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starshine583 · 3 years

Note

For the soulmate thing, can you do k or b for felinette?

(Okay I have Too Many Thoughts for b- like, a whole fic long thoughts -so I’m just gonna do k for now lol hope you like it!)

Everyone has a soulmate. Everyone. No exceptions. It may be a romantic soulmate or it may be a platonic soulmate or it may be some other type of soulmate entirely, but everyone has at least one type of soulmate. However, finding a single soulmate in a world full of billions of people can be tricky. That’s why the gods bestowed mankind with a most thoughtful gift: the lock and key.

When a person is born, they are provided with a lock or a key that’s wrapped around a chain. Sometimes it is on the wrist, sometimes the neck, sometimes it wraps around one’s entire torso, and it is said that, once on, the chain cannot and will not be released until that person finds their other half. When they do find their other half, though, the person with the key will open the other’s lock with a satisfying *click* that will release their chains, and they will be newly free together.

At first, the idea sounds ludicrous. People with keys would be frantically running to try every lock, while people with locks would be trying to frantically find other keys to get the chains off. There would ultimately be more chaos than before when the world was trying to find soulmates without help.

Except there’s a catch.

When two soulmates start to get near each other, their lock and key will begin to act as magnets. The closer they get, the stronger the pull, and eventually, they’ll be running towards each other until one’s key slides perfectly into the other’s lock. Some rumors even talked about a few people getting dragged down the street by the force of the magnets.

Unfortunately, a certain Miss Marinette Dupain-Cheng couldn’t attest to whether those rumors were true, because she hadn’t found her soulmate yet.

Oh, she’s tried everything. She’s worked overtime at the bakery to meet new customers, she’s idly walked around Paris for hours to see if the key would pull in a certain direction, and she’s tried forming deep bonds with everyone she knows in case that was a factor she didn’t know about. And yet, despite her desperate attempts, nothing’s worked. Her key continued to lay across her chest, unmoving and mocking. Was there something she was missing? Something she was doing wrong? Why couldn’t these things come with proper instructions?

Her parents told her to wait, that she would find her soulmate eventually, and perhaps that advice would be easier to follow.. had most of her classmates not found their soulmates already. Mylene found Ivan in kindergarten, Juleka and Rose found each other in first grade, Max found his soulmate at a tech lab, Alix and Kim found both of their soulmates around the same time during dares, Chloe found hers at a gala, and even Sabrina found hers a few years back. That left herself, Nathaniel, and Nino still waiting on soulmates, which she took a bit of comfort in. If she must wait endlessly for her other half, at least she wasn’t waiting alone.

But then Alya came along.

And Marc.

And Marinette suddenly felt much more isolated than before.

Everyone around her was happy and in love, and yet her key still refused to move. Her only solace at that point was the fact that Adrien hadn’t found his soulmate either.

Unfortunately, that also gave her another form of torture: hope. Hope that they would be soulmates somehow, that her key and his lock were simply lagging in action, and that someday Marinette would be able to be linked to that beautiful, sweet, sunshine boy for the rest of her life.

Sadly, a hope like that only crushed her more when nothing ever happened between them. He sat in front of her everyday in class and talked with her all of the time, but her key continued to dangle around her neck. No tugging. No dragging. Just dangling.

One day she tried to throw it away, so frustrated and bitter towards the whole thing, but the chain didn’t break no matter what she did, which was honestly expected. The locks and keys wouldn’t be considered nearly as mystical if their chains could break off at the slightest bit of force.

Annoyed and confused and worried, Marinette resigned herself to the fate she’d been given and went on with life, telling herself that her soulmate would come even though she didn’t quite believe it. She continued to speak with Adrien on the whim that her key would decide to work and busied herself with friends and work and Ladybug duties to avoid feeling the weight of the chain around her neck, and after a while, she started to feel okay. She didn’t think of her soulmate as much, or where or who they could possibly be. She simply lived her life and consciously ignored Chloe’s teasing towards her being “soulmate-less” or anything else related to soulmates. If life wouldn’t give her her other half, then that clearly wasn’t what she needed.. or at least that’s what she told herself.

It was a few weeks into this mindset that her heart truly shattered from the pressure, but it wasn’t because of anything Chloe had said.

Adrien Agreste, the boy she’d been uselessly pining after for over a year, her supposed last string of hope, had found his soulmate, and it wasn’t her. It was another girl that Marinette didn’t even know, someone by the name of Kagami.

Marinette broke down that day. She’d managed to slip out of the classroom during the cheers and cries of congratulations and hide in the bathroom, and even now her chest ached from how hard she’d cried. A part of her felt guilty over it, since this was supposed to be a happy day for Adrien, but all Marinette could see was a cruel sentence suddenly pushed further onto her than before. A life without a soulmate, alone. She’d figured that if Adrien, the embodiment of perfection, could still be searching for his soulmate, then she had nothing to worry about. Now that he’s found his, though, she’s not sure what to do or where to go. Should she try to meet more people again? Or get used to a life of solitude? Why couldn’t her soulmate be close to her like everyone else? Why couldn’t her key just work!

It’s been about a week and a half since Adrien found his soulmate, and Marinette, still “soulmate-less”, found herself sitting in their usual classroom once again. The weight in her chest had gotten noticeably heavier, along with the chain around her neck, but she made an effort to ignore it, idly rubbing the key that was the source of her troubles as she waited for her other classmates to arrive.

“Did you see Adrien’s posts about London?” Alya asked excitedly next to her. She’d done her best to comfort Marinette in the last few days- as any good friend should -but in the end, they both realized that a conscious ignorance towards the matter would probably be best.

“No.” Marinette muttered. She hasn’t touched her phone in a while, specifically since Adrien mentioned taking Kagami to London to meet the rest of his family. “Why, did something happen?”

“Only him showing us how great the country is!”

Alya slid her phone over to Marinette to show her a few pictures. Most of them were landscapes such as the Big Ben, the House of Parliament, and what she assumed was St. Paul’s Cathedral, but one had people in them, people that Marinette didn’t recognize. There was a girl on the left of Adrien with raven hair and brown eyes, clearly Kagami- and wasn’t it cruel irony that they both had the exact same hair color? So close, yet so far! -and then there was a boy on the right of Adrien. He had pale, blond hair that was combed to the side and pale eyes that almost appeared to be silver. His neutral expression highly contrasted the bright smiles on the faces of the couple next to him.

A sense of curiosity pricked in the back of Marinette’s mind, and she straightened to get a better look at the picture. “Who’s-”

The question caught in her throat no sooner than she started it as something lightly tugged on her neck. Her body tensed up, her mind reeling with the possibilities as she glanced down at her key. Did it really just move on its own? Or did the key simply shift on her chain as it had done a million times before?

“Marinette?” Alya asked, concerned.

Marinette shook herself from her thoughts, mentally scolding herself for being silly. The key couldn’t have moved, because everyone in this class had their soulmates already and she was certain none of the other students at Dupont were her soulmate. The key probably shifted on the chain again, like usual.

“Sorry, I’m fine-”

Another tug, and Marinette gasped as she saw the key actually lift into the air. What was happening? Why was it moving now? She didn’t see anyone new around.

“Yo, Adrien!”

The girls’ attention turned to Nino- who was waving towards the door of the classroom -then to the doorway, where Adrien Agreste himself had just entered. Marinette had forgotten that he was returning today, but that was the farthest thing from her mind right now. She was much more engrossed in the fact that her key was tugging on her neck again, this time harder, more insistent. Whoever her soulmate was must be getting closer, but who could it be? Was someone new to the school? She didn’t hear about anyone transferring.

“How was your trip, man?” Nino asked as he met the blond at the door.

Adrien flashed him a bright smile. “It was great! Aunt Bridgette really like Kagami, and I actually brought someone back for you guys to mee-”

Marinette let out a yelp, accidentally interrupting Adrien’s story as the key abruptly jerked on her neck. It pulled her to her feet and almost dragged her over the desks as well, but she managed to gain enough control and follow the magnetic pull down the stairs.

Alya, along with a few other classmates, gasped and got to their feet as well. “Woah, Marinette! You’re about to find your soulmate, girl!”

Marinette let out an anxious squeak as she stumbled towards the door. She was about to find her soulmate? But how? Who would it be? It almost looked like the key was pulling her towards Adrien, but that wasn’t possible! Adrien already had a soulmate. Unless something really strange was happening-

The key practically flew forward now, taking Marinette with it, and poor Adrien didn’t look like he was going to have time to move. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face, already blurting out apologies for the collateral damage she was about to cause.

Her hands landed on someone’s chest, both parties grunting from the hit, and a distinct sound reached her ears, one she’d memorized from listening to too many youtube videos at night.

*Click*

Marinette’s eyes snapped open, her jaw dropping with shock. Was that what she thought it was?

She didn’t see the signature black shirt and white jacket of Adrien Agreste- the person she’d originally assumed running into -in front of her, but instead found her fists curled into the dark grey material of a vest. It took a second more to realize that Adrien was actually standing next to her now, his eyes just as wide as hers.

At the center of the mystery person’s chest was a lock, clear as day, and inside that lock was her key, fitting comfortably in the socket that it had forced itself into. This was… this was it. This was the miracle that people had told her about for fifteen years. Her soulmate was here.

The chains slipped off of her neck, bringing a strange sense of weightlessness to that area, and tentatively, Marinette’s gaze trailed up to the face of the partner that fate had given her.

Immediately, she was struck with recognition. The pale, blond hair sweeping across his features, the grey-ish eyes that she could now pinpoint as an icy, steely blue, the sharp eyebrows and facial features- this was the exact same person from Adrien’s pictures of London that she’d seen only a moment prior.

But who was he?

Alya grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her with an enormous squeal. “Girl!! You’ve done it! You’ve found your soulmate!!”

“I..” Marinette trailed off, at a loss for words. She had. She had done it. She’d found her soulmate at last. It’d been so long since she gave up on having one that the experience felt surreal, like a dream that was too good to be true. Please don’t be too good to be true.

“Adrien, are you going to introduce them or what! You said you brought this guy here to meet us, right?”

At Alya’s insistence, Adrien snapped out of his trance, and so did the boy in front of her, apparently, because he extended a hand to Marinette.

“Apologies, I.. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle.” He said sincerely, his voice soft yet steady.

A blush exploded across Marinette’s cheeks, and she couldn’t help flailing slightly before she took his hand. “O-Oh, uhm, yes. Nice to.. to meet you too.”

“Everyone,” Adrien spoke up, an ear-splitting grin now on his face, “This is my cousin, Felix Culpa. Felix, this is my wonderful friend, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

“Marinette..” Felix muttered, as if he were testing the name on his tongue. Then he smiled. It was a small, quiet thing, not nearly as bright as Adrien’s, but it melted her heart faster than Adrien’s smile ever could. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“T-Thanks!” She squeaked out. “Y-You’re really beautiful too- er, I mean- wait, no-”

A chuckle tumbled from his lips, and she caught the faintest blush tinting his cheeks as he lifted her knuckles to his mouth, pressing a light kiss to them. “Thank you, but I’m surely nothing compared to you.”

Marinette’s blush deepened, but before she could decide whether to argue his pure radiance as a human being or thank him for his second compliment, the bell cut into their conversation.

“Oh!” Alya said. “You guys are totally sitting together. I’ll sit in the back if I have to.”

“Oh, Alya, you don’t have to-”

“Nope!” Alya insisted, already jumping up the stairs. “This is the greatest moment of your lives! You’re taking time to enjoy each other.”

Marinette supposed she could fix the seats herself by sitting with Alya in the back, but.. she really didn’t want to, especially when Felix slid his hand fully into hers as he stood next to her. Besides, if everyone was fine with it, why should she fight it?

“Mind if I join you for class?” Felix asked, a light note to his voice.

Marinette offered him a warm smile and squeezed his hand. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Fifteen years just to get a look at Felix Culpa..

It was definitely worth the wait.

(Send me a letter ask and I’ll do a thing!)

#asks #felinette #Felix Culpa #Soulmate AUs

166 notes · View notes

dansedan · 3 years

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I threatened on the Disco Writer’s Nook server to share my notes from this latest fic, but since they’re wildly incomprehensible and kind of silly I thought maybe I’ll just... chuck ‘em on here instead, under a readmore where they can pass by easier so uhhh xX WeLcOmE To My TwIsTeD mInDXx !!!1!!

(warning for LONG LONG post- I write full sections and asides from the universe that aren’t even in the damn fic within the same notes document a lot... I’m also insufferably pretentious on notes I KNOW and I cull it on the final as much as I can, as well as mild possible spoilers for a fic I haven’t written in the same au-timeline-thing I suppose and NSFT stuff)

(also a lot of this gets discarded because it’s so stupid and I write it at terrible brain moments)

"Por la mañana me di a la estúpida tarea de esconder mis cigarros por los rincones de la casa. Los encuentro, claro, pero fumo poco, fumo menos, hago esfuerzos por mejorarme de una vez."

meditative cigarettes and quitting fic.

Harry smokes less than he drinks, because he smokes to keep sharp and he usually wants to be numb, down to zero, space-based. but after going tee-total and opening up on his quest to actual-human-persondom he finds himself chainsmoking constantly. A concern in his volition is raised, a thought project ruminated on, and strategems laid out.

Harry grasps at the first half at a low point in his attempts to get better without anyone knowing or helping. He wonders about Kim's life, Kim's control. The electrochemistry in him fantasizes about a free-wheeling party-boy sort of Kim, still cool, still quiet, but free and soft and in control of his lack of control- the aviator, the flying ace, at the mercy of the elements and gliding by by choice- lands on the question of the one-per day, the Kim he knows, who takes what he needs with trepidation and preparation.

