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grits-galraisedinthesouth · 1 year

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Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

"Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing...This crowd was checking their watches."

"If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled...Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan. Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say."

"And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night."

MAUREEN CALLAHAN: Meghan's word-salad Manhattan gala appearance

She so badly wants to be the Queen of Hearts.

But, as she arrived on Tuesday night, making her grand entrance in Midtown Manhattan, sauntering past that rental-car backdrop, it was more like the Queen of Hertz.

Of course, as the world is now all too aware, Meghan Markle capped off winning a meaningless award with what we’re told was a ‘near catastrophic’, ‘two-hour’ car chase through the streets of Manhattan.

Yes, according to a spokesperson, Meghan, along with hapless Harry and mom Doria, were the subjects of a wild, impassioned hunt by the paparazzi.

Some sympathetic commentators have already made the gruesome comparisons to Princess Diana’s tragic final fate.

But to echo the statements made by New York City’s own mayor Eric Adams and the police department: Perhaps it didn’t quite happen the way it was painted.

Recollections may vary.

Naturally, their mouthpiece Omid Scobie is whining that no one from the Palace has yet reached out.

Wonder why?

One also wonders what Gloria Steinem, the 89-year-old feminist icon who chose to honor Meghan as a ‘Woman of Vision’ at Tuesday night’s Ms. Foundation Gala, must be thinking now.

After all, the car ‘chase’ debacle soon stole all the thunder from her event, which I was lucky enough to witness first-hand.

Now, it was hardly the red carpet one might expect. Hardly the pomp and circumstance of, say, a coronation.

Yet Meghan forged ahead as she always does, as if this were her crowning moment, sheathed in gold as if to symbolize a crown.

Or an Oscar statuette.

Same difference, really, if your only goal is fame. That’s our Meghan, none too subtle as ever, literally going for the gold as Harry and Doria took their positions three steps behind.

Harry may be a prince of the blood, but never forget — Meghan is The Star. Her Norma Desmond-ing is among the great spectacles of our modern age.

And this image, our renegade duchess without a palace-worthy advance team to prevent such cheap optics as the Hertz hiccup, set the tone for the evening: Fatuous, irrelevant, high on its own self-regard, all sense of purpose lost. Gloria Steinem, once the face of women’s rights, reduced to star-f***ery. It was a bizarre night.

Upon entering the Zeigfeld Ballroom, guests were asked whether they were ‘VIP’ — seems even feminist movements have their echelons — and turfed to the lobby.

My $1,500 entry-level ticket got me a hard seat with a front-row view of coat check.

After ten minutes, circumstances having changed inexplicably, the riff-raff were allowed up to the second floor.

Here were two open bars serving top-shelf liquor and the shock of post-pandemic dress code slovenliness. One unkempt guest was wearing sparkly Birkenstock sandals and a black stretchy minidress under a pink puffer jacket.

These were the VIPs?

The only recognizable person I saw was Peloton instructor Ally Love, and that’s saying something. Where were the stars? Where were the notables of the movement? The Malalas? The Fondas? The Beyoncés?

Perhaps no one was meant to outshine Meghan. Only one feminist icon was going to enter via rental car office!

Down in the ballroom, the plated salads on our banquet tables were ready waiting for us – dry, unsightly, stringy greens that resembled nothing so much as regurgitated hairballs. Notably, not one person I spoke to nor one speaker or honoree mentioned Meghan.

Not one said how exciting it was to have her there. Not one expressed the slightest curiosity at what she’d have to say.

If anything, as the night dragged on and the event slipped an hour behind schedule – a sudden break announced so we could finally have dinner – the crowd bristled.

It says something when a table of size-6 women tear into their heavily glazed steak and buttery mashed potatoes with abandon.

Yes, the night was pure Meghan Markle: A manufactured build-up of anticipation, a highly dramatic entrance afforded no other actual activist — Meghan climbed on stage to the Alicia Keys she-ro anthem ‘Girl on Fire’ — and then... a whole lot of nothing.

Verbiage and word salad that were content-free, except when speaking on her favorite subject: herself.

Here, in real time, we observed Meghan’s inability to read a room. She thanked the ‘other honorees’ without naming them.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, ‘and frankly, well deserved.’

It was all so smug and supercilious, this glorified podcaster telling these boots-on-the-ground activists — no matter what one thinks of their politics — that they had, in fact, earned their place on the same stage as the great Meghan Markle. That ‘frankly’ was so typical. It was meant to redound to Meghan’s benefit, as the lone wolf daring to speak the unspeakable.

There was the cringe-inducing humblebrag, calling her new friend Gloria ‘Glo’.

It brought to mind the forced intimacy of meeting Kate Middleton barefoot and insisting that the pair share lip gloss.

It's 'Glo' to Meghan, but Meghan is 'Duchess' to us.

‘We all bear witness,’ Meghan continued of her fellow honorees, ‘to you standing in elegance and the power of your strength.’

Huh?

This crowd was not convinced. This crowd was checking their watches. There were trains to catch, children to kiss goodnight. Alas, we were stuck with the vapidity of La Markle.

Her speech didn’t even deliver fresh content! She repeated the story, as told on her podcast, of poor little Meghan coming home from school to her TV dinner, cat collars and copies of Ms. Magazine strewn about courtesy of her mother — even though it’s well-documented that her father primarily raised her.

‘Having these pages in our home,’ she went on, ‘. . . signaled to me that there was so much more than the dolled-up covers and those images that you would see on the grocery store covers. It signaled to me that substance mattered.’

