#for those interested beetle sins include: | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deathbind · 1 month

Text

THE SCRATCHED OUT CAMEO.

Of all the items in Serot's possession when he was reborn, one baffles him more than any other. It is an agate cameo, magnificently carved, set in gold. Although he suspects it is quite old, and although it lacks the protective enchantments on the rest of his jewelry, it is in beautiful condition. With one exception: the face is scratched out. He feels certain the cameo belongs to him, but he cannot name the source of the certainty. Nor can he name whose likeness was carved into it. When his memories resurface, this is what he learns —

WHEN THE BEETLE DEATH SWEPT across Meket, what disturbed people most was its relentlessness. Few could ward them off, yet even those precautions were neither permanent nor infallible; and once the kheprer had staked their claim, they could not be purged. Despair overwhelmed the people faster than the kheprer. The helplessness was unbearable. They looked for someone to blame — anyone — desperate to believe something could be done to save them.

They even became desperate enough for regicide.

When kheprer encroached on the capital city of Nubt, the royal family prudently decided to move. Riots had begun; unrest was mounting; and the kheprer moved ever closer. It was clear what direction this was going. They left the capital in secret, taking only a small retinue, but bitterness had crept into their household. Their guards turned on them on the road. They believed the kheprer had been sent as divine retribution for the Monarch's sins — or perhaps they resented their handling of the matter. Most likely both. Whatever their reasoning, they left no survivors. Any members of the household who stood with them, died with them.

Whether they felt shame for what they had done cannot be said, for certainly they did not keep it secret. They asserted that, with the Monarch's blood spilled, surely the kheprer would disappear. Loyalists rode out to verify their claim of slaughter. The carnage had already been picked over by looters, but fearing to disturb the royal corpses, they had missed one treasure. The Monarch's nephew and heir, perhaps thirteen years old, yet lived. Hidden beneath the bloodied corpse of his mother, he had stayed deathly silent through the attack. He did not speak when looters came. He did not speak when loyalists pulled him free.

He did not speak for the next five years.

His maternal aunt became his regent. He was content in this initially, yet as he grew, effort was made to control him. She claimed only to be servicing his interests and that of the kingdom — perhaps she believed that — but she fed into his grief, his fear, his paranoia. She kept him swaddled and tucked away. Regardless of her intentions, the slaughter he'd narrowly survived made him see daggers in every hand, hers included. He feared he would not live long under the care of others. He prayed for a miracle.

Serot appeared.

He gave the young ghul lord every resource at his disposal to combat the kheprer. It was the very year in which he was to be officially crowned, yet he swore there would be no coronation until the land had been purged. Serot managed it. The rising Monarch took the regnal name Meresankh, and sat Serot beside them at the coronary feast.

Initially, he was only a saving grace, a means to an end. His growing reputation could help Meresankh secure their reign. Yet the more time they spent together, the closer they grew. They had both known loss and horror. They both had dreams for their home's future. Fear was Meresankh's constant companion, but Serot was at their side, too. He was the only person of whom that could be said.

As time wore on, however, the voice of fear grew louder than anyone else's, including Serot's. They feared rebellion. They feared treachery. They feared being slaughtered in the streets like their family. They did much to rebuild Meket's prosperity, but their inability to trust hindered them.

They had doubts even of Serot, who had never doubted them. His order, the Anactaci, become a cornerstone of Meketi life before a generation had passed. Serot himself was regarded as a living saint. He was massively influential, though he used it sparingly. Meresankh trusted Serot. They did.

But, they would trust him more if they had an advantage over him.

Meresankh asked him to turn control of the kheprer and Meket's mummies, animated by the Anactaci, over to them. Serot refused. These were not weapons; they were sacred. Meresankh asked again. Again Serot refused. Because Meresankh loved him, they asked a third time. Because Serot loved them, he once more refused.

This led to a massive falling out between them. Meresankh threatened to seize what Serot would not willingly yield. Serot, who had never once been angry with Meresankh, became angry then. Anyone else would have been slapped into oblivion after the first request, yet here was Meresankh demanding without right. Disaster was narrowly averted by the intervention of Meresankh's heir, but irreparable damage had been done. Meresankh scratched their own face from the cameo Serot carried. They forbade him from speaking their name or keeping their memory. They banished him from court and the very capital. They would never again walk together, in this life or the next.