The truth is that last one- Kim was a social smoker, an after-dinner-if-the-date-is-pleasant smoker, an after-sex smoker, a bumming-cigarettes-to-gague-his-interest smoker (it all started with a boyfriend) but police work and his neverending stint in Juvie drove him to once-per-day, a creature of obsession. He used to heavily resent it- until Harry came along and joined the ritual.

"bebiendo mate con el ademán gracioso de los novatos. Es lo que hago ahora cuando siento ganas de fumar, dijo, con una sonrisa."

Kim and Harry not so close together- the idea of Kim and Harry not knowing everything about each other, because that's just not how you survive, but somehow Kim aching to be up-to-date on Harry all the time.

Harry and his funny little excursions around town. Kim visits and finds cigarettes hidden around the house, smells them in fear of finding drugs, or Harry has to awkwardly shuffle around for one when Kim invites him to smoke. Harry tries to join a book club, starts cooking lofty meals for his yoga class, tries being vegan for a week, checks out a bunch of books on the history of the Coupris Corp (SUZERAINTY ERA MARK OF AUTHENTICITY BABEY) as a way to help him wean off substances but also off Kim. They want each other but they know they need to stand on their own </3

Harry starts going to this novelty/gourmet supermarket and buying one new thing every paycheck like furikake that says it has lead on it and mate and all that. He spends his ex-drinking, smoking money on it.

Harry makes Kim huevos rotos :'-)

You're barely holding it together- how the hell did you get to this newsstand? Is it a newsstand? This structure- round, metal, iron-wrought frame and squat stature- was once a newsstand. How do you know it isn't? What is it now? You feel yourself point someplace on a menu you can't see past the dew of heavy crying- the clerk does not react, he's seen you like this- slam your wallet on the counter. You receive a paper parcel slightly larger than your fist, long. It's warm through the paper, and you can feel the dryness of a light dusting of flour passing through it. Food.

Your legs and arms are moving on their own again, wallet shoved this way, steps stumbled past the other, clumsily bringing whatever it is to your mouth and feeling crumbs fall into your beard- like a shark. That's one of the first things you remember, the beautiful old ultraliberal woman, like a shark, on her boat. The joy of your first- no, second- idiom. The first was up on Marvel Hill where you can't live. Kim said that. Kim's gonna be there, when you do it like a shark and don't stop any of this on your way to work and you stop crying so nobody thinks you did what you're avoiding doing. Is there anyway you can forget the frittte? There's so many locations in your mind, what kind of man are you, remembering the placement of a store that's meant to vanish and appear out of convenience like it's a fucking pitstop (would a flask not be enough? A single habit to get rid of, easy- but you're never easy).

You feel dark-dark-light-darkness and then light again, and smoother flooring and your coat being too warm. You're at the precinct- fuck, you're at the precinct- and it's late, real late, but you are here and there's too many people to fuck up here and at least you aren't crying. Your red face and eyes blend perfectly into too many years and days of red and puffy eyes to call attention. Perfect, perfect- god bless the innocence (or is innocence god? You can't forget- Remember- something.)

"You're late, shitkid." At some point Jean appears beside you. He's walked the other way and stopped- he's grimacing- but more importantly you see his left arm raise and still and clench itself, like a restricted movement, natural instinct. "You smell like shit- is that fish?" You do not know if that is fish because your throat hurts so bad already that you cannot know if you've been swallowing bones for this past hour (minute? Minutes? The walk feels like forever and never enough. You're swearing like a pig now that you're standing, how adequate.)

You want to say it's agony, the end of days, the end of you- you want to say reprise, and sorry, and oh god I didn't want to see you please I don't deserve it Jean please leave and go away from me and also please oh god please hold me up I don't know what I'm doing but I'm trying to be better but I ate this thing that might as well be sawdust and I do not know what time it's been for several days.

Instead you say "it's my GOD-GIVEN RIGHT, VIC" and you move along like a fucking idiot.

"An image arises in your mind's eye-- a baby, dirty, hideous, its skin mottled and raw and red, peeling, stretching almost impossibly. The baby cries from pain- in it's brief stay on this earth it has already suffered more than some men do in their entire lives. He is built for it- thick skin, quite literally. He is being held by a slight, pale, ugly nurse- a nun in bloodied white rags with a terrible smell of herbs permanently attached to her. The scene is a caricature of mother and child- the hideous thing, held up to her chest, is drinking from an amber bottle, clouded over. In ten years, the contents of this bottle he will be legally too young for-- is this the reason you became the way you are? Are you just born-and-bred this way, surviving off of alcohol where most people had blood and human kindness?

-- It's not. The little pastiche you've thought up for yourself is half propaganda and half racist idiocy. Despite what the supposed "race-realists" may say, not everyone from the Insulindian is thrown on the bottle the moment they're weaned from the tit. In truth, you were barely even medicated, and those bitter, herbaceous spirits are not the cause of your current addiction. It's still on you harry, it's always still on you.

"Wake up- time to listen to the radio.

You love the radio. You really, really love the radio. You think the radio was the greatest purchase you have ever made- drunk you was horrible, and traumatizing, and entirely undebatably subhuman, but he did buy this radio, and by god fuck if that isn't his saving grace (a story comes to mind- a Dolorean allegory from your childhood- about a selfish rich woman and a lazy cheating bum both ferried up to heaven by a single onion that she'd given him during their lives as charity. You choose to ignore the part where they fight and fall back into hellfire). It's the thing that broke you off from your mazovian monk-like refusal to buy anything for yourself other than flour for a week after THE HANGED MAN, it's what got you into cycling and hanging out with the neon eyebleed catsuits crew, it's what reminded you that public libraries exist and nobody will ask you why you're in there reading about suzerainty-era motor carriage manufacturing and the homo-sexual underground. It's the greatest thing since communism, since disco, since-- since-- since cigarettes and kebabs and- and--

... And idolizing someone to the point of crucifixion. Which you aren't supposed to be doing.

Good thing the radio cranks up real loud!

"You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography, even, notably, the single romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice, meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what books were, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years).

"Harry's apartment is no longer clean, but not as dirty as before, and its stalwart light-green walls seem, in the summer light, less queasy and foreboding than what they are now, almost dainty in the contrast of the sparse few frames and piles of knickknacks on the floor.

Believe it or not, this is good-- sometimes, life with Harry makes you feel like a zoologist, intricately analysing an animal's pile of leaves and refuse and knowing, despite all human standards, what these habits mean for the foreign species. And for Harry, mess like this is good. It means he's kept busy by any one of his million little projects, picked up and put down at a dizzying speed and constancy, each one increasingly out of left field in

Kim and harry talk about the radio, kim thinks about it "radio, what's new? Radio- some-one still loves you"

Harry talking abt agenda + library bc you can't smoke + planning for dinner with Kim :-)

Gotta go to the library so you don't chainsmoke

Gotta shower to go to the library

Don't wanna shower bc executive dysfunction

Grab a smoke before you shower

Oh wait you've been chain-smoking fuck (insert meditation on sharp vs smooth)

Hide all your cigarettes around the house feeling pathetic about it

You still don't feel like showering

But you just chainsmoked and you know you'll do it again because you JUST hid your smokes and the hiding spots are fresh in your mind

Birdbath (why are you so fucking dysfunctional that you can't shower like a normal adult)

Introspective rubber ducky selfhate momence

Rubber ducky encourages you through the power of nihilism and Kim

Thought project gain

Go to library and need comfort so you're going thru all your usual shelves (insert le funny homo shelf joke here)

What does he read about? Smoking? Idk

Kiiiiiim. Kimmy kim kim. Think about Kim

Maybe he reads recipe books to woo kim

INSERT EXISTENTIAL BROTH EPISODE HERE to talk about how you've never actually seen Kim cook (he told you it was good soup, clearly lying, you told him it was broth, and that you could teach him how to make soup out of it if he wanted...)

(broth episode was another note, inserted here:

ANOTHER harry coping fic. Miserable housebound weekend nights because he can't party but the house is horrible to be in and he keeps dunking his hands into more and more ice water and taking like half-body cold showers and he's like "maybe this is bad for my skin!!! I gotta get out holy shit" and he's like uhhhh fucking. Can't go to work. Let's go to the supermarket. And then he's almost there and he's like OH FUCK NO THERES ALCOHOL AT THE SUPERMARKET and he straight up bolts out of there and muscle memory gets him to a shady ass butcher shop in some random immigrant neighborhood and he buys so much fish because of a failed check and he goes home and basically he makes so much fish stock. He makes just so fucking much fish stock and Kim comes to pick him up the next day and panics because it genuinely smells like the dead in there but it's just harry making fucking. fish broth or something. Just harry coming up to the door in his work clothes with way too much cologne on and a thermos of fish soup like "uh... Do you want some Broth kim?" And Kim can't fucking cook but he takes some Broth anyway and he's trying to figure out why harry would do that but harry is being a little edgy about it and Kim is like oh god I need to help him a little and they have a sit down about it and he's like wanting to say "hey if you need somewhere to go I'm here for you" but it's hard and I don't even know if he ends up actually saying it. Okay bye)

Talking about the sexiness of supermarkets and how they make reptile brain go brrr

Think about alcohol vs smoking. Think about kimmy kim kim (insert european drinking joke here)

Have that get stuck in his head. Kim kimmy kim kimmy kimmy kim kim. Kimster. Kimbo. Kitsy. Kitty. Cutie. Oh god no fuck oh god I need to stop.

He goes home and still rlly wants to smonk

You hide the cigarettes around the house. It feels stupid, and you know you’ll be embarrassed having to pull the Jamrock Shuffle in your own apartment, that you’re a grown adult who could just *buy another box of cigarettes* whenever you wanted to, but you feel like it helps. Drag the killing thing away from the crappy little animal even for a couple moments more, let yourself get tired out like the old man you are below all the disco scaffolding. You can’t really bring yourself to shower, but you drag the radio into the bathroom with you and wash yourself in the sink. You try to be good about it- stay away from the mirror, really lather up and clear away the sweat that’s caked to you throughout the night and morning, feel the warm graze of the water on your skin. You brush shampoo through your hair and work it in in cycles, focus on the humming feeling of the bristles on your scalp, trying not to think of much of anything, just the smell of the cheap powdery soap and of what clothes you’ll wear today, try to settle into a better memory of this instead of picking at the shame you feel about how hard it is for you. ducking your head into the stream of the water in the sink and forgetting everything except the whishing, scratching sounds of cleaning.

Being clean feels good, and being dressed again feels maybe even better (knit sweaters are a revelation- who could’ve known polyester satin wasn’t made for seaside winters), so by the time you walk your way into the Jamrock public library the morning’s incidents are nigh-forgotten. The dry warmth of the old library is a reliable balm- the yellowed fluorescent lighting washing out the rows and rows of slate-grey plastic bookshelves lined up like soldiers over prerevolutionary tile, with its woven edges and dark, jeweled pinwheels of color, stretching out endlessly full of books, reels, and the rare intricate portrait hanging overhead. Before them, long wooden tables dotted with mismatched lamps, flickering in and out of use, occupied by antsy juveniles and sleeping hobos. It feels effortlessly like home, like a shared worldly past that welcomes everybody- and maybe that just means that it's generic and a little overdue for renovations, but you love it as it is.

Shuffling through the tall shelves of books, you weave through mindlessly to find your favorite sections- the history (both common and infra-cultural, with a surprisingly competent collection of industrial works and a predictably miserablly little shelf of homo-sexual underground interest), the art, and the meager offerings of political literature. You can hear your off-tune humming echo back to you somewhat feebly off the high, painted ceiling, done up in some lame facsimile of early Dolorian excess (therriers, noblewomen, forget-me-nots crowding the edges of each filligreed panel, dead-eyed faces in doleful expressions, pale and empty smiling). You've got all of daylight ahead of you, which is more than enough time to browse around as usual before you have to get yourself home and start cooking.

You turn the corner smoothly into the very back of the library, into a wider set of dusty and anachronistic wooden bookshelves-- history trends unpopular, considering the fact that all the books within are horrifyngly outdated due to a miserable municipal budget, maybe that's for the best. There are better places for students to get this information now, like the private library a couple blocks away at the Cycle Universitee, or from library dial-stations tuned in from the south, where the Bibliotheque Nacionelle Des Travailleures is run by Coalition-approved volunteers. The first thing to catch your eye is the pillar of works of infra-cultural expression and documentstion- essays and short stories from New authors, studies and zines on Disco, and of course, the particular political darling of the 20s, the homo-sexual underground.

You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography- even, notably, the single commercial romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice, meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what the world was, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years). You shudder, now, at the sight of its cracked spine looking you from the middle sill. Its gaze feels hefty and judgemental, and you do not like it.

There are

KIM CHAPTAAAA

"you'd like him to take care of himself. You'd like to be there to do it for him when he can't"

"He opens the door, and immediately there are a million little things that test you (hell, with that thick-knit sweater he's wearing, any weakness in you would have him writhing on the floor in seconds). The half-up style of his now-so soft looking auburn hair, split across to reveal the pale white of his nape between the raised collar of his sweater, the kind wrinkling of his open smile upon seeing you walk in, the light, jazzy music of the radio backing his belly-deep laugh and the heady smell of incense in the room are all exhilaratingly Harry to you.

What to do with jean:Standalone fic for him?

Starts when he sees Harry with the eyebleed crew and he's the one who goes up to him like "WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SHIT KID" and harry is like. Oh god oh fuck jean uh let's be... Cordial! Optimistic! (What jean sees is one of his signature pauses but like. Yeah it's the skills talking) and he's just like "oh it helps me stay sober and make friends, I found out about it on the radio🙂" and Jean is like holy fucking shit this is absolutely insane.

