#my pet theory is that Robert will either step down

[karolina-in-the-wonderland]

#the royals #theroyalsedit #willobert #rillow #willow moreno #wilhelmina henstridge #robert henstridge #helena henstridge #my pet theory is that Robert will either step down #or try to abolish the monarchy #and this is what he promised Willow #he's finally realized how miserable he is #and how his hunger for power could've destroyed the one real thing in his life #Willow never wanted to be Queen #she just wanted Robbie #so for her this is a dream come true

[antoine-roquentin]

But the most important reason may be that the figure of Joseph Mifsud, so central to the prosecution of Papadopoulos and to the investigation of Trump’s 2016 campaign, makes little sense in the stories laid out by Robert Mueller’s team or by the Democrats in Congress. Far from being a Russian cutout, as people like Congressman Adam Schiff and various U.S. news outlets have suggested, Mifsud seems to be a figure who was tied to high government officials in the west. So far, few of those associated with him have opened up public inquiries or otherwise retraced their steps, which you would expect if they felt they had been victims of Russian infiltration. The FBI spoke to Mifsud in early 2017 when he was in the United States and let him go, allegedly because Papadopoulos had misled them, but they don't seem to have gone hunting for him during the months that followed, even after the arrest and charging of Papadopoulos, nor do they seem to have alerted European allies. Mifsud continued to live and work in Europe as normal. Mifsud went into hiding shortly after the statement of offense against Papadopoulos was made public, in October 2017, but Italian media has since reported that Mifsud spent some of those months in a Rome apartment that was paid for by one of his erstwhile employers, Link Campus University, a small organization with ties to Italian intelligence. In short, with Mifsud, the rabbit holes are endless, and even the truth will be prove to be twisted.

To solve such mysteries, then, is why Barr and others are so interested in going to Rome and Australia. And, whether or not you trust Barr and team, there is reasonable cause for them to be taking their actions. If they’re expecting Papadopoulos’s narrative to bear fruit, however, they’re going to come up dry. I spent weeks trying to square Papadopoulos’s memories with various theories of the case, and I began to notice that those recollections kept changing or contradicting the available paper trail. Even the Trump campaign was on the receiving end of a number of false boasts from Papadopoulos, such as a claim of having met with the Russian ambassador to the United Kingdom, when no such thing had happened. Most important, I realized that there was very little basis for a linchpin of countless narratives concerning Papadopoulos: namely, that Mifsud had mentioned Russian hacking. It’s a claim that nearly everyone, including the Mueller team, has embraced, but the only person making it is Papadopoulos himself. Why would he make such a claim? As the lawyer and blogger Hans Mahncke has laid out in more detail, it may well have been a panicked attempt to deflect trouble growing out of still more untrue claims. (Papadopoulos did not respond to a request for comment.)

Unfortunately for Donald Trump, Rudy Giuliani seems to embrace Papadopoulos’s version of the story, in which Alexander Downer and Joseph Mifsud were co-conspirators. Last spring, mentioning the case of Papadopoulos, Giuliani told Fox News’s Bret Baier, “If that’s not a counterintelligence frame-up, I will eat my hat.” And if that’s how Giuliani feels, then it is likely that he has persuaded Trump to feel the same way. That’s why Giuliani has been globetrotting on Trump’s behalf and, it seems, bullying people and making a fool of himself. In short, he appears to be as obsessed with a wrongheaded theory of the case as any Russiagater on MSNBC.

At the same time, those who view investigations of the origin of Russiagate as nothing more than partisan attempts to discredit the work of honorable civil servants may want to brace themselves for unsavory findings. Even looking only narrowly at one element of Russiagate, the case of Papadopoulos, we can see questionable behavior by his prosecutors, notwithstanding his guilt. Here is one small but revealing example. In the summer of 2016, Papadopoulos wrote to Trump campaign official Sam Clovis about some “requests from the U.K., Greek, Italian, and even Russian government for closed door workshops/consultations” at a London venue. (In reality, no such requests had been made, but that’s beside the point here.) Clovis wrote back, “I have too much to do that requires me to be in the states” and encouraged Papadopoulos and another foreign policy advisor to “make the trips, if it is feasible.” The prosecution edited this exchange in order to make it look much more sinister. They described it as the culmination of “several weeks of further communications regarding a potential ‘off the record’ meeting with Russian officials” and quoted Clovis as saying that Papadopoulos should “make the trip[], if it is feasible.” In other words, the original suggests a series of London-based workshops that might include Russians, while the prosecution’s version suggests a concerted effort to link up with Russian officials and taking a trip to make it happen. I was able to see the difference only because I had the original emails. This sort of elision, which ran throughout the case against Papadopoulos, gave me an unfavorable impression of the Mueller team.

More broadly, we all have a stake in finding out whether U.S. authorities proceeded by the book when they began to investigate the campaign of Donald Trump in 2016. The FBI had a FISA warrant on Trump advisor Carter Page that lasted for months and kept being renewed, yet we know it relied in part on the infamous “pee-tape” dossier that had been put together by someone who was paid by the Clinton campaign. That this dossier’s author, Christopher Steele was working with the wife of a Justice Department official connected to the investigation was, at the very least, a glaring conflict of interest. Returning to the case of Papadopoulos, a vague statement to Alexander Downer that, according to Downer, didn’t mention “dirt” or “email” but merely Papadopoulos’s belief that the Russians had “material that could be damaging” to Hillary Clinton hardly seems like an adequate justification for a major FBI investigation of a presidential campaign. As for the case of Ukraine, officials in that country were open in their opposition to Trump in 2016, and the Financial Times reported on a Ukrainian and MP and other “political actors in Kiev [who] say they will continue their efforts to prevent a candidate—who recently suggested Russia might keep Crimea, which it annexed two years ago—from reaching the summit of American political power.” It’s not as crazy as it looks that Trump, in light of Russiagate, wants to figure out what was going on back then.

Now, none of this is to give a pass to Donald Trump. He deserves to be investigated, and possibly impeached, for his behavior toward Ukraine over the past several months, and if you want to get a sense of how much power the president has to turn the screws on weaker parties, few recent stories have been better reported than a recent one from The Wall Street Journal showing how things looked from the Ukrainian side. Sending a henchman like Giuliani over to Kiev and dropping strong hints to Ukraine’s leaders of what you’re hoping to find is a recipe for lies and corruption.

