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sylvia-lydia-morelos-baby-2023 · 2 months

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what else they do.

i have a 2nd ammendment right to bear arms now. I'm not asking. they butchered my pregnancies twice in my life; they stole my property on more than one occasion, they literally broke into my SRO without 24 hours notice and they stole from me and placed it back in my room, bragged they are the KREMLIN. told you "i'm facing displacement". that was the last place i was in. i'm not doing it again. The center at 6636 selma, 90028 is stalking me and threatening me to force me off the streets, they say. i've reported what they've done.

you think i can't do this as a private citizen? i've EARNED my right to live here accordingly ,ok? and i have always been a CITIZEN JOURNALIST.

okies? WHISTLEBLOWER LAWS apply to me. do the math!

Regards,

Sylvia Lydia Morelos, S.L.M., POLITICAL ACTIVIST, B.A. LATIN AMERICAN STUDIES, UCLA, 2003, LEGALLY AND ETHICALLY EARNED. and proud.

i need a restraining order against the stalkers, inc. bobby, robert and whoever is calling himself morrison. didn't he die in 1971? i can prove that! and i can prove that Sylvia Leticia Garcia, dob 10 29 56 died before 2000. ok?

these are the facts.

otherwise i am a perfectly happy woman!

miserly bastards these ghetto. btw, they don't have a right to use my own reports against me either as REMOTE IT, or illegal surveillance or stalking. they've also stolen my intellectual property, do the math, they still read my thoughts against my will. they are the commies and white supremists trash, no education proponents, here still.

UGH!.

Sylvia Lydia Morelos, S.L.M., POLITICAL ACTIVIST...to present...

ONE FINAL NOTE: I AM *NOT A FUCKIN BLEEDING HEART, OKIES? I"M NOT *FUCKIN STUPID, MAN!

Sylvia Lydia Morelos, S.L.M., POLITICAL ACTIVIST

...govt fuckin mules!

YOU'D THINK I CAN DO BETTER! NO I AM *NOT HUMBLE! I"VE GOT A SPINE, DICKS!

DEAL WITH IT YOU UGLY BITCHES!

WHORES!

I HATE COMMUNISTS! I HATE WHITE SUPREMISTS, OKIES? GO LIVE OFF THE LAND IN ALASKA!

GO EAT OATS WITH RICHARD THOMPSON IN VENICE! WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE'S A BUEY. OKIES?

HAR DE HAR HAR.

stop stealing my ORIGINAL, QUALITY, SHIT, SHIT FOR BRAINS!

P.S. I HAVE A LEGAL RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS NOW. IN SELF DEFENSE, IN CALIFORNIA, I LIKE THE NRA.

I DONT LIKE THE GHETTO FOR A REASON.

I AM NOT APOLOGIZING.

Sylvia Lydia Morelos, S.L.M., POLITICAL ACTIVIST, PRINCESS (A REAL ONE; i needed my Degree for my PEDIGREE, assholes. Not a part time nor GOVT JOB!

SO MUCH FOR, "WE DON"T WANT YOU MOVING UP!!"

remember that Houston, TX?

Thx for nothing, INGRATES.

NO, my strong little me, my feelings are sooo not hurt.

(*toothy grin.)

Sylvia

P.S.S. I AM OF SOUND MIND AND BODY STILL. VERY PEACEFUL about it. I AM INDEED AN EDUCATED WOMAN. MY DEGREE WAS MY BEST ACCOMPLISHMENT, me thinks. Make my abuelita proud. I am everything i am because of HER. No doubt.

Hey, i did my duty: went all out, military female, included. took charge honestly, walked over no one, took from no one. FUN. I can do it; satisfying. This is my country (NOTE: JFK.) I did just that. Saved lives: yours. ugh. oh well.

No regrets about the innocent, IFF there are any, though. Don't support statutory rape. There is only so much i can do. I'm not stupid, nor am i a*bleeding heart, for real. it's the law, i am conscientious. Held it accountable, transparent included. Proud of me, myself, and i and the values from my ABUELITA, only. That's what i know and remember. she kept me going with her visits, when i was little. i wrote a BOOK OF POEMS against my mother, IN CLASS. she was never aware of it, when i was 11 in junior high, BERENDO, in Korea Town. "When I grow up I want to work with computers, be a lawyer, and be in ballet folklorico." that i wrote on the back of my book. I haven't changed.

I come from a family of a MATRIARCH: ERNESTINA OROZCO, aka MARIA FELIX, dob August 14, 1928, from JALISCO, MEXICO. Sus ojos TAPATIOS. Wow. :)

I'm just like her. Still. "I am WOMAN, Hear me Roar."

Individually acknowledged. I feel complete. I AM complete!

Spinster? More like happy, getting older, unmarried, leading a wonderful pro active life, lost two little girls because of the ghetto, literally, they took their lives, my pregnancies, one at 20 and one at 39. I don't think about them much, to my chagrin. It's come to mind on more than one occasion, so...i will do right by them too.

MOMMA POWERS are me.

...OBVIOUSLY, i'm CAPABLE, right?

no doubt....

...son of a bitch, the fuckin misers....understatement.

#youtube #sylvia lydia morelos #political activist #democracy 4ever #2024

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starker-stories · 4 years

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Iron Man

Also on AO3

Another of the moodboards by @starker-sorbet inspired this one. Whenever I'm looking for a bit of inspiration, that's where I go. There are moodboards there that just talk to me. Amazing work. The best moodboards in the fandom.

