right, blonde-haired and green-eyed, chuckled at you.

“You are the least threatening girl I-”

His words were cut short, breath caught in his throat. Your head was tilted as you focused. Dark eyes flooded red, blood overtaking the white, as your left arm raised toward the group.

Rough gurgles echoed from each man’s chest. Eyes wide with fear, skin flushing, lungs filled with liquid. Your lips spread into a knowing grin.

With one flick of your fingers, you made the men’s blood reach its boiling point. Explosions of crimson ichor burst from the five men. Skin split and flowered around large wounds. Bones cracked, limbs twitching and flailing.

One by one, each man fell to the ground. Bodies turned to sacks of flesh and organs. Blood seeped from the empty carcasses into the wooden floorboards.

Your smile remained stretched across your face. You hadn’t moved from your pile of blankets. Left arm covered to the elbow in blood, rest of your body clean, eyes returning to their normal ruby shade.

A piercing, world-shattering scream broke you from the shackles of your nightmare. You darted up, chest heaving, hands covering your ears to shield yourself from the noise. Glancing briefly at your own body, you were met with your adult self. Your wide eyes looked up and darted around your room.

The left side of your bed was empty. Sheets bunched up by your knees, pillow ruffled. Results of Logan sharing your bed. Yet the grouch was nowhere to be seen. You looked up to the door hoping to see him standing there.

Instead, your eyes landed on three heavily armed men. Covered in kevlar, bullet-proof vests, thick helmets. Each one having several guns attached at various points on their bodies. They were hunched over, hands over their ears, occasional grunts coming from beneath black, cloth masks.

Ignoring the scream that jabbed your eardrums when you lowered your hands, you scrambled out of bed. Your socked feet slid slightly on the hardwood floors as you dashed to the doorway. 

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. You shook your head and blinked a few times. You took the chance you saw before you while the armed men reoriented.

A sharp jab to the front man’s jaw, his head ricocheting back, and a swift kick to his stomach sent him careening back between the other two. You couldn’t stop to check if he was out yet. You swiveled on your backfoot to the man on the right. Grabbing the sides of his helmet, you yanked his head down and connected his eye socket with your knee. You punched him in the temple for good measure as he fell to the floor.

The last man raised his machine gun to your torso. You paused briefly, eyeing the man up and down, then dropped to your knees as gunshots ringed over your head. You lunged forward at the man’s legs and knocked him to the ground. A strong kick to the face and he was out.

Breathing heavily, you clambered to your feet. Your gaze landed on the wooden door behind you. You expected to see bullet holes and splintered shrapnel. Instead, three small, white darts were embedded in the wood grain. You plucked one from the door to inspect it.

Right when the dart was lifted to your face, thick arms wrapped around your neck. Kevlar vest met your t-shirt clad back as the man who you’d failed to check choked you. Your breath came out ragged and strained. You tried to stomp back on the man’s feet, but he just stepped out of the way. Your vision was growing blurry around the edges.

“Stupid fucking mutant,” the man huffed in your ear, every word laced with malice and hate.

In a last ditch attempt, you took the dart still clutched in your fingers and stabbed it into the man’s arm. A string of pained curses left the man’s mouth as he released you. You stumbled forward, chest heaving to recover lost air, as you pivoted to face your attacker.

The man blindly grabbed at the dart in his forearm. He stumbled back, body connecting with the wall behind him, then started sinking to the floor. His head lolled to the side.

Huh, tranquilizers, you thought.

You hardly had time to assess your situation as you heard scuffling down the hall. Dozens of thick boots stepping quietly across the hardwood floor. When you listened closer, you heard the clatter of guns in gloved hands.

An involuntary growl left your chest. These men were here for the kids. Your kids. The kids you’ve helped teach and care for and raise. Flashes of fiery anger licked up your chest. You knelt and tore one of the machine guns filled with darts away from the unconscious men.

You kept low to the ground as you peered out of your bedroom doorway. A larger group of kevlar-clad men, about eight strong, were walking away from your room and toward the edge of the mansion. You nestled the stock in your shoulder and aimed at the group.