But probing Trump’s misbehavior cannot be an underhanded instrument for shutting down investigations into what happened in 2016. Uncovering that part of the story may be unhelpful to the impeachment narrative in the coming months, but it is no less important than investigating this president. Trump represents the flouting of rules by one man, but the origins of Russiagate represent the potential flouting of rules by many people. If the FBI and the intelligence community can overstep their bounds in pursuit of a president many of us hate today, they can do so against a president we like tomorrow. So, no, Trump’s or Giuliani’s pet theories won’t bear fruit. No, there’s no DNC server in Ukraine, or whatever the hell Trump believes. No, Joe Biden didn’t try to fire a prosecutor for going after Biden’s son. No, George Papadopoulos isn’t the key to an international anti-Trump conspiracy. But the belief that Russiagate grew out of partisans overstepping their bounds—well, that’s still awaiting the jury. With or without Trump in office, we owe it to ourselves to figure out whether it’s true.

this is why it’s so tough to believe in either russiagate or the counternarrative that russiagate was a us intelligence honeypot intended to destroy trump. the people who are saying this shit are professional brown-nosers, bullshitters who get paid to slather on the praise until they manage to convince whoever’s in power to take on a business deal (and for that they get paid millions). the idea that these imbeciles could be co-conspirators on anything other than a dinner party is frankly absurd. the fact that the FBI will run roughshod over proper investigative procedure if it prejudges that someone is guilty is not in doubt because we see it happen to its much poorer victims all the time, so the notion that it might have done so here is not unfathomable. 

[knotsandknives]

from the angst meme: please come get me, with our wonderful joseph and robert?

“Come get me,” Robert’s voice filters through the phone, hushed like he doesn’t want to be overheard, slurred like he’s on the other side of a bottle, just mean enough to raise Joseph’s hackles. He’s drunk and stupid, and Joseph is in no mood.

“That’s how you speak to someone you’re trying to get a favor out of?” Joseph bites back, righteous and judgmental. He hadn’t wanted to answer the phone in the first place, but the anxious part of him, the part that was born right alongside his first child, insisted that it could be something dire. That Robert might have been in some grave danger, and how would he feel knowing he’d let that call go to voicemail.

Of course, he should have known it would be nothing more dangerous than a 50-something year old man, fall-down drunk with his keys in the possession of his favorite bartender.

“Please come get me,” Robert growls on the other end of the line, low and tight through ostensibly gritted teeth. Where he gets off copping an attitude with Joseph is beyond him. Robert was the one who picked a fight, Robert was the one who stormed out, Robert’s the one currently in danger of having to walk home in 3 inches of still-falling snow. He’s got some nerve.

“The kids are in bed,” Joseph says, a blatant lie. He’s hoping Robert is too drunk to remember the kids are at their grandparents’ for the weekend.

No such luck. Joseph always forgets how good Robert is at being drunk. Not that it’s anything to be admired. But the man can hold his liquor.

“The kids are in fucking Connecticut.”

Joseph sighs, big and deep enough that the weariness of it should be enough to penetrate Robert’s drunken haze. He needs Robert to know how much he’s inconveniencing him. How much of a burden he is on Joseph. How pissed Joseph must still be at him to even entertain those type of thoughts.

“It’s past midnight. I’m not dressed.” Even as he says it, Joseph is climbing out of bed, shivering against the chill of the room. He’d been too mad to turn the heat up as he’d stormed his way upstairs earlier.

“So what?” Robert says back, and Joseph can hear the leer through the phone. Unbelievable.

“Don’t fucking try and hit on me, Robert. I’m not in the mood,” Joseph snaps, angrily stuffing his feet into his sneakers, not even bothering with socks. He doesn’t bother with pants or a shirt, either. He refuses to put an ounce more effort into this mission of mercy than he has to.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Robert mutters. Joseph ignores him.

He recognizes that the only person he’s punishing is himself as he steps out the front door in a coat, unbuttoned over his bare chest, barely reaching the tops of his thighs, legs bare below the knee. The thin material of his boxers does nothing but make him colder. Joseph hisses, clamping his jaw before his teeth can start to chatter.

Robert is making soothing noises through the phone, but Joseph isn’t sure who they’re directed at. “I’m on my way,” he says shortly, hanging up the phone without waiting for a reply and tossing it into the passenger seat as he clambers into his SUV. Leather seats seem great in theory, with their easy cleanup and stain-resistant nature, perfect for hauling kids around, but in reality, they’re cold as hell against bare legs in sub-20 temperatures.

Joseph curses Robert’s name, heritage, pets, all the way to Jim and Kim’s. The drive isn’t even long enough for the heat to start working properly, but at least his seat warmer is doing its best to keep him from literally fusing to his ice block of a seat. He pulls crookedly into a parking spot, considers just sitting there without alerting Robert to his presence, but the cold air still blowing through the vents propel him out of the car, toward the warm lights of the bar.

It’s late enough, and the town is small enough, that Robert seems to be the only patron left in the dingy little dive. Joseph lets the door bang open, a swirl of icy wind and snow follows him in, and Robert’s head turns automatically toward the commotion.

“Jesus, Joe, you couldna least made yourself decent?”

Robert sounds like he’s trying very carefully not to slur his words, but there’s a glass of some amber liquid still held in his hand, and his perch on his stool is precarious at best. Joseph shares a look with the man behind the bar, whose name Joseph knows he should know but can’t be bothered to search for.

“I would have called him a cab or something, but he insisted you’d come get him,” he says apologetically, wincing at the sight of Joseph in what clearly are his sleep clothes. “Didn’t know he’d be dragging you out of bed.”

“He’s fine, he wasn’t sleepin’,” Robert interjects, before Joseph has a chance. “He’s too mad to sleep. Prob’ly just layin’ there, stewin’ an’ shit. Good fer ‘im to cool off.”

Joseph turns on his heel, ready to leave the way he came without a word, but Robert makes a distressed noise behind him, the clatter of the stool letting Joseph know he’s making an attempt to stand. Joseph turns around slowly, hands planted firmly on his hips, bare where his boxers have ridden down. Joseph doesn’t miss Robert’s sweeping glance, but neither does he acknowledge it.

“You’re drunker than you were when you called,” Joseph says, flatly, watching Robert struggle upright. There’s a pull to go help him, sling an arm around him and hold him close, settle him first in the car and then in bed, bring him water and aspirin and offer him slow morning sex to help him recover from his hangover. There’s this innate need to nurture him, but Joseph fights it. This will not be how their lives go, and Robert either needs to figure that out or….

Joseph shies away from finishing the thought, letting Robert brace a hand on his shoulder as he draws near.

“Drunker, yes,” Robert says, and if there was a continuation of that thought, it’s lost to the breeze when Joseph pulls the door open, offering a short wave to the bartender on their way out.