Click on the link to go see the pretty pictures :) Young, rich & promising app developer!Peter x ex hacker and now struggling homeless middle aged!Tony for anon. Peter takes pity on the man and gets him in his house to shelter him on rainy/snowy night.

Tags: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Hacking, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Homeless Tony Stark, Role Reversal, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Pre-Slash, Ex-Con Tony Stark, Rich Successful Peter Parker

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The man didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t have a sign or a cup or his hat off and upside down on the ground in front of him. He was just leaning against the wall of a little delivery drive between stores near Grand Central. Something about his look, maybe the amount of snow he had on his cap, said he’d been standing there for awhile. He was wearing an old, frayed woolen top coat. The sort worn over a suit. Beneath it only a ratty t-shirt and baggy jeans. None of which would keep the man warm enough. Not when it was already in the teens and going to drop below zero that night.

Peter took a twenty out of his wallet and put it back. He folded the bill so it could be passed discreetly, but had the value showing. He didn’t want any other homeless people to see how much money the man had. Peter had read that thievery and violence was endemic to that class. He stopped just before he got to the man, standing off to the side of him, not directly in front, not threatening.

“For whatever, dude,” he said, holding out his hand as if to be shaken, but with the bill showing. The man shook his hand and nodded his thanks. “You need to get to a shelter. The city’s opening warming centers.”

The man scoffed. “It’s safer out here.” He started to walk away. “Thanks for the donation,” he said with another nod.

“How much to get an SRO for the night?” Peter asked, falling in to walk beside the man.

“Only by the week and only if there’s room and only if you have about a hundred.”

“The money’s not a problem…”

The man muttered, interrupting, “Wouldn’t think so.”

Peter passed it off. He was exceptionally well dressed. A coat like the man himself wore, only not frayed and this season’s style. Beneath it a suit. He’d been heading back to his hotel after a meeting, or else he’d be dressed down, Silicon Valley style.

“Okay, then let’s solve the other problem.” Peter always thought in terms of problem solving. Breaking a matter down into segments, creating an algorithm to work towards a solution. “Availability. How do we do that?”

The man shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Got a real California boy genius problem solver here. We walk, rich kid, we walk. Spoil those Louboutin’s with the salt and slush.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “How do you know I’m from California. I don’t tan.” The man smirked and kept on walking. There was something familiar about the expression.

Against his better judgement, Peter kept walking beside the man, even as he led him down a winding path, the blocks getting progressively worse in appearance. It was a very long walk. “What’s your story?” he asked just to fill the silence.

“Want me to sing for my supper? Don’t think so.”

“You weren’t panhandling.”

“Not there. Too close to the terminal. They move you on immediately if you put your hand out. Holding up a wall? You can get away with that for a bit.”

“Why waste your time there, then?”

The man shrugged his head to the side and spread his arms a little, hands upturned. Again, Peter was struck with an odd familiarity in the gesture. He watched the man move, falling a step behind to see his walk. Unlike most homeless, there was no slouch, no shuffle. He walked upright, steadily forward, with surprisingly confident, hurried steps.

The man gave a little chuckle and fell back to walking beside, not ahead, of Peter, but didn’t change his gait. “My time to waste,” he said. They walked silently for another block. “How was the 7 line to Queens today? Riding for old times’ sake instead of taking an Uber?”

Peter reached out and took the man’s sleeve, stopping their progress. “Do you know me?”

“Peter Parker. ParkerSoft.” The man brushed Peter’s hand off his sleeve and kept walking. “Another block. They usually have rooms.”

Peter stopped them again. “Do I know you?”

The man smirked again. “Nope.” He started walking again. “‘I don’t associate with Star Wars twerps and noobs’,” he said, giving Peter the same line he’d sent when the kid was a ten year old exploring corners of the web he didn’t belong in.

That time Peter grabbed the man’s arm, turned him away from the street and pushed him against the wall. “Holy fuck, you’re Iron Man!”

The man snorted. “WAS Iron Man. Now? Just being near that particular brand of phone,” he nodded towards Peter’s pocket, “is a violation of my supervised release.”

“Shit. I remember reading about your trial. Iron Man is Tony Stark.” The pieces were all falling together. The place where the man was leaning had a good view of Osborn Tower, formerly Stark Tower. And the phone in Peter’s pocket was made by Stark Industries.

“That, I still am, for all the name’s worth.”

“It’s still worth something.”

Tony laughed. “The board locked me out. And even if they hadn’t? Try running my business without going near a computer. Tony Stark’s as dead as Iron Man. You getting me this room or what?”

“Come back to the Langham with me,” Peter said excitedly.

He shook his head. “I mean it, kid. I’m not going back to prison so you can tap my brain and get me to do some work for you,” Tony said.

“I thought if you got caught at your level of hacking, the FBI or the NSA offered you a job.”

Tony laughed uproariously. “Still a noob. You believe that shit? The only thing they offer you is a six by eight room for fifteen years. And not at some country club estate.”

The problem solving wheels were spinning in Peter’s head. “Okay. Room first.” Peter grabbed Tony’s hand in his and headed into the SRO’s lobby. He paid for a month.