Says the former D-list actress and former briefcase game-show girl who used her looks to get ahead. Who has posed for those very same magazine covers.This warmed-over speech, less heated than our steaks, was Meghan’s greatest hits:

‘Change is just one action away.’

‘You can be the visionary of your own life.’

‘Daily acts of service, in kindness, in advocacy, in grace and in fairness.’

‘The imprints that were forged in my mind — I can now connect the dots in a much better way to understand how I became a young feminist and evolved into a grown activist.’

A feminist who, let us not forget, has publicly demonized her famous sister-in-law — ‘Waity Katie’ to Oprah and an audience of millions.

Kate made me cry! WAAAGH!

In truth, Meghan's a self-identified 'grown activist' who has done nothing. The pontification, her sing-song-y cadence as she luxuriated in her own praise, was as insufferable as it was revealing.

‘Ms.’ she said, ‘was formative in [my] cocooning. It piqued my curiosity, and it became the chrysalis for the woman that I would become and that I am today.’

Right: The woman who vilified the institution headed-up by Queen Elizabeth II in her final years. The woman who heavily alleged institutional racism until her husband finally backed away from that terrible smear.

A woman with no substance and no accomplishments as a feminist. A woman who is still trying to one-up the royals, even from a car-park adjacent ballroom with no red carpet. Meghan is the personification of Ms. as an organization that has lost its way.

Indeed, most of the night was spent advocating not for women but for trans rights and Critical Race Theory.

‘Abortion is racist,’ we were told.

Beware the ‘the white supremacist patriarchal system.’

Yes, even the Ms. Foundation – established for biological women out of a deep, and enduring, necessity – has been subsumed by men who identify as women.

How fitting then that the night was overshadowed by a grasping phony whose empty platitudes on stage failed to make headlines, whose spokesperson told a wild story of a high-stakes car chase.

Pity Meghan, but recognize her strength. Admire her, but never laugh at her. And never, ever question her veracity.

Worldwide Privacy Tour Part 2, it seems, is well underway.

#worldwide privacy tour #waaagh #megxit #fraud and fraudess #jussie smollett #maureen callahan #ms #gloria steinem #hertz #hertz dress #hertz so bad #sparry #word salad #low rent #participation trophies #participation awards #south park

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plasticfangtastic · 1 year

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Can we be lonely Together?

A Homelander x Stalker!Reader fan fiction

This is my first fic for this fandom (and in a decade lol) this is a bit of a slow burner and will have about 8 to 9 chapters.

This is a Gender Neutral reader (but honestly is just me shipping Homelander with Joe Goldberg... so feel free to see it as a crossover, just not going to make it clear at all in the fic.)

Summary: We were two mouses pretending to be cats, weren't we?

We didn't expect to find ourselves in this situation, but John... Homelander... you were perfect... none of this was a lie, these feelings I got are genuine! So I don't know why you're using such words like: Stalker, Psychotic bitch, Insane, liar! To describe me... after all I've done? To help you!?

You were wrong.

I just yearned to get closer to you. So what if I did my homework? After all it was you who played along.

I knew you knew... you were so loud.

R18+ (there will be smut, drug abuse and gore in later chapters) gore, stalking, killing.

Chapter One

Apologies

It pains me to say this… I'm genuinely ashamed, embarrassed more like it! To admit that I genuinely wasn’t impressed by you.

Your face had been painted on every surface to death... It has grown boring.

Nothing but an overbearing presence to the common man, but the average citizen didn’t loathe you, fear you, hate you or even found you pastiche! They simply adored you.

Your face was plastered on everything one could imagine and then some– I’m not just talking mugs by the Target checkout area or birthday cards, and keychains, but sausage packages in the supermarket! Your face wasn’t all that special to me… I used to think of you as nothing more than an aged jock from a John Hughes movie, the tights didn’t fool me, you wore the varsity jacket underneath the foam-- I had bets that you were going to be the worst the world could’ve manufactured if I ever met you.

Now… Now I see… I was wrong… contrite is the word that describes this social faux-paux of mine.

Now I see… just how… unique you were-- the whole world didn’t have the faintest idea of just the sheer amount of bullcrap you had to endure everyday. Gosh I couldn’t even fathom being in your shoes, the fantasy alone proved heavy, and you had to do it all while looking more well adjusted and prim than Princess Diana during her divorce.

I’m sure you’ll be so divine in that revenge dress too.

I mean… you sort of knew you looked good in women's clothes, Is okay I like adventurous men… I’ll admit I might've dressed you a couple times in my head… but don’t worry! It was all flattering.

Which in terms of flattering things… it's a shame that this is how you catch me, how we end this farce, this game of pretends... today you could be the cat… I wish at least I had the time to wrap up the plastic sheets, or wash all this off me.

I feel the weight hit my foot directly, I barely wince, but I’m not taking my eyes off of you, feeling wet bubbles and gurgles tickling my bare toes– all I want is to give you decades worth of misplaced attention to those red eyes of yours… I seen your face in a million different ways, but never had I seen it in such vivid technicolor-- There’s no red that can quite match your eyes… as they watch me from this eighteen story window, inside an apartment smaller than your closet (that’s New York city for you kids). I can admit to having fantasized being on the receiving end, it would be fitting for me, us.

