#or just ignore me either one is perfectly fine don’t waste ur time with this

[aomine-ryo]

Hii there...love ur blog.. Thanks for keeping knb tag rolling..i do have some requests...

Sooo whenever you feel like..

Pls consider any of the following..

And yeah Sry for bugging you.. Umm.. But if u do take up any of my request.. It can be like

1)hurt/comfort .. Kise sobbing while boyfriend mine! Is like

"I'm here babe"

2)sickfic..kise collapse due to overwork (modelling/baske) and boyfriend mine takes care of him... Or just a delirious sick Kise with ao taking care of him

♥it can be (1+2) fic as well

Or....

3) Fluff/crack/lemon

Gom have a movie night (or any kind of get together)and Aokise (especially Ao) do a lot of PDA...

Thanku author~san♡loads of love n support.. Waiting in anticipation (●´з`)♡(●´з`)♡(●´з`)♡

Oooh I love all the options ahsjdj I wanna do them all 😭 I’ll do 1+2 for now, but I might do the 3rd one for fun sometime later. I hope you like it!! xx

Scenario: Aomine taking care of an overworked Kise (aokise)

It’d been a while since Aomine had gotten a chance to spend time with Kise. Between modelling, basketball and school, the blonde always had one commitment after the other and it was nearly impossible for Aomine to have him all to himself. It didn’t help that they went to different schools either. However, Kise finally had some free time after a practice game and he chose to spend it with his boyfriend.

Kise suggested that they meet up after his game, but there was no way Aomine was going to miss a basketball match that Kise was playing in- even if it was just a practice match. It would give Aomine the opportunity to see the progress that Kise had made during his practice as well as the ability to just watch him. Aomine would be perfectly content with watching Kise do absolutely nothing for hours, and the ability to watch that model run up and down with his perfect skin glistening with sweat? Yes please.

Aomine got there while the Kaijo team was still warming up and Kise’s face immediately brightened up at the sight of him. He stopped his stretches just to give Aomine an enthusiastic wave, to which he responded with an awkward wave of his own. However, their small moment was quickly cut short by Kasamatsu yelling at Kise to concentrate, making Aomine chuckle as Kise got back to what he was doing. And almost immediately, Aomine noticed that Kise wasn’t putting any weight onto his left ankle. Was his injury back? Once their warmups were over, the blonde wasted no time in running over to Aomine and pouncing onto him and giving him a hug that made him lose his balance for a moment.

“Aomine-cchi! You made it! I haven’t seen you in so long! I missed you,” Kise greeted, voice as cheery as ever.

“Hey, I’ve missed you too, you dumbass,” Aomine smiled, holding onto his waist and giving him a peck on his lips. “Is your ankle okay? It seemed a bit off when you were warming up just now.”

“Huh? Oh that,” Kise remembered the slight ache he felt on his ankle, “it’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Anyways, are you ready to see me absolutely demolish the other team?”

Aomine was very well aware that it wasn’t just ‘nothing’ like Kise said it was, but he didn’t dwell on it too much because he believed that it wouldn’t be too much of an issue since it was just practice. “I know you can beat all those other teams but I know you’ll never beat me,” Aomine teased, sparking the start of their usual back and forths.

The game eventually began and Aomine headed up to the second floor to watch after wishing Kise good luck. As expected, Kaijo dominated the other team with ease. However, that didn’t stop Kise from showing off- Aomine was watching him after all. The amber eyed boy was giving it his all, and Aomine was definitely amused by it, but a small part of him was slightly concerned about Kise going overboard. And just that thought popped into his head, Kise collapsed to the floor all by himself. The game stopped and the coach and a few others rushed to check on him. Of course, Aomine also sprinted onto the court without hesitation.

“What’s wrong?” Aomine questioned as he got there, seeing his red-cheeked and delirious boyfriend on the floor, being held up by the coach.

“He has a fever,” informed Kasamatsu. “Do you mind taking him home and making him get some rest?”

“Home? No!” Kise protested, slurring his words. “I’m fine, I can play more!”

“Don’t worry, I can take him home,” Aomine said, ignoring what Kise had to say.

Aomine took his jacket off and wrapped it around Kise before heaving the blonde onto his back to carry him home.

“You’re such an idiot, you know that?” Aomine scolded as he left the gym while giving Kise a piggyback ride.

“I’m not! I can play more! Put me down,” Kise demanded, on the verge of tears. His body was too weak to put up a struggle though.

“Babe your body is literally trembling right now, you’re not going anywhere,” Aomine said sternly.