“Lose your bag, kid,” Tony said before they left the desk. “You’ve got my phone, you’ve probably got the tablet and I know you’ve got the laptop with the severely dumbed down version of JARVIS in there. He, I most definitely am not allowed near.” Tony smirked again. “’Course neither is anyone else.”

Peter put his phone in his messenger bag, and with a couple hundred incentive, left it with the desk clerk, hoping it would still be there. If it wasn’t and someone tried to access any of his electronics without his biometrics, everything would erase and the batteries would overheat, literally frying everything inside. He followed Tony up the stairs to his newly rented room. He plopped himself into the one chair in it.

Tony sat on the end of the sagging double bed. “So… TANSTAAFL. What do you want from me for the room?”

“I don’t want anything.”

Tony snorted. “If you didn’t want anything, you’d’ve upped that twenty to a hundred and walked on to your next meeting.”

Peter fell silent. “I want to test the limits of your cage. See what I can do to get them expanded.”

He chuckled harshly. “Easy for you to say from where you’re sitting. Before I lost it all, I threw everything I had at this problem. I had the best lawyers. Paid politicians at the highest level in my pocket. I was too damn high-profile for them to do anything. All the favors suddenly dried up because everyone knew I’d be in prison and be unable to make good on any deal. I’m worthless, Parker. This is it.” Tony spread his hands expansively, taking in the small room. “The limits of my cage, as you put it. It’s bigger than six by eight. And I can walk out that door whenever I want. After fifteen years, I count myself ahead.” He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “I have nine more years of my ten supervised release to do. I am not spending that time back in prison. The limits of this cage don't get tested.”

“I thought you completed your sentence; you were free.”

“Fuckin’…” Tony shook his head. “Yeah, I got sentenced to fifteen, served fifteen. I got caught in defense systems. Federal time. No parole in that system. And after? They can do whatever the fuck they want to you. God, you’re naive, Parker.”

“Okay. So there’s no getting around the electronics restriction…”

“Nope.”

“Do you need access to code?”

“You are a piece of work,” he said shaking his head. “I am not coding for ParkerSoft. You can’t afford me,” Tony said, arrogantly.

Peter shrugged and looked around the room.

“Bye, Parker,” Tony said, standing up and heading for the door. “Better hope they never catch the Spider. Or I’ll be sharing a street corner with you.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “How did you…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Tony turned and leaned his back against the door. “You were ten when I met you in the warez channels. And as you got older, you went everywhere bragging about every system you walked around in. You wrote lazy, distinctive code — still do. Anyone who looks at your old code and compares it to the shitty apps your company puts out would catch you in a minute.” “You don’t get it. I didn’t get it. How… ephemeral… this all is.” He crossed his left arm low across his body, holding his wrist.

“There’s nothing solid in the world, no matter how much we pretend there is. There are a million ways for you to end up like me, even if you never get caught. ParkerSoft has employees living in their cars, and you won’t even let them stay safely in your parking lots much less pay them a living wage for the area. Stark had them too. Living in places like this because the cost of living in New York is mad. At our lowest level, we had people taking sponge baths in McDonalds and sleeping wherever they could.

“I had no idea. Even if I did, I would’ve thought it was their own fault for lacking ambition or skill. You need to get it through your head. This is it for me. Maybe in nine years, if I live that long, I can manage to build a little something again to carry me through my sixties. Probably not.” He sniffed, scrunching his face.

“Then why not work for me?”

“Because, kid, I don’t trust you. You are going to brag about having Iron Man or Tony Stark writing your code. You can’t shut your fuckin’ mouth. I’m too big a get for you to just sit on that information.

“Second, not only can’t you pay me what I’m worth, you can’t pay me at all. I can’t have income without a job. I can’t get a job. Getting this place? I can say I got lucky panhandling. More than that?” Tony shook his head. “Not risking it.”

“C’mon, Tony. It’s a system. It can be gamed,” Peter said, enthusiastically. “You and me? Best in the business.”

Tony snorted at the kid putting himself in his category.

“Don’t judge me by my apps. That’s money.”

“What else do you have to judge you by? Certainly not your hacking skills.”

“I do games…”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Everybody does games. Thrill me.”

“Security.”

“Walk me through it.”

Peter explained the companies that he personally provided security for and how he did it. Tony grudgingly gave him a side nod. He went back to sit on the bed. “Interesting, but, eh… not exactly…”

“I’ve reverse engineered JARVIS,” Peter spluttered out.

“The OS on your computer may have his name but…”

“Not the OS. That was just the starting place.”

“Impossible.”

“Okay. I haven’t done it completely…”

“No shit.”

“But I’ve gotten farther than anyone. JARVIS is the big get our world right now. Has been since you went away. No one else has gotten past the OS.”

“But you have,” Tony said skeptically.

“I have his visual manipulation systems. The true natural language, not the crappy OS version.”

“Personality?”

Peter shook his head. “None of his personality or on-the-fly problem solving. Not…”

“So none of what makes JARVIS, JARVIS. Just a slightly more advanced OS that you’ll never be able to use because Stark still owns the rights to him even if they can’t get to him.”

“I’m looking to put together a buyout of Stark. Not just their computer division. The works.”

“You don’t have the resources, kid.”

“It’s not worth what it used to be.”

“I know exactly what my company is worth. Without me, it’s been rushing for the bottom. Pepper can’t salvage it, even though she’s good.

“Exactly. A decent offer, the board wouldn’t turn it down. They’re looking to cash out while what’s left is still worth something. A little manipulation…”

“You’ll get caught.”