Nevertheless, Serot carried the cameo. Nevertheless, Serot loved Meresankh. Nevertheless, his heart bled incessantly.

Years passed before the heir found Serot in the City of Eternity. Meresankh was planning something terrible. No one could talk them down. She herself had been imprisoned to keep her silent, and she had barely escaped. Every hope rested on Serot. Meresankh had always listened to him.

Serot did not hesitate before riding to the Monarch's side. Given how things had ended, he doubted the Monarch would hear him, but he would be thrice damned if he didn't try. What he found was madness. Meresankh sought to take the essence of the Plane of the Death and the essence of the Plane of Life directly into themself. They would become the very embodiment of balance: neither living nor dead, neither mortal nor divine, at once everything and nothing. All would be contained in them. And, they could never be betrayed. They could never be overthrown.

But, this was tearing them apart and threatening to spill out over the land. Serot did not hesitate. He plunged after Meresankh and held on with his very soul. And, Meresankh wept. Here Serot was again after everything: their saving grace.

Only Serot could not save them this time. Meresankh was being pulled away from this plane, and Serot was pulled with them. He cried out to Refhremmit to anchor them. But, Refhremmit plunged Meresankh into the Plane of Death instead, and sealed them away. They claimed this was the only way to end the ritual before it was too late, that Meresankh was beyond saving, that Serot would only have perished with them. This was not untrue, but what Refhremmit failed to mention was the part their distaste for Meresankh played in the decision. Serot did not doubt them, however. Nor did he confide how failing Meresankh had broken him.

There was silence for well over a thousand years. Then came the Spellplague, and the Plane of Death was plunged into the Elemental Chaos. Serot had been born as Neheb, and Neheb had died as a bulwark against the most devastating effects. But, Meresankh had changed in the Plane of Death, had become a piece of death itself. With their seal broken, they clung to the only piece of themself that remained: a tether to Serot's soul, tied when he'd tried to save them. Each time they pulled on that bond, they came closer to the land of the living and Serot, to the land of the dead.

#META / HC: WORLDBUILDING.#META / HC: PRIMARY.#RE: MERESANKH.#I'll go into this more in its own post but monarchs in Meket are always referred to in a gender neutral manner #hence my transition to they/them pronouns once Meresankh was crowned #[also I know Meresankh is a feminine name but work with me here let's pretend it isn't SKDLFJH]

2 notes · View notes

kevrocksicehouse · 3 months

Text

I have a confession. But first I want to emphasize that none of us is perfect, y’all without sin etc. Everybody has some secret shame that if exposed should be penalized with nothing more stringent than forgiveness. Except this. This is worse. Okay here goes (deep breath):

I DON’T THINK THERE WERE ANY OSCAR SNUBS.

Nope. Not even Barbie. Despite Greta Gerwig’s masterful shepherding of what is so far Mattel’s greatest movie, if Zone of Interest (which I haven’t seen yet) is a dog, I’ll give Jonathan Glazer’s place to May/December’s Todd Haynes. Ditto for Robie who was almost perfect (But what’s up with her still using the Harley Quinn accent?). If Nyad isn’t up to snuff I’ll just slide in Past Lives’ Greta Lee.

It was that kind of year. Lots of good movies and for a change most of them got at least some kind of Oscar nod. But. There were those orphans and also-rans that came up all the way short. No nominations. Let’s honor them, okay?

In other words, it’s time for KEVROC’S ANNUAL BEST MOVIES THAT DIDN’T GET EVEN ONE LOUSY NOMINATION list!

Asteroid City. Wes Anderson had a short-lived Oscar vogue in the last decade with Best Picture nominations for Moonrise Kingdom in 2013 and Grand Budapest Hotel in 2014, but this year the consensus was that this deadpan dramatization of the tension between postwar optimism and post-nuclear domination which defined the latter half of The American Century was just a collection of the director’s tropes instead of a humanist masterpiece. It should have been nominated if for no other reason than to give a push to “Dear Alien (Who Art in Heaven)” for the Best Song award it deserves. (But hey, Wes got a Best Live Action Short nod for The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar).

A Good Person. Zach Braff’s directorial rep as the King of Emo, not to mention an early release date kept Oscar voters from this story of two addicts struggling not to relapse in the face of their lives’ biggest tragedy, that gave Morgan Freeman his best role in years and reaffirmed Florence Pugh’s status as the best actor of this decade.