1) bc Harry used to be so repressed he was basically homophobic with his macho act

2)bc Jean originally didn't believe the amnesia thing but then when Harry genuinely did shit like this and never told him (which, if it was a cruel joke he would've tried to make it very public and obvious and drag jean into it to embarrass him)

3) because JEAN was his friend and why the fuck does he just. Run off with random people with a radio ad instead

4) because he's doing so well. He's like, fully at the sort of "this-side-of-pudgy" bear level that's hot enough to get him positive attention over the damage of the alcohol and he's wearing the sort of clothes that show it and he's got all these crew buddies where Jean is stuck with his hellish depression workouts where he sometimes works until he pukes and then feels like shit about self-harming like that. (what he doesn't know is that Harry is basically doing that same exact shit just he's using his swag alcoholic skills to lieeeeee about it. rip)

Maybe harry apologizes in their conversation about the romance novels. Like it blurts out.

eventually add in the previous consideration fic you were thinking of &quot

starting with bitter porno kimbo/viccy catfight bullshit

"no that's pathetic and he'd never go there." dynamic where kim cares quietly and jean is bitchy about Harry

then "no, he's dealt with harry so much already, I can't imagine." so it's all concern for him

and then that backslides into "how could I comfort him? how could he understand my need for comfort? "

we stan a mildly nonaccepted himself Jean so he's like "WAIT UH GAY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS GUY TOO? FUCK FUCK FUCK"

gotta make it panic horny. it's a Dan Gat fic. how would kim look.... yknow......

since the only other guy who's been like that with him has been harry -> third wheel dynamic going to ->

horny ot3 dynamic. old men doting on him because it's his fantasy and he gets to be the pampered one goddamnit

end somehow

THIS IS THE EXACT DYNAMIC WE'RE GOING FOR Jean liked Harry premart and Harry was unbearably machismo repressed homophobic bullshitero man (I need to decide if he was stupid enough to be like AS LONG AS IM ON TOP IT ISNT GAYYYY or smth sex/intimacy related like that maybe he just kinda. ""comically"" hit on Jean or said suggestive shit to him but never fully acted on it) and then he comes back from Martinaise all loyal puppy dog or whatever for Kim and Jean is like "??? OKAY SO I GO THROUGH ALL THIS BULLSHIT AND HE TALKS SO BIG ABOUT LOVING MUSCLE DUDES AND NOW HES GONNA FUCK THIS GRANDPA?" but then he's like self-aware enough to know that's stupid.(Jean's problem is that he looks for wounds on Kim and not Harry, so he's all like "damn this bitch stole my mans when he's actually good...." meanwhile Harry is like Very Obviously Self Harming All The Time and not even really with Kim so often rip)

Harry wants to reach out and ask him about his thing with Kim because he has memories of Jean either being gay or being less homophobic or just having Gay Energy that he was an asshole about or whatever plus it just feels natural to work through shit with Jean but he stops himself because he's like "well DRINKING also felt natural that doesn't mean we should do it..."

maybe they get into it because Jean makes an offhand comment about "stop ogling kim" and harry is like (computer warmup noises) and jean just kinda forces him to spit it out RE: meme description

Harry's whole deal with avoiding Jean is "some things are unforgivable and I'm fairly sure I've done things bordering on that to you for so, so long, and now I don't even know what they were or who I was when I did them, to me that person is dead, and I know then that I can't apologize to you thoroughly, genuinely, and I don't want to insult you by presuming that I ever could, at this point. I don't want to insult you by assuming I can just go back to what we were before, to each other, without an apology or an actual understanding of what went wrong. I can't speak for certain about his mind-my mind- but at least in some part that guy killed himself because of what he did to you, and to everyone around him, sure, but mostly to you. And now I'm here, and it feels horrible to try and go against that and push myself into your life. It feels horrible to see I've done something to you worth killing myself over and then still insist on coming back to bother you beyond the grave"

And Jean's response is "you thought everything was bad enough to kill yourself over! And you're still alive, you're still him, and fuck, yes it'll take a long ass fucking time for me to ever really forgive you, but you were my best friend and you're still fucking alive- I see you every single day, Harry, do you know what that's like? To see your best fucking friend every single day and watch him flinch and try to act like he doesn't exist every single time he sees you? Fuck you and fuck what you wanted before, *I* never wanted you dead, and your little stunt here with pretending you're finally fine and then keeping everyone at an arm's distance is just another, slower grave you're digging" etc etc "if this is the upswing at last, I’d better be there for it.**”

Jean is a frat boy that you do not expect to be a frat boy. He unironically gets along with mack and chester. He's only just started to grow out of it through dealing with Harry's horrible downfall

sequel to geste drole des debutantes but it's just a 3 chapter PWP masturbation fic..... of Kim and Harry after the dinner and then SHOOKETH SURPRISE IT'S JEANGST YEARNING TIME!

Kim trans.... Good for him...

Stroker shit

He wants to fuck Harry basically

...slow tease? Or fast and desperate?

Dry kissing

Hair pulling...

Youre hard, and you're wet, and you can't help but think of that smile on his face as you left and you want him to taste it, to get on his knees for what he's done to you and swallow it all down, feels the soft brush of his beard on your thighs.

Harry also trans... Good for them good for them...

Handkink shit

Wants kim to absolutely wreck his shit

... He's new at this

Slow....

Jean

Jeangst

Want to wreck harry's shit... Mouthfuck stuff maybe

Power bottoming?? Idk

Whoops my hardcore dom revenge fantasy has slipped into a getting bossed around by the guy I thought I disliked for taking away my partner UHH.... LETS NOT UNPACK THAT....

Some idiot makes like a homophobic stupid "ah the fucking lieutants off scissoring or something" comment and then jean is like "oh god what if that but sexual instead"

Gym shower...

Jean has a big dick too bad bitch

When harry du bois ruined his life, thinks satelitte-officer Jean Vicquemare- he might at least have had the decency not to also curse his dick. This shit was weekly and only getting worse, now that the shitkid didn't constantly smell like despair and carrion had scored a threesome with a bartender's manual.

#my writing #in a way!#my fic #long post

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kingtittykhamen-blog · 7 years

Text

All I Need CH 1

Set November after the girls go off to college. Ali is still in school, making up for her absence, and the girls are all coming home for their thanksgiving break from school. _______________________________________ The big white house looked almost uninhibited. Not a sound could be heard from outside, and not a soul seemed to pass by the Windows. The two DiLaurentis children, now adults, were bound to their rooms. Jason was staying at home for thanksgiving which was only three days away. Their father was away at work, or God knows wherever. The family seldom interacted anymore, aside from a few family dinners. It didn’t bother Jason, as much as it did the youngest DiLaurentis child, but this year she had vowed to become more independent. Alison was sprawled on her bed, French textbook open but being ignored as she sifted through Instagram posts and wasted time on the various apps on her iPhone.

School was let out early due to the holiday, and rather than worrying about the physics test she just likely failed, Alison’s mind was elsewhere.

What was really looming of her was that the girls would be returning home after their first college thanksgiving break. Alison already knew that Spencer was home. The girl had stopped over briefly to say hello, catching her as she pulled into her driveway and the two had made plans to grab coffee before the week ended. The blonde couldn’t help but feel some joy at how far the two neighbors had come. Spencer felt like a sister to her, and after the ‘A’ drama had died, they were closer than ever.

Aria had also gotten home earlier this week, and texted Alison asking her availability for the duration of her break. She had always a good friend to the blonde as well. They texted frequently, and called every other week or so.

Her and Hannah on the other hand didn’t talk much aside from the occasional Facebook comment or in the group chat with the others. Alison had often wondered if things would be different between them, had she not been so cruel to her in the beginning of their friendship. Sure it was all in the past, but it felt like there would always be a comfort zone between her and the other blonde that neither of them dared to step out of.

After scrolling through Instagram for what felt like the thousandth time, Alison found herself clicking back to the messenger app. In the search bar she typed in the name of the friend who had been on her mind since she and all of the others had left. She had been dancing around texting the fourth girl in their group all day, and was getting impatient in hoping the brunette would make the first move.

“She was always the hardest one to leave behind,” but that day in summer when they all said their goodbyes made Alison feel left behind herself. And it sucked. As the days rode their course, Alison found herself wishing that her best friend could’ve stayed in Rosewood with her. It was completely selfish, and she knew it, but was it so wrong to miss her, and want her close? California sounded amazing, but did she have to choose a place that was so far away?

The blonde had realized a long time ago that for some reason, when it came to Emily, all of her insecurities seemed to surface. She couldn’t help but feel pathetic about always being the one to text first, or make the call. It felt like a bit of a role reversal. She had never been the one to make the most effort in their relationship.

It wasn’t even that Emily didn’t respond to her, once Alison would send that first text they would talk for hours. Emily would apologize for being busy, and Alison would remind her that there was no reason for it. She knew that Emily had a lot to juggle. It was her freshman year of college, and she was still adjusting to an “A” free life. Emily didn’t need to prioritize talking to Alison, she had more important things to do.

But then there were her insecurities, making her feel like she was being abandoned, forgotten. There would be times where they would go days without talking, and Alison would wait for Emily to send at least a hi, but for the most part she never did. The blonde would spend those days looking back at their old messages, smiling at Emily’s unintentional goofiness but all the while feeling melancholy. 'Am I that easy to forget?’

She let out a sigh. If Emily wasn’t gonna text her when she was coming home, then Alison had to. As needy as it made her feel. It was only Tuesday morning, but Emily was supposed to be off from school yesterday.

Swallowing her pride she types out a message. “Hey :) when r u getting home ?” Her mood immediately turned from annoyed to happy when she immediately saw the grey bubble indicating that Emily is typing. “At the airport now!! Boarding soon- Will b home around 5 (ur time)” A smile spread across Alison’s face and her fingers immediately started typing a response before her brain could think up one. “yay!! Any chance u can come by tonight?” She sent. She swallowed when she realized that she sent it before she could look it over. Was it too desperate sounding?? She quickly added “if ur not too tired ofc” “My mom and I are gonna have dinner after she picks me up from the airport, but I don’t c y I can’t meet u after :)” Alison felt as if her whole body had lit up with joy. Emily always sent little smiley faces that brightened her day. Now she would be seeing her smile in person. Something she had missed terribly. “Cool ! Just let me know :)” she replied, adding “safe flight <3” Emily responded with a “thanks <33” and Alison felt her cheeks go hot. After 4 months she was finally going to see her favorite person, and it filled her heart with warmth. It wasn’t the same feeling with the other girls, and the soft spot she had for Emily was hard to explain. She didn’t even fully know herself what made the girl so special. Rather than thinking about it, Ali chose to ignore it, and get back to her homework. Thinking about feelings felt more like a waste of time than anything.

After it was confirmed that she would be seeing the brunette, it was as if time had completely slowed down. Finally it was around 8 o'clock and she had received a text from Emily telling her that she just showered and would be over shortly. Alison stood in front of the mirror, practically counting down the minutes until the brunette arrived. She would never say it out loud, but having the girls all home again gave her life some interest. It had been quite boring without them. Their dynamic, though dramatic at times never failed to keep her entertained. Even though she liked to think she had matured since her days of being a queen bee, the mentality was certainly still in her. The students of Rosewood high were easier subjects to rule. She was older than the people in her class, and her story of running away, returning, and even being in jail captivated her peers. They even seemed to interest the whole town. People loved listening to her stories, and she obviously loved the attention. But her old group was a challenge. They were in the “A” mess alongside her, and by the end of it all it was safe to say they had a a bit of a rocky history. They had certainly been a challenging group, but there was nothing Alison DiLaurentis loved more than a challenge.

She smiled at her reflection. Her blonde hair was pinned out of her face, and curled perfectly. She always liked to look her best in front of the girls, especially Emily. She blamed it on the past, where it was so ingrained in her that she had to be superior. To convey the image of perfection. However, with Emily, it was different. She had always looked at Alison like she was art, with a great deal admiration. She never wanted her to stop looking at her like that.

“Going somewhere” Jason said popping his head in her room, gulping on a Sprite. It was the first time the blonde had seen him all day. “No, why ?” She responded, applying some mascara. “Well it’s past your bedtime and you’re not in your pajamas” He teased walking into the room and taking another swig of his sugary drink. Alison rolled her eyes. “Very funny” “Are you gonna answer my question?” She sighed. “No, I’m not going out, but Emily’s coming over.” She watched Jason’s eyes widen through his reflection in the mirror. “Oh!” He exclaimed, a smirk forming on his face. “Getting dolled up for your love?” Alison shot him a glare. “Don’t be gross Jason. We’re friends.” She said defensively. She looked back to herself. Her cheeks had turned a a dark red hue. This wasn’t the first time her brother had teased her about the nature of her relationship with Emily. It was a touchy subject for her and he knew it.

Her mind shot back to the times things with Emily were, well, more then friendly. Their first kiss in the library, Alison had let her guard down and let the moment take hold of her. But that was all. Then the barn after Alison had saved her. It was because she missed her. It was a gesture of love, for her friend of course. Her eyes dragged to the bed behind there. Oh, there was also the one night they had shared after she had returned to rosewood.

They had never talked about it. As a matter of fact they had both seemed to act as if it had never happened. It was just like any one night stand, Ali would tell herself. Things were different then.

The memory still lingered in Alison’s mind though. It was a memory that stuck in her head, and she couldn’t get rid of it. And of course it was one that she tried countless times to rationalize. Her and Emily had a deep emotional connection, that ignited what had transpired that night. But she couldn’t quite figure out if it was a definite sexual attraction. She likes boys, she’s only ever been into boys that way. She thought. Emily was Emily, but she liked boys.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door, that snapped her out of her thoughts. “She’s here!” She said, unable to hide her excitement. “And, that’s my cue!” Jason responded. As he began to exit Ali’s room, the blonde almost knocked him down as she ran past him.