Muffled, quick shots echoed from the rifle as you shot at the men, each bundle of three darts connecting with a limb. Helmets clattered on the floor as the men collapsed. They had no time to register where the shots were coming from before they laid in an unconscious heap on the floor.

You threw the empty gun to the floor as you stood. You hated guns. Hated what they represented, the violence they caused, the people who wielded them. It was a very rare circumstance that placed a gun in your hands.

A chorus of children’s screams came from the hallway behind you. Terrified, heart-wrenching, utterly fearful. Pure, unbridled rage tugged at your chest. You could feel red coat the edges of your eyes. Blood seeping into the whites to make you look like some kind of demon.

You turned and walked briskly down the hall. Hands clenched in fists at your sides, pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin, eyes clouded in a flaming scarlet.

When you approached the next group of men, this group being six strong and standing outside Ryan and Addie’s room, your mind seemed to click off. All you could see was red, all you could hear was your own pulse in your ears, all you could taste was fresh blood coating your tongue. 

Your body wasn’t your own. Fingers twisted and manipulated the pumping blood beneath the men’s skin. Bubbling and boiling the flowing ichor until each man froze where they stood. Twitching and shaking, eyes crying scarlet and mouths leaking red. Another flick of your fingers and they exploded into clouds of steamed blood. Crimson coated your entire body, leaving you drenched in the men’s remains.

Six men. Turned into empty skins and abandoned organs. Blood seeping into the hardwood floor. Dead.

Your vision came back to you. Gasping breaths left your throat in short bursts. Warm liquid beaded on the sides of your face and dripped down your skin. Your clothes were utterly drenched, your hair plastered to your scalp, feet submerged in a puddle of red.

It had been so long since you’d lashed out like that. Mind going blank and fingers acting of their own accord. Since that night in the abandoned house, you’d kept your wits about you. Always resorting to hand-to-hand or to weapons if the need presented itself. You never used your mutation if you could help it.

You felt ashamed. These six men were just doing as they were told. They were only following orders. No one, not even the worst humans, deserved to die like that.

Before the panic could grip you in a chokehold, another group of booted footsteps came from down the hall. A small voice echoed in the back of your mind. The kids. Protect the kids. Whatever it takes. How could you refuse, when the children were your life? Your reason for being?

You splashed through the puddles of blood as you moved down the hall. Eyes flooded red, fingers twitching at your sides, anger gripping your chest in a vice. You weren’t yourself anymore. You weren’t the art teacher the children loved, the friend that the X-Men laughed with, or the lover Logan had grown to know.

All you were was a burning, churning whirlpool of fiery hate. Flames licked at your lungs, filling each breath with fire. Swirling images of corpses at your feet filled your stomach to the brim.

“There’s another one! Wait… holy shit!” yelled out from in front of you. You cocked your head as you observed this new group of men.

Ten strong, all clad in kevlar and vests, all pointing their rifles loaded with tranquilizer darts at you. You could see a shake in their hands as they took in the sight of you. Eyes flooded red, blood seeping through your hair and into your clothes, feet tracking crimson in their wake. If there was a physical embodiment of Carrie, you fit the bill.

“D-Don’t move!” called the trembling voice again. Guns clicked in gloved hands as the safeties were switched off. You could see every hand had a finger resting on a trigger.

Your right hand twitched, fingers curling, as a manic grin overtook your stoney expression. These men, these infiltrators, were giving you commands? Were demanding you stand down as they took your children away? These puny, insignificant men were instructing someone with the power to kill them in a single motion? The thought made you laugh under your breath.

“Or what?” you said back. Red dots centered on your chest as every man aimed at you. Another chuckle flitted through your lips, “Good luck with that.”

Dozens of gunshots ringed out through the hallway as dart after dart embedded in your chest. Clusters of white needles protruded from your blood stained shirt. You glanced down at the intrusions to your bloodstream. A tired edge overtook your mind as the tranquilizers pumped their chemicals into you. 

You gripped the darts and ripped them from your chest. A cacophony of clatters bounced back to the men as the darts fell to the floor. You shook your head to rid yourself of the chemicals threatening to knock you out. 

“Wanna try that again?” you asked, every word dripping in sarcastic confidence. 