All of Us Strangers. A simple dreamlike plot (a depressed gay man meets his soulmate, and simultaneously gets to see his long-dead parents) becomes a soul-wrenching mystical reverie brought to life by Claire Foy and Jamie Bell as the parents, Paul Mescal as the troubled soulmate and Andrew Scott, who gives a performance so exposed and vulnerable that if it went any further he’d literally shed his skin.

Monica. A trans woman (Trace Lysette) reconnects with her family and is taken for a nurse by her demented, homophobic mother (Patricia Clarkson). It sounds like Joan Crawford doing an Almodovar film but director Andrea Pallaoro goes for subtlety and nuance over camp drama in this quiet gem. Lysette should have been talked about more.

Air. This crazy-entertaining celebration of the marketing synergy of Michael Jordan and Nike got Oscar-overlooked because a whole movie devoted to a celebrity spokesperson deal is maybe just a little too on-the-nose. But it had great work by Chris Messina, Jason Bateman, a Macchiavellian Viola Davis and especially Matt Damon who might be too good an actor to ever win an Oscar for it.

Passages. Ira Sachs examination of why-good-people-love-irredeemable-pricks is a high point in the careers of Adele Exarchoupoulos and Ben Wishaw but was a breakout star vehicle for Franz Rogowski playing the kind of prick who has a one-night stand and is so smitten he can’t wait to tell his husband all about it.

Blue Beetle. You know the superhero movie is in trouble when this crackerjack film about a reluctant Latino champion of his family and community (and whose sidekicks include a Zapatista-veteran grandmother) could only find a fraction of the audience it deserved. And the line “Now is when we cry” made me cry.

Strays. All apologies to Poor Things and American Fiction, but this profane and scatological tribute to couch-humping, trash-eating dogshit producing (and eating) canis lupus familiaris was the funniest movie of the year.

Bottoms. Even beating out this gloriously tasteless and bracingly absurdist tale of high school lesbians who start a fight club to meet chicks that would win the Jean Hersholt humanitarian award if they renamed it for John Waters.

Taylor Swift: The Eras tour. The Academy’s prejudice against performance films is understandable. Certainly the struggle against dictators in Uganda and Invaders in the Ukraine are more important than a superstar juggernaut’s latest step on her way to world domination. But I’m not the only one who became convinced that the juggernaut was a real (and major) artist. And flashing on the closeups of random fans experiencing pure ecstasy was as moving as anything I saw this year.

#kevrock #reccomends #oscar #for your consideration

0 notes

thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 5 years

Note

"😓A misunderstood character is ostracized, perhaps even threatened, for their peculiar habits, interests, or studies" - this is gonna be v specific but like.... Drabble where vetinari and downey giggle about people gossiping about vetinari being a vampire? Perhaps? Pls?

Thank you so much for the ask! i’m not sure if this is quite what you were hoping for, but I hope you enjoy.

Midnight and Downey hears clicking so he’s half-awake, then fully awake and thinking there’s someone in the room with him. He can’t see them but knows a presence when it is felt, only: he can’t move. The clicking increases, an insect-noise, as something prowls near his head and he does not wish to look over but does, because he can’t help it, and there sits a monstrous creature poised with stinger above his face and the weight on his chest holding him down reminds him of that one poor man accused of witchcraft, or was it being vampire?, all those hundreds of years ago who was pressed to death in the main square. The rocks they put on his chest were later used to build the base of the Brass Bridge. When you walk over them you walk over his ghost.

And now Downey is awake. Awake and sitting upright, which means he can move, but he’s still seeing the insect so there remains whispers of the dream. It is a dream, he reminds himself, because he has had such before and, more importantly, he knows all the insects on the Disc and the one he imagined next to him is not one of them. If he is going to go and discover a new species it won’t be whilst half-asleep in the middle of the city.

He rubs eyes, looks to pillow beside him and finds it empty.

Sinking back into bed he pulls the eiderdown up around his head and burrows in an attempt to reclaim even a shred of disturbed sleep.

But it’s gone. His mind is already going fast-fast-fast there are so many things he must do as Term moves into exam season and holiday festivities must be planned and budgeted for and rooms prepped for new students joining them for Winter term after Hogswatch. Then there’s City Council matters and Guild matters and three jobs lined up, hasn’t he already decided he’s too busy, tired and old for this?, and then there’s the never ending social calendar. Which he enjoys. But, it can be a bit much.