“No I won’t.”

“Not gonna argue with you. You still don’t have the resources to buy Stark, even at a bargain.”

“When I turned twenty-one five years ago, I inherited my parents’ estate. Including my father’s chemical patents.”

“Okay,” Tony said, nodding once. Richard Parker had done some groundbreaking research. Stark had tried to hire him and failed. “But none of what you say, none of your ‘gaming the system’ gets me out of my situation. You can’t ‘game’ your way out of supervised release.”

“Your connections, give them to me.”

“Wow. You’ve got balls, kid. Anything else of mine you want in exchange for a three fifty a month room?”

“Yeah.”

Tony snorted. “Go on. Tell me. You want me to code. You want JARVIS. You want my connections. What else?”

Peter stood up and walked closer to Tony. “I want you to put me on this bed and fuck me brainless.”

Tony threw his head back and laughed. He looked up at Peter, ran his gaze up and down him, then laughed some more.

“What!” Peter said, offended at the apparent rejection.

“I’m far more than twice your age. I look like shit. I haven’t had a shower in a year. I’m fifteen kinds of filthy. And you want me to fuck you. What the hell kinda kink you got, kid?”

“You are still as fuckin’ gorgeous as ever. And brilliant. But I can’t fuck your brain. There’s showers down the hall, the guy said.” Peter took off his overcoat. “I’ll wait.”

“And you get to fuck your sexual-awakening crush. Bet you had pictures of my Iron Man icon on your wall along with the Death Star.”

“Nah, but I did have Tony Stark’s Rolling Stone cover,” Peter said, grinning.

“Shit. You always this direct?” Tony a.

Peter shrugged. “In business or fucking, it gets me what I want or gets me out quickly. You’d know. I took the play from your autobiography.”

“Kid, you’re killin’ me,” Tony said with another shake of his head. “Fuckin’ fanboy since you were ten. Why the hell should I put you in this bed?”

“I’d imagine you haven’t had any for awhile,” Peter said slyly.

“I’ve always liked them young and pretty and I’ve stayed in shape. This past year, not so much. Before? Plenty.”

That took Peter aback.

“Christ, Parker, I never raped anybody,” Tony said, seeing Peter’s reaction. “Stop watching bad movies.”

“Well?”

“I am not fucking you.”

“Okay.” Peter said down on the bed, next to Tony. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“You get nothing for it.”

“I’m okay with that.”

Tony looked at him skeptically.

“I’d just like to get to know you,” Peter said.

“Still a fanboy.”

“A little, maybe, but I’m a bit old to be just that. You’re hot and I’d like it if you fucked me. You’re brilliant and I’d like to get to know you.”

“Gonna take me on a date, kid?”

Peter smiled. “Maybe.”

“The clothes will still reek, but I’ll take a shower.” Tony smiled. “You figure out the best place that will let someone dressed like me into it. I’ll let you buy me dinner.”

“Unh unh. You’ll let me take you on a date.”

Tony laughed genuinely. “Okay Pete, I’ll let you take me on a date.”

#starker

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popgoesthewiener · 7 years

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I’ll Be Dead Before The Day Is Done - Henrietta Biggle & Firkle - SFW

Title: I’ll Be Dead Before The Day Is Done Author: Daisy Fandom: South Park Setting: School, Henrietta’s House, Firkle’s House Pairing: None Characters: Henrietta Biggle, Firkle Genre: Friendship/Hurt/Comfort Rating: T Chapters: 1/1 Word Count: 1950 Type of Work: One-Shot Status: Complete Warnings: Trans!Firkle, First Menstruation, Drug Use, Masturbation Mention, Unbeta’d Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Summary: Firkle doesn't know what to do when his first period started. He was certainly not going to Pete or Michael about it. AN: So, this was supposed to be done in October for a Weekly Writing Prompt challenge from Fanfiction-Friends, but I never got around to finishing it. The prompt was Phobias, and I chose menophobia, the fear of menstruation. Trans!Firkle, anyone? I’ll Be Dead Before The Day Is Done ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Heart hammering in his chest, Firkle gripped it like he thought that might hold it inside his ribcage even better. Stomach turned and twisting, he was sure he was going to vomit, the sheer sight of what he’d just seen being the most gut-wrenching, terrifying thing he had ever experienced. Just thinking about it had his entire torso clenching, his eyes prickling with tears. It was no question where he was going when he suddenly ran out of class, and completely out of the school. He needed to see Henrietta, even if that meant running to the high school.