Joseph moves away from Robert when they reach the front of the car, headlights blindingly intense where they reflect off the gathering snow. Robert stumbles a little, but Joseph assuages the guilt by reasoning that, if he were to fall, at least the fall would be cushioned. He climbs back into a much warmer cabin, stretching his frozen fingers in front of the vents as Robert picks his way around to the passenger’s side.

“You’re gonna catch your fuckin’ death, comin’ out here like that,” Robert scolds slowly, not missing the way Joseph shivers when he opens his door. He takes his time getting in, anyway.

“It seems like there’s a way I could have avoided coming out here like this,” Joseph replies, barely waiting for Robert to slam his door before throwing the vehicle into reverse. Robert tips his head back against the seat, eyes closed, and Joseph can literally smell the alcohol on him.

“You coulda put some goddamn clothes on.”

“You could have put the goddamn bottle down.”

“Ooh, he is mad,” Robert whispers, mostly to himself. Joseph ignores him.

The snow hasn’t slowed a bit since it started falling, right around the time Robert had left, and Joseph says a quick prayer of thanks for four-wheel drive and light traffic. Still, even the large SUV has a little trouble climbing the incline of Robert’s driveway when Joseph swings in. The wheels spin, a little, and the resulting lurch causes Robert to open his eyes for the first time. He blinks around, slow and impaired, before frowning.

“You’re at the wrong house. I know it’s only a stone’s throw from your place but you shouldn’t be stompin’ around in the snow in that getup,” Robert tells him, words still fuzzy around the edges.

“I’m not at the wrong house. This is your house. Get inside.”

Robert keeps frowning at him, face lit by soft streetlights and even softer snow. “You kickin’ me out?”

“You let yourself out,” Joseph corrects him, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You made a choice. I’m just honoring your decision.”

“Aw hell, you’re sore at me?” Robert blurts out, regretting the outburst immediately as he raises a hand to his head. “I just needed to blow off some steam, honey.”

“You went. You blew. What else is there?” Joseph asks, determinedly not meeting his eye. Robert’s eyes are a weakness for Joseph. He can’t look at him and hope to maintain his resolve.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joseph sighs, long and weary again. Robert isn’t impressed. “What else is there, Robert? If this is how you’re going to react every time we have an argument then…” Joseph trails off, tries to leave it there. Robert won’t let him.

“Then what?” he says, and there’s the danger Joseph was afraid of earlier. There’s the question he was trying to avoid asking himself.

Joseph grips the steering wheel, shrugging Robert off when he reaches for one of his shoulders, trying to turn him to face him. “Then I don’t know, Robert. I just know that this is not how I’m going to live. I already had a spouse who solved all of our problems with alcohol. I can’t do it again.”

“Since when am I your spouse?” Robert asks, and it’s not mean or cutting. Just curious, and perhaps a little hopeful. Joseph shakes his head.

“You know what I mean. Partner. Companion. Whatever.”

“I’m not saying I’m opposed to being your spouse,” Robert clarifies, more sober than he’s been all night.

Joseph shoots him an incredulous look, breaking his own rule about eye contact. “Seriously? Right now, you’re saying this to me? I’m talking about splitting up and you’re half-assedly proposing?”

Robert makes a face, eyebrows drawn together. “You’re not talking about splitting up. You’re mad.”

“And you left!” Joseph yells, fed up. “I get mad, and you leave. Or you get mad, and still, you leave. All you ever do is leave, Robert, and I’m not going to spend my whole life getting left.”

“So, what? You wanna stand in the kitchen and scream at each other? That’s what healthy relationships are built on?” Robert yells back, impending headache be damned apparently.

“They aren’t built on one person getting fall down drunk every time there’s a disagreement.”

“You knew about the drinking when we started this,” Robert reminds him. He’s the one avoiding looking at Joseph, now, eyes fixed pointedly out the windshield. “It’s always been a thing. I don’t….deal with confrontation well.”

Joseph blows out a breath, the too-hot car making it hard to think. He thinks about shutting the car off, but that would be too much of a concession. What he really needs is space. He wishes Robert would just go inside already, before they say something they’ll both regret.

“You don’t deal with confrontation at all. You bail. And I’m tired of being bailed on.”

“So, what?” Robert says again, and his voice has adopted that low, tight sound from before. The dangerous one. There’s danger everywhere they turn tonight, it seems. “You’re bailing on me now? The bailee becomes the bailer?”

Joseph drags his hands over his face, eyes stinging from the lateness of the hour, from the rush of emotion he can’t ebb. “I came to get you. And now I’m dropping you off.”

“Joseph,” Robert starts, hand on his arm again.

“Robert, please.”

“Please what?”

Joseph hangs his head, chin touching his chest, too tired to pretend he isn’t. “Go inside. Sleep it off.”

“And then what? Am I gonna wake up without a partner?”

Joseph looks at him, long and hard. He sees the fear behind the indignation, the tremble in his hands and bottom lip, the desperation, and he wants to take it all back. To comfort and reassure him, like Robert so obviously needs. He also sees the glassiness of his eyes, the liquor weighing down his limbs, and wants to burn it all down right then, see what rises from the ash of their dysfunctional relationship.

“I’m going home,” Joseph says, slowly, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds. “And you’re going to sleep it off. And then you’re going to think about what you want.”

“And then what?” Robert presses, almost begging now.

Joseph sighs again, his last one of the evening. He leans across Robert, opening his door for him, breathing in the bitterly cold night air. It freezes in his lungs, steals his breath, and so if the next words come out choked, Joseph knows what’s to blame.

“And then….please come get me.”

#robert small #joseph christiansen #roseph #dream daddy #ddadds #prompt fill #okay this one is not as nice as the others #and i am SORRY #but i just started typing and this is what came out #thank you for sending it and thanks everyone for reading #these are so fun #my fic #Anonymous

[headfulloffantasies]

Angel with a Shotgun

Chapter 12: Night Moves

Warning for blood in this chapter. Hurt/comfort

The long driveway up to the house gave Bobby and the boys a good look at what had become of the house in their seven year absence. The paint was flaking off the porch like leaves off an autumn tree. The grimy windows yawned like sleepy eyes, blinking awake for their return. The scrap yard out back was a mess of rusty, twisted remains of dead machines. Weeds infested the lawn, purple thistles waving in the breeze.

Bobby climbed out of the truck and stuck his hands on his hips. “This place is going to be a lot of work.”

Sam and Dean extracted their lanky frames from the backseat. “It hasn’t changed a bit!” Dean grinned.

Bobby took offense. “I kept this place in ship shape, you ungrateful princess.”

Dean cackled and thundered up the front steps.

Sam came to stand next to Bobby. “We can’t stay long,” he said quietly.

