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mappingthemoon · 1 year

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I've been digitizing my old zines for the archive. A lot of the content is still hella cringe, and not in an endearing way, but I’m finding a few gems. This page is from the Twisted Libido ‘Xine #3, published October 13, 2000. TxL was the semi-officially sanctioned “alternative” newspaper my bff Nikki (Sixx) and I published at our public high school. I say “semi-officially sanctioned” bc although we got in trouble for this zine and other annoying pranks and disruptions all the damn time, a few teachers and other school officials were very entertained our antics and supported us by getting us out of detention and occasionally giving us money for copies. HA!

A few notes: These are true stories! We often ended our nights out by sitting on trash cans at our bus stop and yelling weird shit at people. Heckling bystanders for absolutely no reason (well, for silly/absurdist reasons, not malicious ones, to be clear, although regardless this behavior would probably get me immediately shot nowadays, great job america!!!) was a frequent method by which we entertained ourselves in the pre-smartphone world. Someone really did once throw an ashtray filled with some kinda gross sauce at us from an apartment window above. YINZER REALNESS lol. Anyway, if you are familiar with these late-’90s works, you can tell my writing (and lifestyle) was very extremely influenced by Johnny the Homicidal Maniac comics, The Sifl and Olly Show, and probably, like, learning about Dadaism and the Situationists via Adbusters and crimethInc. Also, of course, obsessively reading Hunter S. Thompson at age 14. Pictured: Comrade Julia Vomit wearing plastic bag disguise at (iirc) the bus stop on East Carson and 14th (or maybe 12th).

The second tale is a fairly accurate representation of how nasty our school was. The building was under construction for several years of our high school experience, hence the asbestos, roaches, and rats. (Okay, to be fair, I guess it’s possible they did the asbestos remediation over the summer but that place was always so dusty and dirty and we were really into mocking conspiracy theories by making up our own, so. Also I lived in fucking Pittsburgh.) The cafeteria food was typically disgusting and/or unaffordable -- we frequently resorted to panhandling to scrounge up 50 cents for a couple poptarts, and we also used to swipe soft pretzels from the cafeteria line by hiding them in our ridiculous gigantic jnco jeans (also shoplifted lol). I was always the one doing dumbass stunts in hopes the “normies” would give me money, e.g. drinking nacho cheese with a straw, running up to a security guard and doing a velociraptor scream, you know, the usual teenage punkass bullshit. Pictured: We let someone include a butt xerox in the zine in exchange for cookies.

Anyway, transcriptions below the cut:

It has come to our attention that there is a band of renegade youths who call themselves “official Pittsburgh greeters” and disrupt the normal happy lifestyle of drunk yuppies in South Side. Folks, here’s a nightmare scenario: You pull up to the red light at Carson St and 12th, with the innocent intention of finding a parking spot for Jack’s, when you are horrified by the sight of three “girls” sitting on the city trashcan, arms extended and faces contorted in rude attempts at gaining your attention. You look away, in hopes that it will make them disappear, but to no avail. They are still there, threatening to spit into your sunroof. What can be done about this horrible travesty? The police have been called, ashtrays filled with worsterchire sauce have been thrown out the above apartment windows, old ladies have yelled--but all in vain, because they are always back next weekend. As moral citizens we must stand up to these rebels! Help us stop them! Go, get your torches and big sticks...it’s time for witch-huntin’!! -Ziggy C. 10-10-2000

TOSS MY SALAD! An Article on School Lunches by Sixx

Did you know we have a deli line? No, I’m serious. I just found this out last week. T.K. and I were craving da hoagies, so we went through this incredible... “deli line.” And, believe it or not, it wasn’t half-bad. OK, so the turkey was brown. I didn’t mind that. We’ve eaten pizzas found in alleys (hey, it was still warm!). But the other school food...blah. Just the smell of the cooked food makes me want to die. Particularly the nacho cheese, when CERTAIN PEOPLE DRINK IT WITH STRAWS *ahem...TK...aheck*. But I digress. Once you get past the asbestos and roach droppings, maybe school food isn’t all that bad. If worse comes to worst, we always have the snack lines. The food there is wrapped, the rats can’t get to it. Happy eating...hehe...

#personal #zines #Twisted Libido #high school #punk as SHIT #sixx #Pittsburgh #potm

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Would you consider Hugo Strange a pulp villain?

Yes. And I would argue that he didn't really stop being one even after his revival.

"Professor Hugo Strange, the most dangerous man in the world! Scientist, philosopher and a criminal genius - little is known of him, yet this man is undoubtly the greatest organizer of crime in the world! - Bruce Wayne, Detective Comics #36

Hugo Strange was created with the intention of being Batman's arch-enemy right from the start, introduced as such by Bruce when he figures out he's responsible for the G-man assassination, pretty explicitly intended to be Batman's Moriarty and with even an equivalent demise. He was big enough to tower over his henchmen and fistfight Batman, he had a uniquely deformed skull, he was both a charismatic but threatening crimelord as well as a mad scientist plotting to TAKE OVER THE WORLD, and I've heard before the argument that the Monster Men were taken from a Doc Savage novel released earlier the same year called The World's Fair Goblin that revolves around a giant mutated man doing crimes under command by the story's villain

That poor devil, Maximus, was a Fair visitor himself, once. He was given injections of thyroxine and adrenalin—and changed rapidly into a pituitary giant. But, in the experiment, his will power was destroyed. Now he only follows the directions of that masked devil who has him hypnotized

He said, "The Man of Tomorrow stuff was merely publicity to draw the Fair crowds—and a shield to cover your own experiments. But the masked surgeon cashed in on it. Obviously he is mad enough to really believe a superman can be created." - The World's Fair Goblin

(Considering Lester Dent had taken potshots at Superman explicitly in "Whisker of Hercules", it's not unlikely that this is an explicit reference)

Although there's really no overlap in the stories besides that, as The World's Fair Goblin only had one giant where as Hugo mutated a couple dozen mentally ill patients to create monsters and then used them to go on mass murdering rampages, because Batman has always been over-the-top. But, yeah, original form Hugo was a pretty cut and dry pulp villain, like most of Batman's villains who debuted prior to 1940. Which is part of why he only had about 3 appearences before they killed him off.

By this point, Batman was in the process of moving away from his pulp knock-off origins into more of his own character, with the introduction of Robin and Dick Tracy cartoon villains that would set the tone for the rest of Batman in the Golden Age, and with the debut of Joker and Catwoman in Batman #1, Hugo was already obsolete as an arch-enemy, and was killed off the following appearence.

Of course, if you know Hugo Strange, you likely already know this, and that he was then revived in the 70s by Marshall Rogers with a brilliant take that stuck to the character's origins as a brilliant crimelord and scientific genius, but also added to him a specifically twisted psychological bent of being obsessed with Batman and becoming Batman, a villain of unshakeable will and even a twisted sense of honor and ethics, refusing to divulge Batman's secret identity even while beaten to death.

And from that moment onwards Hugo would go on to have some of the most consistently brilliant appearences out of any Batman villain (at least until the 2010s) and would secure himself as a mainstay, albeit a very obscure one, figure of Batman, the kind of villain whose plots can range from Born Again-esque subtle destructions of a person's life to a rampage of mutant kaijus on downtown Gotham, and like many of the best Batman villains, it all comes back to a central obsession and psychological edge upon Batman, and the weaponizing and destruction of anything that stands in his way.

You could argue Hugo Strange used to be a cut and dry pulp villain who was eventually reimagined as a Batman Villain, and it would even be somewhat fitting of his in-universe trajectory as a man who started out a career as a figure of prestige and respect, effortlessly able to blend in society, until his repeated encounters with Batman and, most importantly, his gradually increasing obsession with becoming Batman, gradually destroyed him until he's no longer the one ruling the madhouse, but instead trapped in it.

