#play live backgammon

[lasvegas-app]

The Best Game to Play Over Video Chat with Family and Friends

Video games are one of the best ways to have fun with family and friends. Las Vegas has games for everyone and allows you to play wherever you want. The Las Vegas also allows you to play with family members or friends that are not in the same room as you. It is one of the best Games with video chat to play with all around the peoples. It's a fun and competitive game. Install now!

[dc-comics-enjoyer]

Good Dad™ Bruce headcanons (part 1) :

(because we deserve it and need to heal)

Cass and Bruce connect a lot through shared meditation sessions. Just silently and calmly existing with each other.

Bruce often unwinds by playing the piano alone in the Wayne Manor music room. One evening, Steph heard him and joined in with a guitar she found there. Bruce didn't mind. Since then, whenever he starts playing, Steph often grabs an instrument, turning his solo sessions into lively jam sessions.

Bruce has a habit of calling Dick under the guise of needing his advice on a case. Once they’ve discussed the "urgent" matter, Bruce smoothly transitions to the real conversation to get updates on what's been going on in Dick's life :

"What happened with that noisy neighbor of yours ?"/"Did you find those jeans you were looking for ?"/"How was your date ?"/"How's the shoulder ?"/"Did you get the plumbing issue fixed ?"

Every time Bruce can spend time with Damian, he would introduce him to different strategy board games from around the world. They'd play chess, of course, but they would also play Go, Checkers, Mancala, Backgammon, Mahjong, Barjees, etc.

When they're confronting a bigger threat than usual, Bruce would make sure to leave tiny personalized notes in their utility belts. For Dick, he'd just shove it in his hand while walking past him :

To Dick : "Trust your instincts. You've got this. – Bruce"

To Jason : "Remember your training. I'm proud of you. – Bruce"

To Tim : "Your mind is your greatest weapon. Stay sharp. – Bruce"

To Damian : [in arabic] "You are stronger than you know. Stay focused. – Your father"

To Steph : "Believe in yourself as I believe in you. – Bruce"

To Cass : "Your skills are unmatched. Stay confident. – Bruce"

To Duke : "Your determination inspires us all. Keep it up. – Bruce"

When he was 13, Jason mentioned once how much he liked banana-flavored protein bars. Since then, Bruce always made sure to have some in the batcave. He never stopped, even when Jason was no longer around. It was a small but meaningful way for Bruce to keep a piece of Jason's memory alive. When Jason eventually returned, he was stunned to find the familiar protein bars still stocked, knowing no one else liked them that much.

Duke is a cinephile, so in his free time he loves watching movies. Bruce sneaked next to him in the manor's home cinema once. Since then, they created this unspoken tradition of watching classic movies together whenever their free time coincides.

To show his support after Tim’s coming out, Bruce discreetly hung small bisexual pride flags in multiple places : one in the Batcave, right next to the monitors where Tim often worked, one in the Batmobile on the rear mirror, one placed next to the family picture in Bruce’s room, and one on the training room's wall. It showed Bruce's acceptance and support in a way that blended seamlessly into their everyday life. It made Tim feel seen and valued.

-------------

(here's part 2)

[distantlaughter]

Nico Rosberg talks Pizza Guilt & AC/DC

Originally written 13 August 2015 by Marc Chacksfield for ShortList.com (x)

Mercedes F1 racer Nico Rosberg on pizza shame, pre-race rituals and having Muhammad Ali over for tea.

What’s your driving like in everyday life?

I take it easy – I have the race track to go crazy. I really like driving classic cars, and I have a 1970 [Mercedes] Pagoda at home. But driving a classic car fast is still within the speed limit – it just feels fast.

You’re German-born – what about on the autobahn?

I don’t spend much time in Germany, as I live in Monaco, but of course on the autobahn I’ll push it. I know for all car fans, one of their dreams is to go to Germany and go really fast on the autobahn.

What’s the best thing about living in Monaco?

[Nico’s agent] No tax! [Laughs] That’s not… well, that is the best thing, I suppose. But, equally as good is, erm… it’s just such a wonderful place to live. You’re right at the sea, the climate is great and the quality of life is amazing.

What music are you into?

I listen to whatever the current things are. For example, I went to a Coldplay concert last year at the Royal Albert Hall, which was amazing. Then I went to AC/DC. So it depends.

Any non-motoring hobbies we should know about?

I’m into fashion, whether clothes, jewellery or watches. Sports – I like cycling. And backgammon. I’ve played Bernie [Ecclestone]. He’s never beaten me, but we’ve only played two games.

Do you have a pre-race ritual?

I play soccer. Keepie-uppies with my physio. That gets me warmed up and ready to go.

Any superstitions?

Once in a while, whenever I’m wearing a charm bracelet, such as karma beads from Thomas Sabo, if I happen to be on pole when I’m wearing that, it becomes my lucky charm… until I don’t win.

What’s the F1 Christmas party like?

At our Christmas party there are 3,000 people. We have 1,300 employees and everybody brings family and friends. There’s music, live acts, shows. It’s incredible to see the amount of people involved building these two racing cars.

What’s your tipple?

Baileys. On the rocks. My labrador, Bailey, is named after it. Which flavour? Always original.

You’ve known your teammate Lewis Hamilton since you were kids racing go-karts. What can you tell us about him, aged 15?

He hasn’t changed much. His private life has changed, obviously, because he didn’t have the wealth he now has – as he came from quite a simple background. Other than that, there’s no difference.

He wasn’t dating a Pussycat Doll back then, though?

Well he’s not doing that now either, is he? [Laughs]

If you could go back, what advice would you give yourself?

To myself? Listen to my parents more. Because they’re always a good guide, and it’s difficult for teenagers to listen to them, but five years later you look back and think, “Ah, yes, my parents did say that. Damn, I should’ve listened.”

Aside from winning the F1 World Championship, what are your goals for this season?

A healthy daughter being born this month. It’s an exciting time for us.

Will you be on track by day, knee deep in nappies by night?

I’m gonna be hands-on. But how it’s gonna change my life, how much they’ll travel with me – I don’t know.

What’s your earliest memory?

Ayrton Senna driving through the tunnel on TV in Monaco – I could hear the sound as I was sleeping in my bed. It woke me up on the Saturday morning, and then switching on the TV and seeing him in his yellow helmet. It was 1988, I was three years old.

You’re pretty good at this driving lark, but if you could be a professional at another sport, what would it be?

Tennis or soccer. Or golf, actually. I was watching the British Open at St Andrews, and that was really fascinating. So at the moment I’d love to be good at golf.

What’s your favourite food?

Italian – pizza and stuff. Which I’m not allowed to eat, because I have to stay away from gluten. I’m on a permanent diet, so I can’t eat anything like that. Even off-season I can’t have it, as the diet’s increased my wellbeing – although, of course, I’ll have the odd day off and go for a pizza. It’s not 100 per cent strict.

Do you have any home comforts that are always in your suitcase?

I write in a diary, actually, adding any interesting discussions I’ve had throughout the day, or anything that comes into my mind. Just looking back three months, I think, “Wow! No way! I was doing that?”

Have you ever been mistaken for someone else?

Yep. Checking into a hotel in Geneva last year they said, “Hello Mr Hamilton.” I answered, “Actually I’m Rosberg, but I can understand – we look similar, so it’s easy to confuse us.”

Have you ever had a ‘normal’ job?

I enrolled to study aeronautics at Imperial College London. But then I took a gap year and didn’t go, because the racing was going so well. I also played tennis when I was young, for the Monaco team.

Finally, who’d be your dream guests at a dinner party?

I know the answers already: Muhammad Ali, Nelson Mandela, my wife and… Fangio. Juan Manuel Fangio, the Mercedes driver from the Fifties.

[waynes-multiverse]

Rehab – Prologue

Series Summary: Thanks to Soldier Boy, the CIA was able to develop Project Bloom under the fierce leadership of Grace Mallory: a final cure to Compound V and a hopeful end to the supe epidemic three years after the explosive incident at Vought. A secret rehab facility in Upstate New York is supposed to help former heroes find their way back to humanity. The catch, though? Soldier Boy has never fucking agreed to any of this shit and is surely not happy about being powerless for the first time in his goddamn long life.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female!Reader

Warnings: +18, language, general angst

Word Count: 778

A/N: Welcome, friends! I’ve missed writing for Soldier Boy, and I’m so happy to have this dirty, ol’ gramps back. Be aware, tho, that some topics are of a darker nature and it doesn’t necessarily have the happy ending y’all are imagining 😉 That being said, enjoy this prologue and lemme know if you wanna be on the series tag list for this story!

Feedback is my fuel 🖤

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist

Prologue: rehab

“How are his latest test results?”

“Looking good, ma’am. His body is behaving exactly like we wanted it to. The Compound V is gone from his system after the third dose, and he’s recovering as expected. His vitals look very promising.”

“Good, good.” Grace Mallory nods at the young doctor in a white lab coat, a smirk playing across her thin lips as she looks at the unconscious fallen hero through the glass of his cryopod. “Wake him up and move him to the facility Upstate with the others,” she orders.

And so it happened that Soldier Boy was no longer a threat, the once most dangerous bomb on the planet defused, rendered harmless and impotent. These days, the former venomous snake was no more frightening than a toothless blindworm.