Bobby turned on him. “Coming back was your idea.”

“Dean insisted. He misses Jo.”

Huh. Speaking of…

A car came slowly up the driveway. Ellen and Jo hopped out, waving.

“Ellen!” Bobby pulled her into a long hug. “I told you we’d come back.”

“Bobby. You smell like a cheap hooker.”

“Thanks, Ellen. That’s awful sweet of you.”

“Happy Birthday, Jo.” Sam hugged her. Bobby finally got a good look at her. She was tall and pretty as her mother.

“This can’t be little Joanna Beth!” Bobby squeezed her tight. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, darling.”

“Hiya, Uncle Bobby,” she smiled.

Dean came thundering down the porch steps and wrapped Jo in his arms.

           “Happy Birthday, Jo!” Dean swept her up and spun her around in a tight hug.

Jo’s face was flushed when he let her down. “I missed you, Dean.”

“Me too, Jo,” Dean grinned and squeezed her again.

           Bobby watched the exchange with growing interest. Sam and Dean had grown into strapping young men. More than one girl had chased after them as they crisscrossed the country. And they did a fair bit of skirt chasing themselves. Bobby wondered if he should warn Jo.

Together they all trooped into the house. Dean’s dusty boot prints followed a path to the empty fridge and back outside. White sheets hung like ghosts over the furniture.

Bobby tried the kitchen tap. “Water’s running. The well still full, Ellen?”

“How should I know?” She shrugged. “I never came back here.” She walked through the kitchen to the living room with her arms wrapped around her middle. “Are you sure you want to stay here? I got a spare room and a couch.”

“Home is home,” Bobby said. The boys nodded.

“Alright, well I guess we’d better get to work,” she came back rolling up her sleeves.

It took until dinner to get the main floor scrubbed and inhabitable. Bobby and Ellen stood shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen counter putting together a quick supper. Bobby sent the boys to see if the lawn mower in the tool shed worked. Jo tagged along.

“Ellen, I think I should warn you about Dean and Jo,” Bobby started.

Ellen tipped her head back and laughed. “My girl’s smarter than that, Bobby.”

“You think? ‘Cause she’s been clinging to him all day.”

Ellen’s face went dark.

“I just don’t want either of them getting hurt,” Bobby finished.

Jo suddenly came streaking into the room, breaking the moment.

“Something’s wrong with Dean.”

Bobby knocked over his chair in his haste. Ellen was right on his heels. They dashed out to the driveway, kicking up dust.

Dean lay on the ground convulsing in the gravel. Sam knelt next to him, his face as pale as a ghost.

“What happened?” Bobby shouted as he took in Dean’s crumpled form. Dean’s jaw clenched against a pain Bobby couldn’t see. He curled into a tight ball, knees tucked to his chest until another spasm racked his frame.

“I’m sorry,” Jo cried. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bobby whirled on her. “What did you do?”

Tears streaked Jo’s face as she stammered, “I- I kissed him.”

Bobby melted. “Honey, I don’t think a kiss hurt him.”

Dean keened, his spine twisting. Bobby redirected his attention. “Sam, we gotta get him inside. If he starts seizing, I don’t want him out here.”

Sam nodded. Bobby went to lift Dean’s shoulders, but Sam scooped him up as though Dean weighed nothing. He ran into the house, unaffected by the three sets of surprised eyes following him.

Sam seemed at a loss once he had Dean through the door.

“Upstairs,” Bobby shoved passed him and took the stairs two at a time to the boys’ shared room. He yanked the white dust cloth off Dean’s bed.

“Here,” Bobby instructed. Sam laid his brother down. At first, Dean didn’t let Sam straighten. He had a death grip on the collar of Sam’s shirt. Then a wave of pain enveloped him and his whole body writhed. He shouted through it, his eyes clenched shut. Sam looked like he was going to be sick.

“Sam,” Bobby said gruffly. Sam snapped to attention.

“I need you to stay here and make sure he doesn’t get worse. Got it?”

Sam nodded stiffly, tears reddening his eyes.

Bobby squeezed his shoulder as he passed out of the room.

Bobby hurried downstairs to get towels out of the linen closet and the first aid kit from under the sink. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Ellen and Jo were still there, holding each other on the couch.

Ellen’s lower lip trembled as Dean’s screams carried downstairs. Jo squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ellen,” Bobby knelt in front of her. “You should go home. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“Why aren’t you calling 911?” Ellen asked sharply. Jo flinched.

Bobby sighed. “You know I can’t.”

Ellen stood, yanking Jo up with her. A fire blazed in Ellen’s eyes. “If he dies for your stupid conspiracy theory, I will never speak to you again, Robert Singer.”

The door slammed behind them, the echo reverberating in Bobby’s ribs. Doubt clawed at his guts. Who did he think he was to treat Dean when he didn’t even know what Dean was? What if this was it? What if he couldn’t help Dean? What if his boy…

Bobby shook himself and shoved the thoughts aside. No time for that now. First the medical kit and the towels.

A high whine escaped Dean’s lips as Bobby came back into the room. The boy was soaked in sweat and shaking. Sam carded his fingers through Dean’s hair, not even looking up as Bobby approached.

“Has he said anything? What happened?” Bobby set the medical kit on the floor next to the bed.

Sam shook his head. “What do we do, Bobby?” Sam’s face was streaked with tears.

“Now we figure out what’s wrong with him,” Bobby set his jaw.

“Here,” Bobby passed Sam a bowl of water and a towel. “Keep him cool.”

Dean jerked away from the cloth, flipping away from Sam and Bobby. They both let out a startled gasp. The back of Dean’s shirt was soaked in red. Bobby moved, tugging Dean’s shirt up. Blood ran in rivulets down Dean’s spine, trailing from his shoulder blades. Bobby snatched the cloth from Sam’s lax fingers and wiped the blood away. Two wounds wept blood, one on each shoulder blade. Bobby squinted, his heart pounding. It almost looked like the skin had burst.

Bobby grabbed the alcohol from the first aid kit and poured it over the left wound. Dean shouted and bucked. Bobby stared. Under the skin, something moved. Like a muscle jumping. It pressed back against the open flesh, struggling to break through. With shaking fingers Bobby prodded against the skin, trying to get a better view. Something poked out from the skin. It dropped onto the sheets, slimy red. Bobby stared.

It was a feather.

Bobby plucked up the feather and swirled it through the water in the bowl. The blood sloughed off and left a soft, tiny pinion in the palm of Bobby’s hand. It was pure white, so snowy it almost seemed to glow.

Bobby jerked his head up and met Sam’s steady gaze. Sam’s jaw was tight, but there was no surprise in his scared eyes.