This building is so loud, it overwhelms us both, but unlike you right now I don’t have to listen to the upstairs neighbors petty grievances, the next door lady wondering where her kid is at these ungodly hours, the stoner in the elevator, or the homeless man wondering if his dollar store hooch was tainted with something because right now there was the freaking Homelander hovering above him! So I listen to her… right at my feet… gargling… hacking… I didn’t cut deep enough, and we both can hear it… knife still in my hand, her mind is nothing but the flashing lights of a faraway train, it’s ever so silent as the train drives off, all she can think off is a trip to europe when she was a child, and the snow devoured the sun and the music, it was just her, the train, the snow and us now.

“‘Is not what it looks like?’ Is that what you want to say?”

yeah. I mean… Can I? I licked the knife clean as if it was residuals from an apple, trying not to roll my eyes at you.

“Evening… John… Homelander.” My hand is on the window latch letting the cold breeze in, your eyes suffocating me just like the bitch behind us… I almost whimpered as they lost their candor giving me back blue moons– What brings you here?”

You points behind me, unable to believe I just said that, I give way for you.

Always staring at me– I want to hear your thoughts… for the first time in all my years of life I am yearning to listen, feeling every particle of my being falling apart as they're begging me to listen to your thoughts once more… but I can’t… Right now I’m in Finland, is winter, is cold-- everything you aren’t… because I am sorry… I pry so much.

The way you watch me isn’t undressing me further, I am mostly bare, just underwear and sweat and my soul too tainted for you to want to seek, I can’t make sense of that smirk on your lips that has only now begun to reach your eyes… this somehow has amused The Homelander, your laugh scares me far more than your ray-guns– are you mocking me!? No you…you wouldn't be, you’re gentleman after all, if you wanted to mock me… you would treat me like Miss Barrett, or Kevin.

I mean… I don’t want you to hate me. We are perfect for each other. We would be perfect… so just… let me… explain.

“Where do you like me to start?”

Your foot crushed the skull leaving it nothing but a gummy, clumpy pancake under your booth, sick of hearing it mope and cry for any longer it seems, you immediately threw your cracked phone at my feet.

“The beginning.” The Homelander growled.

#homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #the boys #fanfiction #gore mention #I'm ESL so please forgive my english #should post chapter 2 after I get out of work #tomorrow obviously #Can We Be Lonely Together #personal #my fic tag #will fix grammar tomorrow

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realisticintentions · 11 months

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Last Sentence Tag War:

Tagged by: @writerrose1998 @anotherbluesunday @nonamemanga @therulerofallpotatos @gardenoblues

Rules?

A little snippet popped into my head, and it's going right into my wyclay college au. Enjoy!

...

Her acute olfactory senses picked up a rather harsh mix of chemicals. Her nose twitched indifferently.

"Yes, PVC leather has a rather impressive toxic chemical process. The amount of sickness and death caused by breathing the emitting carcinogens throughout the manufacturing of your jacket would've been rather formidable, though I imagine that was not your intention when you purchased it. Not to mention the over 50% of plastic that will take decades to finally break down, once you toss that jacket into the landfill after it rips. If you're going to patronize me, the least you could have done was put the slightest amount of effort into it. This is New York, you could've easily maintained your aesthetic by simply thrifting a leather jacket."

...

Sigh... Into the outline it goes. Finding my motivation to work on any of these outlines/stories comes rather sporadically. I'm glad something new came along though.

Tagging: @suchaladyy @therulerofallpotatos @anotherbluesunday @nonamemanga @gardenoblues @writerrose1998 @persephoneed and others, I'm just too tired to name all of you guys at the moment, but consider yourself tagged. Probably gonna crash soon.

#wednesday addams #tyler galpin #wyler #weyler #wyclay #bianca barclay #This interaction is between Xavier and Wednesday but I didn't want to officially tag him #The “starving” artist 😒#college au #The war of the tags

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yatescountyhistorycenter · 8 months

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Written in stoneware: The potteries of Summersite

By Jonathan Monfiletto

A Yates County native who has collected pieces of pottery from various local stoneware manufacturers and researched the history of many of these companies recently reached out to me with a question about the succession of these producers in the Penn Yan area. She had found a stoneware batter pail marked “Conklin & Heimburger, Penn Yan” and wondered how this company might have related to the Mantell stoneware business.

This woman had previously sparked my interest in learning about Byron Ansley and Ansley’s Dairy after she asked me about the company behind an Ansley’s Dairy milk bottle she had come across. Naturally, she now sparked my interest in learning about stoneware manufacturers in Yates County; we have traded messages to share the information we have uncovered in our research, and now I present that research here.

In fact, my research into stoneware manufacturing overlapped with another topic I had begun researching at the time. You see, as it turns out, stoneware production in Yates County appears to have been concentrated around the foot of Keuka Lake – on the east branch, where the outlet flows out of the lake and heads toward Seneca Lake – because of “a choice bed of clay” in that area, according to a May 30, 1958 article in The Chronicle-Express. This area, now incorporated into the village of Penn Yan, was once its own separate settlement outside of the village proper. It was known as Summersite.

In 1832, George Campbell founded the first pottery at Summersite – in modern-day terms, think of the intersection of Lake Street and South Avenue and the location of Red Jacket Park – after possibly working at potteries in Manhattan before arriving in Penn Yan. Another source states John Campbell established a redware pottery in the area before 1830, while his son George took over the business by 1850. This source indicates John and George came from New York City. However, a newspaper advertisement dated February 20, 1832 announces George Campbell producing earthen water pipes, candle molds, and other earthenware at his factory at the foot of Crooked Lake.