Kise’s head rested on Aomine’s shoulder in defeat. Thinking that it was the end of Kise’s ridiculous protests, Aomine continued walking towards his house in silence. However, a few moments later he heard a soft sobbing which sent him into panic mode. Did he just make Kise cry?

“Kise? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“My ankle hurts,” he cried into Aomine’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, I’ll put some ice on it when we get to my house— we’re not too far, just hold on for a little longer,” Aomine instructed, picking up his pace. In any other situation, Aomine would’ve been teasing him for crying over nothing, but he was fully aware that Kise hadn’t gotten a proper rest in weeks so he didn’t want to test him.

“Aomine-cchi, I let my team down,” he continued sobbing.

“It was just a practice match. It’s fine. Plus those guys will be just fine without you, they’re all strong,” Aomine reassured, gaining only a hum in response as Kise remained silent for the rest of the walk.

They finally got to Aomine’s house, where he helped Kise freshen up and lent him a fresh set of clothes. Even when he was sick he managed to look absolutely stunning to Aomine. Something about the way that his sweater was oversized on Kise’s small body had Aomine’s heart going into overdrive. All he wanted to do was cuddle him and shower him in kisses, but he didn’t because he was aware that Kise didn’t have the energy for that.

Aomine didn’t know how to cook, so he fed Kise some heated up pasta that his mother had left for him in the fridge before tucking him into his bed. Aomine carefully placed a cold towel on Kise’s forehead as well as an ice pack on his ankle.

“Are you comfortable? Do you want me to massage you or something?” Aomine asked.

“I’m fine. It’s just weird because you’re not teasing me or scolding me for once,” Kise said with a weak smile on his face.

Aomine chuckled and shook his head, “Once you feel better you won’t hear the end of my scolding, just you wait,” he threatened jokingly, making Kise giggle. Aomine sat on the floor by the bed and began to softly caress Kise’s warm cheek, making the blonde feel more at ease as his body began to completely relax.

Kise didn’t say anything for a while; all he did was sniffle. “Aomine-cchi,” he spoke again, voice soft as ever.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t go on our date,” he mumbled as his eyelids got heavier.

Amidst all the frenzy, Aomine had completely forgotten that they were meant to be going out until Kise brought it up. “Oh, that’s alright. We can go some other time,” Aomine replied.

“Really?”

“Of course, you weirdo. I’ll always make time for you, just say the word,” Aomine said, “Now I’ll leave you here to get some rest—“

“No!” Kise said quickly, gripping onto Aomine’s hand. “Please stay here with me.”

“My god, you really are a child,” Aomine sighed as he sat back down and returned to caressing Kise’s cheek. As much as he hated to admit it, couldn’t say no to Kise. “Alright I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” Kise smiled as he closed his eyes. The room became silent after that. After a few moments, Aomine assumed that Kise was asleep but he remained seated there, watching his boyfriend look as beautiful as ever. “Aomine-cchi,” Kise mumbled suddenly, startling him for a moment. “I love you.”

Aomine felt his heart melt as a dorky smile spread across his face, making him glad that Kise’s eyes were shut. “I love you too dummy.”

.

[artifcial]

full name:  minsu ji  kitae hong nicknames:  ki, tae place of birth:  ████ current location:  ████ sexual/romantic orientation:  bisexual preferred pronouns:  he/him, xe/xem, she/her gender:  that’s between xem and god bro. i do not know.

one personality trait they’re proud of having:  kitae doesn’t feel pride in anything. what’s there to be proud of? you exist, is that not enough? anyway, minsu was proud that he’s caring enough to sacrifice his own happiness and health for his family. never said it was a good thing. defining gestures:  varies between who he was and who he is, but some things have stayed the same. he still runs his tongue over his lips when he’s deep in thought, fiddles with his earrings (or earlobes if he doesn’t have any in), clicks pens, and crosses one leg over the other when he sits. also, xe always seems to be  looking far away, like he’s not quite there.  speaking style:  soft voice, stern words. sentences sound like questions and questions sound like sentences. his speech is well paced, not too fast and not too slow. minsu was able to adjust his vocabulary usage depending on who he’s speaking to, but kitae doesn’t show that same capability and speaks like he’s fifteen years older than he is sometimes. insecurities:  kitae doesn’t feel insecure about anything at all. he believes he’s perfectly average in most things. minsu was a bit insecure about how well he was providing for his family. there were some underlying insecurities about his physical appearance but they were never weighing too heavy on his mind since he couldn’t waste time and be selfish like that. positive traits:  kitae is pragmatic, honest, selfless, and trustworthy (if we ignore the fucking chip in his brain) negative traits:  blunt, unemotional, apathetic, and ocassionally gullible. other people’s opinions of them:  minsu was often overlooked, no one really seemed to care for him and he didn’t work hard to stand out either. he was never seeking attention so it was fine. adults in positions of power (teachers, professors, doctors, higher ups on the ems squad, managers, etc) often described him as a quiet hard working kid that sometimes stuck his nose where it didn’t belong but he looked after everyone else no matter if he knew them or not so overall people had a positive opinion of him. as for kitae....well, his squad members think he’s strange and for good reason. they think of him as a damn good paramedic and not much else. if they ever talk about him otherwise, it’s because they think he said something weird and yeah they laugh at him that’s just how the world works. three words to describe them:  silly little android.