Y/N’s head lifts from the backgammon board in front of her and drifts to the commotion streaming in from the hall as the high-security metal entrance doors of the facility fly wide open. Curiously, she rises from her lounge chair, abandoning her winning match against her companion, and stalks closer, leaning against a concrete column. Three CIA agents hold down and wrangle with a furiously screaming man – broad-shouldered, longer sandy-blond hair, and neatly trimmed beard. They push him inside with all the strength they can muster while the guy in agony fights tooth and nail against the restraining arms around him.

“LET ME GO! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU ALL! NO! NO! GET ME THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! NOOOO! DON’T YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?! YOU FUCKING BITCH! I’LL FUCKING END YOU FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME!”

Y/N, however, is not so surprised by that circumstance. After all, the guy’s not the first person that has ever tried to fight his way out of supe rehab. It happens all the time. In fact, she might be one of the few that actually came here willingly. Her brow significantly raises, though, as Grace Mallory strolls in behind the four men. Officially retired from the CIA but still in charge of Project Bloom, she only comes along for the special cases, the big fish, and as Y/N squints her eyes and takes a closer look at the newest arrival, her heart completely stops and drops to her slippers on the ivory linoleum.

“Is that–” She stumps, not daring to say the supe’s name aloud.

“Ben, yes,” Mallory nods and smiles, enjoying the struggle a little too much, her eyes practically fixated on the green-eyed man. “Of course, you might know him only as Soldier Boy.”

Y/N’s breath hitches in her throat. So it really is him. The sole reason why she’s here, the greatest superhero that ever lived who was captured and brainwashed by the commies – or so Vought claims. She’s never met him personally before today, but Soldier Boy’s surely been on the news a lot in recent years – the radioactive hero and his killing sprees. Whispered rumors among supes even say he fathered Homelander, which, if true, is just a blatant crime against humanity in and of itself.

“Do me a favor, Y/N? You’re our most experienced patient here – take him under your wing, make sure he adjusts and stays out of trouble,” Mallory says, albeit it’s unmistakably meant as an order. The CIA doesn’t do nicely phrased requests.

“Alright,” Y/N nods resolutely, hoping the former CIA deputy director doesn’t notice the thick swallow that drips down her throat. Her eyes swerve back to the man in question, one of the doctors forcefully ramming a needle into his jugular as the hero screams at the top of his lungs before his bowed legs give in. The violent green eyes lose their fight and close, and he succumbs to the linoleum with a loud thud worthy of his massive stature. “Is that really necessary?”

Y/N always hates when they sedate someone. After all, the clinic is supposed to help people, not necessarily torture them, albeit the CIA often shares a different view than her.

Mallory just scoffs darkly. “It is. Trust me. He’s a handful,” she notes condescendingly and rolls her eyes. “You have your work cut out for you with this moronic bastard. Don’t fall for his charm, and if he becomes dangerous, shoot him in the head. I trust your judgment.”

Y/N’s stomach churns at her words, watching as the former hero’s lifeless body gets dragged down the hallway into a room, the door locking behind him. And while she knows Soldier Boy is no innocent angel, she can’t help the sympathy that permeates her heart.

What do you see when you look at me? Don't cover my scars, let them bleed

Chapter 1: maybe

Mallory’s clearly not a Soldier Boy stan like us 😂 Hope you enjoyed this little intro, peeps! 🖤

Tag Lists:

Everything J (Prologue & Chapter 1 only): @extraterrestriali @this-is-me19 @writercole @awkward-and-indecisive @eevvvaa @panicking-outside-the-disco @globetrotter28 @imherefordeanandbones @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @xlynnbbyx @jassackles @maggiegirl17 @perpetualabsurdity @deans-spinster-witch @deandreamernp @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lyarr24 @deanwanddamons @deanwithscissors @mrsjenniferwinchester @justrealizedimmascifygurl @akshi8278 @flamencodiva @chriszgirl92 @wittyboldsoul @djs8891 @leigh70 @snowlovespie @b3autyfuldisast3r @ladysparkles78 @muhahaha303 @mimaria420 @creepzeyecandy @iamsapphine

Rehab Series: @eevvvaa @deans-spinster-witch @iamsapphine @jessjad @suckitands33 @ladysparkles78 @spalady26 @zepskies @syrma-sensei @muchamusedaboutnothing​

Note: Wanna be on the series tag and don’t see yourself yet? Lemme know! Everything J won’t be tagged anymore after Chapter 1.

[philosophybits]

Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return? ... I am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty. Most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds, nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after three or four hours' amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther.

David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature

[ave1dragon]

Wings of Fire schooling headcanons:

Pyrrhia:

All Pyrrhian tribes, except for the Rainwings, are taught the basics in school: reading, writing, math, the history and geography of Pyrrhia, and the differences between the Pyrrhian tribes. If I say "Basic Pyrrhian education," this is what I mean. Many tribes also teach battle training at the school, although many are taught by their families. Hunting is taught by their families.

A royal dragon's education is taught by special tutors to make sure they have the best education. The only exception being the Nightwings, who make sure to give everyone the best education. Female heirs are taught additional classes on how to run the kingdom.

Mudwings:

Every Mudwing village has a school. Common Mudwing dragonets are taught the basic Pyrrhian education, but battle training and hunting are learned on their own.

Royal Mudwings’ education starts imminently and is watched over. Common Mudwing’s education is not as enforced but is still mandatory.

Mudwings go to school between the ages of 1-4. From the ages of 4-6 Mudwings will try out apprenticeships of different jobs, settling on one when they turn 6.

Sandwings:

Sandwings also learn the basic Pyrrhian education, same as Mudwings. Battle training is also taught in school, unlike Mudwings. Hunting is taught by the families. Homeschooling is common in the Sand Kingdom.

Like Mudwings, Sandwings go to school between the ages of 1-4, and are apprenticed in a job between the ages of 4-6. Sandwings are usually apprenticed in the trade of their parents.

Skywings:

I based Skywing education off of knight training in the medieval period.

Skywing education is a lot more fight based than Mudwings and Sandwings. Skywing schooling is between the ages of 2-8, but 2-4 and 4-8 are different from each other.  

All Skywings are registered and hatched in the hatchery. After they hatch, the Skywing dragonets are raised in the Wingery until they are two years old, although their parents visit often. The wingery is a huge space in a tower located near the top of the palace. The base of the tower is covered with black and gold rugs meant to catch any young dragonets who fall, and toy spears and shields, and balls and attack dummies, also small cooking supplies to bring in snacks for the dragonets. The walls are covered with fake rocky outcroppings and platforms to practice jumping on. The highest levels are for flying practice, with longer spaces to cross, ropes to catch onto midflight, and obstacles to swerve around. The wingery has a giant portrait of Queen Scarlet.   

When Skywing dragonets turn two, they become pages and are sent to live with the nobles of whatever town their family lives in. They are then trained how to fight and hunt properly, as well as music, dancing, and etiquette. The priest of the town will teach them the basic Pyrrhian education along with the legends and teachings of the Skywing religion, as Skywings are a very religious tribe. The dragonets are also taught blacksmithing, gemstone mining and identification, and jewelry making, as these are the skills Skywings are most well known for. Dragonets also run errands for the nobles of the house to teaching them humility and obedience.

When the Skywing is around four or so, they become squires. The dragonet will move to the palace where they will serve a particular Skywing soldier over the age of 8, looking after their armor and equipment and helping them get ready for battle. They learn even more about fighting and hunting. They learn to run, fly fast, shoot arrows, wrestle, and fence. They also learn how to carve meat, and how to play popular board games, such as chess, checkers, and backgammon.

At the age of 8, Skywings go through a special ceremony where they kneel before the queen and promise her their loyalty, then the dragon is dubbed a full-fledged adult Skywing.   

Normally Skywings choose an official job at 8, usually the family trade, and get on the job training. During the great war, Skywings were required to stay in the army between ages 8 to 12 before choosing a job.

A female Skywing noble can also choose to be a priest at age 2 and not have to fight in the army, where they learn the priestly rituals for the next ten years.

Seawings:

Seawing Schooling is more detailed than Mudwings, Sandwings, and Skywings. Seawings go to school from 1-7, longer than most other tribes. After 7, Seawings will choose a job, usually the trade of their parents.  

Seawings are taught the basic Pyrrhian education, but the Seawing schools put Queen Corals scrolls as the most important things. Seawings are taught reading through Queen Coral’s dragonet scrolls, history through Coral’s scrolls, other tribes through her scrolls, and battle training through her scrolls on fighting. Seawing schools also teach a lot about writing through reading and dissecting Queen Coral’s scrolls, along with poetry through Queen Coral’s scrolls.  

Seawing education focuses heavily on the arts, such as painting and drawing, cooking, and music, as Seawings see themselves as an artistic tribe.  

Rainwings:  

From the Scorching to Queen Jacaranda's time, Rainwings were taught the basic Pyrrhian education.

Between Queen Jacaranda and Queen Granduer's reign, Only royal and ambassador Rainwings were taught the basic Pyrrhian education, the other Rainwings were taught useful skills for the Rainforest, such as tree gliding and venom training.

During the rotating Queen's reign, all Rainwings were only taught the skill of their environment.

Queen Glory is trying to incorperate some of the traditional schooling into her tribe. She is working on reading, writing, math, and the history and geography of the rest of Pyrrhia and its tribes; but not battle training, since Rainwings don't fight, or hunting, since Rainwings eat fruit.

Rainwings are raised in the wingery, which is just for play and has no schooling, until age 2. Rainwings are schooled between the ages of 2-5 and try out different jobs between 5-8. At age 8 Rainwings choose their preferred job.