Bedroom silence is as maddening as his racing mind. He’s staring at the thin pool of moonlight on the floor. It’s autumn, so skies are a perpetual grey with only a weak sun to splash watery gold and pink across horizon at morning and evening. The grey continues into the night obscuring stars. So everything is a shadow of its summertime self.

He is restless. His nerves are up. He has spooked himself and remains half-convinced there’s someone in the room with him. The presence, he repeats to himself, was the dream and the dream was made of stress.

He rolls around for a bit. Then, out of a sense of paranoia, he retrieves a blade from between mattress and headboard, and prowls about his room but finds nothing and neither do Alsace nor Harold. He ought to be content if not pleased.

Fear is an anathema to him. One of the first rules of performing assassin is knowing that you are the most dangerous thing that walks the streets. And if you don’t know it in yourself, for certain, then at least exude it to others. Smoke and mirrors &tc.

One autumn, as a boy of seven, he developed a deep fear of vampires. They can turn into mist, slide into bedrooms through keyholes and hide under the bed or in the closet. They drink your blood and make you one of them whether you wish it or not.

The fear left him as he grew up. At first, because he learned how to kill them. Then, later, he met a few, became friends or an approximation of friends, with a few. Olivia Hunter, one example, said, it’s being damned for a sin you’ve no part in. People look and say ‘We know your kind’ when they know nothing of anything. What is my kind? Genuan? Black? Woman? Secretary? Vampire? Omnian?

And that’s a sentiment he understands, was raised to understand, for his grandmother would talk about the bad old days in Brindisi when she was a girl and they had to leave, which happens sometimes, because people decide they know your kind and whatever it is, it’s unwanted.

He dresses. Alsace and Harold become very excited at this sudden change in events. As always, he takes a circuitous route through the city to the palace. He weaves through alleys, up and down stairs and closes, trots this way and that across streets. For a time, he loiters on the Brass Bridge and peers at different stones. The foundation stone’s date has worn away with time so when you trace fingers over it there is only the merest indentation. Was this the stone that finally killed that man all those years ago? He’s never seen a witch stoning and has no desire to. There are some violences and brutalities that go too far.

The palace is shades of moth-wing grey. Downey slips in between shadows and up to the patrician’s bedroom where, as expected, Vetinari is up. The man is seated at his desk half-dressed with robe wrapped around him and a blanket over shoulders.

‘Have you considered a brazier?’ Downey asks upon entrance. Vetinari flicks a look at him. ‘It would help with your consistent lack of heating.’

‘I am quite content, Downey. If the temperature was comfortable people might wish to stay.’

Downey feigns offence. He drapes himself across the bed and stares up at canopy. Alsace and Harold make themselves at home by the meager fire next to Mr. Fusspot who remains unphased by the sudden presence of dogs easily three times his size. He snores on in peaceful slumber.

‘May I be of assistance?’ Vetinari’s voice drifts over coupled with the ruffle of paper.

‘Oh no, you’re fine.’

‘Is there a reason you’re here?’

‘Must there always be a motive for my coming? I had a desire to be mildly chilled and to stare up at your canopy.’

Vetinari makes a noise, a scoff or snort. Downey smiles at the fabric above him.

‘We didn’t have plans,’ Vetinari says, quietly, to himself and his desk. Downey does not respond. Vetinari’s penchant for exact order crops up time to time. They are both men with strong affinity for order, but applied in very different areas of their lives.

Downey orders butterflies and beetles and natural and manmade poisons. He also orders accounts, aligns the debit-credit column of the guild, his wardrobe, his drinks cabinet. He does not order his personal life. He doesn’t need to, Vetinari orders it for him.

‘You know,’ Downey drawls as a thought occurs. ‘Your desire to have cold rooms and no creature comforts is probably why people think you’re a vampire.’

A cough from the direction of the window.

Downey props himself up and looks over. ‘Tolerant of extreme temperatures? Lack of expected, human reactions to circumstances? Patience of a rock? Never seen sleeping?’

‘You have seen me sleep.’ A lofty, disinterested expression, ‘and you can attest to my ability to react appropriately in certain, ah, circumstances.’