“Did you know?”

Sam looked away. “No. At least, we weren’t sure.” He looked up at Bobby again. “You always knew we weren’t human. Does this make a difference?”

The challenge was delivered with venom. Bobby examined his feelings. Staring down at Dean, broken and bloody, he didn’t feel repulsed, or angry. The only fear churning in his gut was for Dean.

“No. This changes nothing.”

Dean continued to sprout wings all night long. Sam and Bobby stayed by his side, doing their best to keep him comfortable. Dean whimpered as bone continued to push out of his flesh at an alarming speed. His frame was too small for this, Bobby thought. He was too small, too young, for this pain. Sam kept one hand in his brother’s hair, petting and whispering in Dean’s ear. Bobby wasn’t sure what he was saying, but he was pretty sure Dean wasn’t hearing half of it.

At first light the last of the wings had finally pushed free. At a wingspan of over ten feet, the long white appendages draped over the edges of the bed, trailing on the floor. The white feathers were crusty with dried blood, but no less impressive. Powerful. That was how Bobby would have described them.

Dean slept, exhausted and bloody. Sam nodded off in a chair beside him, their fingers laced together. Bobby shoved himself to his feet and went to call Ellen.

“Well, they aren’t E.T.s.” He said in leiu of a greeting.

“How do you mean?”

 “They’re angels.”

A long pause. “How do you know?” Ellen asked.

“The wings Dean is growing are a pretty fair hint.”

The phone was silent. Bobby waited.

“If that’s true I think I owe you an apology, Bobby.” Ellen said at last.

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his beard. “An ‘I told you so’ is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“How so?”

“How am I supposed to hide the fact that one of my boys has sprouted wings?”

“Well, you could cut them off.” Ellen offered.

Bobby was cold as ice. “That is the worst thing you have ever said to me, Ellen.” He hung up.

Bobby leaned his head against the wall and sighed. Now what? How was Dean supposed to get by with massive wings on his back? How long until Sam grew wings too? For now, Bobby relished in a moment of silence.  A scream shattered the silence. Bobby was halfway up the stairs in the space between two heartbeats.

Bobby careened into the bedroom, Demon Knife at the ready. Sam was on his feet, staring at the opposite wall. Dean was still out cold.

“What’s going on?” Bobby shouted.

Sam shook his head, pointing at the wall. “There was someone there.”

“What?”

“Someone in a trench coat.”

Bobby’s hands went slick. H. How had he found them? Bobby hadn’t seen hide or hair of them since the library.

“Come with me. We’re demon proofing the house. Now.”

Sam nodded, business as usual. Together they laid Devil’s Traps in every doorway. They salted every door and window. Bobby ripped back the rug in the living room and painted a key of Solomon over the floorboards. Bobby sent Sam out to the truck to get the jugs of holy water.

Bobby went to check on Dean, armed with a shotgun full of rock salt. He pushed open the door and stopped cold. A figure stood over Dean’s bed, no more than a shadow in the dark room. A long coat hung to his knees.

Bobby raised his shotgun. “How did you get in here?”

The figure turned. “Hello, Bobby.”

It had been years, but Bobby knew that gravelly voice. Every detail of that night was permanently scarred in his brain pan. The shotgun dropped to his side.

“You’re that fella that faced down the wolf.”

“It wasn’t a wolf. It was a hellhound.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I believe you call it a Black Dog.” The man moved, and Bobby raised the gun again.

“You were there the night I found Sam and Dean.” Bobby’s pulse rocketed.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The man clicked his fingers and the lights switched on.

He looked like a tax accountant. Dark hair, rumpled suit, tan trench coat. Blue eyes like fire.

Bobby didn’t lower the gun. “What are you?”

The man inclined his head. “I am Castiel. An angel of the Lord.”

Bobby’s mouth went dry. “An angel?” His eyes glanced off the wings covering Dean’s sleeping form. “I don’t see any feathers, pal.”

The lights flickered. Behind Castiel a huge spectral projection of wings fell across the wall. They were coal black, made of shadow. The darkness faded. The lights fizzled back.

Bobby swallowed hard. “How come yours are all-,”

“Most angels keep their wings on a different astral plane while on earth. It makes things less… difficult.”

Against his better judgement, Bobby believed him. He lowered the gun to his side. Using it would be like blowing bubbles, anyways. The mounting trepidation didn’t dissipate as Castiel’s frown smoothed. “Why are you here?”

“For Dean.”

Fear flashed red hot through Bobby. “You can’t have him.”

Castiel’s eyes flashed silver. “Now that his wings have grown, Dean is considered a fully matured angel. Which means other angels can find him. Like I did. Do you understand how dangerous that is?”

“No, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand,” Bobby argued. “Dean is my son. I don’t know you from Adam. He’s not going with you.”

Castiel tipped his head, curiosity written all over his face. “You truly consider Sam and Dean to be your kin?”

Bobby straightened his spine. “Yes.”

“Curious.”

“Bobby?” Sam stood in the doorway; eyes locked on Castiel.

Bobby glanced at Dean’s sleeping form. “Let’s take this conversation downstairs. I have a feeling it’s about to get heated.”

“Who are you?” Sam whirled on Castiel as soon as his boots hit the living room carpet. Castiel moved across the room. Bobby watched Sam track Castiel’s even steps cross over the key of Solomon and pass outside the circle with ease. Castiel went to the window, lifting the curtains to watch the sunrise. He didn’t give any indication he intended to answer Sam’s question.

“He says he’s an angel,” Bobby finally spit out.

“Bull.”

“Watch your mouth,” Bobby snapped out of habit. He felt like cursing Castiel too. Who did the angels think they were to show up here after sixteen years to claim something that for all intents and purposes, they abandoned? Heaven could go to Hell, for all Bobby cared.

           “I don’t care what kind of heavenly Host you say you are, you are not taking Dean.”

“Perhaps Dean should answer for himself,” Castiel tipped his head. Bobby followed his gaze. Dean swayed at the top of the stairs, bleary eyed and confused. He bent under the weight of his new wings sweeping the floor.

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice was wrecked from screaming. The sound tugged at Bobby’s chest.

“Here, Dean.” Bobby called back.

Dean stumbled down the stairs. Sam rushed to his side. Sam looped Dean’s arm over his shoulder. Dean let him, a testament to how beaten he was.

Dean locked eyes on the stranger in their midst. “Who’re you?”

“Castiel.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard your voice. In my head.”

“What?” Bobby startled.

Castiel nodded like he’d expected this. “Angels can communicate with each other across vast distances.”

“It was like tuning into radio.”

“Dean, your power is growing. You’re going to discover new abilities, and that makes you dangerous.”