Bursting through the doors, the feral look in his eyes kept the SRO from approaching him. Stalking towards the girls’ bathroom to meet his friend, he shot her a text, knowing she’d be there if she wasn’t in class, anyway. The second he heard the bat wing notification sound, he knew he’d found her. That, and the smoke swirling in the air was a good indication. “Henny?” “Wha-- Firkle? What’s wrong?” It wasn’t usual for him to sneak into the girls’ bathroom when he came to see her. “I… I-it started.” He murmured in response, eyes down. Hearing the stall door open, he wiped at his watery eyes, uncaring about the smeared makeup. “It…?” And then those brown eyes fell to his thighs and how soaked they were, the red seeping through his dark jeans. “Oh my God, Firkle--” Tugging her friend into her chest, she held him close, tutting softly and rubbing his back, “Okay, okay. We’ll figure this out. I’ve got an extra pad in my purse, and… Shit, we might need to just take you home.” “N-not my house.” He croaked, the tears finally taking over, spilling down his cheeks as he nestled his face against his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll go anywhere else.” “Honey, you don’t have clothes at my house. I don’t think you’d fit any of mine.” “I-- F-fine.” Now, he wasn’t looking at her, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeves. Gathering her things, Henrietta made a beeline for the door, Firkle tucked under her arm. “It’s normal, you know. Sucks, but you aren’t going to die, at least.” She told him, quietly, escorting him out before anyone could see them. “...Shit, I can’t-- I can’t let you get that all over my mom’s car, she’ll be even more insufferably.” Henrietta paused a moment, digging in the trunk to find an old towel her mother kept there for whatever reason. “Sit on this.” Taking the towel, he frowned, crossing to the passenger’s side and laying it out on the seat. Sitting down, he drug his knees up onto the seat and hid his face in his hands. Seeing this on the usually confident young kid beside her, Henrietta reached over and pat his knee. “It’s gonna be okay, Firkle. I won’t tell Michael or Pete.” She added, as if that would make it better, “Just… We’ll clean you up and I’ll let you come rest at my place.” Firkle leaned against the door, as he usually did in cars, and gazed out the window. It hurt, and not in the usual way when he bled. No, this was something internal, horribly painful and clawing, like his body was trying to evacuate. “Fucking organs need to stay the fuck where they are and chill out.” He told her, eyes still welling with tears, “Why does it hurt so fucking much?” “Because even your body wants to punish you for being female.” Henrietta responded easily, taking a deep pull from her cigarette. Her eyes went wide suddenly and she looked over, shaking her head, “Sorry. Sorry, shit. I didn’t mean--” “I know.” It hurt, but that wasn’t the worst of it. He sighed, shifting a little and throwing his scrawny legs up on the dashboard. “Just… Let’s get this taken care of fast.” “Right.” Placing a hand on his knee, she offered him a rare smile, “Just relax. If you need it, I’ve got some aspirin in my purse.” “Is it going to help?” “It’s better than nothing. I could always steal one of my mom’s percocets, if that would help more.” The thought of grabbing his Dilaudid while he was at home hit Firkle hard and he looked away, shrugging. “Maybe.” “...Look, I don’t know what you’re going through,” Henrietta sighed, closing her eyes at the stop sign, “But I’m here to help. I know you won’t get it from your mother. So… Look, I can do what I can, but… If you need to talk about other junk, we can. We can do whatever you want. Smoke, maybe we could write or I could set up that easel and you can paint. Or we could lay around in my bed and watch bad horror movies.” “...Movies sound fun.” Firkle gave a little, pathetic smile, and his purple painted lips quirked back down into a frown as the car moved again and his stomach lurched. “Fuck, I feel like I’m going to vomit.” “Your parents are fucking psycho. They should have let you take those hormone blockers.” Henrietta had a few choice words for the other’s parents, but she didn’t know that they’d be receptive. They’d probably beat on him more. “If I were Franny, they would have.” Firkle replied, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the window. “That may be true. I wish I could get them for you.” She gave a sympathetic look and rubbed his knee again, before moving to the wheel to turn into his parents’ driveway. Cutting the engine and pulling the emergency brake, she opened the door and let herself out. “Anyway, let’s go take care of this, get you some clothes. You’re spending the night tonight, so you should grab Edgar, too.” “Okay.” It sounded so pathetic, but he hardly cared. He felt like he was dying, and his brain was screaming this isn’t right. Internally, he was certain he was going to explode from embarrassment. Up the walk and into the house, he went straight for the stairs to his room. With his parents gone at work, he was able to sneak in and head to the bathroom. Henrietta went to pick out a cute outfit for him, and then a more frumpy one, in case he didn’t want to feel pretty. Turning on the shower, Firkle pulled his clothes off and stepped inside, surprised to see that Henrietta had joined him in the bathroom with him. When he opened his mouth to protest, hiding his pierced belly button with his shirt, she raised a hand to stop him. “It’s not weird, don’t make it weird.” She instructed, “I’m going to help you. But it isn’t what it sounds like, okay?” Finally, she moved into the room and closed the door, gesturing for Firkle to scoot over a bit. Pulling the plug to shift the water to the shower head, she took it down off of its holder and began to spray down the other’s skinny thighs, watching the pink water trail down his legs. The redness in his cheeks was obvious, having his best friend seeing him like this made him oddly embarrassed. “Henny…” He murmured, eyelids half-lidded as he basked in the hot water. Jumping slightly, his eyes popped wide as he felt her hand gently pet the wet ribbons pierced to the tops of his thighs. “Henny!” Now, his voice was a little too shrill, and he sounded panicked. “Sorry, sorry.” She replied, pulling her hands back and looking up at the other from where she’d crouched, “Just get lost in things like this.” If Firkle had been a real woman, Henrietta probably would have understood Michael’s attraction to the younger goth. Sure, his body was female, but she knew better than to try and force something with someone who wasn’t interested. Henrietta fully supported Firkle’s transition, whenever it finally came to him. As she helped hose him down, she slowly urged him down into a crouch and directed the spray at his mound, closing her eyes a second before moving it inward a bit more. He squeaked when the water hit his clit, his entire sex flexing and eyelids fluttering. That was too good of a reaction, but Henrietta knew better. “Shh, it’s okay. If you want to, uh… Do that, I’ll go wait in your room. It’ll feel better for a little bit if you do get off.” Instructions she lived by, normally, sounded so weird to her right now. Maybe it was the disconnect in her brain. “I-- O-okay.” Firkle closed his eyes, pressing the shower head closer to his hungry sex, a moan on his lips. That felt way too good right now. Henrietta exited the room, letting Firkle have his moment, all the while she dutifully transferred Edgar to his travel tank and packed a bag for the younger goth. Her mind kept wandering back to that bathroom, but she knew that there was nothing to come from it. Firkle was like her son, anyway, she’d always felt this motherly attraction to him, and she had no right to try anything just because she was lonely. She’d find someone, eventually. When Firkle finally appeared in his room, a towel wrapped around himself, he tipped his head at the two outfits on the bed. “What are these for?” “You can pick which one you want to wear. But you need to wear the panties, anyway.” She shook the pad in her hand as if to give him a better idea of what she needed of him. “We can figure out if you want tampons instead, later. But this will work until we figure it out.” “Okay…” Nodding a little, Firkle dropped the towel and started with his underwear, pulling them on and taking the pad. With helpful guidance, he got it situated right and pulled his panties up the rest of the way, the sweatpants, his binder and one of Michael’s baggy t-shirts following close behind. “Anyway, I was thinking about letting you use my parents’ bathroom. They have this like, whirlpool tub and that feels like fucking Nirvana when you’re cramping.” Henrietta was saying, looking over at her friend and smiling a little, “Trust me, you’ll like relaxing in it. Then we can set up movies.” “I’d rather take your mom’s percocet and watch the movies.” Firkle responded softly, picking up the travel tank while Henrietta grabbed his bag, “I don’t want to move a lot right now.” “Understandable. Maybe later.” She offered, leading him back down to her car and putting everything into the back. Upon arriving, Firkle was ushered up to Henrietta’s room, where he crashed onto the bed and got comfortable in front of her T.V. When the elder goth finally returned, she proffered two pills and a bottle of Powerade, the grape kind. “Take these. You might need to eat, too, soon. It’ll help.” But he didn’t want to eat. Still, he knew she was probably right, and reached forward to take the pills. “Can we watch Death and Cremation?” He questioned, head tilting a little as he looked up at her, pain evident in his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” The movie was easy enough to set up, and soon the pair were snuggled up in bed, hiding under some covers. They didn’t make it halfway through before she heard soft breathing beside her, and peering down showed her that Firkle had fallen asleep. That would be the best way to deal with this, she supposed. Kissing his forehead, she settled in for a long night, glad she had Netflix on this T.V. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ AN: I did not expect this to end up being so long. xD But I’m pretty happy with it, regardless. I dunno, I think its cute. I hope you guys enjoyed!