But the reason why I'd argue Hugo Strange is still a Pulp Villain is because his reinventions didn't shed away what he used to be, they merely returned him to his true origins. Because Hugo, you see, is not just a Mad Scientist or Mad Psychologist, Batman's got those by the dozens. Hugo is of a particularly nasty kind of Pulp Villain, who came to existence around the same time as the Mad Scientist if not slightly earlier, an archetype Jess Nevins has named The Evil Surgeon

Medicine has arguably thrown up more serial killers than all the other professions put together, with nursing a close second - Herbert Kinnel, former chairman of the British Medical Association

The Evil Surgeon came to existence as a pop culture archetype in the late 19th century, as the result of serial killers like Jack the Ripper and H.H Holmes making the news, with Doctor Quartz from Nick Carter being first and foremost among these, as the main arch-enemy of the most published character worldwide at the time.

He would be followed years later by H.G Wells's Doctor Moreau, and the likes of Dr Caresco and Professor Tornada, the stars of novels created by André Couvreur, who was himself a medical doctor and used these novels to both condemn the characters as well as give serious consideration to the ideas they explored, and depicted Dr Caresco's over-the-top exploits harkening back to stories about Marquis de Sade (the origin of the term "sadist"). These would be followed by characters like Grigorii Trirodov, Dr Cornelius Kramm, Dr Gogol from Mad Love, currently the most famous example of this seems to be Hannibal Lecter. And Hugo has been operating much more along the lines of those characters in the last decades, than the typical mad scientists he was once designed in reference to.

Of course there's a massive overlap between the two and room to dispute whether they even constitute separate archetypes, they practically came to existence together following the footsteps of Victor Frankenstein, who really isn't a true example of a Mad Scientist in the original novel, and wasn't even a real doctor, but Frankenstein's reputation undeniably is the oldest cultural touchstone we can point to as an influence in the archetype, even if said archetype would only truly take form in pulp magazines and serials.

What I'd argue defines the Evil Surgeon as an archetype specifically, is that they are specifically centered around the violation and destruction of the human body and function more as murderers with budgets, than supervillains in labcoats. Mad Scientists are generally more centered around plots closer to sci-fi/fantasy inventions like sentient robots and immortality potions used for large scale global domination, where as Evil Surgeons are more preoccupied with wielding psychology and torture and criminal resources to get away with destroying minds on more individual scales, or turning cities into slaughterhouses for them to work in.

They aren't quite full blown slasher villains, like Zsasz or Professor Pyg, instead they usually tend to be quite good at passing off as respectable, mentally sound figures of moral standing, and usually possess a sense of purpose towards their work, a goal they are working for by piling corpses atop each other and moving resources to achieve, even if said goal is a purely selfish fulfillment of their own desires. It's quite common for these characters to acquire large bases for them to operate in, even islands specifically.

In Caresco Surhomme, Caresco has taken control of the Pacific island of Eucrasia. Caresco applies his surgical methods to the inhabitants of the island, altering them to better do their jobs. The captain of the plane which brings outsiders to Eucrasia is a limbless trunk with telescopic vision. Even the island itself is in the shape of a human body. The natives of Eucrasia are addicted to various sensual pleasures and generally submit to Caresco’s rule, for fear that he will castrate them or worse.

On Eucrasia, Caresco makes use of “omnium,” a mysterious and unexplained power source, to create: a machine capable of stripping the years from human bodies and reversing the aging process, a fast underground train system, food pills, omnium-powered diving suits, and so on. Caresco is given to such things as collecting the spleens of all those he operates on - Jess Nevins, The Encyclopedia of Pulp Heroes

So, yes, I absolutely would argue Hugo Strange is still a Pulp Villain. Pulp villains do come in many different forms other than the Fu Manchus and Fantomases that are most commonly imitated, pulp was the breeding ground of the supervillain as a concept after all, where they got to star in their own magazines time and time again. Hugo started off as a fairly generic one, and when he's written poorly, he tends to be brought onboard of a story purely because it calls for a mad scientist.

But Strange came back from death as something much, much worse than just a crimelord and mad scientist, a much more rare and much nastier type of villain that, much like Hugo himself, may lie dormant, but refuses to stay dead for long.

"Quincy. My servant. My friend," Hugo said. "We don't have much time."

Quincy was crying again, with joy. "How, master, how did you-?"

The therapy, Quincy realized. The hypnosis. The drugs.

"Stay with me master, please!" Quincy tried to grab hold a phantom hand.

"I cannot." Strange said, looking benevolently down at Quincy, stroking his hair with a touch the prisoner couldn't feel. "But there is one last service you can perform me."

"Anything, Hugo, please."

"First, remove the sheet from your bed, Quincy. And tie it to the light-fixture on the ceiling."

#replies tag #batman #dc comics #hugo strange #dr jack quartz #pulp villains

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years

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A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 3

<- Previous Chapter | Chapter 4 ->

Summary: Chilton thinks about you when he knows he’s going to die.

1,849 words

“Do not come over tonight,” he said. Even through the bad cell phone connection, you could tell he was nervous, and it made you nervous.

“What’s the matter?”

“Or tomorrow night,” he continued. “Or ever. Stay away.”

“What?” Your heart sank. “What are you saying? I thought things were going well…”

“Only for the time being. You... may have been right,” his voice cracked ever-so-slightly. You knew it pained him to admit that, and the fact that he did made your blood go cold. “I think Hannibal Lecter is going to kill me. There is no reason for you to be there when it happens.”

Shit.

You worried when he started to believe Will Graham—ironically, the very thing you had wanted to begin with, but Will had changed, and you couldn't help suspect he was trying to get revenge on Chilton by roping him into investigating Hannibal Lecter. You were certain he at least didn’t care if Chilton was killed when Will started dangling fame and glory in front of his nose.

Chilton was too ambitious to resist the promise of fame and glory, and was the kind of fool to go poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Fuck that, I’m coming over. If we’re together, I can protect you.”

“Don’t. I am going to try to... Wait,” he paused, marveling, “you would do that for me?” His resolve firmed again, “Do not come. Please. Look, there is nothing connecting us except sex—good sex, mind you, but—you may not be on the Ripper’s radar. If you are close to me when he comes, he will only kill you, too. It’s not worth it. I do not want you caught up in this. Take the advice I should have: do not get involved.”

There was a click, and the call went dead.

You felt gutted.

*****

Frederick was the kind of man who spent all his nights and weekends alone, until you. It was pathetic to think you were his most stable relationship—not just currently, but of his entire life—when he had only known you for a few months.

That was not to say he was inexperienced.

He had fumbled with plenty of bras as a young legacy in a Harvard fraternity, and with fraternity brothers in dark closets, mostly under the influence of cheap alcohol (bought ironically, of course).

He dated in medical school, but there wasn’t much time for relationships when he was constantly studying twice as hard as everyone else just to stay in the middle of the class rankings instead of sinking to the bottom. Besides, in academia there was a full menu of up-and-coming doctors to choose from, and he was never found to be the most appetizing selection. Too bitter.

Family money opened all the right doors for him after graduating and starting his own practice. There, he could sit on top of his own throne without all the competition. Wealth and power finally made him a prime cut to the type who wanted to marry an important doctor, and the nurses and secretaries fell at his feet.

Unfortunately the type of person who, first and foremost, wanted an important doctor, was not interested in an emotional relationship—at least, the money came first.

Some sought the full package of money and romance, but those he always chased away after one or two dates. He found that anyone willing to tolerate his personality defects was the type to borrow his credit cards, ply him for gifts, demand a promotion, ignore him or cheat the moment he wasn’t buying something, and ultimately blackmail him for one final payout when even the money and status weren’t enough to tolerate being with him any longer.

It was fine, he told himself. He used them and they used him—it was how the game was played.

Then there was you.

Frederick Chilton always found you arrogant and unpleasant. He was an expert in his field, a respected psychiatrist who had discovered the Chesapeake Ripper in his facility, and you spoke to him as if he were a child!

(Well, assuming you swore so much at children. He wouldn’t know. children are filthy.)

Whenever he saw you entering his hospital, he knew he would need an extra glass of scotch to recover. You were fierce, never making a single effort to mask your intentions, whether it was tearing into him for (allegedly) unethical practices, or failing completely to mask your sexual attraction to him.