Dean stiffened. “Are you here to take me away?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Bobby snapped.

Castiel turned patient eyes on him. “You misunderstand. I don’t intend to harm him. I’m here to make sure Dean, and Sam, are protected from the forces of Heaven and Hell.”

“I don’t get it,” Sam spoke up.

Castiel turned back to the window. “Heaven and Hell are locked in an epic battle. They intend to bring about Armageddon and destroy the world. For that to happen, they need Sam and Dean.”

“For what?” Bobby’s stomach churned.

“I don’t know. You have to understand, I’m not a part of Heaven’s army.” Castiel shrugged. “I’ve gone rogue, as it were.”

He stepped over to Dean, gaze focused as though studying him. “I’m here to offer my help. I can show you how to cloak yourselves from detection. I can teach you to hone the gifts you’re unlocking as you become fully mature angels.”

“I don’t see why I gotta leave to do that,” Dean said, his jaw tight.

“You are in danger.” Castiel said carefully. “Everyone you are around is in danger. Angels and demons will converge on you, to claim you as a weapon for their side.”

Dean’s wings ruffled. “I remember us beating a whole legion of demons on our own. Let ‘em come.”

Castiel shook his head. “These will not be lowly demons. We are talking Princes of Hell. And Archangels, Heaven’s mightiest warriors. You have never faced anything like this.”

“I don’t care what kind of firepower they throw at us. I’m not leaving my family.”

“Dean-,”

Dean interrupted. “You said you can teach me. So teach me. But I’m not going to live in the desert and be a monk or whatever you have planned. I’m staying here.”

Castiel stepped closer, leaning into Dean’s personal space. Dean held his ground, staring him down. The two stood locked in a private war of wills.

Castiel finally sighed. “The stubbornness of humanity has worn off on you, I see.”

“Thanks,” Dean smirked.

Bobby exchanged a glance with Sam, “I guess we’re staying.”

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#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #angel with a shotgun #jo harvelle #ellen harvelle #wing fic #kid fic #castiel #cas #angel au #fanfiction #fandom #this is the chapter ive been waiting to write since i started #fanfic

[amberdscott2]

Mobile Giants: Please Don’t Share the Where

Your mobile phone is giving away your approximate location all day long. This isn’t exactly a secret: It has to share this data with your mobile provider constantly to provide better call quality and to route any emergency 911 calls straight to your location. But now, the major mobile providers in the United States — AT&T, Sprint, T-Mobile and Verizon — are selling this location information to third party companies — in real time — without your consent or a court order, and with apparently zero accountability for how this data will be used, stored, shared or protected.

Think about what’s at stake in a world where anyone can track your location at any time and in real-time. Right now, to be free of constant tracking the only thing you can do is remove the SIM card from your mobile device never put it back in unless you want people to know where you are.

It may be tough to put a price on one’s location privacy, but here’s something of which you can be sure: The mobile carriers are selling data about where you are at any time, without your consent, to third-parties for probably far less than you might be willing to pay to secure it.

The problem is that as long as anyone but the phone companies and law enforcement agencies with a valid court order can access this data, it is always going to be at extremely high risk of being hacked, stolen and misused.

Consider just two recent examples. Earlier this month The New York Times reported that a little-known data broker named Securus was selling local police forces around the country the ability to look up the precise location of any cell phone across all of the major U.S. mobile networks. Then it emerged that Securus had been hacked, its database of hundreds of law enforcement officer usernames and passwords plundered. We also found out that Securus’ data was ultimately obtained from a California-based location tracking firm LocationSmart.

On May 17, KrebsOnSecurity broke the news of research by Carnegie Mellon University PhD student Robert Xiao, who discovered that a LocastionSmart try-before-you-buy opt-in demo of the company’s technology was wide open — allowing real-time lookups from anyone on anyone’s mobile device — without any sort of authentication, consent or authorization.

Xiao said it took him all of about 15 minutes to discover that LocationSmart’s lookup tool could be used to track the location of virtually any mobile phone user in the United States.

Securus seems equally clueless about protecting the priceless data to which it was entrusted by LocationSmart. Over the weekend KrebsOnSecurity discovered that someone — almost certainly a security professional employed by Securus — has been uploading dozens of emails, PDFs, password lists and other files to Virustotal.com — a service owned by Google that can be used to scan any submitted file against dozens of commercial antivirus tools.

Antivirus companies willingly participate in Virustotal because it gives them early access to new, potentially malicious files being spewed by cybercriminals online. Virustotal users can submit suspicious files of all kind; in return they’ll see whether any of the 60+ antivirus tools think the file is bad or benign.

One basic rule that all Virustotal users need to understand is that any file submitted to Virustotal is also available to customers who purchase access to the service’s file repository. Nevertheless, for the past two years someone at Securus has been submitting a great deal of information about the company’s operations to Virustotal, including copies of internal emails and PDFs about visitation policies at a number of local and state prisons and jails that made up much of Securus’ business.

Some of the many, many files uploaded to Virustotal.com over the years by someone at Securus Technologies.

One of the files, submitted on April 27, 2018, is titled “38k user pass microsemi.com – joomla_production.mic_users_blockedData.txt”.  This file includes the names and what appear to be hashed/scrambled passwords of some 38,000 accounts — supposedly taken from Microsemi, a company that’s been called the largest U.S. commercial supplier of military and aerospace semiconductor equipment.

Many of the usernames in that file do map back to names of current and former employees at Microsemi. KrebsOnSecurity shared a copy of the database with Microsemi, but has not yet received a reply. Securus also has not responded to requests for comment.

These files that someone at Securus apparently submitted regularly to Virustotal also provide something of an internal roadmap of Securus’ business dealings, revealing the names and login pages for several police departments and jails across the country, such as the Travis County Jail site’s Web page to access Securus’ data.

Check out the screen shot below. Notice that forgot password link there? Clicking that prompts the visitor to enter their username and to select a “security question” to answer. There are but three questions: “What is your pet’s name? What is your favorite color? And what town were you born in?” There don’t appear to be any limits on the number of times one can attempt to answer a secret question.

Choose wisely and you, too, could gain the ability to look up anyone’s precise mobile location.

Given such robust, state-of-the-art security, how long do you think it would take for someone to figure out how to reset the password for any authorized user at Securus’ Travis County Jail portal?

Yes, companies like Securus and Location Smart have been careless with securing our prized location data, but why should they care if their paying customers are happy and the real-time data feeds from the mobile industry keep flowing?