#South Park Fanfic #South Park Fanfiction #Firkle #Henrietta Biggle #South Park Goth Kids #Goth Kids #South Park Goths

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duaneodavila · 6 years

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Silence Of The Lambs, California Edition

While stories of sexual abuse in the hallowed halls of Congress, bought off by tax dollars with sealed with a non-disclosure agreement, caught a little bit of interest, it was dwarfed by the Stormy Daniels story, with a president buying the silence of a porn star over his affair that, remarkably, didn’t seem particularly disturbing to most people. The problem was the non-disclosure agreement, the contractual clause the kept the deed secret.

California, home of Harvey Weinstein and Asia Argento, had enough of it.

The California Legislature passed two bills last week aimed at helping sexual harassment victims and the bills are now awaiting Gov. Jerry Brown’s signature to become law. One bill, AB 3080, would ban confidential agreements regarding harassment and mandatory arbitration agreements in employment contracts, which are often used to prevent sexual harassment and assault victims from seeking justice.

The other, SB 820, would prohibit nondisclosure agreements that prevent the “disclosure of factual information” in sexual harassment, assault and discrimination settlements. The bill would still allow settlement agreements in sexual misconduct cases and allow the victim’s name to remain private, but the name of the perpetrator cannot be concealed.

Cue the syllogism. But then, there are a litany of flagrantly obvious unintended consequences that flow directly from the fix. It seems almost impossible that the lege didn’t realize this, but pandering to the unduly passionate has its immediate advantages, while consequences come down the line.

Contrary to the beliefs of people who feel that unicorns prance on rainbows, there is only one reason why anyone would agree to settle a claim of sexual harassment: to stem the potential reputational damage to the accused. No, people don’t pay money because of regret for the terrible things they did. Nor do they settle because of fear of huge damage awards. There is rarely more than a pittance to be had, with no provable economic damages and only rhetorical pain and suffering. Hurt feelings may be good enough for Facebook likes, but not for a sustainable jury verdict.

The NDA is the crux of the settlement. And, this is a critical aspect to the problem, it doesn’t matter whether someone did the dirty or not. It may prove a wise business decision to pay off an accuser, even if the accusation is completely false or wildly exaggerated, to avoid the far more expensive harm to reputation and career.

“By banning secret settlements in cases of sexual assault, sexual harassment and sex discrimination, California will effectively eliminate one of the main tools that perpetrators have used over the years to silence victims and deny them justice,” California Sen. Connie Leyva, who sponsored SB 820, said in a statement.