The 1958 article, written by former Yates County Historian Frank Swann, mentions the firm of Savage & Knapp operating around the same time in the same area. That appears to have been a partnership of Joseph L. Savage and Samuel Knapp, who advertised in 1846 the sale of flint ware, bricks, and earthenware pieces. According to a chapter titled “The Dundee Connection” in a book titled Stoneware of Havana, NY, Savage also enjoyed a partnership in making stoneware in Dundee with James Holmes, of Barrington, who had discovered a bed of clay on Washington Street in Dundee. The Holmes & Savage partnership lasted just a short time – as did, presumably, the firm of Savage & Knapp – as Savage formed another partnership in the village of Havana (the former name of Montour Falls) by August 1850. In 1848, Holmes had already acquired another partner by the name of Purdee, and they continued making stoneware in Dundee.

Meanwhile, George Campbell sold his pottery in 1855 to James Mantell, who had come to Penn Yan from Lyons the year before. Mantell had been a potter in Lyons from 1840 to 1853 and thus was well prepared to keep Campbell’s business going. For a brief time, Mantell had a partner in Shem Thomas, who had arrived in Penn Yan in 1853 but moved on to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania in 1856. Mantell continued his business on his own until around 1876, apparently concluding his work with his death. By this point, Swann states, the original clay deposit had been exhausted and “suitable supplies for pottery were brought from New Jersey as ballast in canal boats.”

Nevertheless, the pottery industry in Summersite remained strong, with Oscar Conklin, Mantel’s son-in-law, taking over the business. He worked with at least three partners during this time in business – his firms were known as Conklin & Patterson, Conklin & Mingay, and Conklin & Heimburger. F.J. Elliott & Co. purchased the business sometime in the 1880s – a handwritten note in our subject file dates this purchase as May 1883 – though I have not uncovered an end date for this firm or a successor to this business. At some point, this may have represented the end of the stoneware pottery industry in the Summersite area of Penn Yan.

Much like this major industry in the area, the end of Summersite is also not clear to me. I assume the settlement melded into the village of Penn Yan over time as the village grew up, but I have not yet found concrete evidence for this. What I have found, though, is concrete evidence for the start of this lakeside settlement.

According to Stafford Cleveland in his History and Directory of Yates County, the first settler at the foot of Keuka Lake was John McDowell in 1803 on land belonging to Abraham Wagener, building a double log house on the bank of the lake on the east side of the outlet. A year later, William Wall purchased a tract of land on the west side of the outlet – the present-day Indian Pines area – and took steps to form a village, including surveying the ground into lots. However, Wall died soon after, Wagener took possession of the property, and the proposed village never came to fruition.

However, on the east side of the outlet, a village did come into being with the name of Elizabethtown. By 1817, Meredith Mallory had built a flour or gristmill in the area at the head of the outlet, depending on the low fall of water near that location. However, during the construction of Mallory’s mill, Wagener raised the level of the dam at his mill at the foot of Main Street so there was insufficient water to turn the wheels at Mallory’s mill. By September 1818, Gilman Lovering was operating the Bath, Painted Post, and Geneva stagecoach line. The construction of the highway led to the establishment of several taverns in this area. Zara L. Walton purchased the line on January 1, 1819 and kept it going. Exactly one month after Walton’s purchase of the highway, on February 1, 1819, a group of citizens met at Peter Heltibidal’s tavern and approved a resolution naming the community Summersite.

No matter the name of the settlement, it did seem to hold promise for a major village. In addition to the taverns – Wallace Finch started the first one and was succeeded in its ownership by Heltibidal, George and Robert Shearman, and William Kimble – there were mechanics and a grocery, both presumably serving the stagecoach passengers and workers. In addition to the potteries, other industries sprang up in the area. Isaiah Kimble manufactured augurs and bits; later on, Azor Kimble established a carriage shop. When the Crooked Lake Steamboat Company was incorporated in April 1826, there were hopes for a boom in the village. However, the company never got off the ground – or out on the water.

The Crooked Lake Canal opened a few years later, and the age of the steamboats on Keuka Lake soon dawned. However, by that point, the sun seems to have set on Summersite. “The prospective city of Summersite has faded away,” Cleveland wrote in 1873, while Swann noted the community has been encompassed into the village of Penn Yan.

#historyblog #history #museum #archives #american history #us history #local history #yatescounty #pennyan #summersite #industry #stoneware #pottery #keukalake

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thearmoury · 1 year

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This Horsehide Leather Double Rider Jacket was made in collaboration with The Real McCoy’s, a reproduction brand well known for taking inspiration from vintage Americana. Using the same materials and manufacturing methods from the 1940’s and 50s, founder Hitoshi Tsujimoto and his team of craftsmen use an incredible amount of detail to meet the specs and quality of the original garments. A longtime favorite of menswear writer Simon Crompton of @permanentstylelondon, our exclusive jacket is made up in a front quarter heavy-duty horsehide, engineered to be roughed up. Wear it in good stead, don’t be precious with it, and you will be rewarded with a beautifully patinated garment over many years of wear. (at The Armoury New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClzC4v4PLtx/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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fashionthroughtimewithlucy · 6 months

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Woodstock.

Woodstock, the most famous of the 1960s rock festivals, held on a farm property in Bethel, New York, August 15–18, 1969, at the end of the hippie movement. The hippie flower child look from the late 1960's carried over into the first half of the 1970's, in a non-restrictive bohemian silhouette with a heavy folksy influence. Arts and crafts had a huge impact on fashion during this time including tie-dye, batik, knitwear, crochet and macrame.

1970s Gunne Sax dresses.