Before the men could reload and obey your request, you raised your left hand to the group. Your senses focused on the blood pumping through their scared little hearts. Cortisol coursed through each man’s veins. Pathetic.

A twitch of your fingers made their hearts careen to a stop. Blood froze in their veins, oxygen being deprived from their lungs, eyes widening and limp hands clutching at their throats. It only took a few moments for them to collapse to the floor.

You breathed a humorless laugh at the mess of corpses in front of you. Who did they think they were, to challenge you like that? Especially after they saw that their darts didn’t work. You tilted your head side to side as you stretched out your neck.

“Vampire?” a small voice said from behind you. You turned to the source, fingers twitching in preparation. Whoever this new threat was, you’d deal with it quickly.

Regret filled your stomach like a lead ball when your eyes landed on Addie and Ryan. They stood, hand in shaking hand, feet soaking in the puddles of blood, wide eyes looking up at you. Your breath left your lungs in one sharp gust.

“Are you okay?” Addie asked, being the one who’d said your nickname before. She tucked a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear. You sank to your knees before the siblings.

“I… Yeah, I’m okay,” you sighed. You squeezed your eyes shut, clearing your head of the hatred it was filled with. When you opened them again, Ryan stood before you. His blue eyes looked you over with a deep concern crinkling in the corners.

“You sure? You’re pretty bloody,” he said. You wiped at the blood covering your face. It was no use, your hands being equally drenched.

“Is it your blood?” Addie questioned from behind her brother. You shook your head.

“No. No, it’s not. Are you guys okay?” you asked, desperate to shift the attention from yourself. Both children nodded. You gave them both a once over. Their hair was ruffled from sleep, hems of their pajamas and white socks soaked in the blood covering the floor, wide eyes looking to you for reassurance. You cleared your throat, “Did those guys hit you with anything?”

Both siblings shook their heads. You breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Alright. Let’s get you to the passageway on this floor. Ryan, You’ll be right behind me. Protect your sister,” you instructed. The kids nodded their heads again. You stood before them, giving yourself a look up and down. 

You looked horrifying. Once white t-shirt and green shorts were drenched in thick blood. Your hair clung to the sides of your head. Rivulets of crimson leaked down your bare legs and arms. 

Yet, when your gaze met the kids’, they looked at you with nothing but adoration. How could they look up to someone as terrifying as you? Someone who just killed sixteen fucking people? What would that teach them?

You squared your shoulders, pushing your insecurities down as far as they could go, and started leading the kids back down the hall. Your knees were bent as you kept low to the floor. You would pause every few moments to listen to the mansion around you. More gunshots from the floor below you, screams of terrified children, grunts and yells from the men in kevlar. You kept your mind from wandering to that rage and continued to lead Addie and Ryan to safety.

Relief flooded your lungs when you saw a group of children, led by Piotr, standing by this floor’s escape passageway. You straightened your posture. Addie and Ryan ran ahead of you to reconnect with their classmates.

“How many do you have?” you called over the swarm of scared children. Piotr, an older student whose skin could turn to metal, looked up at you from directing kids through the narrow doorway. His eyes widened at the state of you.

“Uh… Twelve, I think,” he replied. He ushered Addie and Ryan through the door, then turned to you, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth. Your shoulders seized when you heard heavy boots across the hall from you. Piotr looked over his shoulder, having also heard the approach.

Logan turned the corner. White tank top bunched around his midriff, jeans torn around his thighs, dark hair mussed from its two points. He held a knocked-out Jones, a young brunet who could manipulate electrical frequencies, in his arms. His hazel eyes glanced at you then fixed on Piotr.

“Hey, take him. He’s stunned,” Logan said, handing Jones over to Piotr. The larger boy held Jones tight against his chest. 

Just as Logan was turning to you, Piotr called out, “I can help you!” Logan looked back at Piotr. He pointed down the passageway, then said, “Help them.”

Piotr nodded at Logan, ducking into the doorway and sealing the passageway behind him. Logan suddenly grabbed your shoulders in both of his hands. You met his frantic eyes, narrowed lids shadowed by his furrowed brow.

“What the hell happened to you? Why are you covered in blood?” he asked. 