It’s a lascivious grin on Downey’s face. Vetinari tells him that he is being lewd. Downey replies that he is not being lewd at all. Vetinari says, ‘very well, your face is making lewd insinuations.’ Downey begs his pardon with great animation, delighting in the other man’s long suffering sigh. He delights in most things Vetinari does, including his more obsessive ticks. It’s a pleasure to know there’s someone who won’t judge you for talking to your plants and will understand the extreme stress of holding one’s tongue when someone is wrong about biology in public. Which happens with great regularity.

A huff, Vetinari decants from his desk to the bed where Downey, who has pried boots off and deposited cloak, scarf, hat, gloves, frock, and so on, on the floor, happily scoots beneath covers.

‘And you have very cold hands,’ Downey continues.

Vetinari snorts, ‘the people of this great city really have nothing better to do than speculate upon my supposed inhumanity?’

‘I think it’s an improvement over their wildly inaccurate speculations about your manhood.’

Vetinari’s face is a portrait. Downey kisses it.

He continues, ‘I would correct them, of course. But that would cause more grief than it’s worth. Now, you as a vampire on the other hand, I can see their reasoning.’

‘I’ve eaten food in public. I drink…wine.’

Downey snorts, ‘Mr. Warrender at the Cloak and Dagger believes it all to be an elaborate ruse.’

‘I see,’

‘He was going on about this the other night,’ Downey begins plucking at Vetinari’s robe which he considers an affront as it is another layer of clothing to take off. ‘I think he managed to make a few converts to his cause. He says that he’s never seen you handle coin before therefore you’re avoiding silver. You don’t attend religious ceremonies because of holy ground. Your robe is annoying me deeply. And you rarely go out, uncovered, in daylight due to discomfort in the sun.’

‘I’m not sure Mr. Warrender would have any opinion on my robe. Downey, I’m quite busy tonight.’

‘Yes, I’m here now. Your metaphorical dance card is full for the remainder of the evening.’

Vetinari stares. Downey stares back. Vetinari opens his mouth to reply, apparently reconsiders it, and sighs. Downey kisses him again as it seems the right course of action.

Downey rolls Vetinari over to his back, snaking a hand beneath robe, down, pulling up nightshift beneath. Vetinari liftst hips to allow the clothes to be hitched up, ‘why are you here, Downey?’

Downey raises an eyebrow. Looks down at their bodies then back up.

‘That’s not why you’re here. This is a symptom, not the cause.’

‘I dislike that. Being associated with disease isn’t something I enjoy, but I’ll save my annoyance for tomorrow. I was awake and restless.’

‘Right.’ A beat. ‘My apologies.’

‘Thank you,’ Downey hums. He cannot think how to explain: I had a dream and spooked myself. So he chooses not to. He continues with vague answers and determined exploration of Vetinari’s body, a boney, you’re-a-bit-of-a-shut-in sort of experience. Being opposites in most regards, Vetinari has nothing spare, all strung together with skin and only the amount of muscle needed to operate a body compared to Downey’s more, as he puts it to himself, comfortable, frame.

As teenagers, therefore posturing with great energy and determination, Vetinari once said: I’m an aesthete. Downey hadn’t been entirely sure what an aesthete was so made some general scag-dog-botherer related insult and went off to ask Ludo what it meant. Ludo explained asceticism with a wry expression. Downey then spent the remainder of the day mocking Vetinari for being a nerdy prat.

Downey thinks that to be fair to sixteen-year-old Vetinari the young man hadn’t been wrong. He was, and is, very much an aesthete. But, Downey adds on, he was also a nerdy prat.

Not that he, himself, was a joy and pleasure to be around at that age. Eleven to five-and-twenty, he thinks, those are terrible years where no one is at their best.

Vetinari scoops an arm around Downey’s neck and leans up, pressing their mouths together. ‘Would you still be here if I was a vampire?’

‘Yes. Though, there’d be very strict boundaries.’

‘Naturally.’

‘’I’ve no desire for immortality. The one thing I wonder is,’ Downey settles on his side. ‘Would you still be you if you were one? It’s a rude question so I haven’t asked anyone I know.’

Vetinari shrugs. How does never dying change a person? How does not tasting, not needing sleep, not bodily changing, shape an individual? Would that change be any different from the normal changes all people go through as life forms them forever into something new?