It had been a long time since anybody made a pass at him. Running an institution for the criminally insane was not widely considered sexy, and made his doctor-husband stock plummet—a fact for which he was grateful. Romance was hardly worth the effort, and he would rather be alone than pretend.

He should have shot you down. It would have delightfully changed the power dynamic—any time you insulted his methods, he could remind you of your embarrassing plea for his attention.

But in truth, he enjoyed sparring with you. The days you didn’t come rattle your sword at him were dull. Nobody else spoke to him so brazenly, even though many certainly shared your opinion. It was refreshing.

He’d been imagining ripping your clothes off for weeks.

This would be a one-time thing, he thought: another case of using and being used. He assumed you would call a taxi when it was over, but when he woke up in the morning your arms were wrapped around him with the sweetest smile on your lips. It was odd. It sort of made his chest ache even though he was sure he liked it.

This must have been what pity sex was like. Ah, the advantages of a cane!

Stranger still, you kept coming back to see him. A one-night stand turned into two, turned into three, until it became a habit—and you spent additional time with him for no particular reason he could discern. The sex was great, but fucking did not require staying the entire night to cuddle. When he was too busy working late to stop for dinner, much less for a sexual escapade, you showed up anyway, surprising him with a bag of fast food. It was greasy and barely edible, but thoughtful. You read a book in one of his leather chairs and ate all his fries while he typed reports into the night.

Surely you had other partners to choose from who would have been more entertaining. Your behavior was quite abnormal.

He knew you had an angle, but couldn’t figure out what it was. Breakfast, maybe?

The fact that he made you eggs and gourmet coffee didn’t seem enough to account for your always choosing to spend time with him. You said his house was nice, but even that wasn't enough. The equation was unbalanced. He never paid you, and you never demanded gifts—even when he offered them, you flatly refused. You would not let him so much as replace your cracked cellphone screen. You had always been so vehemently insistent about Will Graham’s innocence, but since you started sleeping with him you’d never asked for any favors, like moving Graham to a nicer cell or falsifying a psych evaluation.

He’d even had a full-blown panic attack in front of you. Something you could have used as leverage to threaten his very career. But you didn’t.

If you were ingratiating yourself with him for an ulterior motive, you were terrible at it.

Honestly, terrible. He wanted to give you pointers, but it would spoil the game. Unless—he considered the terribly disconcerting possibility—there was no game. You weren’t using him, you just had feelings for him. Real ones. It made him feel strange and off balance—if there was nothing transactional about the relationship, it was not something he could control. The thought disturbed him so much he nearly called the whole thing off, but something stopped him from picking up the phone. There was a squirming in his gut, and he didn’t like it.

What did you possibly want from him? What reason did you have to care?

Was it pity?

Pity was the only answer that made sense. Pity made you want to protect him; you had said as much on that first morning. It explained your change from hostility to affection (usually it went the other way around), and why he hadn’t driven you away by now.

It was nice, he thought. He rather liked your pity.

He would have been happy basking in it for a long time, but… he made an error in judgment.

Chilton knew he had fucked up. He was so drawn in by Hannibal Lecter, trying to be his friend—trying to be like him—and all the while whispering sensitive information right into the Chesapeake Ripper’s ear. Then he had to go and listen to Will Graham, to show Jack Crawford that tape with evidence that seemed so solid at the time. But he was played. Hannibal knew he knew, and Chilton was the Judas who tried to sell him out.

He was dead meat. Literally.

He was dead, but you—you had believed Graham from the start, and stayed far away from Dr. Lecter. He was dead, but you didn’t have to go down with him. He could keep you safe. Out of the line of fire. The time you had spent together recently had been nice, and while he had no desire to die alone, the twisting in his gut insisted that he owed you that much for giving him so much of your time. This was the right reason to call things off.

One good deed could not make up for a life of misfortune and selfishness, but if he could save you from sharing his fate, then dying would not be the worst thing that could happen.

*****

“Him? How can you honestly believe Frederick Chilton is capable of being a serial killer?!” you screamed in Jack Crawford’s face after he arrested the shaken psychiatrist. Since learning what had happened, you were… upset. “Are you stupid? He’s being framed, just like Will! That man does not have the constitution to make dioramas out of murdered bodies—he’s an anxious nerd who can’t even drink coffee unless it has been first digested by a civet!”

“Watch it, or I'm sending you home,” Crawford warned as the federal agent who would tolerate no disrespect, especially in the middle of an FBI field office. As Crawford the sensitive father figure, the edges of his hard stare softened with sympathy, and he pat you consolingly on the arm.

“At least let me see him!”

Crawford did his best to calm you down, reassuring you that Chilton would be investigated fairly using all the resources of his task force. So you tried to relax as the doctor was handcuffed and dragged into the bowels of the field office to be interrogated. Crawford guided his old protégé, Miriam Lass, into the observation room to confirm whether Dr. Chilton was in fact the Chesapeake Ripper who had held her hostage for three years, while you paced impatiently outside.

There came a loud bang.

#frederick chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #Raúl Esparza #Hannibal #my writing

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chiseler · 3 years

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Ophelia By the Yard

Cobwebbed passages and wax-encrusted candelabra, dungeons festooned with wrist manacles, an iron maiden in every niche, carpets of dry ice fog, dead twig forests, painted hilltop castles, secret doorways through fireplaces or behind beds (both portals of hot passion), crypts, gloomy servants, cracking thunder and flashes of lightning, inexplicably tinted light sources, candles impossibly casting their own shadows, rubber bats on wires, grand staircases, long dining tables, huge doors with prodigiously pendulous knockers to rival anything in Hollywood.

Here was the precise moment — and it was nothing if not inevitable — when the darkness of horror film, both visible and inherent, leapt from the gothic toy box now joined by a no less disconcerting array of color. The best, brightest, sweetest, and most dazzling red-blooded palette that journeyman Italian cinematographers could coax from those tired cameras. Color, both its commercial necessity as well as all it promised the eye, would hereafter re-imagine the genre’s possibilities, in Italy and, gradually, everywhere else.

When color hit the Italian Gothic cycle, a truly new vision was born. In Hammer films and other UK horror productions, the cheapness of Eastmancolor made it possible for blood to be red. Indeed, very red. And, while we shouldn't underestimate the startling impact this had, it was a fairly literal use of the medium. In the Italian movies, and to a large extent in Roger Corman's Poe cycle, color was an unlikely vehicle to further dismantle realism rather than to assert it. Overrun with tinted lights and filters, none of which added to the film’s realistic qualities, the movies became delirious. In Corman's Masque of the Red Death, we learn of an experiment that uses color to drive a man insane; it seems that filmmakers like Corman and Mario Bava were attempting the very same trick on their audiences.

The application of candy-wrapper hues to a haunted castle flick like The Whip and the Body adds a pop art vibe at odds with the genre, and when you get to something like Kill, Baby...Kill! the Gothic trappings are barely able to mask a distinctly modern sensibility, so much so that Fellini could plunder its phantasmal elements for Toby Dammit, fitting them perfectly into his sixties Roman nightmare.

Blood and Black Lace brings the saturated lighting and Gothic fillips into the twentieth century -- a sign creaking in a gale is the first image, translated from Frankensteinland to the exterior of a contemporary fashion house. A literal faceless killer disposes of six women in diabolical ways. The sour-faced detective remains several deaths back on the killer’s trail because the movie knows its audience, knows that it has zero interest in detection, character, motivation — though it’s all inertly there as a pretext for sadism, set-pieces of partially-clad women being hacked up, dot the film like musical numbers or action sequences might appear in a different genre.

Since the 19th-century audience for literary Gothic Horror was comprised of far fewer men than women, would it be fair to ask whether Giallo’s advent might be an instrument of brutal violence, even revenge against “feminine” preoccupations? Consider 1964’s Danza Macabra, the film’s amorous vibes finding their ultimate source in that deathless screen goddess named Barbara Steele, whose marble white flesh photographs like some monument to classicism startled into unwanted Keatsian fever. Her presence practically demands that we ask ourselves: “Who is this wraith howling at a paper moon?” In other words, is it a coincidence that Steele’s “Elizabeth Blackwood” — a revenant temptress and undead sex symbol — hits screens the very same year as Giallo, which would transform Italian cinema into a decades-long death mill for women?