Gunne Sax's aesthetic has been described as feminine, nostalgic, Victorian, old world and romantic. Though the brand is now closely associated with formal and bridal wear, its origins date back to late '60s San Francisco. In 1969, San Francisco boutique Gunne Sax needed a house designer. Enter Jessica McClintock, an elementary school teacher with a life-long interest in fashion. When a friend told McClintock of the opening at Gunne Sax, she applied immediately. McClintock was hired despite her lack of formal training in fashion design or clothing manufacture. Herself and designer Laura Ashley popularized the prairie dress phenomenon.

Sometimes referred to as Granny or prairie dresses, a typical Gunne Sax dress of the early 1970s featured a banded Empire waist and a long maxi-skirt. Lace trim, high collars and long sleeves evoked an amalgam of past eras and created an overall impression of demure femininity.

Vogue Italia March 1970.

Twiggy for Vogue 1970

Thea Porter, Godmother of Bohemian Cheque.

Thea Porter, who is credited with bringing the bohemian look to London catwalks. Although Thea Porter is not as famous a name as Mary Quant or Laura Ashley, her influence on the look of her era is just as potent. Her loose, draped shapes and fabrics helped create the style of stars such as Faye Dunaway and Elizabeth Taylor in the 1970s, and they have since become forever entangled with the idea of rock-star self-indulgence. She celebrated ethnic styles in Indian style prints, free flowing breezy gauzy tent dresses and wide legged pants.

Porter's seven signature looks: the Abaya & Kaftan; the Gipsy dress; the Fraye dress; the Brocade-panel dress; the Wrap-over dress; the Chazara jacket, and the Sirwal skirt, as well as important fashion photography from the pages of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar and Women's Wear.

Changing skirt sizes.

This was the year of the changing hemline. There is no longer one length for one woman, but a whole wardrobe of lengths from which to choose. Mini, regular, midi and maxi length. Both emerald and bottle green were popular colours of the 1970s along with rust, wine red, purple, orange, and brown.

Tom Wolfe called the 1970s the "me decade" Across the land, Americans seemed determined to escape from the wars and social movements of the previous decade. Disillusionment with national and global action led many to look inward and find solace in discovering more about themselves. Women demanded respect as equal partners, and began to emerge into the work place. As women asserted themselves economically, socially, and politically, the idea of remaining trapped in an unhappy marriage became less and less appealing. Consequently, the divorce rate soared. An 1974 book entitled the courage to divorce encouraged individuals to put their own happiness above that of their spouses and children.

Every rule of fashion was shattered in the 1970s. Lapels, ties, and collars, reached record widths. The polyester leisure suit, available in a palette of citrus and pastel colors, was extremely popular among young males. The jacket, pants, and vest were often worn with an open collar to display thick necklace chains nestled in exposed chest hair. A senses of masculine style emerged in the film 'Annie Hall' which created a sensation with Diane Keaton wearing a fitted vest with a collard white shirt and men's neckties.

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brandylouis021 · 1 year

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#polar fleece jackets wholesale #baseball jacket manufacturers #Georgia #New York

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xxruinaxxmcu · 2 years

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Jack Thompson x Reader

What Lies Before Us

Masterlist (book 1, and previous chapters)

Chapter 9

Y/N made an effort to come up with a summary of her information that would be digestible in under multiple days’ worth of study, but she left some things out on purpose. For example, that during her time investigating, she had managed to find some ‘soldiers’ of the families that were willing to cooperate – for money, of course. She felt that sharing these names with her co-workers could work against her in the long run, or at least, work against the case she had built and hoped to pick up on at a later point. She trusted them, but the more people knew about a secret, the higher the probability became of someone spilling it by accident – drunk in a bar, or to their loved ones, or something. It also put them needlessly at risk, and she was pretty sure that she had enough blood on her hands for about ten lifetimes’ worth.

“Do you think it’s possible that it’s just a coincidence that the meeting’s in that area?”, Jack asked when she brought him the file.

“I don’t really want to bank on it”, she shrugged, “I wouldn’t know if there’s any connection between the crowd at our party and the mob, but then again, they’re interested in the same things. There might be more they have in common than what they don’t.”

Jack’s fingers drummed against the top of his desk as he skimmed the papers she had given him.

“Gives you a warm feeling knowing in what areas they’re working”, he remarked darkly, “from dumpster to suits manufacturing.”

“Yes, unfortunately the 1920s and 30s proved to have been great for business, and the war only secured their foothold”, Y/N commented, “many members came over to escape Mussolini. One of the stranger side-effects of fascism, I have to admit.”

“Any plans on switching professions and become a historian?”, he joked at her background delivery.

“Who knows, might pay just as badly as our job, but with significantly less gunshot-wound potential”, she retorted cynically, “besides, understanding how the current situation came to be is quite important. The landscape changed dramatically over just a few years, from Irish and Jewish gangs to an almost-monopoly from the Italians.”

Jack only scoffed: “So you could say Prohibition was a shot in the foot.”

“Very.”

“Does anyone know you?”, he inquired, “from the Mafia?”

Y/N tilted her head: “Not anyone that’s in the ability to stir any trouble.” She saw his questioning look and only winked.

“They’re dead?”

She nodded – many of them were, others were still alive, but not a threat either, because they wouldn’t rat on her, knowing the leverage she held against them.

“I’ll go through this”, Jack lifted the file, “then I’ll brief the rest.”