Rainwings are oral storytellers, and specially trained Rainwings are taught the histories of the Rainwings to retain the information. Although storytelling is mostly reserved for new, fictional stories.  

Rainwings are taught how to count and add, but not much more complex math.

Rainwings were kind of aware of the other dragon tribes before Glory's reign, but they were not familiar with them because of their isolation.   

Icewings:

Icewings are fairly isolated from the rest of Pyrrhia, so most of their history and geography revolves around the Ice Kingdom and Icewings.

Noble Icewings put a focus on school. They learn the basic Pyrrhian education. They are measured up by the rankings wall. They are also taught how to hunt polar bears, how to fight, how to pose as a guard properly, and diplomacy. They are in school from ages 1-7.  

Village Icewings are also taught the basics, however, they are not taught as much about the other tribes so much as the history and geography of the Ice Kingdom, so many only know the basics of the Nightwing guide and the map of Pyrrhia. They are also in school from 1-7.

Village Icewings who are good at memorizing become bards who tell stories of the Great Ice Dragon and Icewing warriors.   

When Noble Icewings turn 7, the Queen picks out a job for them based on them and their parent's ranking. Village Icewings have more freedom in their job choice and can choose one for themselves, although their job is usually based on the family trade.

All Icewings are taught stories of the Great Ice Dragon and how she created Pyrrhia, as they are a very religious tribe.

Nightwings:

Nightwings put a heavy emphasis on school. Nightwings are in school from ages 1-10. Nightwings are also taught a lot more science and math than other tribes.

During Darkstalker's time, Nightwings went to school between the ages of 1-7, and took specialized schooling between the ages of 7-10 based on what the future seers of the tribe said they would be, whether science, battle training, or carpentry. They were taught the basic Pyrrhian education, as well as advanced classes in math and science. The mind readers and future seers were taught classes for their gifts. Nightwings also had to take creative classes, such as art and music and cooking.

During the volcano time, Nightwings were only taught science, superiority, and survival, no arts or geography or knowledge of other tribes. They also took classes on how to lie, how to pretend to read minds, and how to come up with believable prophecies. They were in school from 1-10 like the past, but had no special classes from ages 7-10.

In the Rainforest, they are currently being taught the basic Pyrrhian education. In Renewal, they are being taught more like the volcano times, with a bit more added creative classes.

Nightwings pre-Darkstalker would be given the job of their future visions, and would find a job of their training at age 10. On the island, Nightwing's jobs were chosen by the Queen. In the rainforest, Queen Glory has given them freedom on what job they wished to have, and they use a similar system to the Rainwings. On Renewal, Fierceteeth tells the Nightwings which job they should do, but most take it as a suggestion.

Pantala:

The basic Pantalan education is different from the Pyrrhian one. The basic Pantalan education includes the history and geography of Pantala, reading and writing, math, animal studies, and physical exersice. This does not include battle training, since Pantalans cannot fight, or other tribes, since they don't have kingdoms.

Before the Tree Wars, the three tribes were taught a basic education from 1-6, and then went off to college for more specialized schooling.

After the Tree Wars, history is taught a lot less and doesn't go before the Tree Wars, and only Hivewings got a specialized education.

Silkwings:

Silkwings are taught the basic Pantalan education: history of the Tree Wars, literature and writing, math, animal studies, physical exersice, and silk studies from ages 1-6.

Silkwing teachers are Hivewings and are taught that Hivewings are the superior tribe.

Silkwings are given a basic education and receive on the job training afterwards. Queen Wasp chooses their jobs. They are not allowed to go to college.

Hivewings:

Hivewings have a much more specialized education starting early, depending on the Hive. Cicada hive teaches Agriculture studies, Mantis Hive teaches science, and so on. The beginning education is from ages 1-6, and college is from ages 6-9, after which Hivewings choose a job based on the specialization. While Queen Wasp and the Lady of the Hive must approve their jobs, their jobs are not chosen for them.

Hivewings are given a basic education based on their specialized schools, so a Agriculture school would teach terrarium and plant studies, math including how to calculate crop yields and prices, science with chemistry and botany; art by drawing plants, the occational history lesson on the Tree Wars and Clearsight, and Flight classes.

Hivewing schools also have better teachers and a more thorough education on things like math and science then Silkwing schools.

Leafwings:

All Leafwings are taught reading, writing, and math from ages 1-5. Leafwings are also taught how to survive and navigate the Poison Jungle since hatching.

PoisonWings don't really have proper schools, basic schooling is taught by the parents, and battle training is taught by Belladona's army. Sapwings do have teachers.

PoisonWings are also taught a lot about how to use the plants as weapons and battle training and defeat the Hivewings. Sapwings are not taught this.

SapWings also teach classes on creative things like art and music, PoisonWings do not.

Belladonna chooses the job of the Poisonwings after they graduate. The Sapwings choose their own job.

[ginjones]

Dreamling for the Holidays! Happy whatever you celebrate Everyone!

Christmas shopping, for Hob at least, is now a relaxed affair. It starts on the first Saturday of September, when damp leaves flutter in their burnished hues, and finishes in the zephyrs grey gales of November. This year, gift buying is punctuated with a stroll through Hyde Park, then coffee with Sarah and Marlow the dog; a brief scoot to the New Inn to fix rotas, then back to the flat for dinner and scotch and Byron’s Hebrew Melodies- ‘She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies’.

Christmas shopping is categorically not the cataclysmic disaster it was two years ago when, only a month into his fledgling power as Hope of the endless, he had naively sauntered down Oxford Street in December and was immediately bombarded with the hopes and wishes of several thousand people. From a cursory glance at their aura-space, it became clear that the majority were hellbent on receiving the most expensive version of whatever had piqued their Pavlovian response. It was all a bit sad really. A hopeful celebration reduced to consumer fodder.

 In the thrum of the crowded street, Hob had found himself omitting a quiet, internal light which searched vacantly for direction. It found none. Pulled between his function to obey the will of the people and disinclined to offer his gift to the undeserving, he had panicked, abandoned his shopping, and ran to the marginal safety of the nearest pub.

It was an experience not worth repeating.

He had seen Dream in these recent months. Usually on gilded evenings where they would walk the hillocks of Hamstead Heath, their pathway illuminated in the jewelling light of early autumn. They would talk about Hope and how Hob was feeling and Dream, in his somnolent tones would tell him stories about the heavy burden of purpose; the arduous confines of duty. Then, when Hob would place an arm around his shoulder and sigh warmly, when he would send a little of his hope out into the world around them, Dream would smile at the change in the air and talk about presence and creation and magic. And everything, once more, would seem like a gift.

It was on one of these walks that he got the idea, and the signature white box was the easiest to find.

He had found it on Ebay of all places. It wasn’t as expensive as he had imagined but expense, of course, had not been the point. The gift itself, had been harder to track down. He had found it at last in a rundown antique shop near Columbia Road. A tiny little thing, mottled with the faint impressions of distant fingerprints, its paintwork faded, its silver motif browning with age. He held it up to the light and every one of its stories solidified and sang out. It was perfect. In pencil drawn font, the price read £12.

The shop owner, Sebastian Rossi, had not been home to visit his sister in 8 years. She grew tomatoes in her garden and played backgammon on Sundays and called Sebastian ‘piccolo leone’ even after all these years. Hob smiled at Sebastian and gave him £50.

He had hidden the gift in his flat for weeks on the off-chance Dream might make a surprise visit. He did in fact, several times, and Hob had been mindful to divert his attentions away from the little white box and the gift it contained. Hob had found, much to his chagrin, that his daydreams were still very much on display despite his ascension to endless. It was however, much easier now to simply hope them away, when Hob could physically see the threads of thought forming. Pass a hand over the opalescent swirl and sweep it gently from the air, fold it up and tuck the remnants away in his pocket.

Gift giving was not a tradition when he was growing up. Gifts, or any items not made for the sheer purpose of living and surviving, were few and far between. Instead, gifts came in the form of the first blush of springtime, when winter frost melted, and wild garlic bloomed. Or in the first mouthfuls of summer fruits and plentiful game, that made children plumper and bellies full.

Between 1851 and 1858 Hob, fresh off a successful investment in Singer sewing machines, had rented a house in Regent’s Park and employed the services of two maids. He had enjoyed treating them to the fancier linens when Boxing Day came around and would dutifully send out for orders of pink lace and taffeta.

And now here it was finally. Christmas Eve 2022 and Dream was sitting in the warm light of his living room, the only entity in existence who could make a battered couch look like a regal throne. They had spent the last few hours curled up together, reading silently. Dream, a copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Hob, The Black Tudors by Miranda Kaufmann.  It was a pastime they had both come to enjoy, especially as Hob’s power blossomed and their thoughts could interlink in a stream of words, allusion and metaphor. It was like reading two books at once although at first, the whole concept had been baffling. As the last page was turned, Hob placed the book down and went to fetch the gift from the cupboard in the kitchen. Returning back, he placed the little white box in Dream’s hands and curled up next to him.

“That’s for you.” Hob said, draping an arm over Dream’s shoulders and pulling him in closer.  “It’s just a little thing. I know you don’t celebrate Christmas or Yule or whatever, but I just thought you deserved something. So…”

“A gift for me?” Dream answered, in a soft tone that sounded like the ebb of the sea on a clear, crisp day. His finger traced over the golden embossment on the top of the box. “Pandora” he continued; confusion etched on his features for the briefest of seconds before Dream’s face lit up from within at the story beginning to form. He looked back to Hob and then, in a display of feigned dramatics, opened the box tentatively and peered inside. With careful movements, as if what lay inside was as precious as hope itself, Dream picked up the little dove ornament with its decorative band of silver stars and laid it gently in the palm of his hand.