Alison took a deep breath, regaining her nonchalant stature. She opened the door with a confident but happy smile plastered on her face. But when her eyes met the person behind the door her jaw nearly dropped. It was Emily, but seeing her now make Alison realize just how longs it’s been since they’ve been face to face. Surely it wasn’t the longest period they’ve spent apart, but for some reason seeing her this close made her realize just how much she’d missed her. As if she hadn’t been aware of it before.

Emily had changed a little, her hair was dark again, her natural color. It reminded Ali of when they first met. The girl had appeared to have lost a little weight too. She wore a grey long sleeve shirt, and black skinny jeans.

Alison felt as if she forgot how to breathe. The brunette in front of her was practically glowing. Emily had always been pretty, extremely pretty. But the Emily in front of her was gorgeous, and hot, and standing so confidently. It was Emily like Alison had never seen her before.

“Alison, hi!!” Emily finally said with joy radiating off of her voice. Alison blinked twice, still in awe of the other girl.

'Wait, what the hell am I doing ?’ She thought, angry with herself for standing in front of her best friend dumbly.

With a quick shake of her head she smiled widely. “Em! H-how are you?” She said. She wanted to slam her head on the door as she heard the words leave her mouth. 'Did I just stutter?’

Emily laughed, not appearing to have noticed Ali’s small slip up. “I’m great! I-wow!” Taking The blonde by surprise, Emily stepped forward and pulled her into a warm embrace. “It’s so great to see you!”

Alison felt her skin burn against Emily’s touch. She hugged the brunette back lightly, as if she would disappear at the slightest touch. “It’s great to see you too!” Emily pulled away to look at Alison’s face with the same warmth in her eyes.

“You look great, as always.” She said caressing Alison’s shoulders.

“I look great?? You look, amazing!” Emily blushed slightly, making her look impossibly more beautiful and Alison, who would usually never be so eager to compliment someone couldn’t tear her eyes away. The two of them stood there for a few seconds just looking at each other.

Alison’s mind was unable to focus on anything but Emily, and she began to panic at her lack of control. She tore her eyes away from Emily’s brown ones and cleared her throat in attempts to regain composure. “Well, um, do you want to come in?” She said somewhat shyly. Emily nodded.

“I would love to!” She chuckled. Alison moved to the side, letting the girl walk past her and shutting the door behind her. She took a breath and followed her inside, smiling as she watched Emily saunter into her house as if she was right at home.

To Alison, having Emily back home made her feel more at home then she had felt in months. The quiet house suddenly felt alive the minute Emily stepped inside. God she didn’t know how to describe what she was feeling, she just knew she was happy to see her friend again.

“I missed the smell of your house” Emily sighed. She twirled to face the blonde, inhaling goofily and causing Alison to let out a chuckle. The brunette stretched her arms upwards. “Man I’m spent.”

Alison couldn’t help but let her eyes roam Emily’s toned body as she stretched her arms above her head, exposing her tan abs. Then her eyes darted to some black ink on the girls hip. The blonde’s eyes widened in confusion and shock. In cursive the name “Andrea” was ingrained in Emily’s skin. In permanent ink.

The girl, not noticing the distraught look on Alison’s face, turned back around and she began to walk in the direction of the DiLaurentis’ kitchen. “Can I grab a glass of water? I still feel kinda dehydrated from that flight.”

“Yea Em.” Ali answered, just above a mumble. If her thoughts weren’t already running amuck through her head, they certainly were now. Without saying another word, she followed her best friend into the kitchen.

#emison #pll #emily fields #alison dilaurentis #pretty little liars #emisonfic #pll fic

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fapangel · 7 years

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I can’t WAIT to cover this Trump Jr. Thing because the lefties are pissing themselves like an excited chinchilla and its just so *precious* III We both know how short, murky, and 'he-said-she-said' the anti-Trump evidence has been, so when one of the few folks Big T trusts outright says he'd love to have an enemy of the US support the campaign with secrets on Hilary... you can see why they'd be excited. What Trump Jr. did by even replying positively to that message was High Quality Stupidity.

So before anything else, let’s take a long momentto enjoy that hysterical chinchilla-pissing, starting with thecomments in my own inbox:

Drumpf has only three options here. Disown hisson and send him on an all-expenses paid trip to NSGB, step down, orget impeached.

(BBC)world-us-canada-40571914 Welp. Donald’s son just screwed himself andhis dad over big time. Meeting someone described as a Russiangovernment official to get dirt on Hillary. And, well, “part ofRussia and its government’s support for Mr Trump”. Ruse or not,the intent from the campaign’s side is clear, and motive goes a longway in an investigation and court. Seems like the best thing to dowould be to throw Goldstone, and maybe Jr., to the investigators anddeny Trump had any awareness?

Now for The Left: After their hysterical, rabidpersecution of Trump failed to turn up anything formonths on end, theiranti-Russian obsession has reached “McCarthy” levels of paranoia(oh, the irony,) soplacing Trump Jr. in the same roomas a living Russian person from Russia fortwenty entire minuteshas them stroking off sofuriously it’s a wonder they haven’t given newly literal meaning to“liar liar pants on fire” yet. TimKaine, Rep.Seth Moulton (D-Mass), thereliably retarded NewYork Timesand theusual sniping from the never-Trump neocon camp are all calling ittreason. That’s aclaim so moronic that Salon.com (yes, Salon) hasan article pointing it out beforehurriedly burying the “vast right-wing collusion conspiracynarrative” theirown site’s been pushingwith the old “all Republicans are morons” line like a wee dogfuriously kicking sand over its scat. Meanwhile, CNN is once again ina class of its own - not because of their hysteria but becausethey’re nowreporting on what their right-wing news competitors are saying:

Raheem Kassam, editor-in-chief of BreitbartLondon, reacted to the story of Donald Trump Jr.’s newly-releasedemails in a way that wouldn’t typically be expected from someone atthe far-right outfit, which is a reliable supporter of PresidentTrump.

“So like, this is straight up collusion,”he wrote in the news outlet’s internal Slack, according to atranscript of the conversation obtained by CNN. “Right?”

Yes. Somehow, CNN knows what Brietbart is sayingon their own fucking internal Slack account. I guess hacking is okaywith CNN when they’re doing it - that is, assuming they’re not justmaking shit up again. But the best lines in that “coverage of thecoverage” were these:

Fox News’ first response was relative silence.While CNN and MSNBC went into full coverage on the story, Fox Newsonly briefly visited the topic before moving on to other news, thenreturning to it later.

Eventually, as the story developed, Fox beganto cover the revelations more aggressively. But the network neverwent into non-stop breaking news coverage as CNNand MSNBC did.

Non-stop, indeed. Given that thefacts can be related in literally 23 words (shady Russian lobbyistscores meeting by promising Trump Jr. Hillary dirt, babbles aboutadoption treaties for twenty minutes before being shown the door,) weall know that it was the same as CNN’s usual “non-stop breakingnews coverage” of anything:

But not that fucking Fox News, oh no! Theyreported the facts,and then moved on and came back later,afterthey’d found more facts,toreport those. Andthey call themselves journalists.Tsk.Therealjournalists are hunting down everyonewho was standing in the room,everyone who might have possibly known someone standing in the room,andlabeling them “mastersof the dark arts.” That is not a joke. That is the actualfucking headline. YERA WIZARD, DONNY! THE VODKA DRINKERSARE COMIN FOR YA! Finally,an immigrant the Democrats don’t like. Maybe extreme vetting would’vefound his DarkMarktattoo in time, eh? Or maybe the Azkabanstamp in his passport? Isthat a wand in yer pocket or do you have Hillary’s e-mails for me? Oh, man. But the absolute bestpart of all this is how they’re pawing at everyone’s shins andwhining and spinning little circles because nobody else wants to play- theWaPo is whining about how Trump’s still bullying them as Fake Newsand CNN’s whiningabout those damn pro-Trump media outlets doubting the meeting evenhappened. How can they keep getting away with it? Maybe becausethe mainstream media is sodistrusted nowthat morethan half of Trump’s supporters don’t even believe the meetinghappened, despite Trump Jr. verifying it andreleasinghis e-mails about it.

Allof this - all the tail-chasing, frenzied yapping and excitedurination - is absolutely hilarious,becauseit all amounts to fucking nothing.If Vladamir Putin himself had been lowered from the sky by a chorusof singing angels, moonwalkedto the top floor of Trump Tower and handed Trump all of Hillary’ssecrets engraved on sacred stone tablets, it’d still amount to jackshit.It’sthe same basic fact that’s undermined the left’s vague “collusion”narrative from the beginning - itdoesn’t matter one damn bit who dug up Hillary’s misdeeds in theelection, because theevidence proves it’s true. Hillarywas damaged by her owncampaign’s internal e-mails - youknow, the bald and unvarnished truth of a fawningmedia’s collusion, solicitations of multimillion dollar campaigndonations from the heads of foreign governments and what Democratsreally think of minority voters. 1 + 1 still equals 2 even ifHitler’s the one drawing it on the blackboard. That’s precisely whythe left has relied on constant dark rumor-mongering using a specificscary word, “collusion,” that connotes all manner of shadydealing and wicked deals on the docks at midnight - even though“collusion”literally isn’t a crime. In other words, Robert Mueller - whomeven WaPo admits is trapped in a rad bromance with Comey, andwho’s staffing his Special Probe withlawyers that donated almost exclusively to Democrats -literally has nothing to investigate. Buteven the court of public opinion can’t convict, because no matter howyou look at it, standing in the same room as two Russians for 20minutes isn’t collusion.

Thedefinition of collusion, accordingto Merriam-Webster, is “secret agreement orcooperation especially for an illegal or deceitful purpose.”Note the agreementor co-operation bit. Assenior CNN producer John Bonifield was caughton tape openly admitting, it’s common knowledge that governmentsare alwaystrying to influence politics - and even elections - in othercountries. After all, aCongressional investigation found that Obama’s State Department gavehundreds of thousands of dollars in grants to an Israeli advocacygroup trying to oust Prime Minister Netanyahu (who refused tokiss Obama’s ass on the Iran nuclear deal,) so it’s not a bigsurprise or anything. Nor is meeting with agents of a foreigngovernment, considering that a Ukrainian-American Democratic NationalCommittee operative was caught meeting with theUkrainian embassy in Washington to try and sabotage Trump. Thepredictable justifications (Ukrainians are the Good Guys and Russiaare the Bad Guys) ignore that Ukraine is a big,ugly, corrupt mess, and that the pro-Russian rebels that Putin’spretending his regular Russian army units are actually doexist (just not nearlyin those numbers) and that the Russian intelligence services - andcrony capitalism oligarchy - doubtlessly have tentacles everywhere inthe beleaguered nation. Afterall, left-wingers were whining about Trump’scampaign manager Manafort meeting with Ukrainian businessmen, anda senior Democratic PAC adviser was attacking Scott Walker forreceivingdonations from a “pro-PutinUkrainian businessman,” so clearly they’re not above suspicion- according to theexact same people who were chumming with them, at least!

Lefties havealways known this all amounts to jack diddly shit, which is whythey’ve been using the word collusion,specifically. As I’vesaid before, the way the media get onto the same page - nay, theexact same buzzword, nighinstantly, is never an accident. “Collusion”by definition means “agreement or co-operation.”Governments influencingothers elections by slipping favored candidates tips on theiropponents dirty laundry is nothing new. Governmentsaiding one campaign in return for agreed-upon favors at a later dateis another. Democratsare alleging that Trump and co. sold out to the Russians, so nowthey’re in Putin’s pocket. Thatwas the point of the lurid fanfiction document about Russian hookerspissing on Trump, to allege that he was “vulnerableto Russian blackmail,” and that’s why Democratsand the US intelligence community deliberately spread that pack oflaughable lies around. And they knowthisisan impossibly ludicrous thing to sell, which is why they keeprepeating vague ominous nothings about “collusion” and keepreporting on everything Trump does in the context of the imaginary“ominous cloud” they’ve industriously created themselves for the express intent of throwing shade.

I delayed this post for a bit just to collect morecommentary in my inbox - and not just because it was hilarious(DRUMPF BLOWN OUT ZOMG LOL) but because I hoped it’d be revealing.And indeed it was: consider this one again:

And, well, “part of Russia and itsgovernment’s support for Mr Trump”. Ruse or not, the intent fromthe campaign’s side is clear, and motive goes a long way in aninvestigation and court.

Every single news story I’ve seen on it havequoted almost those exact lines - the Russian’s email proclaiming hispotential offer as “part of Russia and its government’s support,”and Trump Jr’s skeptical approval, “if it’s what you say it is, Ilove it.” This is what they’re trying to spin as “intent tocollude.”

So how about wereadthe actual goddamn emails, eh?

On Jun 3, 2016, at 10:36 AM, Rob Goldstonewrote:

Good morning

Emin just called and asked me to contact youwith something very interesting.

The Crown prosecutor of Russia met withhis father Aras this morning and in their meeting offered toprovide the Trump campaign with some official documents andinformation that would incriminate Hillary and her dealings withRussia and would be very useful to your father.

This is obviously very high level and sensitiveinformation but is part of Russia and its government’s support forMr. Trump - helped along by Aras and Emin.

What do you think is the best way to handlethis information and would you be able to speak to Emin about itdirectly?

I can also send this info to your father viaRhona, but it is ultra sensitive so wanted to send to you first.

Best

Rob Goldstone

There it is, inas many words - an offerto expose Hillary’s shady connections with “Russia.” That’san outright offer to provide dirt - and as LizPeek points out, this offer came shortly after the book “ClintonCash” was published, which exposed a shit-ton of the ClintonFoundation’s lucrative dealings with Russian businessmen. Even theHillaryapologists at politifact couldn’t deny that Bill Clinton receiveda half millionfucking dollar speaking fee forgiving a speech - from a Russian investment bank calledRenaissance Capital which isvery, very much tight with the Kremlin:

Personal connections and a commitment to Russiahave proved critical to Renaissance. Jennings and other execs got toknow many junior officials in the early 1990s who have risen tosenior positions in the Kremlin and at the central bank. RenaissanceDeputy Chairman Robert Foresman has advised state-owned Gazprom,giving him access to Prime Minister Vladimir Putin’s inner circle.At a Renaissance investor conference in June speakers includedFinance Minister Alexei Kudrin and Arkady Dvorkovich, aide to RussianPresident Dmitry Medvedev.