……

Going to these types of fairs was something the ordinary person never got to experience – and despite them being everything but ordinary, it wasn’t something that happened to Y/N and Jack on the regular, either. He had one up on her with Chadwick’s fundraiser, and that ended up in disaster. Good thing Underwood, Chadwick and Masters were all dead by now. Made a repeat incredibly difficult. However, Y/N still felt a sense of dread when she put on her dress for the night, which felt like something that should be worn by someone within the European nobility, certainly not a girl from New York that was more familiar with different knife-fight techniques than with ballroom etiquette.

Her dress was black, held up by thin straps and with decorative fabric draped across her chest and below her shoulders, and the fabric of her bust was decorated by reflective rhinestones. The skirt was looser, which allowed for easier movement – as well as a place to hide a weapon, as – unfortunately – she did not have the luxury of being able to hide her weapon in a shoulder girdle beneath a suit jacket.

Not certain if she liked what she saw in the mirror as it was such a foreign picture, reminding herself of the feeling looking at her reflection when she had to dress appropriate for German fairs in the 1940s, Y/N pulled a face before continuing to apply her lipstick. There was nothing she could do about it now – and she still preferred to go there, even dressed like this, rather than sending Jack with his men on their own.

Then, she walked out, into the living room of her apartment, where Jack was waiting for her to arrive. He looked up, raising his eyebrows.

“Not a word”, she hissed, knowing more than well she looked like a painted doll.

“What do you think I was about to say?”

“No idea”, she scoffed, “maybe that I look like a girl playing dress-up.”

“You look far too classy for dress-up”, he replied, holding up his arm for her to hold, more out of amusement at her mood, rather than thinking he needed the stability.

She sighed, looking at his suit: “Well, so do you. You’ll blend right in.”

“I’d return the compliment, but I’m sure you’d always stand out in a crowd. Anyways, I’d kiss you, but I’d ruin your look, and mine”, Jack said with a grin before leading her outside to his car.

“You’ve got the list of the Club members that should be there?”, Y/N asked, having herself studied it extensively beforehand.

“Yes, mother.”

Y/N huffed: “Wonderful. Because they’ll prefer talking to you than to me, I fear.”

Jack threw her a look: “They’re men, Y/N. They’d love talking to someone like you.”

“Like me?”, she shook her head, “I doubt they think I even have a brain.”

“Well, for most of them, other assets count more.”

She pulled a face: “Unfortunately, that will hardly help to figure out if they’re planning to blow up a city or something.”

“Aren’t you the one who told me that people do anything for love?”, he asked back with a lopsided grin.

“I’m not planning on making Mr. Hayes one of my next targets. At least not that way”, she shot back cynically.

“I wouldn’t allow that.”

She whipped her head around to face him: “What?”

Jack frowned: “D’you think I’d let them do the thing with you?”

“I think we’d do anything to finish a case”, she shrugged, “I mean, we’ve literally stormed buildings.”

“Yeah”, he scoffed, “I’d rather storm his facilities than resort to the other option.”

She knew where he was coming from, but she also knew that, in the big picture, it wasn’t necessarily rational. If it came down to it, the risks of another home invasion might very well be bigger than if she’d do it her way, though the thought of it alone was enough to gross her out.

“Thank the lord we didn’t have a thing before I went to Germany”, she remarked dryly, “it was difficult enough to not get married to them.”

“How’d you do it? Staying with them, I mean”, the question sounded sincere, not accusing at all. He knew very well that she had to do it.

“Honestly?”, she gave him a tight smile, “I thought about the moment when I’d get to kill them.”

“I really hope you let go of that habit with me.”

She boxed him in the arm: “Very funny, Thompson.” He only laughed, given she herself was obviously not offended and was grinning, too.

They pulled over in front of the establishment, where they met up with McKinley and Harrow, who were similarly dressed to Jack.

“Perimeter is secured”, McKinley informed, “All clear, till now.”

“Great. You know the drill, you head in, don’t show your weapons, get a feel for the crowd, ask the right questions”, Thompson said quietly, looking at the entrance, which was guarded by two well-built men.

“And let me do the talking”, he added, pointing to the men with his chin.

Jack walked up to the guards, flashing them his batch: “We’re here to have a look around, not to cause any trouble. You okay with that?” He was clearly insinuating that if they weren’t okay with his plan, he’d cause them more serious problems, so reluctantly, they granted the group of four entrance.

Y/N scanned the room. Aside from several members she recognised from the list of Arena Club members – incidentally, Mr. Hayes was present – she recognised some as most definitely being ‘soldiers’. She could see it in the way they stood outside of the main crowd, more observing than engaging with the guests.

“Careful”, she whispered to Jack before making her way towards the former Frost-associate, “don’t get your shoes filthy.”

She hoped that he got her euphemism, but she also knew that he was an excellent agent. He’d be fine.

“Mr. Hayes?”, she asked, mustering up a convincing smile, “I did see correctly!”

He eyed her, obviously asking himself if he knew her from somewhere.

“Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t met”, she said, doing her very best to adopt a German accent in her English, “Erika Neuhausen. I’ve seen you a few times in Los Angeles.”

He gave her a smile and kissed her hand: “I see. What were you doing in L.A.?”

“I moved there in the late 30s”, she gave him a telling look, “it was a better place to further my career than back at home, if you understand what I mean.”

It really wasn’t that difficult to understand what she was insinuating, but she also didn’t know how witty her conversation partner was.

“Of course”, he nodded and eyed her from top to bottom, leaving her feeling incredibly exposed, “You work in the show business, I assume?”

She supposed that she was dolled up enough to fit into that category this evening, and she gave him a small nod.

“Maybe the next Miss Dietrich?”, he asked curiously, and she was happy that he at least bought her act of being German.