The name “giallo”, meaning yellow, derives from the crime paperbacks issued by Italian publisher Mondadori. The eye-catching covers, featuring a circular illustration of some act of infamy embedded in a yellow panel, became utterly associated with the genre of literature. These books were likely to be by Edgar Wallace, the most popular author in the western world, or Agatha Christie: cardboard characters sliding through the most mechanical of plots; or classier local equivalents, like Francesco Mastriani or Carolina Invernizio. The founding principles laid down concerned the elaborate deceptions concealed by their authors, traps for the unwary reader, and the use of a distinctive design motif. The tendency of the characterisation to lapse into sub-comic-book cliché, the figures incapable of expressing or inspiring real sympathy, was, perhaps, an unintended side-effect of the focus on narrative sleight-of-hand.

When Italian filmmakers sought to translate sensational literature to the screen, they looked to other filmic influences: American film noir, influenced by German expressionism and often made by German emigrés (Lang, Siodmak, Dieterle, Ulmer); and the popular krimi cycle being produced in West Germany, mostly based on Edgar Wallace's leaden "shockers." These deployed stock characters, bizarre methods of murder, deceptive plotting, and exuberant use of chiaroscuro, the stylistic palette of noir intensified by more fog, more shafts of light, more inky shadows. A certain amount of fun, but different from the coming bloodbath because Wallace, despite somewhat fascistic tendencies, is anodyne and anaemic by comparison. No open misogyny, a sadism sublimated in story, a touching faith in Scotland Yard and the class system. In the Giallo, Wallace's more sensational aspects are adopted but made to serve a sensibility quite alien to the stodgy Englander: people are generally rotten, the system stinks, and crime becomes a lurid spectator sport served up to a viewer both thrilled and appalled.

The Giallo fetishizes murder. But then, it fetishizes everything in sight. Every object, every half-filled wine glass and pastel-colored telephone, is photographed with obsessive, product-shot enthusiasm. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring — each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. And yet, for the directors who rode most dexterously the Giallo wave, homicide was something one did to women. Indulging in equal-opportunity lechery was merely an excuse to find other, more violent outlets for their misogyny. Please enter into evidence the demented enthusiasm for woman-killing evinced by Dario Argento, Mario Bava, Lucio Fulci, et al. — whatever trifling token massacres of men one might exhume from their respective oeuvres are inconsequential. Argento’s defense, “I love women, so I would rather see a beautiful woman killed than an ugly man,” should not satisfy us, and hardly seems designed to (also bear in mind Poe’s assertion that the death of a beautiful young woman was the most poetic of all subjects).

Filmmakers like Argento have no interest in sex per se. Suffering seems inessential, but terror and death are key, photographed with the same clinical absorption and aesthetic gloss as Giallo-maestros habitually apply to their interior design. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring – each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. That’s one important subtlety often lost amid Giallo’s vast antisocial hemorrhage.

Like a river of blood, homophobia, in the literal meaning of fear rather than hatred, runs through the genre. Lesbians are sinister and gay men barely exist. As we try to work out what in hell the Giallo is really up to, little dabs of dime-store Freudianism seem sufficient.

The filmmakers’ misogyny could be suspect, a sign of compromised masculinity, so they need fictional avatars to cloak their own feverish woman-hating. The subterfuge is clumsy at best, the desultory deceit embarrassingly macho. Giallo’s visual force, powerful enough to divorce eye from mind, is another matter, leaving us demoralized and ethically destitute; our hearts beating with all the righteous indignation of three dead shrubs (and maybe a half-eaten sandwich).

The Giallo is founded on an unstated assumption: the modern world brings forth monsters. Jack the Ripper was an aberration in his day, but now there's a Jack around every corner, behind every piece of modular furniture, every diving helmet lamp. Previously, disturbing events arose from what Ambrose Bierce called The Suitable Surroundings, or what the mad architect in Fritz Lang's The Secret Beyond the Door termed, with sly and sinister euphemism, "propitious rooms." There's the glorious line in Withnail and I: "That's the sort of window faces appear at." But now, in the modern world, evil occurs in the nicest of places, and tonal consistency died in a welter of cheerful stage blood. One needn’t enter an especially Bad Place to meet one’s worst nightmare, or perhaps better to say: the whole bright world qualified as a properly bad place. Imagine the pages of an interior design magazine invaded by anonymous psychopaths intent on painting the gleaming walls red.

Though the victims are overwhelmingly female and their killers male (Argento typically photographed his own leather-gloved hands to stand in for his assassin’s), when the violence becomes over-the-top in its sexualized woman-hating (like the crotch-stabbing in What Have You Done to Solange?), it’s usually a clue that the movie’s murderer will turn out to be female: a simple case of projection. Only Lucio Fulci, the most twisted of the bunch, trained as a doctor and experienced as an art critic, not only assigns misogyny to a straight male killer (The New York Ripper) but plays the killer himself in A Cat in the Brain. Though, in another self-protecting twist of narrative, all psychological explanations in Gialli are bullshit, always. Criminology and clinical psychology are largely ignored, and Argento has a clear preference for outdated theories like the extra chromosome signaling psychopathy (Cat O’Nine Tails). Did anybody use phrenology, or Lombroso’s crackpot physiognomic theories, as plot device?

A tradition of the Giallo is that the characters all tend to be dislikable, something Argento at least resisted in Cat O’ Nine Tails and Deep Red. With disposable characters, each of whom might be the killer and each of whose violent demise is served up as a set-piece, this distancing and contempt might just be a byproduct of the form rather than a principle or ethos, but it’s of some interest, perhaps mitigating the misogyny with a wash of misanthropy. A Unified Field Theory of Gialli would find a more deep-seated reason for the obnoxious characters as well as the stylized snuff and the glamorous presentation. What urge is being satisfied, and why here, now, like this?

Class war? Though prostitute-ripping is encouraged in the Giallo, most victims are wealthy, slashed to ribbons amid opulent interiors. Urbane characters who might previously have graced the sleek “white telephone” films of forties Italian cinema were briefly edged out by neo-realism’s concentration on the working class. Now these exquisite mannequins are trundled back onscreen to be ritually slaughtered for our viewing pleasure.

Victims must always be enviable: either beautiful and sexy or rich and swellegant, or all of the above, so the average moviegoer can rejoice in their dismemberment with a clear conscience. Mario Bava bloodily birthed the genre in Blood and Black Lace (1964), brutally offing fashion models in a variety of Sade-approved ways, the killer a literally faceless assassin into whom the (presumed male) audience could pour their own animosities without ever admitting it, with the female killer finally unmasked to provide exculpatory relief.

If narrative formulas absolve the straight male viewer, compositions have a way of ensnaring him. Beyond that omnivorous indulgence of sensation for its own lurid sake one finds in Giallo, there is a more gilded emphasis placed on Beauty (in the Catholic sense), and it is only the women who are mounted upon its pedestal. That these avatars of beauty are to be savored, ravaged, and brutalized — in that order — is what concerns us. But the sex and the suffering that captivates most sadists is never what registers; no, it is the instance of death, the terror that afflicts the dying woman’s face that resonates. Once again, physical interiors become a negative form of emotional interiority, rooms amplified for the sole purpose of grisly annihilations; a kind of heretical, strictly anti-Catholic transcendence through amoral delight in what otherwise falls under trivial headings, either “the visuals” or “color palette” – neither of which touch the essential nerve endings of Giallo.

Swaddled inside an otherwise hyper-masculine castle lies a windowless chamber with feminine, if not psychotic, decor. Before he tortures and stabs her to death, “Lord Alan Cunningham” (fresh from his sojourn in the asylum) brings his first victim to this pageant of off-gassing plastic furniture, the single most obnoxious vision ever imposed on gothic environs. Risibly overblown ’70s chic rules The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave with nods to Edgar Allan Poe, as the modish Lord juggles sports cars and medieval persecution. Laughs escape the viewer’s throat in dry heaves when each new MacGuffin devours itself without warning. Take “Aunt Agatha” (easily two decades younger than her middle-aged nephews) suddenly rising from her motorized wheelchair, clobbered from behind seconds later, her body dragged into a cage where foxes promptly munch her entrails. Nothing comes of this. The phony paralysis, the aunt’s role in a half-dozen mysteries, which include a battalion of sexy maids in miniskirts and blonde Harpo Marx wigs – all gulped, swallowed.