Andlet’s not forget Sergei Magnitsky, a Russan lawyer whofingered Renaissance Capital as part of a massive government-involvedtax fraud scheme, was arrested by said government, then murdered inprison to keep him silent. These guys are dirty as hell.

Nospeech, not even from God himself, is worth a half-millionfucking dollars a pop. That’sa hefty ass-kissing “donation”, any way you look at it - and beforeHillary became Secretary of State, Bill pulled down that half-miljust twice. After she became SecState, he got a half-mill forspeeches eleventimes.

Anddid I mention that Bill wasbeing paid a half-million dollars for fucking nothing around the sametime Hillary was pushing for approval for Russiato buy a controlling interest in Uranium One, one of the largesturanium mines in America?

Nowconsider that - given Russia’s crony capitalism/mafia stylegovernment (as exemplified by Renaissance Capital’s tight ties withthe Kremlin) and the constant murder of journalists or anyone elsewho could spill the details on these things (including Magnitskyhimself,) the only people who wouldhave this informationwould be “The Russian Government.” That’sexactly why the email offer mentioned it - it was mandatory to bebait the hook.

Andthis is why the media have very, very carefully omitted that lineabout Hillary’sconnections with Russia, andexactly why Trump Jr. tweeted out the emails himself - becauseit makes it screamingly obvious that his “intent” was to getproof of Hillary’s shady dealings and misdeeds. Hedidn’t promise any favor trading with the Russians, he didn’t promiseto to give them “special consideration,” and he didn’t promise tohost Putin’s fucking birthday party, either. That isn’t“collusion,” by definition.

Mindyou, the Russians were definitely up to no good. The lawyer,Natalia Veselnitskaya, spent all her time in Washington and environslobbying against anti-Russian sanctions -after receiving special clearance to enter the country fromLoretta Lynch herself. (Gee,ain’t that funny?) Oncethere, she spent most of her time trying to lobby for “making itlegal for Americans to adopt Russian orphans again,” banned by aRussian law that was retaliation for what she reallywanted to lobby against, the Magnitsky Act - economic sanctions onRussia, named after the whistleblower murdered after he ratted on thecompany that later stuffed 500 million dollars into Bill Clinton’ssticky pockets. Thiseditorial details why the Magnitsky Act really chaps Putin’s ass,but that act itself,likethe orphans/adoption thing, just a way to open up the topic ofanti-Russian economic sanctions. Considering that the ~masterof the dark arts~Americancitizen lobbyist that translated for her is ex-KGB, and thatNatalia droppedher promised Evidence On Hillary to launch right into her lobbyingspiel, it’s pretty clear what the goal was. Most likely, she wasshilling the same Kremlin bullshit she’d pushed everywhere else, withthe promised Evidence Of Hillary’s Crimes a bullshit lie to get inthe door. Or at absolute worst, she was trying to dangle a potentialpromise of ~evidence~ in return for potential or implied promises ofTrump’s future administration to lower sanctions on Russia (whichhe’s refused to do, by the way.) At best she was wasting TrumpJr’s. time, and at worst she was trying to solicit a deal - i.e.,collusion.

Andthat’s about when Trump Jr. showedher the door.

Evena fucking dog figuresout that you didn’t actually throw that ball after a few seconds oflooking for it, but the media’s still yapping like they finallycaught that invisible car they’ve been chasing. They’reso completely and utterly absorbed by their own narrative thatthey’ve come to believe it themselves. It’d be cute if they weren’tgrown adults with collegedegrees, you know? IfSatan himself had slithered out of a flaming crevasse andhanded Trump Jr. Hillary’s banking statements on a dead-babyparchment scroll, it still wouldn’t fucking matter unless they hadTrump Jr. signature on a contract selling his soul for it. Andwhat they’ve got now is a campaign operative saying “fuck yes Iwant an October surprise to dunk my opponent with!” Andthis is before you getto the Democrats colluding with Ukrainians at the same time they wereattacking Ukrainians on Trump’s side for being evil andsuspicious, before you weigh theClintons having a corrupt Kremlin-complicit bank stuffing cashin Bill’s pocket as Hillary sells out our biggest fucking uraniummine to the Russians, and before you weigh Loretta Lynch personallygiving that Evil Russian Lawyer permission to enter the country inthe first place.

Andthey honestly don’t understand why nobody believes them. Thegiggles that keep on giving. It’s amazing.

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in-an-ecotone · 7 years

Text

Champions of Worlds

I wrote a little thing about human personification of planets (I got the idea from a prompt from writing-prompts but I can’t find the original post anymore sorry) it’s kind of long for one post b/c I have 3 chapters already. Champions of Worlds is the working title, I don’t know if I’ll keep it (I’m bad at titles).

btw I would love some feedback I don’t write much 1st person stuff or changing perspective.

Chapter 1-

“Before we begin, let’s do a quick role call,” I announced. The quiet chatter echoing around the chamber ceased suddenly, and was replaced by the scraping of chairs against the marble floor. The meeting hall was a grand chamber built with elegant marble pillars stretching beyond one’s sight. Artifacts on display lined the walls, silently boasting so we didn’t have to. In the center of the room stood a lengthy, ovalular table with nine ornate wooden chairs sat around it.

Now sitting in these chairs were my fellow champions, representatives of planets, or in my case, stars, responsible for protecting the solar system. Every chair was filled, but rules dictated that I conduct a verbal role call.

“Carlin, of Mercury,” I said in a monotone voice. I glanced at the smallest and closest of the planets; Carlin was swinging his legs back and forth since they didn’t reach the ground. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and smiled at me. His skin was covered in circular scars and birthmarks, so many that his pale skin appeared darker.

“Right here,” He said cheerily.

“Thom, of Venus,” I moved to the next planet. Unlike little Carlin, Thom was tall enough to actually touch the ground with his feet, but his legs still bounced up and down in an agitated fashion. His orange bronze hair was neatly styled in a low fade haircut, and he didn’t dare touch it so not to ruin it. His smooth tan skin was scarred in only a few locations, as opposed to Carlin’s hundreds.

“Here,” He responded softly.

“Kaj, of Earth,” I looked upon Kaj. He looked very similar to Thom. The same height, the same face, the same hair. They were practically twins. Unlike Thom, however, Kaj’s hair was a deep blue, the same color as his oceans. He winked one of his piercing green eyes at me. His skin was tan and rough, covered in little bumps or dips.

“Reporting for duty,” He saluted casually.

“Jasper, of Mars,” I ignored him, moving to our first female champion, aside from myself. Jasper’s long, fiery red hair quickly drew my attention. Her crimson locks were practically begging you to look at them. Though she was one of the shorter champions, she was old and experienced, and the many scars on her caramel skin showed it.

“Heya, Ori,” She used my nickname, staring me down with those scarlet eyes of hers.

“Reis, of Jupiter,” I said, glaring at Jasper. Reis and Jasper were separated by a belt in the middle of a table. From here on out, it was hard for me to reach the planets.

Reis was easily the tallest of the champions; she towered over them menacingly, but she was a gentle giant. She had a cute brown pixie cut that reflected her kind personality. She was loud and always cracking jokes. Her great red birthmark was the only discrepancy of her otherwise perfectly smooth skin.

“Yello” She waved.

“Gwendolyn, of Saturn,” I moved on. Gwen was very tall, but still no match for Reis. She kept her yellow blonde hair in a simple side braid, which she was currently fussing with. She had smooth, pale skin which she covered in many necklaces and bracelets.

“Good to see ya, Ana,” She used my other nickname.

“Quilo, of Uranus,” I moved on, angrily glaring at Gwen. After her gaze fell apologetically, I moved on to Quilo. Fey was tall and lanky, with long, bony limbs. Feyr skin was white as sheets, probably due to the lack of sunlight. The bangs of feyr pale blue hair fell into feyr face and fey swept them to the side. Fey had narrow, piercing icy blue eyes to match the color of feyr hair. Fey stared me down without blinking.

“Hello, Oriana,” Fey spoke softly.

“Derya, of Neptune,” I hurried to move on past Quilo. In contrast to Quilo’s pale complexion, Derya had incredibly dark skin. His black hair was curly, like waves, and his deep blue eyes were bright and happy. On his shoulder, there was a large, dark spot, a birthmark.

“How’s it goin’?” He asked.

“Right, so everyone’s here, that’s good.” I finished. “Now, down to business. Jasper.” I addressed the red planet’s champion. She sat up straighter and held her chin high, showing respectful and attentive posture.

“You claimed you have an issue to discuss,” I said.

“Yes, I do have an issue,” She nodded. “It appears that the pathetic whelps that inhabit earth-” Kaj sat up straighter, a fire growing in his usually calm green eyes. “-have plans to colonize Mars.”

“So?” I asked.

“So, Mars is my planet, not his,” She growled, annoyed that I didn’t understand at first. “They’ve already sent those disgusting toys over, and I’ve tolerated that, but I will not stand for them living on my beautiful planet.”

“Excuse me, but if I may interrupt-” Kaj started.

“You may not.” I said. “Jasper, finish your argument quickly, and then Kaj, you will have a chance to speak.” Kaj leaned back in his chair with a huff.

“Mars is uninhabitable for humans anyway,” Jasper pouted. “If they want to leave the planet, at least go to Venus where there’s an atmosphere.”

“I will not be housing those destructive beasts!” Thom roared.

“Calm down!” I shouted. “Kaj, you may state your case, and then Thom, if you still feel the need to do so, you may go after Kaj.”

“Thank you, Oriana,” Kaj put his fingertips together without his palms touching. “Now, might I remind everyone that I represent the planet Earth, not its inhabitants. I cannot control what my little darlings do, and I cannot influence their decisions. That being said, if they want to explore the solar system, why be so apprehensive about it? After all, I’m the only one who can say I have life on my planet. Wouldn’t you all like to be able to say that too?”

“Oh please, like we’d want your sentient piles of shit on our planets!” Jasper hissed.

“Jasper, settle down,” I warned.

“As I was saying,” Kaj continued. “My beautiful creatures are interested in inhabiting Mars specifically because it’s so close to Earth-”

“So is Venus!” Jasper shouted, gesturing towards Thom.

“Quit pushing this onto me!” Thom yelled, equally as angry as Jasper.

“Both of you, be quiet!” I slammed my hands down on the table. They both looked down shamefully. Silence hung in the air for what felt like hours, but was most likely only a few seconds.

Kaj began to continue his argument, but he couldn’t get a word in before the creaking of the large, heavy doors at the end of the chamber interrupted him. Everyone turned to face the opening doors.

A young girl, about the same height as Carlin, stepped into the chamber. Her quick and heavy footsteps echoed loudly around the room. “Sorry I’m so late, everyone,” She said as she gasped for air. I eyed her up and down in confusion. All the planets are here. She must be some moon who didn’t get the memo.

I was fairly certain I recognised her, but I couldn’t place from where. She was short and skinny, with light golden skin and platinum blonde hair. Her hair was in a short, cute bob which made her look young and innocent. She slowed as she approached the table.

“Kaj, I thought I had made it clear, this is a planets only meeting. No moons,” I turned to him.

He huffed, “I’ll have you know my darling little Luna is back home playing with the tides. I’ve no idea who this is.”

“Alright, if she’s not your moon, then whose is she?” I addressed the rest of the group.

“I’m not a moon,” The girl interrupted. “I’m Piera, you know, from Pluto.”

“Pluto?” Derya repeated, annoyed. “You mean that little rock that crosses my orbit for twenty years?”

“That’s the one,” She nodded.

“Girl, you best get out of here, this meeting is for planets only,” He said aggressively.

“But I am a planet,” She argued. “I’ve come to these meetings for years, did you all just forget or something?”

“Pluto is a dwarf planet, a fact we agreed upon a long time ago. It’s why you haven’t been invited to any,” I explained. I must have accidentally sent her an invitation to this meeting. I reminded myself not to make that mistake again.

“I just assumed we stopped having them because we didn’t need to…” She mumbled.

“Well, you were wrong. If you would be so kind as to remove yourself from the premises, now. We have work to do,” I requested as politely as I could manage. Such an annoyance. She couldn’t even show up on time, no, she had to interrupt the meeting and waste our time.

“But…” She started, but it seemed she couldn’t find the right words. “But I’m a part of this solar system! I deserve to be here! I deserve to get a vote in these decisions!”

“Sorry, but dwarf planets don’t count,” I said coldly. This child had wasted enough of our time. “We really are busy, so if you wouldn’t mind-”

“No! I will not be reduced to the same status as a freaking moon!” She yelled. Oh, she can’t even bring herself to swear. How old even is she? “I might not have a perfectly circular orbit, but I’m a member of this family and I will not be treated like this!”

“All you are is a waste of precious time,” I interrupted her tantrum. “Now get out or I will be forced to do so for you.”

The girl’s face was scrunched up in anger. She opened her mouth to argue, but she just closed it again and stormed out in anger. Her eyes welled up with tears as she ran, but she tried her best to keep them hidden. She slammed the doors shut behind her, and the sound echoed around the hall long after they were closed.

Once the sound cleared, I resumed our meeting. “Now then, where were we? Ah yes, Kaj, you were making your case for why your humans should be allowed to colonize Mars.”