Neither choose to answer the questions. Downey figures they were rhetorical more than anything. But even if they weren’t, he has no answer. He likes his humanity. He’s content with being merely mortal. There is a thrill to life that he thinks wouldn’t be there if you knew you weren’t going to die. Pleasures would lose their meaning. He likes luscious fox fur, richly patterned cambric, heavy brocades because he knows they are his but for a limited time. When he dies they’ll be of no use save to cover the body until it’s cremated. But doesn’t that limitation of enjoyment make it all the sweeter? There will be a finite end to champagne and oysters and music and dancing and gold and silver.

But as a vampire, at least with regards to the clothing and objects, you would have it forever. One fades, buy another.

Perhaps they find meaning in other things less worldly than clothes and beautiful things.

What a terrible concept.

‘You had a mistress who was one, didn’t you?’ Downey asks.

‘Mistress,’ Vetinari’s bemused by the word. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘What was her view?’

‘On how she was before? She didn’t speak of it much, but I think she takes the long view of things. So time is both fast and slow. She said that because relations with humans are so fleeting she found them more precious.’

Downey pulls a face. See, finding meaning in less worldly things. Vetinari flashes a smile, returns to his usual impassive self.

‘I don’t think it’s life that would suit you, Downey.’

‘I’d have to become philosophical, which is a horror. I would be required to place value in things other than material wealth. Absolutely terrible.’

Vetinari props himself up on an elbow and takes to considering Downey’s face with great intent. Downey looks away. He frets that Vetinari is going to say something about him being more than what he intends himself to be. Which Vetinari tends to do because he enjoys telling Downey home-truths.

Life delivers. Vetinari says, ‘I think you hold things beyond material wealth as important. A limited amount,’ he amends. ‘Perhaps a very limited amount. But nonetheless, they exist.’

This is too much, Downey can feel a flush crawling up his chest and neck so leans up, gives a messy kiss, then rolls over in search of his clothes. He says he should go back to the Guild. It’s late, he has much to do in the morning. Vetinari sits up and watches him dress. Downey swans about, makes it a bit of a theatrical moment, then the final flourish, he places his hat on.

‘I will see you tomorrow,’ Downey says.

‘You will. Or today, as the case may be. We are well into the small hours.’

At the door Downey pauses. Behind him is the sound of Vetinari dressing. The shift of linens, bare feet on soft, wooden floors.

‘I don’t think it would be a life that suits you either,’ Downey says to the doorframe. His palm rests flat against it, a profile to Vetinari’s line of sight.

‘Immortality, or vampirism in particular?’

‘Both.’ Or maybe, Downey doesn’t think, he wishes to believe that for his own sake. He doesn’t like to think of Vetinari going on, existing as some lonesome, grey rock in the midst of human life for any longer than he already has.

‘Possibly. Quite possibly you’re very right.’

Downey sucks in a breath through teeth then, because he enjoys hurdling head first off cliffs from time to time, ‘I’m glad things are working out, you know. Between us. Despite the fact that you’re a nerdy prat, Dog-botherer.’

He’s gone before Vetinari can reply though he imagines he heard a soft exhale of a laugh. One of those dry ones Vetinari gives when amused but feeling many things at the same time. It’s a ghost of a sound and follows Downey through streets homeward. He wishes to remember it forever.

#lord downey #vetinari #writing #ask #reply #gothic prompt

3 notes · View notes

didilosemymindordidifindit · 3 years

Text

NA POOR MAN GO CHANGE NIGERIA

For many years, it was so glaring that my own mother saw me as a fool.

Why would a mother who gave birth to her own child think like that?

Because at my age I did not have a 'good' job, a wife, a car, children etc. All this stupid things we be vanity and scam oh.

Whenever I am watching the TV and arguing with the person on it or insulting the living day light of all our stupid politicians, my mama go frown look at me and say,

"If you Sabi, why you no dey the TV"

That statement dey pain me.

E be like when I dey my aunty house for Lagos, if I dey watch Soundcity and I dey critic the music, I can read the looks in the eyes of her and her children, "you Sabi music na him Dem no dey play your video for there?"

"POOR MAN DON SUFFER!"

If not for the fact say I know myself, maybe I for don commit suicide. Thank you Socrates for the advice, chop knuckle.