About the only thing we know for certain is that “Aunt Agatha” is gorgeous. Though, in the end, she’s another casualty of the same nihilism that crashes Giallo aesthetics headlong into Poe country. That is into “Lord Alan” and his gaudy room crowded with designer goods to be catalogued in a horror vacui of visual intrusiveness – a trashy shrine to his late wife, the titular Evelyn. If lapses of good taste define The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, they also reflect Giallo’s abiding obsession with real estate. After all, this Mod hypnagogia has to fill the eye somewhere. Why not bang in the middle of a castle? Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher features a wealthy aristocrat burying his twin sister alive, thereby entombing his own femininity.

Evelyn represents both Usher’s primary theme of the divided self and the obdurate refusal to learn from it. “Alan,” who emerges a moral hero in the end (after his shrink aids and abets his murder spree), remains just as ornery, alienated, and vainglorious as Giallo itself. We’re never told precisely what the film’s fetish objects are supposed to mean. And since the camera seizes upon each one with existential grimness, we’re left with a visual style that begs its own questions.

Function follows form into the abyss. One Ophelia after another dies to satisfy our cruel delectation, even as will-o’-the-wisp light, taken from the bogs and neglected cemeteries of Gothic Horror, finds itself transformed into a crimson-dripping stiletto. Evelyn stands in for all Gialli, a genre which redefines film itself on the narrow front of visual impact: stainless steel cutlery and candy-colored light enact a sentient agenda as color becomes an instrument of hyperbolic misogyny that fills the eye and then some.

As with certain other Italian genres, notably the peplum, smart characterization, solid performances and decent dialogue seem not only unnecessary to the Giallo but unwelcome (the spaghetti western, conversely, in which many of the same directors dabbled, seemed to demand a steady stream of good, cold-blooded wise-cracks). Argento, in pursuit of that “non-Cartesian” quality he admired in Poe, took this to extremes, stringing non-sequiturs together to form absurdist cut-ups, torching his stars’ credibility merely by forcing them to utter such nonsense. And this wasn’t enough: from Suspiria (1977) on, the psychological thriller (which the Giallo is a sub-genre of, only the psychology has to be deliberately nonsensical) was increasingly replaced by the supernatural. So that the laws of nature could be suspended along with the laws of coherent motivation.

In Suspiria and its 1980 quasi-sequel Inferno, the traditional knifings are interspersed with more uncanny events, as when a stone eagle comes to life and somehow makes a seeing-eye dog kill his owner, and there are also grotesque incidents with no relation to story whatever: a shower of maggots, or an attack by voracious rats in Central Park. The Giallo’s quest for a solution, inspired as it was by the old-school whodunits, is all but abandoned, replaced by the search for the next sensational set-piece.

Argento’s villains are now witches, but, abandoning centuries of tradition, these witches show more interest in stabbing their fellow women with kitchen knives than with worshipping Satan or riding broomsticks. Regardless of who they’re meant to be, Argento’s characters must express his desires, enact the atrocities he dreams of. And inhabit places built for his aesthetic pleasure rather than their own. Following Bava’s cue, he saturates his rooms in light blasted through colored gels, making every scene a stained-glass icon, no naturalistic explanation offered for the lurid tinted hues. Just as no explanation is offered for the presence of a room full of coiled razor-wire in a ballet school, or for the behavior of the young woman who throws herself into its midst without looking.

Dario Argento’s true significance, at least with respect to Giallo, was perceiving in the nick of time the almost incandescent obviousness of its limitations; that Italian commercial cinema’s garish, polychromatic spin on the garden-variety psychological thriller – departing from its forebears mainly in the rampant senselessness of its “psychology” – had Dead End written all over it. It could never last. On the other hand, Giallo does take a fresh turn with Argento’s Inferno, thanks in no small measure to a woman screenwriter who sadly remains uncredited. Daria Nicolodi explains that “having fought so hard to see my humble but excellent work in Suspiria recognized (up until a few days before the première I didn’t know if I would see my name in the film credits), I didn’t want to live through that again, so I said, ‘Do as you please, in any case, the story will talk for me because I wrote it.’”

Daria Nicolodi

Nicolodi’s conception humanizes (it would be tempting to say “feminizes”) Argento’s usual sanguinary exercises du style, while at the same time summoning legitimate psychology. This has nothing to do with strong characterization – indeed, the characters barely speak – and everything to do with the elemental power of water, fire, wind.… Inferno rescues Giallo by plunging it into seemingly endless visual interludes, a cinema that draws its strength from absence.

by The Chiselers

Daniel Riccuito, David Cairns, Tom Sutpen, and Richard Chetwynd

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urmysilverlining · 4 years

Text

Nothing between us

Fourth and last part of my serie « Please don’t leave me (again) ». Read previous parts here.

Floor’s wooden boards screech as you follow Mac inside the cabin.

At the end of the little “guided tour” of what is going to be your new home for the following weeks, he exclaims: “That’s it. It may seem cold here, but give me time to light the fire and find some blankets and...”

“I’m sure we’ll be okay. I mean, how could we not to?” You answer, moving your eyes from the wooden kitchenette with table and chairs on the left, to the grey stone fireplace with cozy rug and couch in front of it, on the right. Then, catching him off guard, you ask: “Isn’t this that one cabin you went with Nikki, is it?”

“What?! No! And that one has been destroyed, by the way”

He can’t help but laugh at the pretended naivety of your question.

“I take these to your room.” He says, lifting the big trekking backpack and the suitcase you’ve laid on the floor.

“That’s nice, thank you. But where are you going to sleep?”

“Don’t worry, the couch seems really inviting. You will envy me in a couple of days...And, I want you to be comfortable as your wound is not completely healed, yet.”

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DAYS LATER

The sweet and relaxing sounds of nature, and the red squirrels jumping from a tree to another, don’t really distract you from the pain coming from your legs’ muscles on fire.

“Mac, I need a break. Go on, if you want, I will wait you at the cabin” You lean against a tree, taking breath.

“I will come with you. I don’t want you to walk alone in the wood.”

Eye-rolling at him treating you like a ten-year-old-girl, you put your backpack on and turn on your heels.

As you’re walking side by side down the path, he gently grabs your wrist to check your watch. Your friends gifted you when you’ve been discharged from the hospital to keep trace of your heartbeat and your daily progress.

“You reached your old running times?! That’s awesome! I’m really proud of you, Y/N. Next goal is coming to the end of this path. I’ve heard the view is amazing from there.”

Since you don’t return his enthusiastic smile, he worries: ”Anything is wrong?”

“Indeed everything is wrong, Mac”

He stops and stands in front of you, with eyes that look for some answers.

“I feel like I will never be able to do the things I used to do before Murdoc shot me. And this makes me useless as an agent. Work kept me grounded when we broke up. I need it.”

“I know you can do that.” Mac holds your hand in his, then in his calm and reassuring way, he says: “I will help you to deal with it, that’s why we’re here...”

“In case it wasn’t obvious that’s the only reason why...” The sarcasm in your voice couldn’t be ignored.

“What do you mean?” The steady expression on Mac’s face leaves place to a confused one.

“Nothing. Don’t worry. I’m just frustrated because of the training. That’s all.”

“You’ll need to find something more convincing, if you want me to believe that.”

“It’s stupid, it doesn’t really matter.” You attempt to resume the march, in vain.

“I’m sure it’s not. And even if it was, I would like to know it anyways.”

You struggle to find the words to not sound like a freakish little girl looking for attention: “It’s just that’s not what I had figured out when you said you would have taken care of me...”

“What should I do? Your health is the only thing I care about right now. You have to be ready when you’ll get back in mission, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to assure myself nothing bad happens to you again. Like it or not.”