This isn’t necessarily false as far as bad dudes buying silence, although the “deny them justice” piece doesn’t pass the sniff test. There is nothing that precludes the victim of a sexual assault from going to the police. But if they choose not to, and prefer, you know, cash instead, it’s hard to blame the “perpetrator” for standing in their way.

And that’s the key to the many consequences of this shallow reform, that while NDA’s protect the perpetrator, they serve the “victim” as well. And if the law precludes a non-disclosure clause, or permits the victim to grab the loot and then run over to the National Enquirer and tell all, then why bother?

There is a question whether such a law creates an impediment to an individual’s right to contract, to reach any agreement of their choosing at arm’s length with another party. What business is it of the state to tell them what they can and cannot agree to do? But then, that’s the essence of progressivism, to regulate personal choice so as to align with the notions of what scolds tell you is acceptable for your own good. They know better than you.

But the flip side of the concern involves the power dynamics between the parties. If a wealthy and powerful man buy she silence of a poor and powerless woman, is it really an arm’s length transaction? Has he taken advantage of someone who can’t do much to protect herself? Is it okay to rape as long as you have enough money to overwhelm your victim’s free will?

The problem with legislating a solution that precludes an NDA is that it might help some victim to refuse a big payoff, although the same could be said of her simply refusing the big payoff because she’s a strong woman, but it will make it worthless to settle claims with everyone else.

And while there is no empirical basis of which I’m aware to suggest whether there are more oppressed women coerced into taking huge money for their silence than woman who are totally fine with having their silence bought for the right price, the option will no longer be available.

Is this progress? There is a tacit implication in this reform that the more important interests at stake are those of the public, whether because everyone loves a prurient story about a celebrity or to alert other potential victims to stay far away from some bad dude. And there is some merit to the idea when it involves a crime like rape or sexual assault. When it’s a matter of sexual harassment, a vagary that may offend one person and mean nothing to another because they don’t lose their shit over a dirty joke, the need to alert the public isn’t a strong argument.

Regardless, what of the actual “victim”? She’s lost in the sauce here, as the California lege has stolen all her leverage. The only thing she had to sell was her silence, and now she’s got nothing to offer. Sure, she’ll get likes on Facebook, but that doesn’t pay the bills.

Consider the consequences: Stormy Daniels would be left to dance at strip clubs for dollar tips. Michael Avenatti would be sitting in an SRO instead of a green room, litigating his firm’s bankruptcy and his disciplinary grievances instead of holding court at MSNBC. And Darth Cheeto would still be president with the blessing of the Moral Majority. Is that the world you want?

Silence Of The Lambs, California Edition republished via Simple Justice

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theos-epitelesei · 7 years

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So... I subbed for one of my coworkers from last year today. I was obviously happy to and she asked me a couple weeks ago if I could and filled me in on a couple of her students who have a hard time following directions from anyone - especially substitutes. That’s fine, I’ve dealt with stuff like that before. But - and as dramatic as this sounds, I swear it’s not meant to be - I was completely unprepared for what actually happened today.

One of her students has some major behavior issues. She told me this - she told me if he needs to take a nap, let him take a nap. If he needs a break, let him take a break. If he acts up, he skips the safe seat and goes straight to a buddy room or recovery. Fine - those are all ways to make everyone’s day a little easier with difficult kids.

This kid straight up freaked out about 20 minutes into the day. He’d been making rude comments and annoying noises all morning, which I tried to calmly address and ignore. He started playing a video on his iPad during math of himself screaming. I took his iPad, and he seemed fine.

Then he started screaming. Not screaming words, just short high-pitched screams. He started yelling, “I’m Justin Bieber!” I redirected him and told him to move to the buddy room. When he didn’t move, I told him I’d call for someone to help him move (this is all standard procedure, btw; thank God for that. I have enough experience with this process that nothing was unusual or upsetting about it).

Does it stop there? Of course not. In the time it took me to get to the phone, he had gotten up and was walking around the room smacking other kids’ arms and screaming in their faces (all while smiling, which was unnerving). One student said, “When he does this we usually leave the room.” So I finished talking to the person in the office, and began evacuating the rest of the class. He was still walking around and screaming, at one point standing in the middle of the class and just shrieking bloody murder. He’d punched one student in the arm at this point, who thankfully did not retaliate (though I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had, with a bigger child screaming and punching her), and I was legitimately concerned that he was going to attack more students or me.

We got out in the hall, this kid still in the room, and I shut the door and held it shut with my foot.

You guys. I have been in a lot of classrooms where the day just went terribly because of behavior. But I have NEVER had to evacuate a room before, and after seeing another teacher last year regularly have to evacuate her class, I hoped I never would. The principal came and got him, but couldn’t/wouldn’t restrain him, so he was still yelling and trying to punch this girl and one of the other boys.

Almost as soon as we got back into the room, the kid walked back in (I thought to get his stuff to go home) and promptly started back up again. The principal, again, had us leave the room, but the student followed us out and started punching again. I know legally there’s very little the principal can do - even less that I can do as a substitute - but there ARE procedures in place for restraining students who are a danger to themselves or others. Apparently this didn’t qualify or the P isn’t trained to do it properly, but I wish he had done something besides talk at this kid who is clearly not ok.

The P came back to talk to the class after (I’m pretty sure he called the SRO/cops by the end of it), and it broke my heart to hear one boy say, “I thought we were going to go in the hall and you were going to stay in here with him and talk to him. That was confusing.” and he just sounded so scared that the principal hadn’t kept this student from punching his classmates.