one major turning point in their life:  when his mom got injured and sick, that’s basically what turned everything on its head for him. minsu couldn’t really be a kid anymore. in the matter of a day he was carrying out duties no teenager should have to. it’s also what lead him to pursue ems instead of being a doctor like he wanted to. if they could time travel, when would they go?:  minsu would want to go back to the morning of his accident. not even to save himself, but to tell his sisters a few things beforehand, maybe pack some lunch, tell a neighbor to take care of the plants for a few days, transfer what little savings he had to his sisters. just little things like that. favorite way to waste time:  kitae people watches and minsu hates wasting time they’d rather be dead than have free time. given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?:  write. even as kitae, he’d write. i don’t think journaling ever left xem even as kitae. it’s an outlet for him whether he likes it or not. view on home and family?: minsu always valued family over himself. if his family isn’t fine then what’s the point? and home was wherever his family was, but he did place a lot of value in the house he was raised in, which is why he never moved out. if you ask this to kitae, he blanks. he doesn’t understand. he lives alone in a disturbingly clean, almost empty apartment. that’s home. home is a place to sleep and shower and eat. what’s family? he was asked about his family once and he just stared. he wasn’t given memories about that. he doesn’t know. it’s a foreign concept. any secret stashes?:  he absolutely fucking hates that he ever does it, but minsu did have a pack of smokes that he hid from his sisters because he’d lose his shit if he found out they were smoking. he didn’t do it often at all, just after a particularly rough day (which, like, almost every other day was rough but it had to be very bad) he’d sneak out to have one or two at 3am when everyone was asleep. his mom saw him sneak out a few times though, but she never brought it up. kitae doesn’t have shit.

how do they express themselves?:  minsu expressed himself through his journals. he had... so so many. kitae doesn’t do shit though.  what did they want to be when they grew up?:  minsu wanted to be a surgeon! he wasn’t sure of what kind, but something about trauma surgery seemed particularly thrilling to him. before his interest in medicine, he really wanted to become a marine biologist lol what do you like most about them?:  TT____TT i just think he’s very neat and despite the fact that kitae can be really difficult to write interactions with sometimes, its so fucking fun because there’s something always a Little Bit Off about them its kinda eerie hehe also i think he has great potential for development if i ever fucking write him

one or more plots you’re dying to have:

someone who knew him as minsu :p maybe an ex (or someone that was almost something to him? idek if he ever had a relationship lol) that finds him as kitae and is like wtf.....

unrequited stuff.... pls ... kitae is a silly goose he won’t even realize someone likes xem until they say they like xem.

errrr other human experiments :3

enough of kitae taking care of ur muse... let kitae (or minsu, i have a regular verse for him) be taken care of

actually let kitae take care of ur muse too

someone who knows what he is? maybe they’re sent by the agency that experimented on him to check up on him every so often .. see if he’s still functioning..... or sent by Another agency that’s interested in how the fuck kitae came to be

idfk im head empty just gimme plots

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘:  @shinizenchi​ thank u ^___^ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆:  i encourage stealing. if u wanna do it u can tag me :D

[adambstingus]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/172952927012

[samanthasroberts]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/04/15/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/

[allofbeercom]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/

[fukozawa]

venting just ignore me // tw: weight, sui, sh

i really wish i had a therapist

I havent had a therapist since i was 15 over a decade ago. And even then i didn’t want to be there and didn’t take advantage of how much of a privilege it was

I don’t think ill ever be able to be vulnerable with anyone in my life. I don’t think ill ever not feel like a burden. And if that ever goes away it’ll surely be after years of therapy which i don’t and won’t have access to for the foreseeable future

Anytime I’m faced with the opportunity to open up or ask for a listening ear, I’m fully paralyzed from seeking that out. Its like right before i take that step, right as my foot is about to touch the shaky ground of opening up to someone that wants to be there for me, its like my own subconscious flings me backwards through midair and everything i wanted to say is blank and i physically cant utter the words. Its like all the feelings that made me want to seek out help in the first place suddenly disappear and I’m miraculously totally fine and not sure why I needed to reach out in the first place and waste anyones time or emotional energy.