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Back in the cabin, neither you or Mac felt the urge to share your thoughts with the other for the rest of the day.

You took a shower and laid in front of the fireplace, reading a book you were not really interested in, at least not after what happened. You just wanted to know what he was doing or thinking, but you feared no answers would have lead you where you needed to.

When a pitch black sky was the only thing you could see out of your window, Mac got close and asked: “Do you want it?” offering a cup of smoking hot chocolate.

You take the mug and sit, as Mac does the same, leaning his back against the edge of the couch. You know the chocolate is a sign of peace, but you’re not ready to leave the fight behind yet, since your points are consistent.

“For how long are you going to ignore me?” he mutters, before taking a sip.

“We’re doing nothing work, training or surviving related so no conversation is due.” You lift your head, serious, feeling a guilty satisfaction in paying him back with his same money.

“Come here” he puts down his bowl, making space between his legs. “C’mon, I don’t bite.”

“What?!”

“I won’t ask you twice” firmness colors his voice as a smirk appears on his lips.

“I’m good where I am” you reply, not caring about which nature his intentions are or, at least, pretending to.

“Don’t let me use rough methods”

Before you could react, he gets up and holds into your waist, pulling you towards him.

“Mac! What are you doing?! Stop!” Inevitably, you start laughing.

“You see? It wasn’t that difficult!” Mac whispers, taking you in his arms.

You can feel his heart against your back, beating a little bit faster than usual. Half turning your head, your noses and foreheads are few inches apart from touching. You look up at him and say: “Nobody gave you permission to do that”

“I don’t need it.” He stares back at you, from the closest you’ve ever been in months.

“Well, technically, since I’m not your girlfriend anymore, you should better ask”

You notice something’s changing in his expression after your sentence, but before the soft atmosphere could disappear leaving place at the usual exes’ awkwardness, he promptly questions: “What’s the book you were reading about?”

“I honestly don’t know, I haven’t been much focused on the lecture, before...” you say, making it turn in your hands.

“Why don’t you read me something?” He suggests.

“Good”

You red out loud for awhile, then, when you were too tired to go on, you rested your head on Mac’s shoulder and closed your eyes, feeling his soft breath against your cheek and his chest rising and lowering regularly.

“Do you want to go to bed?” He asks.

“Only if you come with me”

His hand glides behind your neck, cupping your jaw and getting you close for a soft then passionate kiss.

“I’ve missed you so much” you whisper, not really parting your lips from his.

“Since I left, not a day has passed without me thinking about you, about what we had, I...”

“It’s okay.” You interrupt him “I have forgiven you long time ago.”

Your fingers goes up his neck, to run in his hair, deepening the kiss until it doesn’t seem to be enough anymore.

Once you had slowly discarded both your shirt and his jumper, he takes you down with him: his weight pressing your body between his skin and the soft, furry fabric of the rug tickling your back.

“Are you sure you want to go on? Some time has passed from when we’ve last made love. Maybe we should take our time and proceed step by step...” Mac demanded.

“We have all night, we can go as slow as we want...”

“Do you mean like that?”

Mac hardly pressed his lips against your collarbone for some seconds, just to detach them and wait as much time, making you beg inside of yourself for the next kiss to come soon. As he moved up your neck, you felt his teeth grazing along your jaw, biting a thin portion of skin.

“You said you didn’t bite” You squirmed, tightening your hold on him.

“I lied”

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When you woke up, the fire had consumed all the wood in the chimney and it was already extinguished from a while. All wrapped between a plaid blanket and Mac’s arms, you pull it until over his shoulders to keep him warm, and get up.

As the last can of the row fall on the ground with the other ones, you point a big pine cone, a considerable number of trees ahead of you.

“Still the best aim”

You turn to see Mac standing on the cabin’s patio, wearing a burgundy plaid shirt and a black coat.

“Go say it to Jack. He still owns me some bucks for an old bet.” You answer, focusing on a new target.

“He’s never going to pay. He’s too stubborn, you know.”

You hear him walking down the deck’s wooden footsteps, then on the fallen leaves floor in front of it, approaching to your back.

His hands embrace your waist, as he says: “I’ve made breakfast”

Half-twisting on yourself, you smile: “Good”

Before going back in, Mac murmurs: “You weren’t there when I woke up this morning...”

“I just needed some time to think, but I couldn’t close myself in the shooting range as I do when we’re at work so...” I improvised. You think. Someone taught me how to do it very well.

“Do you have some regrets about last night?” He asks.

“No, it was perfect.” You get close and kiss him.

He replies to it, and you know you could’ve gone on this way forever.

Mac whispers: “I don’t want it to be just one time.”

“It won’t be. We’ll have more, I promise. We can start over from where we left. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Right after having congratulate you with Mac for the breakfast, his phone rings.

“It’s Matty. She wants us to get back to Los Angeles as soon as possible.” Then making a pause, he adds: “There are going to be some butts to kick, are you ready?”

Grabbing your things and throwing Mac the keys of his car for him to catch them, you answer: “I’m always ready”

#macgyver x reader #Angus MacGyver x reader #mac x reader #macgyver reboot #macgyver 2016 #macgyver fanfiction #macgyver fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic

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thefloorisbalaclava · 6 years

Text

Watch me dazzle you with pseudo-scientific headcanons and refusal to believe Gabe is evil

Ok so the reaper theory I have all starts with SEP (obviously) and how in any genetic modification, especially in the terms of enhancement, often leads to a lot of health issues down the line (in pseudo-scientific theory and also in other works fiction) including weakening antibodies and organs, and possibly cancers. Keep that in mind.

So Gabriel, our favorite emo dad, is the commander of blackwatch, and my personal headcanon that Jeff Kaplan can pry from my cold dead hands is he loves his squad and would literally die for all of them. He starts to notice some things about his health and tries to talk to Jack about it to see if he’s experienced this as well, but this would be around the time where things are getting reeeeeally tense so getting these two to talk for more than five minutes is a miracle. So Gabe tries to talk to Jack but nothing really comes of it. Now fast forward a while (I dunno how long, oh well) and Moira pops up. Gabe is definitely a gray character and snaps up that opportunity to fix what’s going on.

Now Moira is a little more dark than he’s expecting and she knows that seeing as blackwatch is comprised of ex-cons and criminals, she should be able to continue her… research on them. Possibly McCree was an interesting focus seeing as he has a magic fucking glow that makes him a fuckin Annie Oakley sharp shooter for s o m e. R e as o n. Or genji because he is practically a medical miracle in himself. But Gabe absolutely refuses (he’s such a dad to these two fight me) so she convinces him that the only way she can fix him is to experiment on him (which, no, that’s not how genetic sciences works, you just have to take samples from the affected area and run tests not experiment on the organism. Especially with how advanced their science is.) So he complies out of a twisted sense of duty.

I think that she ran tests on him quite a lot over the course of her sting in blackwatch which I don’t exactly know the timeframe on that but it must have been quite a while. During those tests, I think that due to her unethical methods and untested formulas and treatments, it started to affect Gabe’s mental stability and how he thinks, possibly making it harder for him to see ally vs enemy. You see personality changes from people with brain tumors after treatments so the same could be applied here, especially if part of what’s wrong with him is in his brain too.

Now leading into his reaper body. Moira fucked up his body and yes it did make him stronger, the whole degradation of cells and rapid regrowth would put a toll on anyone, especially if you’re already affected by other questionable tests. I’ve always had the thought that before he has the control we see now, it was really hard to keep his shit together back when it first started.

I’m also a firm believer that he wouldn’t attack the Swiss HQ without a reason, and the rest of my theory adds into it, especially if you add in Moira pulling some strings in the background, and the furthering tensions between OW/BW. I think that Gabe probably also believed there was something majorly shady happening at the Swiss HQ with rising omnic and human tensions and the UN overstepping their boundaries (in his mind. In no way does it excuse what happened but it at least gives a reason).

Now after that we all know what happens, big splody bomb, Jack is Dead™ ~but is he reaallly~, mercy does her thing to save Jack and fucks off to wherever else, and overwatch is disbanded on the count that their shit was so messed up a terrorist cell formed in their own organization.