“Got it in an antique shop.” Hob said “Like I said, it’s just a silly little thing but it’s supposed to represent…”

“You,” replied Dream in wonderment.  “The only thing that remained in Pandora’s box…”

“Was Hope.” Hob finished, smiling.  “The silver stars are you though. I wouldn’t be the man I am today, the…being I’m becoming without your guidance.”

They were quiet for several moments. Dream had closed the box carefully, almost reverently, and held it along with the ornament tight to his chest. The world outside would tell its own stories in the pale moonlight of Winter. December skies are often clear and somewhere, in the unfathomable stretch of night, mortal men would glimpse the celestial journey of a shooting star.

“It is perfect.” Said Dream.

I am too busy now to write much so I just wanted to go out with a bang and dedicate this to @moorishflower and @landwriter who are leagues above me in ability and storytelling. Thank you for all the amazing content that has inspired me to work harder and write better! x

[chrystalwynd]

Where Everybody Knows Your Name- Part 1

Words: 2400

mc mf md tentacles

                I turned off the main street and started walking down the alley.

                I was in downtown Chrystal Heights, but this alley could have been anywhere. Different colored neon lights blinked above doorways and on signs jutting above the narrow alley, advertising various businesses and services. The types of businesses and services one uses a neon lit doorway in an otherwise dark alley to enter.

                I found the doorway I was looking for easily enough. I passed through the door and walked into The Electric Raven.

Inside was somewhat better lit, but only slightly. Track lighting made some areas fairly bright, but there were a host of darkened corners and nooks where one could sit relatively unobserved. If one wished, of course. Tables of different sizes were placed haphazardly, with no particular order to them. Old couches sat here and there, along with the occasional loveseat. Quotes, graphics and artistic images covered the walls. In one corner was a small slightly raised deck with a single dim spotlight shining on a microphone stand with a stool next to it.

                I paused for a moment. The Electric Raven was more environment than bar. It was smoky heat and neon mystery. Where the quiet and dangerous shared drinks with the casually intense. Where the lost and malevolent played darts with the virtuous and forbidden. A door between the known and unknown. A fun place to drink, but only if you knew the score.

                I glanced around. It was a typical night at The Electric Raven, if such a thing existed. A group of Hell’s Choir bikers were gathered around a table, singing show-tunes in Latin. A 19th-century British safari hunter played backgammon with a dwarf wearing a ballerina outfit. An eight-foot tall man wearing a loincloth and covered with tattoos debated Nietzsche with an unspeakably beautiful succubus, her pointed tail punctuating her assertions. A female ninja, barely visible in the smoky shadows, shared laughs and hair tips with a bearded transvestite. A live marionette twirled about the dance floor, her unseen strings manipulated by unseen hands, as she danced to the music from a mime’s air-guitar performance.

                Everyone was welcome at The Electric Raven and questions weren’t asked.

                So it was a quiet night. I strolled by the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Evening, Craig.”

                Craig was polishing an already-clean glass. He nodded back. “Elliot. ‘Ow’s tricks, mate?”

                I tossed a pretzel to the gremlin next to the cash register. His name was Dexter. Then I gave Craig a non-committal thumbs up and headed toward my favorite corner.

                The mime left the stage, replaced by an intense-looking man who didn’t blink enough. The man stepped up to the microphone and paused. Then he started speaking:

                “The power to change;

                the strength to not change.

                They are the Originals.

                The battle between Good and Evil continues;

                light and dark conflict.

                The teachers teach, but who watches the watchers?

                They are the Originals.”

                The man turned and exited the stage without waiting for the smattering of applause his poem had generated. The low buzz of conversation resumed.

I continued making my way toward my table. As I got there, however, I was stopped.

                She was dressed in tight clothing, her lush curves packaged perfectly, with all the right parts on display. From her blue-dyed hair to her manicured bare red toes, she was pure heat. She gave me a smile that offered all kinds of promises.

                “Hi,” she said, her fingers playing with my shirt. “My name is Kiki.”

                “Hi, Kiki,” I said, feeling the heat racing to my already thickening cock. “What can I do for you?”

                “I just wanted to say hi,” she said, pressing closer to me, letting me smell her delightful perfume. “Maybe we could get to know each other a little, you know?”

                I nodded, offering a foolish smile. “That sounds great.”

                “Oh, yes,” she said, her bare belly close to mine. “Maybe we could even have some fun.”

                I smiled. She was good. My dick was ready to burst out of my pants. But she was too inexperienced to close the deal this time. Particularly against someone like me.

                “That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “Fun is good. So let’s have some fun.”

                And then I turned her power against her.

                Kiki’s eyes widened and her cheeks suddenly flushed. Her lips parted slightly, then closed. Her nipples were hard, thick erasers pressing out against the stretchy tightness of her top. She placed her palms on my chest, then slowly dropped to her knees in front of me.

                Her face was inches from my bulging zipper. I smiled as the heat-bunny struggled internally between rational thought and overwhelming physical need.

                Physical need won out, as I knew it would. Red nails found my zipper, pulled it down, allowing my rigid cock to spring free, nearly slapping Kiki in the face. Unable to help herself, she slid her warm, wet mouth over my cock.

                I smiled, enjoying the wave of pleasure generated by Kiki’s firmly-wrapped lips stroking over my dick. No doubt the patrons of [i]The Electric Raven[/i] were enjoying the show and Kiki was dying of embarrassment, but Kiki couldn’t have stopped working my cock any more than she could have grown a second head. All she could do was see it through to the end.

                This being Chrystal Heights, people are occasionally born with some random abilities. These abilities can take different forms. Sometimes that form is the ability to amplify someone else’s arousal to extreme levels. In males, it’s often found in Alphas and will usually result in any number of swelled bellies in their wakes. In females, it’s pretty much an amplification of a female’s natural ability.

                Of course, some women try to use it as Kiki did. Give a man a rock-hard dick, promise him pure bliss and get him in private. The man’s so revved up by the time the woman actually touches him, he absolutely explodes and then passes out from the amplified intensity. The woman then helps herself to the contents of his wallet and makes her way home. It works on women as well, but men tend to be easier and far more predictable marks. These women are usually referred to as heat-bunnies and are typically found in alleys or bars like The Electric Raven.

                It’s an easy way to make quick money and it’s not even illegal. Just another social peril to be aware of in Chrystal Heights. But as Kiki was learning, it was only fun until you run into somebody who can turn it around on you.

                Blue hair bobbing, Kiki’s mouth continued stroking over my shaft. She wasn’t bad, just inexperienced. To be fair, of course, it was unlikely she ever had to go this far with any of her marks. With her ability to raise a man’s arousal to maximum levels, a stroke or two with her hand would be enough to leave her mark snoring. It was even possible she was giving her first blowjob ever.

                By using her power on me, she had given me the ability to use it on her. Being a power mirror, with the ability to reflect one’s power back at them, made it easy. And now I decided to turn her arousal all the way to maximum as I filled her mouth with my semen.

                She moaned around my cock, making me explode harder and longer. Her throat worked as she helplessly swallowed my seed, my throbbing dick not giving her a moment to catch her breath. Her orgasms would likely have been shrill had my cock not been in her mouth.

                After what had to be endless moments for Kiki, my ejaculation finally slowed, then stopped. Whimpering, Kiki swallowed the last of my thick semen and finally slid her mouth off my cock. Still on her knees, she looked up at me with wide eyes, a hand on her full belly, breathing through her mouth.

                Everyone in the immediate area applauded her efforts. Cheeks flaming, the heat-bunny leaped to her feet and fled.

                I chuckled and sat down. Kiki had put me in a better mood.

                “That was disgusting,” said a voice. “She should have beat your ass.”

                I chuckled and said, “Hello, Tempest.”

                Tempest was a five-and-a-half foot tall bundle of anger and bad intentions. She was dressed head-to-toe in black leather, denim and spikes, complete with black boots. Her arms were covered with sharp-lined tattoos and beaded bracelets that contained any number of hexes and protection spells, complementing the daggers strapped to her waist. Even her haircut was angry. What little hair she had, anyway, as her head was shaved almost completely smooth except for a two-inch wide strip of hair running from her forehead to the back of her head. All-in-all, she projected quite the intimidating picture.

                She was also the waitress.

                “Fuck you, Elliot,” she said. “I’m still not talking to you. What the hell do you want?”

                I grinned. “You’re not still mad about that poker game, are you?”

                Tempest glared at me. “You got me wasted on fucking Stoneberry Wine!”

                I gave her an innocent look. “I thought you liked wine.”

                “You know damn well Stoneberry Wine isn’t actually wine, dickhead! It’s fucking radioactive moonshine made to taste like wine! I couldn’t fucking walk for two days!”

                “It actually made you likeable, Tempest,” I said. “Almost…adorable, you know? Especially afterward, when we-“

                Tempest drew a dagger and pressed the point against my throat in the same movement. “Shut the fuck up, dickhead! Nobody knows about that, all right? Nobody! And it fucking stays that way or I stick this dagger right up your-“

                Craig’s voice suddenly said, “Tempest!”

                Tempest glared at Craig for a moment, then exhaled and sheathed her dagger. “Fine. What do you want?”

                It seemed imprudent to make any more references to anything non-drink related. “Let me have a shot of Diamond Cutter.”

                Tempest nodded, then turned and stalked away. I admired the way her hips moved, but I knew enough to keep my observations to myself.