“Oh, you flatter me immensely.” She leaned forward, more than aware that he probably saw deeper into her décolletage than she would have liked: “Tell me, Mr. Hayes, what does a man like you do in New York? Is local politics not a bit too dull for someone with your status?”

“Sweetheart, every seat matters, no matter from which coast or state.”

She tilted her head: “Oh yes?” She knew she couldn’t press him too hard, otherwise he’d grow suspicious, so she decided to pull the foreigner card. “What’s some of the more pressing political matters of the day, Mr. Hayes?”

“A lady like you doesn’t have to bore herself with it”, he gave her a pitiful smile, “You should enjoy the amenities of this event.”

“Oh, I will, I’m sure”, she sighed dramatically, “But you see, ever since I came here, I felt like a stranger to those around me. Maybe you can help with that.”

“There are two things that drive this country, money and power”, he said cryptically, “they’re usually behind every political decision that is made. The key is to be on the right side of power.”

She would have loved to tell him that she wasn’t interested in a riddle, but knew that she couldn’t say that. So instead of showing him her annoyance, she gave him an intrigued smile: “Power, Mr. Hayes, might just be the one universal currency.” She looked around, pretending to spot someone in the distance. “I’ll leave you to it, then, Mr. Hayes. It was an immense pleasure.”

She walked off, very happy not to see his smug face any longer. Arguably, she didn’t find out what he wanted, exactly, but whatever it was, it sounded ominous. Seemed like the Arena Club, decimation aside, still hadn’t given up on its goal to expand their own members’ power inside the country.

She spotted Jack talk to another member, and she could tell he was making an effort to engage with harmless small talk whilst teasing out the information he needed. She was about to make contact with him when a figure brushed past her, slipping her a note.

She pretended not to react, as she had a slight suspicion as to who it was that had slipped her the note. Once the man had walked past her, she looked to the side, seeing him disappear into the crowd. It was, as she had suspected, Anthony Lorenzo. One of her informants.

Y/N made her way to the restrooms, where she was able to open his note without being watched. She initially damned him for his ugly handwriting, which was almost harder to read than a German code.

Remember, Remember the 5th of November.

November was still a bit away, but she had no idea what he meant by that. Did they have something planned for the 5th of November? Or was it meant to be a code for something?

Storing the note in her bra, she left the restroom to re-enter the crowd again.

……

Jack was talking to George Heath, the CEO of one of America’s biggest manufacturer of artillery, who – as it turned out – was also a member of the Club Jack had grown to hate.

“You’ve been in the war, son?”

He had no real intention on sharing any war stories with the man, but he also knew that there was little more that impressed men like this than being told about one’s time at the front.

“Of course”, he nodded, “It was my duty, after all. Though I have to admit, unfortunately, all the artillery in the world didn’t really help us against the Japanese on Iwo Jima.”

The mention of the by now infamous battle brought a sense of admiration to the man in his mid-to-late 50s: “So I’ve heard. Don’t mean it never will, Mr. Thompson, I can assure you, my scientists are working day and night to provide even more lethal weaponry to the US Armed Forces.”

Jack took a sip from his drink and gave the man a tight smile: “I’d hope no one’d be dumb enough to attack us now, with us being the only ones with nuclear bombs at our disposal.”

“Until now!”, Heath’s face darkened, “You know how these things go, think back to poisonous gas. One side uses it, soon enough, everyone uses it. The key is to always stay ahead of the cattle.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Heath.” He noted to himself that though Mr. Heath sounded like a man who’d sell his soul for an edge over his competitors, he didn’t sound like he was in bed with communists.

“You know, Vernon told me a lot about you”, Heath continued, and Jack gave his best grieving face.

“Only good stuff, I hope, God bless his soul.”

“It was a tragic accident indeed”, Heath agreed, “Unusual, too. I tried getting a look at the report of what weapon caused it, but the feds wouldn’t say. You know something about that, son?”

“I’m afraid not much more than you do, Mr. Heath”, Jack evaded, “And if I’m honest, even if the scientists did explain it to me, I’m no artillery expert. Some sort of cannon, I think.”

“Yes, something in that manner.”

He looked around: “Son, ever thought about entering the world of politics?”

Jack scoffed at the question: “About as much as I have thought about getting into a pool with hungry sharks. No, sir, I’d rather serve my country, rather than run it.” He bit his tongue not to add – run it to the ground, which is what he suspected would happen if these guys took over the wheel.

“Who’d you vote for in the last election?”

“The last election?”, Jack frowned at the question, “well, Roosevelt. That was 1944. Didn’t think a leadership change during a war was that smart, you know? Also, we didn’t really have time to get a good look at the other candidate. Given we were trying not to die.”

“What’d you think of Truman?”, the question was enough to indicate that Heath himself would rather have someone else in office – which was obvious from the start, considering they were at a convention of the opposite party.

“I try to abstain from judging my employer, Mr. Heath”, Jack said with a small grin, “wouldn’t want to risk being booted.”

“With that tongue of yours you could’ve become a diplomat, too.”

Jack internally thought to himself that he would have made the worst diplomat in the world, but that he at least now knew what this guy wanted out of the next election: Truman gone.

“Thank you, sir”, he replied with a nod, seeing Y/N emerge from the restroom and meeting his gaze.

“If you need the SSR”, he grabbed a business card, “this is our line.” After he removed himself from Heath, he made his way across the room to meet Y/N, because he was more than certain she wanted to tell him something.

“You find anything?”

She gave him no response and instead looked in the direction of Heath: “Good chat?”