“I’m fine, Lo. It’s not my blood,” you said, shrugging his hands off your shoulders. His indignant reply was cut off when you both heard movement around the corner. 

Logan shoved you behind him as you both approached the corner. He pushed on your shoulder so you could squat next to him. His sturdy arm held you against the wall at your backs.

“Stay here,” he breathed into your ear. You nodded once in acknowledgement. Logan nodded back, then turned his attention back to the approaching group. 

You focused on lifting the blood from your shirt. Beads of crimson drifted away from your body and floated in the air before you. Your fingers twitched and the beads crashed into each other. Blood cell on top of blood cell, stacking together and forming a sharp lance the length of your forearm. One last flick of your wrist and the iron in the blood hardened the lance. A solid, red, metal weapon fell out of the air and into your open palm. At least you were significantly less bloody now.

Logan watched you out of the corners of his eyes. An air of admiration crossed his face. 

The brief moment was interrupted as a combat boot landed by Logan’s knees. Logan’s chest rumbled a deep growl, his claws shinking out of his knuckles, as he lunged forward and stabbed his right claws through the toe of the boot. A pained cry fell from the kevlar wearing man. Logan leapt to his feet as he plunged his left hand into the man’s stomach, shoving them both around the corner and out of your sight.

You remained crouched, back leaning against the wooden wall. Loud pops of gunfire echoed around you. Real guns, loaded with bullets instead of darts. Sharp cracks pierced the air as bullets flew in rapid succession toward Logan. A few bullet casings landed, smoking, by your feet. 

Light beamed from the dropped flashlight that rolled into view. Spurts of blood coated the tool in red jets. You spun the lance a few times in your hands, waiting.

“Clear,” Logan called. You pushed yourself upright and rounded the corner. About a dozen men, all clad in the same dark kevlar, lay dead at Logan’s feet. His chest was heaving, eyes darting to and from each man’s face, fists still clenched with claws poking out between his knuckles.

“All good, Lo?” you asked. His claws fully retracted as he met your gaze. He gave you a sharp nod then turned on his heel. You picked your way through the bodies, accidentally kicking a few limbs here and there, as you followed after him. 

“You never answered my question,” Logan said. You caught up with him and met his fast pace down the hallway. The two of you jogged while you tried to ignore his question. A few moments passed, the clipping of Logan’s boots on the floor being the only noise between you.

“I snapped,” was your quiet response. Short, simple, to the point. And it was all Logan needed. He threw you another quick nod while you two approached the balcony overlooking the mansion’s foyer.

Bright lights shone on Rogue, Bobby, and John as they stood below the balcony. All in their sleep clothes, all looking absolutely terrified. A guttural yell came from Logan as he leapt over the railing and dived into the four men aiming rifles at the older students.

You were about to follow when the back of your head was grabbed, a rough hand shoving your face into the railing and knocking your forehead on the wood. Spiked pain shot through your head, your knees crumpling beneath you. The hand tangled in your hair remained.

“Got the bloody one,” the man gripping you called behind him. You scratched at his hand as you tried to free yourself.

Slicing claws through flesh and pained yells soared over the balcony from the floor below. Your dazed mind tried to comprehend what was happening around you.

Some of the kevlar-clad men stood around you. Five, or was it seven, surrounded you with the muzzles of their guns aimed at your woozy form. Your head was utterly spinning. Nausea flooded your stomach and sent you reeling. If it weren’t for the gloved hand in your hair, you’d be sprawled out on the floor.

“Vampire!” Bobby called. You could just barely see his face through the bars of the railing. Wide, blue eyes glanced between you and the men surrounding you. He threw a hand up in your direction, “Duck!”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You yanked your head away from the man above you and dove to the floor. Just as your hands covered the back of your head, a biting chill filled the air above you. Wave after wave of flowing ice coursed over the balcony. You shivered from where you laid on the floor.

“C’mon!” John yelled up at you. You peered at the men who held you captive. All of them were coated in a thick layer of ice, skin turned pale and blue, joints frozen in place. Living ice sculptures. 

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the sway in your motion, as you prepared to vault over the railing. Just as you had swung your leg over the wood banister the front door burst open, streams of LED lights illuminating the four mutants below you.