But Gabe? He survives due to his new body (not without a fuck ton of pain, mind you). Joins Talon to take down remaining overwatch agents because, going back to earlier when I said there was something shady going on?? Those are the people he’s after. He’s not exactly under cover in Talon but he’s definitely using them for his own agenda. He couldn’t care less about doomfists ~master plan~ and he might be joined up with Sombra too. Just because I live for him adopting strays with attitude problems.

I’ve always through overwatch was kinda shady with how they handle things and even the new one with the recall? They’re still overreaching and going on illegal ops which is what tanked them in the first place, but I do think that the shady business is gone due to it being a much smaller group now.

Now. Leading into my next point. Reaper pulls his punches when he could just decimate the new overwatch agents. He could have shot Winston six ways to Sunday but he didn’t. And the kids in the museum? If the case was ~uwu he’s evil he doesn’t careeee~ then why did it look like he almost went out of his way to ignore them and avoid them when possible? Also the Russian op where we get introduced to Sombra? They’re definitely working together and deliberately fucked that op up. He AGAIN used non-lethal force as seen where he just knocks the guards out or injures them.

And then there’s the whole phantom of the Opera masquerade ball theory from a while ago (I’m p sure I saw it on your blog) which further confirms my thoughts.

I’m not saying he’s a good guy, but I don’t think his motives and intentions in the end are what we expect. All he needs is a Guy Fawkes V for Vendetta skin and I will go ballistic and scream that I was right. Also it would just be a really cool skin @ blizzard hire me

This was submitted by @babesuke (I hope they don’t mind me sharing) and it speaks for itself. Gabe is not evil. That is all.

#submission #babesuke

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babygecko · 6 years

Text

Kids In America - Riverdale One-Shot

He was a boy.

She was a girl.

It couldn’t be further from obvious.

Toni and Jughead in FP's trailer after his initiation, Toni trying to help Jughead. My interpretation of that scene in 2x05. In this, Toni is portrayed as a friend rather than a potential love interest.

xxxx

He was a boy.

She was a girl.

It couldn’t be further from obvious.

Toni wasn’t quite sure what exactly she was expecting (hoping) to be obvious. The two of them. What had transpired between Jughead and his girlfriend - ex-girlfriend - Betty. Jughead knowing exactly what he’d gotten himself into.

The gloomy backdrop of the two of them wasn’t assisting with presenting any sudden new clarity onto all the uncertain thoughts that swam around in her mind. Thick, heavy drops of rain was drenching the known world outside, practically invisible against the velvet night’s sky, with constant hollow tinny raps against the, very nearly, leaking steel roof of FP’s trailer. A dark, stormy night indeed; one to be saved for the books.

Toni winced slightly as she handed Jughead an icepack, which he took silently, stoically looking at the window. Sure, she’d seen her fair share of initiations, as bullshit and unnecessary as they were, but brass knuckles shouldn’t of been anywhere in sight for “the Gauntlet”. The whole point of that aspect was to receive punches, yeah, to show that you would go through shit defending your own, but it was mostly for a metaphorical sense and theatrics. Not to nearly knock the poor boy damn unconscious.

A gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach had a feeling Sweet Pea was just trying to take out his vendetta that he had with the Andrews kid on the next best thing. A large part of her argued that that was unfair. A smaller, guiltier, part of her agreed. Not with everything Sweet Pea did; pipe bombs included in that bracket. But for the North Side related views...it was pretty damn hard to find anyone who didn’t agree.

Airy fairy North Side kids who probably said things like gee whiz! and were scrubbed up to fit the perfect cereal box Happy Family ads, had a twisted sort of view of people like herself. A neat, precise, nicely evil sort of poison, smiling as they beat the South Side down, telling the world that it was for the best. A nasty, warped sense of perspective of them all. Thought that she was dirty, that that she was trouble, thought that she was a problem for just existing on the same fucking planet as them, and that problems such as herself, such as everyone she knew, were best swept under the rug. Preferably vilified.

And it was apparent that Jughead was finally starting to see that. He kept on trying to insist that he could keep ties with the North Side and the Serpents, which had irritated her beyond no end. She’d though that for someone apparently so smart, he had an incredibly idiotic, idealistic outlook on his situation. If it was that damn easy, then there would be no such thing as the unbearable tension between the two parts of town. They would all be able to skip merrily into the fucking sunset holding hands.

When she’d pointed this out to him, he’d hotly described her as pessimistic. Yeah, maybe, she’d retorted, crossing her arms and staring down his scowl. But it’s a view cemented in reality. It’s a view that keeps you alive.

Tough love. Firm, but fair.

As the rain fell against the trailer, the slightest creeping sensation of regret seeped into herself. If the kid was good at something, it was how to look good miserable. A desk lamp artfully cast shadows across his face, the rest of the empty trailer serving as a aesthetic backdrop in a blueish hue, his new tattoo catching the light just so.

But the look on his face was crushing. It was the expression of someone had been beaten down, over and over again, but that final sense of resolve, of something to make himself pick himself up again, had snapped. Privately, she had theorized he had only gotten back up during the final part of initiation with the intention to get beaten black and blue to distract him from whatever had been on his mind. It clearly hadn’t work, either.

What a pair they made, Toni thought, exchanging a few words with Jughead in a pitiful attempt to try and glean information about what had happened exactly between him and Betty. They weren’t a thing anymore. Apparently. The two looser kids. Wallowing.

Wallowing had been her go to method of dealing with shit growing up. Eavy emphasis on the past tense. Joining the Serpents, which had taught her that life wasn’t going to change if she just wished it would, had actually showed her that she needed to grow up. Tough love. Again. Probably where she learnt it from. Definitely hadn’t been from her parents. She learnt jack shit from those guys.

Then, she’d learnt other methods of dealing with her shit; distraction. Definitely shot term solution, but she preferred to get whatever crazy fucking garbage was happening in her life at the time out of her mind to deal with in the morning.

Not today. That’s what she always told herself, when she chose to mindlessly make out with whoever was looking for the same, boy or girl. The prospect of tomorrow was so inviting, allowing herself a single night to wash away whatever she was struggling with, to then tackle head on the next day. And besides, it was so blissfully therapeutic loosing oneself with someone else who was suffering, and in the South Side, people with backgrounds of trauma looking to take their mind off their miserable life were practically crawling around.

Not today, she always chanted in her mind, whenever she lazily dragged her tongue across her decided partner for that night. Not today.

It was no different when she kissed Jughead. Not today. For both herself and him. He could imagine he was kissing Betty or whatever, she didn’t particularly care. The boy could do with the kiss whatever he damn pleased, but he didn’t pull away. Part of her thought that maybe he would, from being so devoted to the perky blonde, but clearly she was right in thinking that he was also just looking for a mindless distraction.

Herself? It didn’t have to be anything specific. Just a brief moment of escapism and pretending that she didn’t have the life she did, in the part of town that was despised, always having to be so so cautious in fear of getting wrongly accused and arrested for whatever the dumb police department liked to dream up to control the South.

Toni pulled herself away when she felt something wet on her cheeks.

“Not today,” she ordered Jughead, scrunching up part of her sleeve to wipe fast flowing tears from her new fellow gang member friend. “Whatever it is you’re feeling, deal with it tomorrow. Allow yourself one night where you can cry, kick and scream, go to town to take your mind off things-”

“I’m asexual,” Jughead croaked out, breath hitching as he scrubbed furiously at his eyes.

“Jesus, I wasn’t suggesting you to pimp yourself out into the world. I just- look, it doesn’t matter. You feel shitty?”

He nodded, throwing off his beanie to run is hands through his hair.

“Then feel shitty. You want to cry? Then cry. You want to make out with someone, not sleep with someone, to take your mind off things? Go crazy. But only for tonight. ‘Cause tomorrow, we’re hauling that pretty ass of yours to go see Betty.”

Eyes glassy with tears, he blinked at her. “We are?”

Toni had to refrain from sighing and rolling her eyes. Dear god, it was a pain in the ass to be a saint sometimes.