I know say I be the dopest motherfucker in the universe, all I need na opportunity. And one day e go come but I must not just sit idle dey wait for the opportunity, I must dey work on myself.

We dey complain say all our politicians no good, say they are all corrupt, so idiots con decide to include me and my papa we never even get chance to be local government chairman, say "All Nigerians are corrupt. Say na opportunity the poor no get"

Who ever talk that thing, God go purnish you and your generation. Na only your mama, papa, full family and full dynasty corrupt.

Look at our politician, what do they have in common? They are all stinkily rich. It has even become a critera that before u fit take any office u must get money like mad!! The money to buy form for the post of local government chairman alone na person salary for two years. We put already rich people in government. People wey be spoilt brat wey no work one day in their life. Wey no know wetin e be to sleep with hungry stomach, wey no know wetin e be to lose someone wet die of malaria, wey no know wetin e be for family member get accident for okene road when they travel etc. Most of this rich people wey rule us no grow up for Naija. E just be like say we go Planet Mars go carry person make him rule earth. Our leaders are practically aliens.

Maybe that's why Nigerians no get interest in UFO sightings, we dey see everyday for television and when Dem pass us for road with their spaceship wey dey make noise. Wahumwahumwahum!

So, what is the solution? Shey make we continue like this?

God forbid! There is solution. The solution is for us to elect 'poor' people in government. Earth should be ruled by earthlings, not Marxians.

People who understand the problems based on experience and know the solution. But how poorman fit get to rule when the money to buy form na money to take do work for government? We can reform the Constitution but that one no go work because the Senate and House of Representatives wey suppose do am be aliens. Why will they commit career suicide by doing that.

We are doomed!

Not yet. There is still one solution but Nigeria never ready. We are suffering from a mental conditioning wey no fit let us computer eyes from APC and PDP. This two parties na the same thing, no let the brand, logo etc decieve you. They are exchanging members every minute, dcamping every seconds. That's why I dey laugh when I see PDP and APC supporters dey clash. I dey be like why twin brothers dey fight like this? By the way Peter and Paul Okoye, two of you na big fools. Fools are fourty. I fit no fit tell wuna for wuna face because wuna get money and send police to arrest and love me up for eternity, but behind this keyboard I go give am to wuna as blunt as Bavoshian my blunt niece will give. You are both a disgrace to your parents especially to your loving mother. And you are not legends, you ruined your legacy. Wuna no see say since wuna start this rubbish wuna just dey sing rubbish, wuna wey dey drop hits every December and smash album every year turn to upcoming artistes overnight. Shey! That one no show wuna say God dey vex for wetin wuna dey do?. Even Jesus talk for the Bible say before you pray to me, God and first make peace with your brother. E dey clear for wuna bible, I know whether wuna get one for house. That means since you wuna start this rubbish, God no dey interested in what two of you are doing. Forget say wuna still dey Instagram dey show wuna cars, sexy wives and children, God no dey hear wuna. He don already talk am very clear in the Bible, Before you talk to me, go and forgive your brother. No be me talk am, Jesus Christ. I advice you guys do this, any of you can take the initiative, I no care wetin happen, I no wan know wetin happen. If God fit forgive us, despite our sins, why we no fit forgive our brother?"

A line from the Lord's prayer goes,

" and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us"

Na strong word be that oh!

E literally mean, God forgive as I dey forgive people wey offend me.

Maaaaad!!!! Oh!!!!

So you see say just as you no forgive your brother, God no go forgive you.

Because no how, no how, you pray the Lord's prayer.

Abeg! Make wuna settle so God can give you his ear.

The only way we fit get poor leaders na if we support all those small parties wey dey get funny names and very votes for election. But shey we go gree when APC and PDP dey share 500 and indomie. Na the same indomie you collect for free during campaign, na him wuna dey break warehouse dey look for wey Dem come give wuna name wey wuna papa no give wuna: HOODLUMS

Whether wuna hear or wuna no hear, na wuna know, I go leave wuna with the words of the wisest man that ever existed.

"Now there was found in it a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city; yet no man remembered that same poor man."

- Solomon (Ecclesiastes 9:15 )

By the way, if you dey wonder who be the old man wey the come out of that yeye palasa beetle wey don die finish. He is Jose Mujica, former president of Uruguay, fondly referred to as the poorest president in the world.