Logan motioned for you to stay where you were, looking you up and down, then ushered Rogue, Bobby, and John further into the mansion. Dozens of men followed in their wake.

You, not being one to listen to instructions very often, crept along the banister until you reached the stairs. Lucky for you, your socked and soaked feet wouldn’t make much noise on the hardwood. You snuck down the stairs while listening to the kevlar-clad men flood through the front door. When you reached the bottom you paused. Squatted, lance clutched in both hands, waiting for the last of the men to pass.

Once you saw a break in the stream of soldiers, you dashed between shadows while trailing after Logan. Keeping out of sight, ducking beneath flashlight beams, sneaking around corners. 

“You want to shoot me? Shoot me!” you heard Logan yell down the hall from where you were. You picked up the pace. Soaked feet slapping against the wood floors, clubbing soldiers on the head as you passed with the blunt end of your lance to knock them out, racing to try and prevent Logan and the others from getting hurt.

“Don’t shoot him!” a male voice yelled. You slid around the last corner and found a cluster of kevlar-clad men. All with their rifles and flashlights pointed at Logan down the hall. You froze in place, breath held. One of the men stepped forward, a flashlight held aloft in his gunless hands. He moved to stand in the middle of the rest of the men, “Not yet.”

You slipped behind one of the giant vases scattered throughout this hallway. Tucking yourself into the long shadows thrown by the large piece of pottery, your head just barely poked out to watch the scene unfold.

“Wolverine? Well, I must admit, this is certainly the last place I’d expect to find you,” the unarmed man said. He took a few more steps forward. Logan watched his approach, confusion written in his knitted brows. The lone man chuckled, “How long has it been? 15 years? You haven’t changed one bit. Me, on the other hand…” the man trailed off. He stopped a few feet in front of Logan and gestured to his own face, “...nature.”

You didn’t like this. The man in front of Logan gave you a bad feeling. Like shocks of anxiety pricking over your hypersensitive skin. You gripped your lance tighter in your hands.

Logan’s claws retracted back between his knuckles. Narrowed, hazel eyes analyzed the man standing in front of him.

“I didn’t realize Xavier was taking in animals,” the man said with a laugh. He adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of his wide nose, “Even animals as unique as you.”

“Who are you?” Logan asked. His hands remained clenched at his sides.

The man laughed again, “Don’t you remember?”

Logan stared at the man, mouth agape. He took a few steps forward.

You’d had enough. This man, whoever he was, wasn’t going to talk Logan into… whatever it is this guy was trying to do.

You darted out from behind the vase, lance brandished in your hands. Your head cocked as you sent the weapon soaring through the air. One of the kevlar-wearing men to your right gasped as the lance speared through his back and exited from the center of his chest. You focused on the lance as it flew from one man to the next. Sailing through the air until it pierced the men’s abdomens and sent them careening to the floor.

Every gun pointed in your direction. Some men holding rifles containing darts, others aiming real guns straight at you. You paused mid-step.

Your gaze met Logan’s. Recognition flashed in his widened eyes. He took another step forward, this time toward you.

Ice crackled on the walls of the hallway. Large snowflakes linked together as they stretched the width of the hallway and formed a wall. The ice solidified, creating a transparent, blue blockade between you and Logan.

“No, no!” Logan yelled from his side of the wall. He pounded desperately on the ice.

The unarmed man turned to face you. He was older, hair graying and beard wiry. Black glasses framed his squinted, blue eyes. You shifted your weight between your feet.

“Hello, my dear. You must be the one called ‘Bleeder,’” he said. Your posture stiffened at the name. You felt your jaw clench.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” you replied. God, if it weren’t for the guns pointed at you, you’d have skewered this man ages ago.

“And yet it was your moniker all the same,” the man said. His boots clicked against the hardwood as he approached you. Thick coat covering his torso, gloved hands clutched behind his back. He stopped a few paces in front of you. His hooded eyes passed over your blood-covered form, “I believe I have use of you. Take her.”

The familiar pop of the dart-filled guns rang out as you were peppered with white needles. Dozens and dozens of pinpricks filled your chest. You gasped, falling to one knee. The edges of your mind began to cloud with a foggy haze.