No, the real blame for this sorry state of affairs comes down to AT&T, Sprint, T-Mobile and Verizon. T-Mobile was the only one of the four major providers that admitted providing Securus and LocationSmart with the ability to perform real-time location lookups on their customers. The other three carriers declined to confirm or deny that they did business with either company.

As noted in my story last Thursday, LocationSmart included the logos of the four carriers on their home page — in addition to those of several other major firms (that information is no longer available on the company’s site, but it can still be viewed by visiting this historic record of it over at the Internet Archive).

Now, don’t think for a second that these two tiny companies are the only ones with permission from the mobile giants to look up such sensitive information on demand. At a minimum, each one of these companies can in theory resell (or leak) this information and access to others. On 15 May, ZDNet reported that Securus was getting its data from the carriers by going through an intermediary: 3Cinteractive, which was getting it from LocationSmart.

However, it is interesting that the first insight we got that the mobile firms were being so promiscuous with our private location data came in the Times story about law enforcement officials seeking the ability to access any mobile device’s location data in real time.

All technologies are double-edged swords, which means that each can be used both for good and malicious ends. As much as police officers may wish to avoid the hassle and time constraints of having to get a warrant to determine the precise location of anyone they please whenever they wish, those same law enforcement officers should remember that this technology works both ways: It also can just as easily be abused by criminals to track the real-time movements of police and their families, informants, jurors, witnesses and even judges.

Consider the damage that organized crime syndicates — human traffickers, drug smugglers and money launderers — could inflict armed with an app that displays the precise location of every uniformed officer from within 300 ft to across the country. All because they just happened to know the cell phone number tied to each law enforcement official.

Maybe you have children or grandchildren who — like many of their peers these days — carry a mobile device at all times for safety and for quick communication with parents or guardians. Now imagine that anyone in the world has the instant capability to track where your kid is at any time of day. All they’d need is your kid’s digits.

Maybe you’re the current or former target of a stalker, jilted ex-spouse, or vengeful co-worker. Perhaps you perform sensitive work for the government. All of the above-mentioned parties and many more are put at heightened personal risk by having their real-time location data exposed to commercial third parties.

Some people might never sell their location data for any price: I suspect most of us would like this information always to be private unless and until we change the defaults (either in a binary “on/off” way or app-specific). On the other end of the spectrum there are probably plenty of people who don’t care one way or another provided that sharing their location information brings them some real or perceived financial or commercial benefit.

The point is, for many of us location privacy is priceless because, without it, almost everything else we’re doing to safeguard our privacy goes out the window.

And this sad reality will persist until the mobile providers state unequivocally that they will no longer sell or share customer location data without having received and validated some kind of legal obligation — such as a court-ordered subpoena.

But even that won’t be enough, because companies can and do change their policies all the time without warning or recourse (witness the current reality). It won’t be enough until lawmakers in this Congress step up and do their jobs — to prevent the mobile providers from selling our last remaining bastion of privacy in the free world to third party companies who simply can’t or won’t keep it secure.

The next post in this series will examine how we got here, and what Congress and federal regulators have done and might do to rectify the situation.

from Amber Scott Technology News https://krebsonsecurity.com/2018/05/mobile-giants-please-dont-share-the-where/

[300videotapes]