*****

                A few minutes later, I was enjoying my drink in relative quiet. I entertained myself by listening to three men discuss their upcoming trip to San Francisco on their search for some artifact lost or hidden there in the ‘40s. Not that that was unusual. Chrystal Heights was a common stop for those looking to buy or sell objects of power.

                Then the lights dimmed and smoke began swirling around an unoccupied table in the middle of the floor. Still swirling, the smoke thickened, then thinned out and misted away. The lights regained their earlier intensity. Such as it was.

                Left in the remnants of the smoke were two figures sitting at the table. Both were robed and hooded, one in black, the other in red. Between them sat what appeared to be an ancient chess board. The various pieces were intricately carved and spread about the board, as if in mid-game.

                The figure in the black robes glanced around. No face could be seen in the darkness under the hood. The figure in black then nodded and a voice sounded from inside the hood. “Well chosen, old friend.”

                The red-robed figure gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he said. His voice, like the other, was low, but vibrant with power and knowledge, and it carried to all corners of The Electric Raven. “We are agreed then?”

                The black-robed figure said, “Agreed.”

                As the sound of the black-robed figure’s voice faded, a single red square appeared on the floor next to their table. The square expanded, growing larger, and then and other squares appeared, expanding from the original square. As the squares expanded, any chairs or tables in the way were simply moved by whatever unseen force was creating the checkered floor.

                Soon a ten-foot by ten-foot chess board occupied the space next to the table, the squares alternating red and black. Both robed figures nodded their satisfaction.

                “The battlefield is set,” said the figure in red. “Your move, old friend.”

                At any other establishment, this would be considered extraordinary. But here at [i]The Electric Raven[/i], it was merely unusual.

                The black-robed figure was silent for a moment. Then he moved a piece on the board and said, “Black knight attacks red rook.”

                A swirl of smoke appeared on the black figure’s side of the chessboard. Then the smoke cleared, revealing a cute cheerleader with a sweet smile and evil eyes. There was a horse-head on the front of her sweater and the words “Go Knights!” embroidered on the back.

                I glanced around. I recognized the cheerleader as one of a pair that had been discussing Emily Dickenson over shots of Jagermeister with a pair of nuns.

                There was another swirl of smoke on the opposite side of the board. When the smoke cleared, a young woman stood in a paint-smeared smock, an easel standing in front of her.

                “An art mage,” murmured the black-robed figure. “An interesting move, old friend.”

                “I find your choice to be just as fascinating,” said the red-robed figure. “Shall we begin?”

                “Indeed.”

                And then the battle began.

                The cheerleader leaped forward and launched into a complicated series of backflips and summersaults. She seemed to be moving in all directions at once. Then she suddenly shot forward directly toward the art mage.

                The young woman had not been idle, however. Her paintbrush had been flying around the canvas at an incredible speed. The art mage suddenly stopped painting and reached out to touch the canvas. She made a single motion across the canvas just as the cheerleader’s attack arrived.

                The cheerleader leaped forward, the blade of her foot extended. It struck a trampoline that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. The force of her attack caused her to rebound high in the air. She landed on the ground with a loud thud.

                “She very nearly landed out of bounds,” said red robes.

                “Nearly is not the same as did,” said black robes.

                The art mage began working again on the now-blank canvas and the trampoline immediately faded away. The cheerleader struggled back to her feet. Then the art mage swiped across the canvas again.

                Immediately a battery of missiles appeared on either side of the art mage. One-by-one, they began launching, directed at the cheerleader.

[CONCLUDED IN PART 2]

[argyrocratie]

Solidarity among the Displaced

How Russian Anarchists in Exile Supported Armenian Refugee Squatters

(2023-09-19)

Throughout the world, mass displacement is accelerating as climate catastrophe, economic crisis, and war drive millions into exile, both within their own countries and across borders. These mass migrations are exacerbating gentrification, driving up housing costs just as real estate speculation is rendering more and more people homeless. How can displaced people continue to take political action in their new homes, establishing solidarity across ethnic lines in unfamiliar settings? In Armenia, Russian anarchists living in exile set one example, supporting Armenian refugees who had squatted the abandoned Ministry of Defense.

(...)

In the last decade, Yerevan saw several waves of protests. Do you see people building historical knowledge and experience from one struggle to the next?

With regards to the movement of the 2010s in Yerevan, there really was a street movement in which Armenian anarchists participated. There were protests against the increase in electricity prices, an anarchist bloc participated in a demonstration on human rights day, there was an action against the gentrification of Yerevan, and an action of anarcho-feminists. But unfortunately, all of the people from that generation have either left politics, joined political parties, or gone abroad to Russia or Europe.

Today, the anarchists in Armenia are mostly emigrants from the Russian Federation. In fact, I only know two Armenian anarchists: N—, a punk musician (who became an anarchist in the early 2020s), and S—, an anarcho-feminist who lectures in our space and occasionally publishes in left-wing and anarchist magazines (who also became anarchist around that time). Neither them, alas, was connected to the movements and affinity groups of the 2010s.

There is also an anarchist from Israel: Y—, a Jewish woman who gave birth in the Crimea, repatriated to Israel, lived there for 18 years in kibbutzim and participated in the anarchist movement there (including contact with “Anarchists Against the Wall”), married an Armenian and moved to Yerevan, and decided to establish a café here with anarchist and feminist themes. The café became a gathering place for the local Jewish community (for example, at Shabbat celebrations every Saturday), as well as for the creative intelligentsia, who held public readings there.

All this continued until Russia invaded Ukraine, after which the Russian authorities began to persecute their citizens even more, and hundreds of thousands of anti-war Russians (including anarchists) fled the country.

As a result, Armenia, which was mono-ethnic for almost all the years of its independence, is now more diverse.

The door of the Mama-jan café. The second sticker says “No war” in Russian.

That is how our small circle was formed, which now represents the entire anarchist movement in Armenia.

There are many different people among us. One is actively involved in veganism and even founded his own vegan cooperative (which I also joined). Others, like one friend who is a Christian anarchist, collect humanitarian aid for the victims of the war. There is a queer anarchist group that continues to engage in street activism.

How did you go about supporting the squatters?

As soon as we learned that they had been forcibly evicted, we decided to go and help them. We went to them several times and, despite some initial distrust, my friends managed to find a common language with them.

As a result, at the next weekly meeting, we discussed how to go about supporting them. One of the sympathizers of anarchist ideas, a visitor to our circle, arranged to supply firewood for using potbelly stoves to heat their tents. Also, as an anti-war activist with certain connections, I managed to invite a journalist friend there. During a subsequent visit, they met us very hospitably. We helped to unload the firewood and they fed us and taught us to play backgammon.

We made a report about the situation for emigrant Russian-language media, which later played a very important role. We also established contact with the charitable organization “Ethos,” which was founded by relocators in Yerevan and is engaged in helping both Ukrainian and Armenian refugees.

Thanks to the fact that news coverage appeared about the eviction and was reposted on our initiative via various publishing houses (for example, in “Doxa,” which actively covered the persecution of anarchists and anti-war protesters), we were able to initiate a collection for food, medicine, and fuel in Ethos. In the end, we collected 60,000 drams more than planned! [The equivalent of approximately $157, still a significant amount of money for some refugees in Armenia.]

Also, the squatters began to actively invite us to their protests: they held these every Thursday and every Monday near the government building and the State Expenditure Committee. My friends and I held a poster reading “State, why did you take away people’s housing” with anarchist symbols.

The squatters were very pleased with our support, and even invited us to barbecues—which was especially ironic in the case of our vegan friend.

What do anarchists have to offer to struggles for housing?

Anarchism, in principle, throughout its history, has been very interested in the housing issue. It is not for nothing that during the Paris Commune, one of the revolutionary decisions of the council was to settle homeless Parisians in the apartments of bourgeois emigrants who had fled to Versailles, and to establish a ban on evicting tenants for non-payment of rent. Housing insecurity is a significant aspect of modern society, a challenge to which anarchists must respond.

The example of this eviction is particularly striking. It shines a light on all the absurdity and immorality of a civilization based on private property.