Theres always this underlying feeling that i don’t matter and i can easily disappear from peoples lives and they wouldn’t notice, so why make them become further invested in my issues when I’m basically nonexistent as it is. Obviously its the avoidant attachment style but to an extreme. I don’t have to avoid people when i constantly feel like others are avoiding me. And especially avoiding my feelings, which have oftentimes been too heavy for others to carry.

Ive never had a irl friend who would just listen to me and be emotionally intelligent enough to not project their own ideas onto me, but who knew how to allow their presence be the comfort that i needed.

I cant stop myself from diverting the attention away from myself and focusing on other peoples problems or worries in order to avoid having to talk about my own.

In reality i could literally talk about myself and my constant self analysis for hours, theres so much that ive reflected on and so much i could use external insight on, but by the time i scratch the tip of the iceberg, the intrusive thought of being a burden/waste of time/emotional drain on those around me is too powerful to ever scratch the surface of what really goes on with me. Even on tumblr i try not to vent here as often as id like bc its literally so embarrassing being a human and having to have human emotions like literally so annoying i hate having to subject anyone to this.

Tho if im honest I’m lonelier than ive ever been and nothing is more affirming of my trauma and need for community than how expertly I’m able to isolate myself so diligently. Thats just one of the ways I’m able to self harm without anyone noticing. Another big way lately has been depriving myself of sleep, i cant stop myself. The feeling of being so ridiculously tired that i cant help but pass out is the best feeling ever cuz it means not a moment is spent with my own thoughts. I know its hurting me so much, bc my head screams at me with some of the worst headaches (which i realized recently are likely migraines) but its part of the sh i guess. When it gets too unbearable i just take some pain medicine and i can go about my day. Burning eye sockets are a lot easier to ignore than a radiating pounding skull.

Ive become so unhealthy but i don’t care. Sadly I’m skinny so no one questions it. I’m severely underweight but restricting food intake is another way i subtly self harm. I think its obvious but my parents are too self centered to notice and if they do notice they clearly don’t think its enough of a concern to mention to me. Its not actually on purpose tho, i have arfid due to being autistic and making myself a meal thats not instant ramen is literal fucking hell on earth and feels like I’m trying to run through waste deep water. I never have an appetite and the act of even having to eat at all is exhausting/draining. I hate food and if i could survive on vibes & Dr Pepper alone without having to eat food id be more than happy. I constantly have anxiety that there’s something seriously wrong with my body but id never know because my body is constantly being put through the wringer, experiencing such regular levels of discomfort/pain its impossible for me to acknowledge which of my bodies signals are truly dire.

Living with my mother is slowly killing me but i have no way out due to crippling levels of anxiety and absolutely zero energy to care for myself enough to be able to take action on things that would benefit my future self. It doesnt help that it feels like the world is ending and feeling like i may not have a lot of time left anyways so might as well spend my life in bed miserable under the covers starving and malnourished, cuz its the only thing I’m good at.

I feel like I’m always in some sort of dissociative state that i don’t know how to turn off. I try to ground myself and it just comes right back. When it comes to my emotional state i have absolutely zero support system and its hard to not feel like everyone is better off not having to deal with my bullshit drama. Its hard not to feel like I’m making all this up and just being dramatic, like I’m faking all of this and i bet if i wasnt such a coward I wouldn’t have all these issues.

A part of me is jealous of the people who took their lives already. They were powerful people. I wish i could be like them. And not have to deal with the pain of existing as an autistic gay person who never felt truly seen. As terrifying as that is thats all ive ever wanted, for someone to genuinely want to See me and Understand me. Cuz up to this point in my life ive gone out of my way for others to make sure they feel understood, but not once has anyone put that same energy towards me. Which is why I’m hesitant to continue trying to form new close relationships, whats the point when all my prior experiences have shown how little most people give a shit about forming lasting strong connections that stand the test of time. Even the bare minimum of asking someone to educate themselves on the autistic experience so they can begin to try understand my experience, is somehow too much to ask and too high of an expectation.

Anyways I’m done venting for now and its finally time for me to sleep after being awake for 24+ hrs lmao k bye