FINCHER CLUB : The Movie Keeps Going

There is an indelible mark or aura found in a film and the consensus would be that the director is the one who left it. One can debate that creating a film is a team process and thus many finger prints, but all teams have captains at the helm and for this paper let us decide the director is the heart of the process. As the auteur theory would suggest these people take over the author role of the film, as a picture is not just words expressed, but several different elements orchestrated by a conductor. Just as a novelist will often have a tendency to have his habits and old familiar phrases the same can be found in a director of cinema. Like the concise brevity of Raymond Carver or the sexual deviances of John Irving’s characters we can read it name unknown and yet feel like we see their name above the work. The director does this as well, but with so many more elements such as coloring, editing, and acting performance. Wes Anderson has bad fathers in his stories or perfect choreography to the tiniest detail. There is an undeniable difference between a conversation of characters in a Robert Altman Film than there is in any other films that exist in the English language but he did not write the dialog. Quentin Tarantino is proof of Auteur because he steals all the fingerprints from the best and the cheesiest auteurs around. We are also to conclude that not every director is an auteur just as every film is not a piece of art, but sometimes entertainment or a cinema for cinema’s sake. We are however fortunate that auteurs do exist and they create rich, strong bodies of work that for the most part stand out from other filmmakers and have a flavor all their own. In almost every film in his vast career bouncing from science fiction to thriller to neo noir there is an imprint left in the work of Auteur Director David Fincher that creates a signature style and storytelling we can expect from him. One such technique that we see often is the use of Montage Theory by putting two opposing images and creating a third result.  David Fincher has had a strong body of work spanning from Alien 3 to Gone Girl. There are definitive Fincher Techniques that immediately tell you that this is his film. From the inventive graphic titles to the green tinge of the cinematography it is apparent when Fincher wants you to know his style. From early on in the dawn of Computer Graphics Fincher stretched its capabilities to the limits and yet you would never compare his cinema to that of Michael Bay or The Wachowski’s. David Fincher likes to use every corner of space, but he doesn’t like the shots to feel cheated as if the walls were torn down to achieve a shot. I believe he was very influential to Inarritu’s Birdman in the fluid nature of it’s cinematography helped by lo fi Computer graphic design between days and nights of the character. When in most films it is obvious who is the star, this can be more difficult task with David Fincher. In Zodiac we follow not just the victims, but different angles of investigation from multiple sources played by Robert Downey Jr., Mark Ruffalo and Jake Gylenhaal. Neither Jesse Eisenberg or Andrew Garfield were on screen stars until after their shared starring in The Social Network which is not the typical vehicle for such maneuvers, but thanks to Fincher’s equal display of both of their talents they became important to Hollywood. I cannot stress enough how important Fincher’s Music selection and score choices are to his craft. The use of score in a Fincher film is never to evoke an emotion, but instead suggest a familiar feeling. The right pop song creates a new definition forever, as was the case with “Herdy Gerdy Man” by Donovan in Zodiac. The most common thing I see about Fincher is his use of the theory of Montage. In Fight Club we see opposing images of what is assumed to be normal and what is actually going on. In fact that is sort of the point of the film that seeing both Tyler and Jack should equal out who you really see. Editing is a very strong attribute that defines Fincher. On a second or third watch of the film you might notice that a technique of splicing that is described in a scene is executed several times with what appears to be single frames of Tyler before Jack ever meets him. In The Social Network during the opening credits we see two opposing images back and forth of what college life can be: lavish parties or staying in your room with your computer trolling. Fincher uses all the tools available at his disposal to keep your mind tingling from the first frame to the last frame in his films.  If Seven was the picture that got people talking about David Fincher then Fight Club was the film that made him unforgettable. An incredibly daring adaptation that stayed miraculously true to the book more than most adaptations and yet had it’s own distinct flavor that makes it more memorable than the novel. One of the biggest pet peeves of Hollywood is too much narration and there is a lot of key narration created by Chuck Palahniuk. Fincher expertly uses the aforementioned computer graphics to give interesting visuals that make every word seem like gospel from a punk rock god. When Jack, played by Edward Norton, rants about corporate America we don’t just see his face we get a point of view of the garbage heap or consumerism within every wastebasket in America. Where at the time computer graphics were most known for action and science fiction films Fincher used and continues to use it to make the mundane come alive. The Dust Brothers Score is composed so methodically that almost entrances you to join up with the Space Monkeys of Project Mayhem. There is also the incorporation of synthesizer noises to give dramatic emphasis on a moment without being too flashy. Fincher never has the music say, “hey it is time to be scared for the main character,” instead it says, “you already are.” Both costars get so much time on screen that you cannot assume who is the star even despite the name recognition of Brad Pitt and so many scenes are stolen by the introduction of Helena Bonham Carter to American cinema.  Ten Years After Fight Club we still see similar styles in his collaboration with writer Aaron Sorkin: The Social Network. There are obvious scenes containing Sorkin dialogue that are not usual for a Fincher film and yet you could also say these scenes are directed like no one else would. We usually would see far less sound design on the opening bar sequence discussion and the song definitely tricks you into a false sense that the date is going well before the shit hits the fan. There is also a boat race later in the film that seems much more epic because of the song choice and because it is a great metaphor for being first to market with Facebook.  Computer graphics appear in this dramatic non-adventurous film. Instead of just split screen like a Disney twin film Fincher uses advanced technology to have an actor play both Winklevoss’ Twins and show the actor Armie Hammer’s range. The coloring is most certainly stamped by Fincher as there is again the green tinge of his cinema that you even see sneak into his television work. The editing is fiercely used to create an environment for each situation and rising tension in which should be a cookie cutter biopic about a kid who became a billionaire. Not only the cuts in the flashbacks from the interviews with the lawyers, but the escalation of the character Eduardo Saverin’s hate of Napster creator Sean Parker when he recounts meeting him. The absence of cuts when he lets a scene breathe is also very Fincher as he decides to just use a movement of a camera or the eery stillness of the camera. A decade later we know when we see a film from this auteur even when it is a biographical film, because it is also an original piece thanks to his taste and style.  The idea of the auteur has been obscured by difference of opinions as to whether it is the thematic storytelling or the panache of a director that sets him apart from others. It is my opinion that one is an extension of the other that shows itself depending on the inclination of the auteur. To concentrate on theme is a representational tool that the artist chooses to use because that is how they like to adjust their focus in contrast to others. Peter Wollen states in his essay “The Auteur Theory” that there be “two main schools of auteur: [either] those who insisted on revealing a core of meanings, of thematic motifs [or] those who stressed style and mise en scene (364).” I think if the critics of the past were to redefine their idea of style to more than just theatrics and visual settings they might realize that there is a greater juxtaposition at hand rather than division. I find this division to be a hasty prejudicial decision to separate art as either something that makes you think, or something that ensnares the senses. Both avenues work the brain and thus they are more akin than separate, as it would be assumed. Fincher can both take us on a wild ride and make us think about a bigger picture when looking at any of his film. All the elements at his disposal create a point of view unlike any other just as the next auteur can. From a scientific view what makes an auteur is the constant choice to be an auteur and not an exhibitor.    But an honest simplification of the auteur by Wollen is far less of a crime than that of Timothy Corrigan in his essay, “The Commerce of Auteurism.” Wollen is simply taking the ideas of the past and trying to show the historical divide of auteur theory. Whereas Corrigan wants to be jaded and believe, “modernist corrections, discussions, or deconstructions of the romantic roots of auteurism need to be taken another step towards recontextualizing them within industrial and commercial trajectories (419).” This argument is no different than believing the chicken came before the egg. If an auteur is just a marketing tool than so were the early beginnings of punk rock before it’s fragmentation and evolution. Without a body of work I don’t believe the director or the audience can truly know whether the director is an auteur. The first film is a trial and error often staying in comfort zones. The second film can either be experimental or play to the audience. If the creator continues to play to the audience then they are what I referred to as the exhibitor and not the auteur. The auteur just keeps making stories and can’t help but leaves his mark. After a fair amount of work is done you can distinguish the auteur from the exhibitor by the advertising of the film. One just sees whether they say “from the maker of alien 3” or, “another film from visionary David Fincher.”  But that is after the eggs have already hatched.  If we were to believe in the aforementioned two definitions of auteur one might hastily fit David Fincher into the category of an auteur that puts style over content. This would be understating the importance of Fincher’s editing choices. Fincher often uses cutting to give more meaning to his work. Earlier I mentioned that in “The Social Network” he showed two vast parallels of college life. Nameless partygoers ready for debauchery and bad decisions placed against our protagonist heading home to a night of feeding off his frustrations and lashing out passive aggressively. There isn’t an escape from a discussion and he has placed it smack dab at the beginning of his film like a thesis in an essay. There is a negative connotation towards both types of Friday night options at college based on the music, the lighting, and the speed of the film. Together these two images create a third image of what Fincher sees as the third option to the night, the option that pops in your head as you watch. So even though the textual author Aaron Sorkin could easily overshadow Fincher he isn’t, because Fincher is the prominent contextual auteur of the film. As Sergei Eisenstein said in a quote found in Lev Kuleshov’s “Principles of Montage”, “The interaction of separate montage segments, their position, and likewise their rhythmic duration, become the contents of the production and world view of the artist (142).”  Film can be argued to the tiniest celluloid as to whether there is more or less going on in the picture that was done with or without a purposeful thought. But what can’t be argued is a repetition of evidence that appears in several pictures. There is evidence within David Fincher’s body of work that unmistakably notes him as an auteur. There is a compositional style both in the editing and musical choices present in all his pictures. The large casts of stars in his films get equal time to shine and display their amazing performances. Where auteurism is usually a hidden aura we can actually see Fincher’s is a dark green shade over his images. It is seen more so in the computer techniques to that beautify the ugly in a commercial ore residential setting. To not identify him as auteur or to believe in the auteur is to disrespect the craft of film and assume that all pictures are the same. But if the novel shouldn’t be judged for it’s cover a film shouldn’t be judged either.

#david fincher #fight club #zodiac #the social network #film #essay #essay writing #auteur #auteur theory