_

The house was not built by its owner. It was erected, decorated, and furnished by innumerable workers—in the timber yard, the brick field, and the workshop, toiling for dear life at a minimum wage… Who, then, can appropriate to himself the tiniest plot of ground, or the meanest building, without committing a flagrant injustice? Who, then, has the right to sell to any bidder the smallest portion of the common heritage? On that point, as we have said, the workers are agreed. The idea of free dwellings showed its existence very plainly during the siege of Paris, when the cry was for an abatement pure and simple of the terms demanded by the landlords. It appeared again during the Commune of 1871, when the Paris workmen expected the Communal Council to decide boldly on the abolition of rent. And when the New Revolution comes, it will be the first question with which the poor will concern themselves. Whether in time of revolution or in time of peace, the worker must be housed somehow or other; he must have some sort of roof over his head. But, however tumble-down and squalid your dwelling may be, there is always a landlord who can evict you… Refusing uniforms and badges–those outward signs of authority and servitude–and remaining people among the people, the earnest revolutionists will work side by side with the masses, that the abolition of rent, the expropriation of houses, may become an accomplished fact. They will prepare the ground and encourage ideas to grow in this direction; and when the fruit of their labours is ripe, the people will proceed to expropriate the houses without giving heed to the theories which will certainly be thrust in their way–theories about paying compensation to landlords, and finding first the necessary funds. On the day that the expropriation of houses takes place, on that day, the exploited workers will have realized that the new times have come, that Labour will no longer have to bear the yoke of the rich and powerful, that Equality has been openly proclaimed, that this Revolution is a real fact, and not a theatrical make-believe, like so many others preceding it. -Peter Kropotkin, The Conquest of Bread

[capnmachete]

The Man in the Mirror A Tommy x Alfie/Sholomons short fic Chapter 4: The Thaw

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR An Alfie x Tommy short fic in 5 parts Alfie Solomons' Jewish air of absolute certainty falters in the wake of the shooting at Margate Thank you for reading! Tags by request: @justrainandcoffee; @loricasquamata; @hoodeddreams13 Also thank the 3 of you for your amazing commentary! Y'all have all remarked on the angst and how vulnerable Alfie is here. And that's true -- and I am honestly not a huge angst writer, BUT -- So often in both canon and fanon it's Tommy who's broken and traumatized and trying to recover (often, at least in fanon, with Alfie's help and comfort). And Alfie is always seemingly indestructible, never vulnerable. And I got to thinking about how, in canon, there's this huge and awful turning point in Alfie's life -- his empire largely in ruins, and Alfie himself suddenly disfigured and half-blind, living alone and in exile after a failed suicide-by-boyfriend. And how profoundly disorienting and traumatic a thing that must have been, even for someone like Alfie, and how infrequently that's explored. Anyway I digress (not surprising LMAO)...I'm done now, getting on with it... Chapter 1 / Chapter 2/Chapter 3

Chapter 4 The Thaw Someone presses their teeth to your skin, and shows just how needed you are. -- Alex Dimitrov, The Weather of Our Lives Allelu et Adonai; miracle of miracles.  What could have been a disaster, a sad and disappointing postscript, was not. 

It was a slow process – took time, as good things do. That was the fucking nature of the universe, yeah?  Bad things – they happened in an instant, in the blink of an eye.  Good things happened slowly, when they happened at all.

But they did happen sometimes, baruch Hashem.

Lethe House lived up to its name, in some respects.  The past – the bad blood of it, anyway, the guilt and anger and betrayal on both sides – was forgotten, packed away, part of a former life that was no more.  Any lingering rancor was set aside, fairly quickly, washed away by the simple pleasure of being in each other’s presence again.

In some respects, nothing had changed.  In others, everything had.

The camaraderie – the lively arguments, the long rambling conversations, the sharp but fond verbal jousting – came back quickly, as though no time had passed at all. Tommy’s visits, occasional at first, grew more frequent.

On clement days they walked along the beach or boardwalk together, Cyril cantering along the sand ahead of them, just as Alfie had dreamed.  Sometimes they walked arm in arm, sometimes Alfie’s hand rested on Tommy’s shoulder or Tommy hung onto Alfie’s sleeve.  The small gestures of affection were easily passed off in public as nothing more than a pair of friends, the younger and healthier of them lending support to the older and more infirm one. 

When it rained out – Margate being as prone to chilly, pissing downpours as the rest of the bloody country – they played endless games of chess and backgammon.  Alfie taught Tommy to play svoy koziri, a convoluted Russian card game that depended on almost supernatural card-counting abilities.  Alfie’s business ambition may have fizzled somewhat; he seemed content to leave the running of what was left of his empire to his underlings.  But in other matters he remained as fiercely competitive as ever. And so did Tommy.  As a result, the games were always lively, sometimes noisy. And occasionally resulted in tables being overturned and minor shouting matches that lasted until Chana bustled in and shouted at them both to stop behaving like ill-mannered children and clean up after themselves, please.

Evenings, they listened to the latest news on the radio, the troubling rise of fascism, still nascent in England but more entrenched elsewhere.  Or sat quietly by the fire, Alfie absorbed in a book while Tommy smoked and pored over business-related paperwork.  Alfie would sometimes cook, as he had done occasionally in the house on Hawley Road back in Camden Town.

Chana was competent enough in the kitchen.  Alfie, however, found her mastery of Russian Jewish cuisine sorely lacking, and tended to it himself instead – tzimmes and cholent and borscht, standing over the stove with sleeves rolled and a tea towel tossed over one shoulder.  And then stood over Tommy and badgered him into eating a little something -- pontificating, loudly and to no-one in particular, about ribs sticking out and malnourishment and ungrateful cunts who didn’t appreciate the luxury of a good home-cooked meal, until Tommy finally caved and took a few bites. Other aspects of their longtime association were slower to recover – a surprise to Tommy, but one he accepted, waiting Alfie out.  Small affections began to creep in again.  Tommy rubbed Alfie’s tired shoulders, brushed occasional lips across the big man's scarred knuckles; tangled his feet together with Alfie's under the dinner table. 

Alfie rested a big, gold-ringed hand on Tommy’s knee or on the nape of his neck, embraced him – tentatively at first, then with more ease.  But always from behind.  And he always sat or walked with Tommy to his right, the scarred cheek and milky eye turned away. And that was the extent of things – small touches, little affections, embraces that were barely more than brotherly.  Until one evening, sitting together on the sofa having tea and listening to the Victrola, when Tommy abruptly decided he'd had enough. And -- impulsively and apropos of nothing, or so it seemed to Alfie, at least -- reached over and forcibly turned Alfie’s chin, to face him head-on.  “What?”  Alfie asked mildly, unaccustomed to being handled in that manner. " 'm fuckin' reading here." Nudging Tommy away accomplished nothing; he glared until Alfie carefully folded the page of his book – Middlemarch – and set it in his lap, in order to give Tommy his full attention. "What the fuck are you doing, Thomas?" “I’m telling you to stop being a stupid, prudish git,” Tommy told him, blue eyes locked onto Alfie’s now mismatched ones.  “Enough’s enough.  For whatever reason, we’ve been granted a do-over, you and me, so stop being so fucking proud, and quit wasting it.”  And he yanked Alfie close in by a handful of waistcoat and kissed him soundly, teeth clacking together, nipping at Alfie's full lower lip hard enough to draw blood, clacking their teeth together, and knocking Middlemarch to the floor. It was the ferocity of the move -- the sharp teeth, the snarl, the fingers that dug in, the tang of his own blood -- that did it. Softness would have felt like pity; its opposite awoke the thing that still lived in Alfie, dormant but present, somewhere beneath the grandfatherish cardigans and the blind eye and the scar tissue. He made a guttural sound, a mix of surprise and urgency and relief; his big ringed hands hovering uselessly in the empty air for a moment before Tommy drew back.  And before Alfie could explain that neither pride nor prudishness was really the issue, or object to the callous mistreatment of a fine literary masterpiece, Tommy was in his lap, tongue in his mouth, pulling at Alfie’s sweater, grinding unashamedly against the big man’s groin. Alfie’s hands finally settled on Tommy’s narrow hips, clutching hard enough to leave fingermarks.  Coming up for air, he blinked, a little breathless.  “Tommy, I don't -- I ain't sure if I can – “ he began. And stopped midsentence when his cock, rapidly thickening in his trousers under Tommy’s weight, demonstrated that yes, he most certainly could. “Stop talking, Alfie, for fuck’s sake, or I’ll give you something better to do with that mouth,” Tommy threatened sharply, in a near-growl.  Hardly a threat, yeah?  But instead he slithered down to the floor between Alfie’s knees, shoving them roughly them apart and working at his trouser buttons. “Fuck…Thomas…”  Alfie bucked up against Thomas’ hands, then summoned just enough self-restraint to still them with his own big paws. “Fucking...Chana, she's just in the ....,” he rasped, having lost his normal facility with language, reduced to brief, telegraphic utterances.  “Upstairs," he finally managed to demand. "Now." Upstairs, Tommy made short work of Alfie’s trousers and his own, not wasting time with niceties like waistcoats or shirts or anything else.  And resisted Alfie’s attempts to take him from behind, squirming out from under the big man and dragging him down to the duvet with more strength than Alfie remembered him having. “No,” he’d huffed, stroking himself. “I want to see you.” 

Alfie had no more landed on his back and managed a surprised oath in untranslatable Ashkenazi before Tommy was on him.  He speared himself on Alfie’s cock with no more than a hasty double-handful of spit, then rode him like a Derby-day jockey until they were both sweaty and sticky and spent. And until Alfie had entirely forgotten, at least for the moment, exactly why he’d been wary of being looked at in the first place.

---

And that was that.  And while Alfie never quite lost the urge to keep Tommy on what Tommy insisted on calling his ‘pretty side’ – the insolent little cunt – the awkward distance between them evaporated entirely, and they were shtupping on the regular again.  Lazily, in the mornings or in the bath; slowly and almost tenderly after long or difficult days. Ravenously, with adrenaline-fueled vigor, after an argument or a particularly rousing game of chess -- the ones that ended with both men first arguing, then shouting, then half-dressed and wrangling furiously, biting and sucking and scratching on the Turkish rug, surrounded by scattered rooks and knights and discarded clothing.

And -- occasionally -- doing so loudly enough that Chana spent the entire next day silent as the tomb and studiously avoiding both men’s eyes. Alfie – having become rather fond of the old girl and reluctant to lose her services – said nothing, but surreptitiously began slipping an extra three quid into her pay envelope each week from that point forward.  And Chana – no fool, and now the best-paid housemaid in the town – said nothing and kept working.  She did, however, buy herself a variety of new hats.  And a radio of her own, which she kept in her room – turning its volume up on evenings when she noticed Alfie and Tommy looking at each other in a particular way, or when they appeared to be unusually rambunctious. 