Kaj continued his argument without a word from Jasper or Thom. The gas planets silently gestured at one another, having some sort of coded conversation. They did it at almost every meeting, since the hot headed planets up front argued about many things that did not concern them. I didn’t mind, so long as they kept quiet. I did wonder what exactly they were talking about; perhaps they were discussing the child who so rudely interrupted us. Perhaps they think I was too harsh. Whatever they think, at least she’s not bothering us anymore.

Chapter 2-

After storming out of the meeting, I wiped my tears away as best I could. Dwarf planet… Who cares if Pluto’s a dwarf planet? I deserve to be in there. I slid down the wall and buried my face in my knees.

“Piera? What’s wrong?” A squeaky voice asked worriedly. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Styx, the champion of my smallest moon.

“They kicked me out of the meeting,” I said softly. I felt him sliding down the wall next to me.

“Oh, that’s awful. Why?” He wondered. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Because Pluto isn’t a ‘real planet’ apparently,” I answered bitterly.

“Not a real planet? Cause it’s so small? Isn’t Mercury also really small?” He pointed out.

“It is, but Pluto is smaller. And it’s not about size, it’s about the orbit,” I corrected him. “Pluto doesn’t have a circular orbit which makes it a dwarf planet.”

“That’s stupid,” Styx commented. “So you get in Neptune’s way sometimes, it doesn’t happen often. And even if it’s just a dwarf planet, Pluto’s still a part of this solar system.”

“That’s what I said, but they won’t listen,” I nodded.

“Piera?” Another, more mature, voice said. It was Charon. “I guess the meeting didn’t go well, huh?”

“It did not,” I confirmed her assumption.

“Well, you know what, fuck them,” She huffed. I looked up abruptly.

“Charon!” I scolded. She knew I didn’t like swearing, but it looked like she didn’t care. She was standing above me, her arms crossed, her face set in a determined expression.

“I mean it,” She said. She came face to face with me abruptly, causing her long straw blonde hair to fall in her face. I backed up as far as I could against the wall, but she just inched closer to me. I tried to read her expression, but all I could get was anger. There was a fire behind her clear white eyes, and she was biting her lip, which she always did when she got angry.

“Fuck them,” She repeated. “Or, if it makes you more comfortable, screw them. Either way, you get the point. Who needs them? They clearly don’t care about you, so why should you care about them? If you want to make a decision on behalf of your planet, do it, don’t wait for a meeting with them!”

“That’s so much pressure though…” I whisper.

“You’re not alone!” She smirked. “You’ve got me, and Styx, and Hydra, and Kerberos, and Nix! We’re all here for you, ain’t that right Styx?”

“Yeah, of course!” He nodded excitedly. I turned toward him. He ran a hand through his straight, white hair and flashed a toothy smile. “I mean, that’s what we’re here for, right?”

“Yeah! We’ll start our own council! The Pluto Council!” Another voice chimed in. I looked up to see Nix, another moon. She stood shyly in front of us, looking over Charon, who was still practically in my lap. Charon coughed and moved next to me so Nix could join our circle. She sat down, neatly crossing her legs and smiling warmly at me. She was about the same height as Styx, and thin bony limbs resembled his. Her hair, which was in short pigtails, was mostly dark grey, but there was one streak of pink on the left side.

Not too far behind Nix were my other two moons, Hydra and Kerberos. Kerberos, a short but tough black haired boy, was holding hands with Hydra, a shorter but equally tough light haired boy. They were inseparable.

“You guys are on board with this too?” I asked. They both nodded silently. I sighed. “Okay, okay. If you all think that highly of me…” I looked around the circle one last time, waiting for an objection, but none came. “Then I guess we can start a Pluto Council.”

They all whooped and cheered excitedly. Charon stood up and offered me a hand. “Come on, we should get home. We have a lot of work to do,” She said. I took her hand and she pulled me up, but once I was standing she didn’t let go. We held hands while we walked away from the meeting hall.

The Center for Planetary Champions, or CPC, was a huge building in the middle of the asteroid belt. It was hidden in a particularly large asteroid so that pesky life forms couldn’t find it. The ceiling of the building was a screen that displayed the perpetually dark sky. Every now and again the asteroid would rotate enough that we could see the sun or other planets. Most of the all we saw was other asteroids though.

In the very center of the building is the meeting hall. From there, hallways branch out into ten different sections, each of which house a different champion. Sometimes, instead of staying in their section at the Center, a champion will return to their planet for a short amount of time. We’ll do this if there is a crisis on our planet, or if we’re just feeling homesick. Moons tend to spend more time away from the Center than planets.

The Pluto section is on the opposite side of the meeting hall of where we were sitting. We pass almost every planet on the way to our section. Above the doorway of each hall, a rotating 3D model of the planet, accompanied by its moons, is suspended in the air. The gas giants’ models have been getting out of hand as they discover more moons; currently Jupiter has 67 moons, and Saturn has 62. Uranus is also cluttered with 27 moons, as well as Neptune with 14, but neither of them come close to the mess of satellites around the gas giants.

Finally we arrive at Pluto’s section. The littlest planet hung rotating slowly above the doorway, with five moons lovingly circling it. Charon and I entered together, with Hydra and Kerberos quietly muttering to each other behind us, and Nix and Styx loudly bringing up the rear.

Inside the section, there was one large living room, six bedrooms, a dining hall, and two bathrooms. In the living room, there was holoscreen on the far wall, which, contradictory to its name, was not a hologram. There was a big, cushiony couch with far too many pillows and blankets piled onto it. The nearest wall was lined with bookshelves stocked with records of Pluto, documents about the solar system, and journals we’ve kept over the years. On the coffee table in front of the couch there was an image of the solar system that moved in real time, tracking the planets and other celestial bodies.

I flopped onto the couch, sighing heavily. I hugged my favorite pillow, a fluffy purple heart shaped one. “Channel 17,” I commanded the holoscreen. The news channel, run by some dedicated moons of Jupiter.

“Right now, the planets are discussing the regulations of human space travel,” The anchor on the left said. Io had bright yellow hair, the color of sulfur, which covered most of his face. He was constantly lifting a pale hand to brush it out of his face.

I perked up at the mention of such a big decision. As Io said, “This is one of the biggest decisions the Council is making in a very long time. It will surely have a great impact on the solar system.”

Charon brought me a plate of earth fruit from the buffet in the dining room. I happily took it and ate as she sat next to me. As Io and Europa, the other news anchor, talked about the last time the Council made a decision this big, Charon gave me the status of the other moons.

“Nix and Styx are filling in their journals, which should keep them busy for at least a little while,” She sighed. Those two were such balls of energy, it was hard to keep up with them sometimes. “Hydra and Kerberos have created a blog on some earth website and are trolling humans,” She continued. “Should we stop them?”

“Nah,” I shook my head, eating a strawberry. “Whatever keeps them satisfied.” Charon shrugged, and we turned our attention back to the news.

“Kaj argues that humans should be allowed to explore the solar system, since they aren’t doing any harm,” Europa stated. “However, as Jasper claims, humans have already done enough damage to their home planet, they shouldn’t be permitted to do the same to other planets.”

“That’s a good point,” Io nodded. “We have a photo of Kaj just half a century ago, and another photo of him today.” The video of the anchors disappeared and was replaced with two pictures of Kaj. In the left photograph, Kaj looked like a young energetic man, but in the right photograph he looked older. The color of his hair had faded slightly, he was thinner, paler, and there were massive bags under his eyes.

“Yes, he has aged worse since humans started advancing,” Europa restated. The image of the two anchors returned. “He resembles his twin Planet Thom even more now.”

“We do have word of a rumor that the proposed solution is to send humans to Pluto, the dwarf planet,” Io said. I drop a grape I had picked up onto the floor. My mouth hangs open, and Charon is looking very similar.

“Since it’s not a planet, it’s not quite as big of a deal if the humans screw it up,” Io continued. I drop the platter of fruit and cover my mouth with one hand. My eyes start watering and my chest tightens. Charon places one hand tightly on my shoulder.

“Yes, and it should be as easy as any other planet to colonize,” Europa added. “Charon, Pluto’s largest moon, is also a favorable option, due to its similar size.” Charon’s eyes widened and she frantically ran a hand through her hair.

“Off,” I commanded, my breath becoming shaky. The holoscreen dimmed and we were left in silence. We sat unmoving for a long time, until Charon broke the horrifying silence.

“Are you FUCKING SERIOUS?!” She screamed.

Chapter 3-

“Are you FUCKING SERIOUS?!” I screamed.

“Language!” Piera hissed, looking at the doors to the other moons’ rooms. I stood up and started pacing around the room.

“I can’t believe this,” I repeated that over and over like a mantra. “They can’t do this, it’s not fair! First they kick you out of the meeting, and then they try to decide the fate of your planet without you? They have to see how crazy that is!”

The other moons were starting to filter into the room. They gathered around Piera worriedly. I ignored them, continuing to pace around the room.

“This isn’t fair,” I muttered. “It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair!”

“Charon, calm down,” Piera said, concerned.

“Calm down?!” I whipped around to face her. “How am I supposed to calm down with this happening?! I mean, are you seeing this? It’s not weird for me to freak out, it’s weird that you’re not freaking out!”

“Charon, please,” She stood and walked over to me, placing a hand gingerly on my shoulder. “You’re scaring them.”

I glanced at the other moons, who were standing behind the couch with wide eyes. They stared at me in shock. I suddenly remembered that they had never seen me get panicked like this; it had happened before, but Piera had been the only one present.

“We can’t let them do this,” I whispered, turning back to Piera.

“I know, but we shouldn’t panic in front of them. We’ll scare them,” She agreed.

“Says the girl who was crying in the hallway a few minutes ago,” I mumbled, smirking.

“Okay, you’re fine, you don’t need my help,” She rolled her eyes at me, removing her hand from my arm. We laughed, which seemed to comfort the moons. Piera shooed them back into their rooms. She followed Nix into her room to tell her the whole situation.

Instead of waiting in the living room, I decided to take a walk. I leave a note explaining where I went in case Piera gets worried. She always jumps to the worst outcome in times of worry. I leave our section and wander around the CPC with no real destination.

In the eastern wing, where Pluto’s section is located, there’s an air lock marked in bold red letters “EXIT.” Often, I would leave to check up on Charon, my moon. There were even times when I visited other planets and moons, which was supposed to be forbidden. I especially liked checking up on Mercury. Aside from other moons and Piera, Carlin was the only champion who seemed to like me. All the others pretend I don’t even exist. After all, Charon is just a moon, it doesn’t actually matter.

Thinking about the planets’ harsh ideals got me even more riled up. I needed to do something. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t wait around any longer. My mind raced; what could I even do? The Council surely wouldn’t care about my arguments, and Piera would just tell me to calm down again. Other moons would tell me to suck it up and deal with it. There was no one I could go to.

I stopped walking in front of the Earth section. Of course, I thought. If the Council won’t listen, I’ll go straight to the champions. I hastily entered. It was very different from the Pluto section. Our home was modest and cozy, but this was extravagant and complicated. The living room was much larger than ours, despite there being less residents. An ornate emerald chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the entire room was decorated in paintings and delicate vases. There were bookshelves chock full of novels I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t even aware there were books other than records of the solar system.

Where the doors to our rooms were in our section, there was a golden staircase leading to an upstairs balcony. I could see from here there were more rooms up there. I carefully and quietly ascend the stairs, hurrying to the first door I see. It leads to a room that is mostly dark, except for a light in the middle of the floor. The light projected an image of constellations onto the ceiling and walls. In the corner, there was a small blue bed with a comforter covered in pictures of creatures I don’t understand. On one side of the room, there was a tank of water that was tall enough to go up to my shoulders. A girl was standing on a stool to reach the top of the tank, and she was playing with the water.

The girl didn’t notice me at first. She had long, white hair that reached her knees. Her pale skin was covered in craterous scars. She was short, extremely so. I concluded that she must be Earth’s moon, Luna.

As silently as I could, I retreated out of the bedroom and closed the door. I hoped she didn’t notice me, in case she wanted to kick me out. Before I moved on to the next door, I convinced myself that she was too busy playing in that tank to notice the slight noise I may make.

The next room was much larger than Luna’s. Despite there only being two champions here, there were four long dining tables with enough chairs to house everyone on CPC and more. For whatever reason, Kaj had decided that each table be decorated with a different color. On the far left, the tablecloth and napkins were a deep emerald green. The table next to it had canary yellow tablecloth and napkins. The one next to that was royal blue. And on the far right, the cloth and napkins were bright scarlet. Other than that, there was nothing of interest in this room. Just a frivolously large dining room.

I moved on to the next, room, which I assumed was Kaj’s bedroom. Upon opening the door, I knew I had to be right. There was nothing else that could explain the hideously boastful display before me.

There were two levels to this room, separated by one small stair. On the first level, the one I was currently on, there was a hot tub, a sleek black leather couch, and a… I actually didn’t know what that was. It wasn’t a holoscreen, but it sort of resembled it; perhaps it was an earlier model? But it was so large. The huge flat black screen took up a quarter of one wall. It was no model of holoscreen I had ever seen; then again, Kaj was the type of person who would brag about having an “authentic, vintage HV.” Holoscreens used to be called H-views, or HV’s for short.

Next to the old HV, there were a bunch of other devices I didn’t recognize. They were all little boxes accompanied by what looked like control devices. There was also a stack of boxes filled with discs. Each disc looked the same, but the box for each was drastically different. I didn’t take the time to investigate what they were.

On the first level, there was also another bookcase filled with more volumes I couldn’t place, a glass case full of bones, and a playpen in the corner. I walked over to the playpen, and inside it there was a small reptilious monster that screeched at me. The harsh noise startled me and I backed away from the pen abruptly. Why the hell was Kaj keeping that thing in a fucking playpen?