I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t post this at all but I guess I just want to write it down and get it out of my system because I have legit never been as scared by an elementary schooler as I was today. I’ve been scared of high schoolers before; they’re bigger than me and they know I have no real authority as a sub, which is actually not a super safe situation when they get rebellious or out of control. But a 9-10 year old? There needs to be something better than calmly asking an out of control child to leave the room. That’s not ok.

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eamonmarcusmccoole-blog · 7 years

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Dr. Dearth takes pleasure to inform terminal patients of their hideous plight. Other physicians with soft bellies call upon the arrogant Dr. Dearth, for a fee, to confer with denizens diagnosed with death. He prescribes enormous dosages of morphine and amphetamines, for which he receives a large profit from pharmaceutical corporations, and tells patients to clear out their finances and make immediate burial arrangements. Dr. Dearth has a clandestine side business as funeral organizer, to whom he refers those destined for mortality. The patient, too feeble to attend to such matters, always heeds to Dr. Dearth's recommendation. It's no wonder the doctor resides in a mansion on a lone hill surrounded by pristine views. Whereas his lowly staff, from servants to chaffeur, live in squalor on a meager wage, especially the undocumented. The doctor has a fetish for kinky anonomous sex slaves and cross-dressers who converge at his luxury abode during off hours.

Josiah could see the glee in Dr. Dearth's deceptive eyes when told he had 30 days to live. Josiah didn't have to clear out his finances, the health care provider garnished his bank account to pay for the pharmaceuticals. It was barely ample, but because Josiah has TLC, government absorbed part of the expense.

TLC is the mandated federal health care system named after its creators DJ Trump and Adolph Lucifer, aptly called Trump Luicfer Care.

As with all terminally ill entities, Josiah was despondent. With his bag of medicines and nothing else, one morning he hopped a freight train to the desert. He shared a box car with hobos who spoke alien tongues. The drugs sequestered him, but the bag and hobos were gone when he awoke 19 hours later. Morphine and amphetamines are crucial to the cartel.

Josiah jumped off the moving freighter in a desolate no-horse town named Deseret, just outside Delta, Utah. He meandered among creosote bush and cacti, which he imagined as friends. Josiah used to have many humanoid friends and fans when he was a talkative satellite radio host on a New Age music program. After Dr. Dearth's prognosis went public, Josiah was abruptly dismissed and abandoned. Josiah, now friendless and silent, walks in solitude to nowhere in the desert under a blazing sun.

In the distance he heard the sound of a pack of dingos howling with joy as they feasted on carion. Astonishingly, a man emerged from the cluster.

The distraught man was deranged and presumed Josiah a mirage. After several hours in each other's dormant presence, the man spoke.

His name is Mack Zuckerman, a well-paid high-tech engineer for the most prestigious social network. He was recently rounded up during a midnight homeless sweep in a derelict part of a coastal metropolis. He secretly frequented the dubious sector to perform debachery with trannys, appearing frenzied with no credentials on his person. Rogue erotica is his addiction, and was abducted as he exited a ramshackled SRO hotel. For two days and two nights he and the stenchy streetsters were transported in a sealed overly-crowded truck trailer to a heavily-guarded covert experimental TLC facility near Delta, formerly a concentration camp during the war.

At TLC the unwilling participants were injected with heavy dosages of developmental pharmaceuticals as military scientists observed and took notes. Often there was delerium, and those who died or are nearly dead are disposed of en masse in a crevice that becomes a dingo feeding ground. TLC aspires to create a drug called xenominophen that makes a person aggressive, suicidal, and obedient. In the tests Zuckerman was in, the subjects became aggressive and suicidal but not obedient, so they were discarded. The drug made the homeless, already malnourished, weak and frail, on the verge of death if not already dead. Conversely, the elitist Zuckerman had maintained a steady hefty carnivorous diet of burritos, pizza, burgers, pork buns, and greasy fried chicken, topped by sugar-laden cake and Coke. He worked 13-hour shifts seven days per week where junk food was a popular perk and readily available at his desk. He ate constantly with little exercise, lest rough-riding trannys in esoteric night-long sessions. Needless to say, Zuckerman was hulky and when a dingo tried to devour him alive, he snapped back and attempted a bite out of the canine. Thus he was able to slither away when he encountered Josiah.

Because Zuckerman didn't show up for his mundane coding job the CEO confiscated his assets comprised of billions of dollars, fancy vehicles, and exotic properties. Zuckerman was unaware he had been forlorned and yearned to return to civilization. He hopped a freight train headed to Vegas and was never heard from again.

Human carion abounded as more dingo herds flocked toward TLC for a food fix. Josiah sojourned in the opposite direction but alas was trumped by armed roboslaves who ice'd him into the testing compound. He would be the premier recipient of a super xenominophen formula called x666. Josiah's already corrupted cells interacted with x666 delightfully for the scientists. Not only did he become aggressive and suicidal, he gladly complied with orders to adorn attire embellished with lethal nuclear arsenal. After 23 hours in a self-flying stealth military drone to a strifed region entrenched with numerous warring violent factions, Josiah disembarked to fulfill his assigned mission. Sprouting a glee, he goose-stepped into an extremist leadership stronghold with no regard to his own demise.

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