It was a pleasant life.  Tommy spent long weekends at the house in Margate, falling into an almost-domestic routine with Alfie that he rather enjoyed.  And Alfie was perfectly content, spending part of the week with Tommy and the other part alone – at the baths and the synagogue and the market, now that he was a bit less reluctant to show himself in public.  Or at home, reading and listening to opera, and catching up on the sleep he invariably missed during Tommy’s weekends at Margate.

And things would have continued that way, undisturbed, had Tommy not started campaigning to bring his children out to Margate. 

[gracelyngrausamkeit]

Chess is one of the games I learned to play at a very young age. Since my parents and grandparents lived in the shadow of the Soviet Union, they had somewhat limited access to games. As a result, chess, backgammon, dominoes and card games were a staple during my childhood. At least until Yu-Gi-Oh! and board games became all the rage.

When did you learn to play chess? Whom did you play it with most often?

-----------------------------------------------------

Sorry I don't upload so often. I had some... mental health issues I needed to sort out. I'll try to post at least once a week.

[lasvegas-app]

Install and play video backgammon Las Vegas game online

Install "Las Vegas" and play online against friends and other players to enjoy the most well-liked and simple-to-learn backgammon game for Android and iPhone. The goal of this two-player game is to remove your opponent's pieces from the game by moving your checkers around the board. It's a quick, thrilling, and entertaining game that individuals of all ages may play. Play video backgammon to progress through the levels by competing and succeeding. You can also unlock exciting new games by raising your level. Get it now!

[inspofromancientworld]

Ancient Games That Can Still Be Played In Person or Online

While these games are ancient in origin and their rules might not have been written down or were only partially written down, we can still play these games today. Some may have started out as religious rites or as ways of practicing and learning strategy for war, we can now enjoy them and connect to people who lived over 5000 years ago.

One of the oldest game that we can still play because our ancestors wrote about it and left behind game boards is Senet, which is older than the first Dynasty of Egypt and was loved throughout much of Ancient Egyptian history. The board consists of three rows of ten squares which may or may not be decorated with hieroglyphs that indicate special rules for the square. Players toss sticks or bones rather than anything representing dice that tell them how far they can move their pieces, with the goal to finish before the other player. It can be played online or you can find reproduction boards and what we've reconstructed as the rules quite easily, such as

Wooden wari board, Sierra Leone.

Another old game that we don't know for sure when it developed, but might be as old as 8000 years ago has many names including mancala, pits and pebbles, and wari. It is still widely played in West Africa and a stone board was found in Jordan that seems to date back to 5870 BCE and can be played without a board. All that is needed to play is 48 marbles, pebbles, candies, or even beans. Two rows of six circles with two larger circles at the ends complete the requirements. Each of the 12 circles is filled with four 'treasures' to begin and the first player starts moving around the board with the goal to have the largest trove at the end of the game. Further information can be found here

Go is a familiar game of strategy that looks simple but is terribly complex and played around the world but probably began in China up to 4000 years ago, even referenced by Kong Qui (Confucius) and in Japanese book The Tale of Genji and is played around the world and is one of the most popular games on this list.

Backgammon, Checkers, and Nine Men's Morris are all more than 3000 years old and have been played continuously through that time. Because of this constant playing, it's quite possible that the rules have adapted as human society has changed. Because the rules have changed with continuous play, it's difficult, if not impossible to recreate the original game since the original rules haven't been found, if they were ever written down.

Gambling was a part of these games, even when they were considered sacred, with wagers ranging from food to tasks to the life of the gambler, which could be taken as a sacrifice or life-long servitude. Some recorded wagers include a person's afterlife.

[distantlaughter]

If you could pick just one meal to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Nico Rosberg: Pistachio ice cream! I have access to the best ice cream on this planet - my wife has an ice cream shop in Ibiza old town.

If you could pick just one pizza topping what would it be?

NR: Tomato and fresh mozzarella.

If you could pick just one holiday destination…

NR: My home in Monaco. I´m away so often.

If you could pick just one track to race on…

NR: Monaco - it feels like home for me and is the greatest challenge and show.

If you could pick just one road car to drive…

NR: The Mercedes Gullwing.

If you could pick just one race car to drive…

NR: Ferrari 250 GTO.

If you could pick just one game to play…

NR: Backgammon. It´s our family game. I have big battles with my father and friends.

If you could pick just one colour to wear…

NR: Dark blue.

If you could pick just one sport to play…

NR: Soccer. I dreamt a lot of becoming a pro, but lack of talent was the problem…

If you could pick just one song to listen to…

NR: Beautiful Day by U2.

If you could pick just one book to read…

NR: A Long Walk by Stephen King.

If you could pick just one city to live in…

NR: New York!

If you could pick just one movie to watch…

NR: The Inside Man starring Clive Owen.

If you could pick just one person to live with…

NR: Not possible to answer because I have two: My wife and my daughter!

If you could pick just one team mate…

NR: Juan Manuel Fangio. It’s crazy what he achieved.

If you could pick just one gadget to own…

NR: A mind reader.

If you could pick just one F1 corner to drive…

NR: Eau Rouge!

If you could pick just one age to be…

NR: Thirty.

If you could pick just one F1 era to race in…

NR: The 80s with the turbo engines and big rear tyres.

If you could pick just one type of chocolate or candy to snack on…

NR: Oreo biscuits.

If you could pick just one memento from your racing career to keep…

NR: Partying on Sunday night with friends after winning my first Monaco Grand Prix.

(2016)

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I'm thinking of drawing some griomer art but I have no ideas

so can you suggest anything?

ooooooooh more Griomer art is always a blessing

some idle thoughts:

secret assignation/meeting

are they fighting or flirting or fucking? do they know? probably not.

feral rituals! feral rituals! (more blood and fire and weird headdresses the better)

something with a dragon - symbolic of Grima of course, but also dragons are cool

lol grima on the throne sitting sideways or something wearing the crown giving eomer finger guns like "eyyyyyy boy-o" and eomer is Not amused

throne blow job

Related, sort of, to the fifth bullet - but here's a bit from the latest chapter: Six days ago, Éomer’s dream changed. Six days ago, his mind went to its usual place as he slept but instead of being asked what it is he wears beneath skin, he was in a long, dark room. There was a hearth fire in the middle of it. At one end, a dais. He was at the dais as soon as he noticed the dais. Someone says to him, You are the weir. That is a powerful position to inhabit. Be wise about how you direct the currents. He then knelt, for he was to receive a crown he wanted and didn’t want. When he looked up it was into the hooded, dragon-hungry eyes of Gríma.

Some random picture inspo via a moodboard

there's a griomer pinterest board

in a field or by a river

playing cards or backgammon or some other game

could go dark and do something with post-Saruman grima who, as we all know, is alllllll kinds of fucked up - I would wager physically as well as mentally

I'm not sure if any of that is helpful? I mostly would live for a picture of them fucking but it's you know, weird pagan shit also happening (see: feral rituals! feral rituals!) - probably in a field, or maybe a bed, but there's def blood involved because that's a requirement for these sorts of scenes.

That said, any and all griomer art and content is so, so appreciated and I hope something strikes you for inspiration! <3 <3 <3

[tofueggnoodles]

Extreme Bath Log Disk 2 – Track 1: Mahjong Parlor 401

Click here to listen to the track on youtube.

Click here for translations of previous tracks.

Summary: As they tried to best each other at mahjong, Gojyo, Tenpou, Nobuto and Kubota talked about various things such as Tenpou’s job as a writer, his reason for learning mahjong and how he came to live with the Genjos.

--------

Tokito: The ground floor of the place I’m living in is a laundry. I heard that the business was passed down to Kubo-chan by an uncle of his.

(Sound of an automatic door opening, followed by a chime.)

Kubota: Welcome. (checks the items of clothing) One, two, three... it’s five pieces in total, right? The suit and the shirt will be ready tomorrow, but the coat will take about five days’ time. Would that be fine with you?

Tokito: My guardian, Kubota Makoto, gives the impression of being the pleasant proprietor of a laundry – but that’s just his guise during the day. From 8 o’clock in the evening, once the laundry business closes up for the day, another shift begins on the basement floor, where a different shop,...

(Sound of tiles clacking against each other.)

Tokito: ... Mahjong Parlor 401, inconspicuously opens for the evening.

(Someone discards a tile.)

Tenpou: Ah, Gojyo-kun, that’s a ron. [Tenpou called a ron since Gojyo just discarded the tile Tenpou needed to win the round.]

Tenpou (reveals his hand): Let’s see... I’m a non-dealer this round, so with the seventy fu from my hand, you owe me four-thousand and five-hundred points. [Only the discarder pays the winner when a round ends in this manner. Fu: along with han, determines the basic points.]

Gojyo: Damn it! Seriously? (throws some point sticks onto the table) Here, take your winnings**. [point sticks: used to keep scores in riichi mahjong, https://riichi.wiki/Tenbou]

Nobuto: Seventy fu.... Ten-chan-sensei, are you really a beginner?

(They shuffle the mahjong tiles in preparation for the next round.)

Kubota: At least, this is your first visit here, isn’t it?

Tenpou: Mahjong is a rather profound game, don’t you think? I’ve had no experience in games at all except for Japanese chess and backgammon.

Gojyo: If anything, you’re rabid backgammon player.

Nobuto: I’d intended to bring my elder brother along, but he left the country in a hurry right after the memorial service. It was a mistake to bring along mister writer here in his place.