“Vampire!” you distantly heard Logan yell. You felt the floor sway beneath your feet. Your hands planted on the hardwood when you fell forward.

“That’s it. Off to sleep, Bleeder,” the man said above you. You threw him one last hate-filled glare, then collapsed as the tranquilizers overtook your senses.

some looooooooooore for reader!!! hope y'all enjoyed. and what a cliffhanger, huh?

[whats-in-a-sentence]

His name was William Wilkes, later editor of The Moreton Bay Courier and a figure in literary Sydney who turned the chase for Multuggerah into "The Raid of the Aborigines", a comic ballad recited in pubs for the rest of the century.

The dunghill cock his clarion blew,

And swift the sportive echo flew,

Down Lockyer's pleasant vale.

When every squire and gallant knight,

With bosoms burning for the fight,

Assembled in the dale.

"Killing for Country: A Family History" - David Marr

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids,

It's June, so it's time for a little history lesson:

You probably know that June is Pride Month, but do you know why this month was choosen? It's because of the Stonewall Riots that happened in June in the year 1969, in a bar called Stonewall Inn in New York (USA).

In the 60s, engaging in "gay behavior" in public (like holding hands, kissing or dancing) was illegal. Violent police raids of gay bars were common.

Especially trans women of color were regularly arrested and subjected to police brutality during those raids. Police officers would also sexually harrass them by taking them to the bathroom to “verify their sex”.

In the early hours of June 28, 1969 there was one of those (homophobic and transphobic) police raids happening in the bar mentioned above.

A police officer hit a woman (Stormé DeLarverie) on the head with a baton after she complained that her handcuffs were too tight. This sparked the crowd to fight back. They threw objects (such as pennies, bottles and stones) at the police, which ultimately led to serveral nights of rioting. 

These riots are the event that paved the way for the modern gay rights movement. Within a few months, at least two organizations and three newspapers to promote lgbt+ rights were founded.

One year later, there was the first “Christoper Street Liberation Day” in New York (named after the street where the riots started). Their official chant was: “Say it loud, gay is proud.”

Eight years later, Sweden celebrated the first  “Christoper Street Liberation Day”, the first Pride event in Europe. Nowadays, there are Pride Events all over the world. 

Of course this is just a short and simplified overview. If you want to deepen your knowledge, there are plenty of ways online to learn more about the history of Pride Month! For example, here is an more in-depth article by history.com

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[tanadrin]

one day not too far in the future, i hope, people who work in advertising will be viewed like pirates once were, as enemies of the whole of mankind. except advertisers are worse. at least pirates confined themselves to the sea, raiding merchant shipping and the spoils being sent back to europe from the new world. advertisers insinuate themselves in every corner of human life an existence, seeking to sap your time and attention and thought fifteen seconds at a time.

in seeking to grab your attention, they are brash and annoying, and thus prey on taste; in seeking to interrupt and co-opt your thoughts, they prey on the fabric of a peaceful and contemplative life. in their inability to understand the human condition, except as it pertains to commerce and the commercialization of all things, they are a cultural rot which destroys uniqueness, identity, difference, and delight. if they had their way they would commandeer every screen, every surface, every moment of quiet in existence, until the world was nothing but a gore of color and noise, to be sold in the vain hope some good somewhere might see a fraction of a percent increase in sales.

no, compared to the ad man, a buccaneer is an honorable figure--at least he has a degree of martial virtue, a certain vitality of body and spirit, and charming irreverence for conventional behavior. and he will not try to convince you of the utility of his profession, or try to cast it in benign terms. he needs no such excuses; he will simply kill you and move on. neither he, nor the arsonist, the highwayman, the bank robber, or the plunderer of graves have all together done one tenth the harm to civilization that madison avenue has. the sooner we realize this, the better.

we are not powerless before these barbaric hordes. jurisdictions all over the world have already begun to outlaw outdoor advertising, as a blight on the landscape. why stop there? ban indoor advertising, too. ban it in newspapers and on television. ban it from the internet. ban it from the radio. send an international force of marines to london and new york to arrest each and every one of those bastards. try them before the courts of the hague. spare no pity for them; they have spared none for you.