Trying to ignore my horror, I moved on to the second level. On this level there was a grand, king sized bed with golden bed sheets. Could he be more pretentious? I thought to myself. Accompanying the bed, there was a night stand, with more books piled on top of it. I never knew he was so well read… I thought. There were portraits and paintings all over the walls. Is he actually… cultured? I wondered. There was a model solar system, as everyone was required to have, next to a portrait of himself holding his planet in the palm of his hand. Nope, he’s a total douchebag. I nodded silently.

It was probably best I wait here for him to get back from the meeting. So, I plopped myself down on his bed (which I might add was incredibly comfortable), and picked up one of his books. This one was titled, Romeo and Juliet by one William Shakespeare. Was this written by a human? Were these all books by Kaj’s precious life forms? Were such destructive creatures able to write?

Out of curiosity, I started reading. It wasn’t like most books; it was all dialogue, and the speaker was written in italics above each line. When there were actions, they were written in parentheses, and often said things like stage left or right. And all the words were so frivolous. What Shakespeare describes in three paragraphs, I can describe in two words. It’s like he’s constantly boasting about his ability to write metaphors. It made sense that Kaj likes him.

After a couple of hours, I had finished the book. I was about to reach for another when I heard footsteps coming from downstairs. “Luna, I’m home!” I heard Kaj yell.

I heard the opening of a door and fast footsteps. “Hi Kaj!” The boisterous voice of Luna yelled back. “How was the meeting?”

“Oh, not good, Luna. I’m being attacked for allowing my humans to explore other planets,” He said.

“That’s not good. Do they not understand the benefits of having life forms?” Luna asked.

“Apparently not,” Kaj sighed. “We argued for hours. Even Thom was against me!”

“Well, as hurtful as that may be, Venus’ atmosphere is filled with poisonous gas,” Luna mentioned. “Perhaps it’s best humans stay off of Venus.”

“Still, I can’t believe he’s not supporting me on this!” Kaj moaned.

“Maybe a nice steak and some mashed potatoes would cheer you up,” She suggested.

“Oh Luna, you’re so sweet to me,” I could hear him smiling. “Let me get changed into something comfortable first.”

“I’ll be waiting in the dining room,” Luna said. Slow, heavy footsteps made their way upstairs and down the hallway. I heard the dining room door open and close. This was my chance. Before I could prepare, the door swung open and in walked Kaj, looking particularly dapper. He wore an emerald green suit with long coat tails, a white vest with a red tie, and a white pocket square. His deep blue hair was styled in a low fade cut and kept neat with lots of gel. He was even carrying a black cane for fashion purposes.

Kaj nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw me. I’d been told I have that effect on people. My pale, straw blonde hair nearly blended into my skin. I wore all black all the time; the outfit I wore right now was a leather jacket, black ripped pants, and lots of dark jewelry. It also helped that I was sitting on the bed, so he had to look up at me. That way he couldn’t see how short I was. What the freakiest thing about my face was though, was my eyes. I had pale white, almost clear, irises that scared most other people.

“Who are you?!” He screeched, aggressively walking toward me. “What are you doing in my bed?!”

“I want to talk about your plan to move your walking scum to Pluto and Charon,” I said, ignoring his questions.

“What are you talking about?” He asked.

“Channel 17, they said that the plan right now is to move your humans to Pluto and Charon,” I repeated.

“Why do you care?” He wondered. “You aren’t Piera.” I was actually surprised that he remembered her name. “Wait, are you Charon? The moon?”

“I am indeed,” I confirmed. “But that doesn’t matter, the point is, you are going to go back to the champions and tell them that Pluto and Charon will remain uninhabited.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried that already?” He said dryly. That caught me off guard.

“Wait, you’ve tried that already?” I repeated.

“Yes, of course,” He nodded. “I’d much rather have my humans stick to Mars, but Jasper’s so full of herself-” I snorted. He ignored me. “-that she demanded I move them elsewhere.”

“And they decided on Pluto?” I assumed.

“Yes, that is what they came to,” He nodded. “But honestly, I’m on your side. Pluto’s so far away, and it’s so cold! Mars is a much better choice. And even if we decreed that they must go to Pluto, I have no way of influencing their decision. And even if I did, what’s to say they’ll stop at Pluto? What’s to say they won’t go to Mars anyway?”

“Oh. I guess I kinda assumed it was your idea,” I mumbled, embarrassed.

“That’s alright, dear. But from now on, perhaps you shouldn’t break into someone’s home just to get what you want,” He smirked.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I bit my lip, avoiding his bright green eyes.

“Would you care to stay for dinner?” He asked. “We’re having steak tonight.”

“Steak?” I wondered.

“Yes, I suppose you’ve only ever had CPC’s signature schlop,” He said sarcastically.

“I think it tastes good,” I argued. The food CPC serves is a special blend of plant matter mixed with added nutrients and vitamins called practoblend.

“Oh please, once you have real food, you’ll know just how awful that goop is,” He huffed. Before I could argue, he took my hand and pulled me off the bed. “Go join Luna in the dining room, it’s the door next to this one, you probably passed it on your way in. I’ll change and join you shortly.”

I did as he instructed and found Luna in the dining room. She was sitting at the canary yellow table. I sat next to her, and she gave me a confused stare. She had silver grey eyes, sort of similar to mine. Her long white hair was practically glowing as the light reflected off of it.

“I’m Charon,” I said. “One of Pluto’s moons.” She nodded.

“I’ve seen you around the center,” She said. “What brings you here?”

“I was kind of pissed that the Council decided to send the life forms on Earth to Pluto and Charon,” I explained. “I came to argue with Kaj about it.”

“Oh, but he’s on your side!” She interrupted me. “Kaj would rather have the humans go to Mars.”

“As he told me,” I nodded. “So, he invited me to stay for supper.”

“Well, it’s good to meet you properly, Charon,” She smiled warmly at me.

“Yes, you too, Luna,” I said.

The doors to the dining hall opened and Kaj entered. He was a mess; his hair that had been styled so neatly was now hanging over one side of his face. He was wearing a plain oversized grey shirt and baggy black pants, and he was now barefoot. He looked like he just got out of bed.

“Well that was fast,” I said, not bothering to comment on his disheveled appearance.

“I do try to make haste as often as possible,” He nodded. “I noticed you had picked up one of my books. Romeo and Juliet. Do you enjoy romance?”

“I’ve never really read any,” I answered. “The only books I have access to are records and journals.”

“No fictional novels of any kind?” Kaj asked.

“None. The CPC doesn’t keep any,” I shook my head.

“Oh my, how deprived you really are. I never realized how much they kept from you,” He gasped.

“I don’t know if I’d say we’re deprived,” I said. “I mean, this is all stuff your life forms have made, right? Are we really missing out on that much?”

“It may not seem like that much, but that’s just because you haven’t really experienced art before,” Kaj tutted. “Once you actually get a taste of human art, you’ll realize exactly what you’ve been shielded from. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

He lifted the lid off of a silver platter, revealing what I assumed was the steak they mentioned earlier. It was a huge, thick, dark, glistening block of meat. Kaj grabbed a sharp, serrated knife and cut the steak into inequal thirds. He gave the smallest piece to Luna and the largest piece to himself. I stared at it inquisitively. All of my food was a thick, mushy paste. I had no idea how to approach a solid hunk of meat.

“Potatoes?” Kaj offered a bowl to me. The bowl was full of a white, fluffy substance with black dots peppered throughout it.

“Uh, sure,” I nodded uncertainly. He used a large spoon to serve me a blob of the white paste. He then offered me something he called “green beans,” which I think I had heard of before. I was pretty certain it was an ingredient in one of the practoblend flavors. But these were long, thin, bumpy, green pods. Kaj spooned about ten of them onto my plate.

“Dig in,” He said after setting the bowl of green beans down. Luna grabbed a knife like the one Kaj had used earlier and cut into her steak. I had never had to use a knife before. I tried to copy her actions, but I got kind of frustrated. Kaj watched me struggle with the utensils.

“Ah, I forgot. You’ve only ever had the goop before,” He said. I suddenly felt very flustered and embarrassed.

“Um, y-yes, that’s correct,” I nodded.

“That’s alright. Here,” He took my plate and cut the steak into nice bite sized pieces for me. “There you go,” He said when he handed it back to me.

I stabbed a piece with my fork and bit into it. Juice exploded from the steak in my mouth, spewing out flavor like I had never experienced before. It was salty, savory, but at the same time, sort of sweet. I could barely describe it. And the texture was tough but not too chewy. You couldn’t get this in a practoblend.

I scarfed down more and more, eager to taste the succulent steak again. The flavor lingered in my mouth after I swallowed. I tried the potatoes next; the texture reminded me of practoblend, but the flavor was nothing like it. It was creamy and light and buttery and savory and I could go on and on but words can’t capture the feeling. CPC had taught me that food was essential to survival, but here it was so much more. It wasn’t just a necessity, it could be a luxury.

I tried one of the green beans. It was crunchy, but not hard to bite through. It was a touch bitter, but not bad by any means. I scarfed them down as fast as I did the steak. I couldn’t get enough of this food. I was finished and ready for more while Luna and Kaj were barely halfway finished with their food. I waited patiently even though I was hungry for more. Luna pushed her plate away with potatoes left still.

“You’re not going to finish?” I asked, eyeing the potatoes hungrily. Luna chuckled.

“You can have them,” She passed her plate to me. I happily took it from her and dug in.

“Just wait until dessert,” Kaj smirked. “What are we having tonight, Luna?”

“Brownies with ice cream,” She answered.

“Oh, are you in for a treat. Luna makes the best brownies. Not even Ramsay could dislike them,” Kaj said.

“Who’s Ramsay?” I asked, finishing the potatoes.

“A chef on earth. Don’t worry about it,” Luna dismissed it. She got up and left through a door in the very back corner of the room. When she came back moments later, she was carrying another large platter and a tub. She placed them on the table and lifted the lid off the platter. There was a neat pyramid of warm, soft, gooey brown blocks, probably the brownies. In the tub, there was a thick, creamy, white substance, the ice cream. Luna served one brownie to me and then scooped some ice cream onto it. Before I could eat, she took a bottle of hot brown sauce and poured it over the whole thing, and then neatly positioned a bright, juicy red sphere on top.

“There you go: one chocolate fudge brownie with vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce, and a cherry on top,” Luna said cheerily. Kaj handed me a clean set of silverware. While Luna served herself and Kaj, I took a big bite of the brownie. It was sweet, rich, and soft. It was thick and gooey and warm but the ice cream was cold and creamy. The two items were so different, but they complemented each other so well. I had to show Piera this. She’d love it.

“So, what do you think of practoblend now that you’ve had real food?” Kaj asked after I scarfed down the brownie. I gladly admitted my earlier mistakes.

“It’s nothing compared to this,” I said.

“I knew you’d say that,” Kaj grinned. “And that’s not all humans have to offer. The food’s amazing, but they also make art through painting, music, writing, dance. Not to mention the contributions of mathematicians, scientists, economists, and so on and so on.”

“And of course the other animals on earth. All the beautiful creatures, especially the ones in the ocean,” Luna added.

“Yes, now that we’re on the same team, we have much to show you,” Kaj agreed.

“Okay, slow down a bit. The same team?” I said. “Are you expecting some sort of war? And I’m not alone. I’m not doing anything without Piera and the other moons. Speaking of which, it’s been a while, they’re probably worried about me…”

“Oh, you can invite them here,” Kaj said. “And yes, to answer your first question, I am expecting a war. It’s doubtful it will escalate beyond a lot of angry shouting and arguments, but there will certainly be a division. Those who are for human exploration and those against it. As of right now, we are the only ones for it.”

“I’m not for it,” I disagreed.

“You’re not for human exploration of Pluto. As long as they keep away from your planet, you don’t mind, yes?” Kaj specified.

“I guess so,” I shrugged.

“Good,” Kaj said. “That makes us on the same team. So, if you must get home, go ahead, we don’t want to worry anybody. But do bring your friends up to speed, won’t you?” He requested, getting up. I stood as well, and Kaj lead me to the door. We arrived at the exit into the rest of the center and stopped.

“Thank you for dinner. And sorry for breaking into your room,” I said.

“You needn’t worry, dear,” He waved it off. “Get some rest. There’s going to be many long days ahead of us.” I nodded and quickly left the section. Piera was probably freaking out right now, but hopefully, she’ll be appreciative of our new allies.

There you have it! I am working on a chapter four if you’re interested let me know? It’s really fun to write.

@asexual-trashbag @d-strider @blueberryxz

@deafinatelyfangirling

#writing #my writing #space #planets #champions_of_worlds

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newsnigeria · 6 years

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Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/bear-hubris-suicidal/

When dealing with a bear, hubris is suicidal

[This analysis was written for the Unz Review]

Assuming mankind finds a way not to destroy itself in the near future and assuming that there will still be historians in the 22nd or 23rd centuries, I bet you that they will look at the AngloZionist Empire and see the four following characteristics as some of its core features: lies, willful ignorance, hypocrisy, and hysterics. To illustrate my point I will use the recent “Skripal nerve-gas assassination” story as it really encompasses all of these characteristics.

I won’t even bother debunking the official nonsense here as others have done a very good job of pointing out the idiocy of the official narrative. If you are truly capable of believing that “Putin” (that is the current collective designator for the Evil Empire of Mordor currently threatening all of western civilization) would order the murder of a man whom a Russian military court sentenced to only 13 years in jail (as opposed to life or death) and who was subsequently released as part of a swap with the USA, you can stop reading right now and go back to watching TV. I personally have neither the energy nor the inclination to even discuss such a self-evidently absurd theory. No, what I do want to do is use this story as a perfect illustration of the kind of society we now all live in looked at from a moral point of view. I realize that we live in a largely value-free society where moral norms have been replaced by ideological orthodoxy, but that is just one more reason for me to write about what is taking place precisely focusing on the moral dimensions of current events.