#politics #aliensighting #corruption #nigeria #poverty #since1960 #nothingtowritehome

0 notes

movietvtechgeeks · 7 years

Photo

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/best-bets-top-graphic-novels-today/

Best bets on the top graphic novels out today

There once was a time when comic books were something of a joke and only for kids. Even the people who read them would be given a hard time by friends and family.Even though they were stories that would be praised in classic literary novels, including themes such as heroism, humanity and overcoming insurmountable obstacles; the medium was derided by critics. Marvel and DC Comics were creating some amazing worlds with stories that went deep and allowed many outsiders a great escape to not feel so alone.

So, what changed? Basically, those kids that read and lived through those same comics grew up and created ones that went deeper and farther than Archie, Beetle Bailey and The Family Circus ever dreamed of. These kids even created a new form which they called graphic novels.That term graphic novel even sounds more legitimate than ‘comics,’ and thus, a whole new genre was born off of the old one. The new genre became more respectable, and now, new television series and movie franchises have been built from them. So, for all you avid readers and even beginners, here are the best graphic novels out there that you need to check out.

Some of you may be surprised that your favorite TV shows or movies came from a graphic novel, but that’s even more reason to read them now. How often have you enjoyed a book more after seeing the movie? Well, the same can be said for graphic novels as they are often much more in-depth than the TV shows and movies.So, for all you avid readers and even beginners, here’s the best graphic novels out there that you need to check out.

The Walking Dead

You’ve heard the name of the AMC show and have probably watched it once or twice, but have you read the ongoing series of graphic novels? By now, you may have even forgotten how Rick Grimes and his Ricktocracy began.The Walking Dead begins with Sheriff Rick Grimes waking up from a coma in a hospital that is overrun by the undead. What a great way to start a story, isn’t it? His search for his wife and son are compelling, and we follow his journey to find a group of people who aren’t trying to take a bite out of him. If the latest season of The Walking Dead frustrated you, go back and read this series again to remind you what made you fall in love with it. It’s like a relationship. If it’s going to last, we have to get through the rough patches together, and it’ll get better again.

A Game Of Thrones

Yup, another book that spawned a television phenomenon. A Game Of Thrones is how it all began with Lord Eddard Stark feeling cursed the moment King Robert bestows the office of the Hand. His family is divided, and he is surrounded by treachery.Easily, one of the best series of books in the fantasy literature genre, George R.R. Martin is one of the few authors that can come close to J.R.R. Tolkien’s wonderful world of The Hobbit. A Game Of Thrones is told from eight characters' perspectives with each chapter. This creates interesting cliffhangers, but once you dive into the next chapter, you’re off on that character’s adventure. The only thing you can’t avoid is that if you watch the show first, you’ll know the shocking deaths already, and the same if you read the books. I would suggest reading this great series and then watching the HBO show just to see how they were able to bring it life. The visuals are awe-inspiring.

Marvel Secret Empire

Secret Empire was one of Marvel’s most anticipated graphic novels for 2017 with good reason. In this one, the Marvel Universe is under attack from within as Captain America chooses Hydra over the Super Hero community.This is one series that is not lacking in scope. Captain America has chosen to follow the ideals of Hydra, and he has set a plan in motion that will have the farthest reaching effects of any other graphic novel in Marvel history. His actions will pull together the Avengers, the Guardians of the Galaxy, the Champions, the Defenders, and the X-Men just to give you an idea of how much action and intrigue is involved. The biggest shocker is how can the Marvel Universe survive after being betrayed by the most trusted superhero among them? I’m not telling.

Frank Miller's 300

For anyone who still questions the validity of graphic novels as an art form needs to read Frank Miller’s 300. The over-the-top movie was based on this book (plus it’s loosely based on the battle of Thermopylae which was the beginning of the Persian invasion of Greece in 480 B.C.), and the artwork is just visually stunning.So you're getting some history for the kids and plenty of action for the adults.

This is the man who gave us Sin City, but 300 is as far removed from that world as possible. In just 88 pages, we are whisked into the world of King Leonidas, foot soldier Stelios and Dilios along with their small army of 300. You won’t be able to put this one down, and you’ll find yourself returning to it again and again.

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

#300 #Cool Stuff Reviews #Featured #Frank Miller #Game of Thrones #Graphic Novels #Marvel #Secret Empire #Walking Dead

0 notes