(They are now building ‘walls’ out of the shuffled tiles: Each of the player start to arrange the tiles, likely in a two-tile high row. Once each player has built their wall, these are pushed together at the center of the table to form a rough square.)

Kubota: He probably wanted to get back [to his job] rather quickly because of the tense situation over there. I would’ve loved to play a few rounds with Kenren-san once in a long while, though.

Tenpou: Indeed, I’m far from an adequate replacement for Kenren, but opportunely, I’m in the midst of picking up mahjong. Since I plan to include a scene featuring a mahjong parlor in my next work, I’ll be working hard at material-gathering tonight.

Nobuto: You seem to be quite in demand as a writer. What sort of novels do you write?

Gojyo**: Erotic novels.

Kubota: Porn.

Tenpou: It’s a specialized genre**.

(As the dealer, Kubota rolls a dice twice to decide which tile to start the dealing from.)

Nobuto: So the saying is true: people are not always what they seem to be.

Tenpou: Erotica as a form of literature is the culmination of mankind’s single-minded obsession throughout history.

Kubota: Well, I do think that’s a good example set by those who came before us. Pon. [This is the call to complete a triplet from a discarded tile.]

Tenpou: Jii.... [he is being dramatic by vocalizing a sound effect which indicates that he is staring fixedly at Kubota]

Kubota: Hmm? What is it?

Tenpou: This is one of those “I can tell that there’s a stain on your back” moments, isn’t it? [A stock phrase uttered by the main character of the manga “Mahjong Hishō-den: Naki no Ryū” just before he wins a round of mahjong. It likely implies that the hero is able to see through his opponent.]

Gojyo: So it’s a mahjong manga you’ve been learning from?

Tenpou: Since there are illustrations in a manga, even a beginner can easily understand what’s going on.

Kubota: Do you intend to continue learning mahjong from that unusual book?

Tenpou: It did allow me to grasp the basics**. Hmm... it seems tough to aim for a top-scoring hand with these tiles. If I’m to aim for a runner-up–

Nobuto: I already have a triplet of one bamboos, so a baiman should bring me close to the top score. [baiman: 16,000 points for non-dealer]

Kubota: Since I’m the dealer, a mangan would be good enough for me. [mangan: 12,000 points (dealer)]

Tenpou: Oh? Could it be that you two are trying to provoke me?

Gojyo: Everyone’s just trying to get ahead. Each is thinking: Is the player to my left holding a concealed dora triplet in his hand? [dora: the tile next in suit to a face-up tile in the dead wall. It adds a multiplier to the player’s hand.]

Tenpou: Come to think of it, there’s no automatic dealing table in this mahjong parlor, is there?

Kubota: I don’t like automatic mahjong tables.

Gojyo: I bet that’s because you wouldn’t be able to tamper with the tiles at critical moments if we were to use an automatic table. [He is implying that Kubota cheats – aside from saving time, automatic tables are supposed to make it harder to cheat.]

Kubota: Such a thing is a trade secret. Chii. [This is the call to complete a sequence, used only for discards from the player immediately to the left of the caller.]

Gojyo: Now who just got the tile he’s been waiting for from the player to his left?

Nobuto: Say, it looks as if this parlor’s been reserved for our exclusive use. Is it always like this?

Kubota: It depends on the day. Basically, we’re able to earn our living from the laundry on the floor above, so we don’t even put up a signboard for this parlor at the entrance.

Gojyo: Since the customers are all guys, you should’ve at least hired some cute parlor attendants.

Kubota: Hello, here’s your cute parlor attendant.

Tenpou: If you were to dress Tokito-kun in a maid costume, he might look rather fetching, don’t you think?

Nobuto: I think that would drastically alter the nature of the business.

Kubota: On that matter, the Genjo family business is an all-guys affair too, isn’t it?

Gojyo: Like I said before, if our bathhouse would employ a girl or two as part-timers, I would’ve been a bit more motivated to work there and we’d be able to attract more customers.

Nobuto: If we’re to employ young ladies, that’s definitely because there’s a certain guy who’s apt to make a move on them.

Gojyo (discard a tile with force): You’ve completely misinterpreted my intent**.

Tenpou: Nobuto-kun, you're a fine one to talk when it comes to women, aren’t you?

Nobuto: Well, at least I’m not as bad as my elder brother used to be.

Kubota: What a lively conversation we’re having.

Tenpou: That particular characteristic of Kenren’s certainly runs in the family, doesn’t it?

Nobuto: There’s nothing wrong with that. Gojyo, you’re not seeing anyone special at the moment, right?

Gojyo: I’m so busy that I can hardly find the time to meet people. Also, no matter how I think about it, our house is not the most conducive environment to casually bring a woman back to. Right, mister writer?

Tenpou: I don’t have anyone to bring back to my place.

Nobuto: Not even one? Despite the fact that you write erotica?

Tenpou: Only one-percent of the depictions in erotica are derived from real-life experience. The remaining ninety-nine percent are powered by the writer’s imagination.

Kubota: An apt remark. On that subject, I heard that your current office used to be Kenren-san’s room.

Gojyo: That’s right. It’s next to my room.

Nobuto: That time when out of the blue, my elder brother brought this mister writer home and left his two kids with me before hurrying overseas, everyone in the household was totally flabbergasted.

Tenpou: To be honest, I was flabbergasted too. Be that as it may, the fact is that I, who lack the ability to stand on my own two feet, can now do things such as eat three square meals a day, take a daily bath and get a proper night’s sleep. Even now, I’m grateful to Kenren, who had provided me with a place where I can do all of those things.

Kubota: Certainly, if one’s living in that house, one can take as many baths as one wishes.

Tenpou: Still, I got scolded by Kenren the other day for dozing off in the bath.

Gojyo: Is my old man your mother? Kan, I call kan. [A call to declare that the player has four of the same tile in their hand.]

Kubota: Oh, you’re sure motivated. I thought you’d given up.

Gojyo: They say attack is the best form of defense. The one who’s given up and is discarding only safe tiles is the player opposite me.

Nobuto: Who knows if that’s really the case.

Gojyo: You’ve been discarding safe tiles for quite a while, haven’t you?

(A cellphone buzzes.)

Kubota: Is that your cellphone, Sensei?

Tenpou: That’s a Line message from my editor. Sorry, I thought that there would be no reception since we’re on a basement floor.

Nobuto: What does the message say?

Tenpou: It seems to be an urgent matter. They’ve found a large amount of out-of-order pages in the copies of the book that is to be launched next week.

Gojyo: That’s terrible, isn’t it? The royalties from your books pay for more than half of our household expenses.

Nobuto: If that’s really the case, it’s the management of the bathhouse that’s at fault.

Tenpou: I guess I’d have to go. The other party would’ve already seen the read receipt.

Kubota: Don’t worry about us.

Tenpou: Please excuse me then. I’ll take my leave of you now. Please allow me to continue the material-gathering on another day, okay?

(Getting up from his chair, Tenpou walks to the door and opens it.)

Gojyo: Bye.

Nobuto (eyeing Tenpou’s hand): Hmm? He’s just one tile short of a winning hand. That mister writer was for aiming for a baiman in earnest. That was close.

Kubota: What shall we do? Continue with three players or invite someone else to fill in as the fourth player?

Gojyo: Gramps is the only one that comes to mind, but it’s long past his bedtime.

(The door opens.)

Kubota: Welco– Oh, good evening.

Nobuto: Yo, young master.

Hakkai: Please excuse the intrusion so late in the evening, Kubota-san. I saw Tenpou rushing out in a hurry just now – did something happen?

Gojyo: He was called out to work by his editor. Say, why are you here, Hakkai?

Hakkai: Why else? I’m here to fetch you home, Gojyo.

Gojyo: Hah? Why?

Hakkai: You promised to man the attendant's booth during the morning tomorrow, didn’t you? Idling your time until this late in the night, you won’t be able to wake up in the morning tomorrow.

Kubota: I see. The uncle’s the mother to this one. [referring to Gojyo’s earlier remark about Kenren mothering Tenpou]

Gojyo: I’m gonna be all right. I’m not a kid after all!

Nobuto: Don’t be so tough on him, young master. That’s right, since you’re here, take over the spot that Ten-chan-sensei’s just vacated.

Hakkai (sighs): Understood. Then, Gojyo, if you beat me, I’ll let you off your duty tomorrow morning.

Gojyo: Eh? Seriously?

Hakkai: On the other hand, if I win, I’ll have you man the attendant's booth throughout the day and the evening tomorrow.

Gojyo: Hah?

Hakkai: Also, in that case, as part of the collective responsibility, Brother-in-law will take care of the tidying-up during the afternoon break.

Nobuto: Oh.

Hakkai: Well then, shall we begin?

(They shuffle the tiles.)

Tokito: It’s a long night for the men at Mahjong Parlor 401.

--------

(Round brackets): actions and sound effects. [Square brackets]: translator’s notes or clarifications. Double asterisks **: Stuff I am not sure of. Suggestions for improvements and corrections are more than welcome.

Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about mahjong. The mahjong stuff was cribbed from various sites on the world wide web (:

Trivia:

1. The order of their seating: Gojyo → Tenpou → Nobuto → Kubota

2. Unanswered questions: Is Tokito present in the mahjong parlor? Or is he only “there” to provide the opening and closing narrations? After listening to that one-word line at 2:22 for the n-th time, I am still not sure whether it was Gojyo or Tokito who answered Nobuto’s question about the sort of novels Tenpou wrote.

3. For what it's worth, the mahjong hand before Kanan is one possible hand of Chin Isou (all of one suit).