“As to be expected”, he shrugged, “Talked to half the men on our list. Doubt they’re in the Commie Camp.”

“Yes”, she tilted her head, “I don’t think that’s their Camp, either.”

She was still mulling over what the hell the 5th of November could be. It was no holiday, it was a regular Wednesday. She wasn’t aware of anything particular happening that day, either.

“Now you’re brooding.”

McKinley approached them, informing Jack that he and Harrow had talked to the rest of the list, and that everyone appeared – more or less – clear. And, besides Hayes, none of them seemed to have any idea of what happened in L.A. and with Whitney Frost. Apparently, neither Hugh Jones, nor Hayes had any interest in sharing these details with their colleagues.

“A’right”, Jack declared, “then let’s leave.” He had a pretty decent idea of which men’s companies should be monitored by SSR agents in the future – Heath definitely among them.

In the car, Y/N finally opened her mouth to share her finding.

“I got this”, she started, awkwardly getting the note out of her bra.

“You don’t got a bag for this?”, Jack noted, a bit embarrassed by the manoeuvre.

“A bag can be stolen, a bra is far less likely to end up in the hands of men I don’t invite to hold it”, she snapped, “And besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before and I can’t see anyone else looking.”

He cleared his throat: “And what’s it say?”

“That’s the thing, I have no idea. It says ‘remember, remember the 5th of November’, which sounds like the start to some stupid children’s song”, she shrugged.

“Where’d you find it?” He frowned, asking himself why someone would walk around with a line from a song to a formal event, only to accidentally drop it.

“I didn’t find it, per se”, she said, stretching out her words, “I was given it.”

“What?”, Jack shot her a confused look, “By whom?”

“By my informant?”, she said high-pitched, “inside the Mafia?”

“And you didn’t think that this was a detail worth sharing??”, he shot back, visibly annoyed, “that we have insiders in there?”

“It didn’t compromise anything, did it?”, she retorted, “Besides, I wanted to minimise the risk of it getting out. If anyone knows, he’s dead and we lose on of our most crucial informants.” She ignored his frustration and continued: “But, nonetheless, I have no idea what he meant by that. Nothing is scheduled to happen on November 5th, and it’s just a normal Wednesday, in my opinion.”

Jack sighed, choosing not to give her a lecture today about the fact that she didn’t get to decide what information was worth sharing with her chief and instead briefed her about his own findings: “One thing all of them have in common is that they hate the Reds, but they also hate our own politics.”

“I still have no idea how that ties in with the mob”, Y/N announced, “unless they have some sort of common goal. Whatever that is, though, I have no idea.”

Entering her apartment, Y/N was about to get off her shoes when Jack interrupted her with a lopsided grin: “If we’re already dressed for the occasion, it would be a shame if we didn’t at least have one dance.”

She owned a phonograph, but she hardly used it, so she had no idea what music would start when Jack turned the thing on. It was a slow song, and it was classical music. When she saw his hand reaching out to her, she accepted with a smile. He was still a fantastic lead, and she enjoyed the nearness.

“And for the record”, he said before spinning her, “I don’t think you look like a girl playing dress-up. You look gorgeous, Y/N.”

........

Y/N had checked everything, from local fairs to national conventions, nothing happened on the 5th of November, at least nothing that was publicly planned. Frustrated, she placed down her notes as the phone rang.

“Y/N L/N, SSR, with whom-“

“am I speaking, hi Y/N!”, Peggy ended her never-changing greeting with a laugh, “You sound miserable, if I’m allowed to say so. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, and that is exactly my problem”, Y/N muttered, “We’re chasing down a lead with the Arena Club and our lead is very unhelpful.”

“Is the subject not speaking?”

“No, that’s not the problem”, Y/N rubbed the bridge of her nose, easing the headache that she had given herself by squinting all day, “It’s a note that doesn’t make sense. And it’s not even encoded, if you can believe it!”

“Is it a foreign language?”

“No, it’s in English.”

“What does it say then?”, she inquired curiously.

“Remember, remember, the 5th of November.”

Y/N was taken aback by the silence that greeted her. “Peggy, you still there?”

“Y/N”, she heard Peggy’s voice again, “it didn’t happen to be a political fair, did it?”

“Yeah”, she frowned, “Why’d you guess that?”

“Because”, Carter cleared her throat, “that’s a poem. Remember, remember the Fifth of November, the Gunpowder Treason and Plot, I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot. Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent, to blow up the King and Parli'ment.”

Now, it was Y/N whose voice failed.

“Y/N-“

“Peggy, thank God you’re English”, Y/N announced, “I think I know what the plan is. I’ll call you back!”

She jumped up, walked straight into Jack’s office, throwing open the door without knocking.

“Whoa, ever heard of knocking?!”

“You said they hate our politics”, she reminded him, “correct?”

He frowned at her, visibly confused: “Yeah?”

“But they don’t hate the entire political system, they just hate the president”, Y/N expanded, obviously waiting for him to catch on, but unlike her, he didn’t just talk to Carter.

“What are you on about, Y/N?”

“The 5th of November, you genius!”, she exclaimed, “It’s not about the date, it’s about the action! Taking down the head of state!”

A/N: As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter - if you did, I highly appreciate every comment, reblog, any sort of feedback, or simply a heart. It all helps! Also, I promise this is going somewhere. I have a plan for overarching enemy and everything, even if it might sound all a bit random still! And you’ll get some more about Y/N’s and Jack’s time before the war, too, so there’s that to look forward to!

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