Lies and the unapologetic denial of reality:

In a 2015 article entitled “A society of sexually frustrated Pinocchios” I wrote the following:

I see a direct cause and effect relationship between the denial of moral reality and the denial of physical reality. I can’t prove that, of course, but here is my thesis: Almost from day one, the early western civilization began by, shall we say, taking liberties with the truth, which it could bend, adapt, massage and repackage to serve the ideological agenda of the day. It was not quite the full-blown and unapologetic relativism of the 19th century yet, but it was an important first step. With “principles” such as the end justifies the means and the wholesale violation of the Ten Commandants all “for the greater glory of God” the western civilization got cozy with the idea that there was no real, objective truth, only the subjective perception or even representation each person might have thereof. Fast forward another 10 centuries or so and we end up with the modern “Gayropa” (as Europe is now often referred to in Russia): not only has God been declared ‘dead’ and all notions of right and wrong dismissed as “cultural”, but even objective reality has now been rendered contingent upon political expediency and ideological imperatives.

I went on to quote George Orwell by reminding how he defined “doublethink” in his book 1984:

“To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which canceled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it (…) To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just as long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality“

and I concluded by saying that “The necessary corollary from this state of mind is that only appearances matter, not reality”.

This is exactly what we are observing; not only in the silly Skripal nerve-gas assassination story but also in all the rest of the Russophobic nonsense produced by the AngloZionist propaganda machine including the “Litvinenko polonium murder” and the “Yushchenko dioxin poisoning“. The fact that neither nerve-gas, nor polonium nor dioxin are in any way effective murder weapons does not matter in the least: a simple drive-by shooting, street-stabbing or, better, any “accident” is both easier to arrange and impossible to trace. Fancy assassination methods are used when access to the target is very hard or impossible (as was the case with Ibn al-Khattab, whose assassination the Russians were more than happy to take credit for; this might also have been the case with the death of Yasser Arafat). But the best way of murdering somebody is to simply make the body disappear, making any subsequent investigation almost impossible. Finally, you can always subcontract the assassination to somebody else like, for example, when the CIA tried and failed, to murder Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Hussain Fadlallah by subcontracting his bombing to its local “Christian” allies, killing over 80 innocent people in the process. There is plenty of common crime in the UK and to get somebody to rob and stab Skripal would have probably been the easiest version. That’s assuming that the Russians had any reason to want him dead, which they self-evidently didn’t.

But here is the important thing: every single criminal or intelligence specialist in the West understands all of the above. But that does not stop the Ziomedia from publishing articles like this one “A Brief History of Attempted Russian Assassinations by Poison” which also lists people poisoned by Russians:

Skripal by nerve gas

Litvinenko by polonium

Kara-Murza poisoned not once, but TWICE, by an unknown poison, he survived!

Markov poisoned by ricin and the Bulgarians with “speculated KGB assistance”

Khattab by sarin or a sarin-derivative

Yushchenko by dioxin

Perepilichny by “a rare, toxic flower, gelsemium” (I kid you not, check the article!)

Moskalenko by mercury

Politkovskaya who was shot, but who once felt “ill after drinking some tea that she believed contained poison”

The only possible conclusion from this list is this: there is some kind of secret lab in Russia where completely incompetent chemists try every poison known to man, not on rats or on mice, but on high profile AngloZionist-supported political activists, preferably before an important political event.

Right.

By the way, the gas allegedly used in the attack, “Novichok”, was manufactured in Uzbekistan and the cleanup of the factory producing it was made by, you guessed it, a US company. Just saying…

In any halfway honest and halfway educated society, those kind of articles should result in the idiot writing it being summarily fired for gross incompetence and the paper/journal posting it being discredited forever. But in our world, the clown who wrote that nonsense (Elias Groll, a Harvard graduate and – listen to this – a specialist of “cyberspace and its conflicts and controversies” (sic)) is a staff writer of the award-winning Foreign Policy magazine.

So what does it tell us, and future historians, when this kind of crap is written by a staff writer of an “award winning” media outlet? Does it not show that our society has now reached a stage in its decay (I can’t call that “development”) where lies become the norm? Not only are even grotesque and prima facie absurd lies accepted, they are expected (if only because they reinforce the current ideological Zeitgeist. The result? Our society is now packed with first, zombified ideological drones who actually believe any type of officially proclaimed of nonsense and, second, by cowards who lack the basic courage to denounce even that which they themselves know to be false.

Lies, however ridiculous and self-evidently stupid, have become the main ingredient of the modern political discourse. Everybody knows this and nobody cares. When challenged on this, the typical defense used is always the same: “you are the only person saying this – I sure ever heard this before!”.

Willful ignorance as a universal cop-out

We all know the type. You tell somebody that his/her theory makes absolutely no sense or is not supported by facts and the reply you get is some vaguely worded refusal to engage in an disputation. Initially, you might be tempted to believe that, indeed, your interlocutor is not too bright and not too well read, but eventually you realize that there is something very different happening: the modern man actually makes a very determined effort not to be capable of logical thought and not to be informed of the basic facts of the case. And what is true for specific individuals is even more true of our society as a whole. Let’s take one simple example: Operation Gladio:

“Gladio” is really an open secret by now. Excellent books and videos have been written about this and even the BBC has made a two and a half hour long video about it. There is even an entire website dedicated to the story of this huge, continent-wide, terrorist organization specializing in false flag operations. That’s right: a NATO-run terrorist network in western Europe involved in false flag massacres like the infamous Bologna train station bombing. No, not the Soviet KGB backing the Baader-Meinhof Red Army Faction or the Red Brigades in Italy. No, the USA and West European governments organizing, funding and operating a terrorist network directed at the people of Western, not Eastern, Europe. Yes, at their own people! In theory, everybody should know about this, the information is available everywhere, even on the hyper-politically correct Wikipedia. But, again, nobody cares.

The end of the Cold War was marked by a seemingly endless series of events which all provided a pretext for AngloZionist interventions (from the Markale massacres in Bosnia, to the Srebrenica “genocide”, to the Racak massacre Kosovo, to the “best” and biggest one of them all, 9/11 of course). Yet almost nobody wondered if the same people or, at least, the same kind of people who committed all the Gladio crimes might be involved. Quite the opposite: each one of these events was accompanied by a huge propaganda campaign mindlessly endorsing and even promoting the official narrative, even when it self-evidently made no sense whatsoever (like 2 aircraft burning down 3 steel towers). As for Gladio, it was conveniently “forgotten”.

There is a simple principle in psychology, including, and especially in criminal psychology which I would like to prominently restate here:

The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior

Every criminalist knows that and this is why criminal investigators place so much importance on the “modus operandi”, i.e. the particular way or method a suspect or a criminal chooses in the course of the execution of his/her crimes. That is also something which everybody knows. So let’s summarize this in a simple thesis:

Western regimes have a long and well-established track record of regularly executing bloody false-flag operations in pursuit of political objectives, especially those providing them with a pretext to justify an illegal military aggression.

Frankly, I submit that the thesis above is really established not only by a preponderance of evidence but beyond a reasonable doubt. Right?

Maybe. But that is also completely irrelevant because nobody gives a damn! Not the reporters who lie for a living nor, even less so, the brainwashed zombies who read their nonsense and take it seriously. The CIA tried to kill Fidel Castro over 600 times – who cares?! All we know is that the good folks at Langley would never, ever, kill a Russian in the UK, out of respect for international law, probably…

That willful ignorance easily defeats history, facts or logic.

Here is a simple question a journalist could ask: “would the type of people who had no problems blowing up an large train station, or bringing down three buildings in downtown New York, have any hesitation in using a goofy method to try kill a useless Russian ex-spy if that could justify further hostile actions against a country which they desperately need to demonize to justify and preserve the current AngloZionist world order?”. The answer I think is self-evident. The question shall therefore not be asked. Instead, soy-boys from Foreign Policy mag will tell us about how the Russians use exotic flowers to kill high visibility opponents whose death would serve no conceivable political goal.

Hypocrisy as a core attribute of the modern man

Willful ignorance is important, of course, but it is not enough. For one thing, being ignorant, while useful to dismiss a fact-based and/or logical argument, is not something useful to establish your moral superiority or the legality of your actions. Empire requires much more than just obedience from its subject: what is also absolutely indispensable is a very strong sense of superiority which can be relied upon when committing a hostile action against the other guy. And nothing is as solid a foundation for a sense of superiority than the unapologetic reliance on brazen hypocrisy. Let’s take a fresh example: the latest US threats to attack Syria (again).

Irrespective of the fact that the USA themselves have certified Syria free of chemical weapons and irrespective of the fact that US officials are still saying that they have no evidence that the Syrian government was involved in any chemical attack on Khan Shaykhun, the USA is now preparing to strike Syria again in “response” to future chemical attacks! Yes, you read that right. The AngloZionists are now announcing their false flags in advance! In fact, by the time this analysis is published the attack will probably already have occurred. The “best” part of this all is that Nikki Haley has now announced to the UN Security Council that the US will act without any UN Security Councilapproval. What the USA is declaring is this: “we reserve the right to violate international law at any time and for any reason we deem sufficient”. In the very same statement, Nikki Haley also called the Syrian government an “outlaw regime”. This is not a joke, check it out for yourself. The reaction in “democratic” Europe: declaring that *Russia* (not the US) is a rogue state. QED.

This entire circus is only made possible by the fact that the western elites have all turned into “great supine protoplasmic invertebrate jellies” (to use the wonderful words of Boris Johnson) and that absolutely nobody has the courage, or decency, to call all this what it really is: an obscene display of total hypocrisy and wholesale violation of all norms of international law. The French philosopher Alain Soral is quite right when he says that modern “journalists are either unemployed or prostitutes” (he spoke about the French media – un journaliste français c’est soit une pute soit un chômeur – but this fully applies to all the western media). Except that I would extend it to the entire Western Establishment.

I would further argue that foreign aggression and hypocrisy have become the two essential pillars for the survival of the AngloZionist empire: the first one being an economic and political imperative, the 2nd one being the prerequisite for the public justification of the first one. But sometimes even that is not enough, especially when the lies are self-evidently absurd. Then the final, quasi-miraculous element is always brought in: hysterics.

Hysteria as the highest form of (pseudo-)liberalism

I don’t particularly care for the distinction usually made between liberals and conservatives, at least not unless the context and these terms is carefully and accurately defined. I certainly don’t place myself on that continuum nor do find it analytically helpful.

The theoretical meaning of these concepts is, however, quite different from what is mostly understood under these labels, especially when people use them to identify themselves. That is to say that while I am not at all sure that those who think of themselves as, say, liberals are in any way truly liberal, I do think that people who would identify themselves as “liberals” often (mostly?) share a number of characteristics, the foremost of which is a very strong propensity to function at, and engage in, an hysterical mode of discourse and action.

The Google definition of hysteria is “exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion or excitement, especially among a group of people (…) whose symptoms include conversion of psychological stress into physical symptoms (somatization), selective amnesia, shallow volatile emotions, and overdramatic or attention-seeking behavior”. Is that not a perfect description of US politicians, especially the (putatively) “liberal” ones? Just think of the way US Democrats have capitalized on such (non-)issues as “Russian interference” (externally) or “gun control” (internally) and you will see that the so-called “liberals” never get off a high-emotional pitch. The best example of all, really, is their reaction to the election of Donald Trump instead of their cult-leader Hillary: it has been over a year since Trump has been elected and yet the liberal ziomedia and its consumers are still in full-blown hysteria mode (with “pussyhats”, “sky-screams” and all). In a conversation you can literally drown such a liberal with facts, statistics, expert testimonies, etc. and achieve absolutely no result whatsoever because the liberal lives in an ideological comfort zone which he/she is categorically unwilling and, in fact, unable, to abandon, even temporarily. This is what makes liberals such a *perfect* audience for false-flag operations: they simply won’t process the narrative presented to them in a logical manner but will immediately react to it in a strongly emotional manner, usually with the urge to immediately “do something”.

That “do something” is usually expressed in the application of violence (externally) and the imposition of bans/restrictions/regulations (internally). You can try to explain to that liberal that the very last thing the Russians would ever want to do is to use a stupid method to try to kill a person who is of absolutely no interest to them, or to explain to that liberal that the very last thing the Syrian government would ever do in the course of its successful liberation of its national territory from “good terrorists” would be to use chemical weapons of any kind – but you would never achieve anything: Trump must be impeached, the Russians sanctioned and the Syrians bombed, end of argument.

I am quite aware that there are a lot of self-described “conservatives” who have fully joined this chorus of hysterical liberals in all their demands, but these “conservatives” are not only acting out of character, they are simply caving in to the social pressure of the day, being the “great supine protoplasmic invertebrate jellies” mentioned above. Again, I am not discussing real liberals or real conservatives here (regardless of what these terms really mean), I am talking about those who, for whatever reason, chose to place that label upon themselves even if they personally have only a very vague idea of what this label is supposed to mean.

So there we have it: an Empire built (and maintained) on lies, accepted on the basis ignorance, justified by hypocrisy and energized by hysterics. This is what the “Western world” stands for nowadays. And while there is definitely a vocal minority of “resisters” (from the Left and the Right – also two categories I don’t find analytically helpful – and from many other schools of political thought), the sad reality is that the vast majority of people around us accept this and see no reason to denounce it, nevermind doing something about it. That is why “they” got away with 9/11 and why “they” will continue to get away with future false-flags because the people lied to, realize, at least on some level, that they are being lied to and yet they simply don’t care. Truly, the Orwellian slogans of 1984 “war is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength” perfectly fit our world. However, when dealing with the proverbial Russian bear, there is one lesson of history which western leaders really should never forget and which they should also turn into a slogan: when dealing with a bear, hubris is suicidal.

The Saker

#russia #u.k #U.S.A

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