“Listen, I may not know Betty as well as you. I’m not pretending I do. But, hello, she got sent a coded message from a killer. Does it sound more like Betty to suddenly give up on you out of the blue or to be trying to distance you from herself to protect you from a killer?”

This actually earned her a smile. Then it dropped within a heartbeat. “What if you’re wrong?”

She placed a hand on either side of his face and made him look at her.

“Not. Today. We’ll think about that tomorrow.”

“Not today.”

They settled for a hug in the end. Toni allowed Jughead to continue to sob into her shoulder from everything that had gone down that day, as she squeezed her eyes shut to prevent herself from following suite.

Because at the end of the day, they were still both kids. Both forced to grow up way to early in a town that was tearing apart from a brewing civil war, in a town that had a kid murdered, with a current masked killer on the loose.

She tightened her grip, momentarily forgetting who the hug was originally intended for.

Not. Today.

#riverdale #jughead jones #toni topaz #oneshot #hurt/comfort #frienship #2x05 #kissing #jughead & toni #betty cooper (mentioned)#fanfiction

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mandelsmusic · 7 years

Text

Playlist & Analysis

I have created a playlist consisting of ten songs for a journey to Mars. There is a link at the bottom to listen to this playlist but this is my in-depth analysis of each of the ten.

My first song on the playlist Space Oddity by David Bowie. This song not only fits the theme of our cosmic journey but also takes listeners on an individual journey of their own. Space Oddity an influential song which has been used in the media landscape of today and past decades, causing a timeless renown reputation. The production on this song features fascinating panning effects, which make the listening experience “out of this world”.

Following Space Oddity, I have chosen My Way by Frank Sinatra. This song is notably bold in its lyrics and speaks to me in a very meaningful way. In this song, Sinatra takes a retrospective look at his life, recognizing his regrets and losses, not everything he did was right, but through it all, he did it his way, and he was proud of that. This is a true song to the legacy Frank Sinatra left on the music industry because following his death no one could quite do it “his way”. Recently, my good friend’s mother passed away after fighting a courageous battle against cancer. The thing that stuck with me after her untimely death was that as she passed, her last wish was to hear My Way. For the length of time that I knew her, she had always had cancer, but lived such a bold and exciting life that you forgot she even had it. Through it all, I truly believe she lived this song to Sinatra’s intentions. In the face of great sickness, she lived her life her way, and that is something I will always remember.

Next in the queue is Tiny Dancer by Elton John, a classic anthem that I believe will never grow old. Growing up in Los Angeles, this song always spoke to me. I thought it was the vague mention of “LA Lady”, or the fact that my mom always played it in her car, I couldn’t figure out why I loved this song so much. Earlier this year, Elton John released a music video 45 years after the release of Tiny Dancer. The music video depicted individuals living very different LA lifestyles, but all singing along to Tiny Dancer as they crossed paths. The music video captured the beauty of both LA culture and the song itself, and most importantly it captured what the song meant to me. No matter who you are, where you are, or what you are doing, this song has the power to unify a set of complete strangers because everyone knows the lyrics. While it isn’t Rocket Man, I believe my fellow astronauts and I could benefit from blasting this one together.

Next up is If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out by Cat Stevens. When I was younger, my father used to drive me to my soccer games, and we listened to an eclectic set of tunes, ranging from Garth Brooks to Weird Al Yankovic. If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out stuck to me as a track I particularly enjoyed my Father’s unique playlist. But the significance and beauty of this song is the lyrics. I always found that my Father emphasized these lyrics in his parenting, allowing me to “sing out” and do whatever I put my mind to. Both he and my Mom have always been there to support and encourage me throughout every step of my life. I need this song as a reminder that I have the loving support of my parents wherever I travel.

Taking a break from the classics, my next song choice is from my favorite rock and roll artist, Jack White. Jack White is behind so many influential songs and bands and to choose just one song to represent his repertoire is a challenging task. I have chosen one of my favorites, You’ve Got Her In Your Pocket from The White Stripes early album, Elephant. Jack White has always fascinated me as an artist because of his distinct branding. For each band he is in, as well as his solo career, there is a different color scheme and a new persona presented which allows the listener to understand Jack in a different aspect each time. The White Stripes had a color scheme of red, white, and black and played bold inspirational ballads. Jack White’s current solo career has a color scheme of blue and black, representing the change in his style of music to somber rock songs centering around the challenges of love. It is very important for music to be both seen and heard. White’s attention to design and branding adds a vibrant concept to his artistry and shows his anthology of sound through brands he has crafted over the years. I love and respect Jack White as an artist greatly and cannot live without at least one of his songs.

Another musician who I draw inspiration from is John Bonham, the drummer for Led Zepplin; he was truly was the backbone of the band and created a unique sound from jazz but applied it to a rock aspect, thus changing the possibilities for rock as it had not been seen before. The band captured this interesting drum beat by using the Glyn Johns recording method which had not been seen before but after, was widely used by most bands because they loved the amazing quality and simplicity of the technique, consisting of 4 microphones. But the band was able to work so well because Bonham was able to get in sync with the guitar player; typically, the drummer gets in sync with the bass player to get the best rhythmic feel but Bonham got in sync with the guitar player and if you listen to Fool in the Rain, you can see the tightness between the guitar and drums as they change constantly through the phrases. Within Fool in the Rain, the drumbeat is absolutely insane! Bonham plays a steady polyrhythmic 4/4 beat, meaning that he is playing two beats simultaneously; the first beat is executed through the triplet high hats which are accented by opening and closing them and adding ghost notes on snare in between; yet Bonham adds a twist by doing a swung half-time shuffle with his bass and snare drum which is difficult on its own. Although the beat is challenging on its own, he adds more difficulty by play with the piano and guitar which are a 12/8 time signature which adds a syncopated triplet feel to the song that anyone can groove to. To me, Bonham is what made Zepplin great and in totality, it was his drumming within this song that truly allows an audience to groove to.

The next song chosen has a lot of sentimental value as a musician; Nights & Weekends by Cold War Kids was the first song that I ever recorded. It was the song that motivated me to expand my skills and learn about production. I began by listening to every individual instrument track and was amazed by the production quality, with the smooth transition from electronic type drums to an ambient acoustic sound that comes in strong for the chorus. I was truly inspired by the album as a whole because it was a different direction that Cold War Kids portrayed; originally being a band that produced songs focusing on the problems of and containing an instrumentation of a rock band, Cold War Kids tried a different approach, adding electronic samples on top of the live drums into the piano and guitar heavy tracks. I was motivated to make my rendition of this song because I loved the vibe of the entirety of the album but this song in specific stuck out because of the catchy chorus and interesting transition from electronic to acoustic drums. I also really love the organ and feel that it should be used as a staple for their sound. My initial recording was very poor in quality being that it was my first recording ever and I was using a single microphone for everything, yet I recently redid it to show how I have evolved as an artist and I find that there is still room for improvement, though it is decent.

Transitioning from this, I Sumatran Tiger by Portugal. the man which is also known as the endangered song. Interestingly enough, there were no digital copies of this song but instead 400 copies of the hard copy record were produced and eventually the record, made out of polycarbonate material, would stop playing and become extinct. The message clear, if we do not do anything, then the species will go extinct. Portugal. the man created this song with the intent of the song becoming extinct unless reproduced. But this exclusivity tactic is very fascinating and has been practiced by many artists such as Jay Z and Beyoncé, ultimately it doesn’t work because eventually it will go to other streaming services but this concept of extinction unless shared within the community is like no other. Not only is this a genius tactic to promote the preventing from extinction but it is also an amazing song. Sadly, it will be overlooked by their one hit wonder Feel it Still but the endangered song will forever hold a place in my heart being that it is a masterful medley of instrumentation, high pitched male vocals, and a message like no other.

Directly after this, I have chosen Alright by Talk. Talk is a band I was honored to become apart of during my time at the Clive Davis Institute of Recorded Music at NYU this past summer. I chose to put this song on my playlist as a reminder that you can accomplish great things if you work hard. As a band, we wanted to create a song that encapsulated all of our diverse musical talents. I am very proud of our band’s hard work on this track. My primary role was as a drummer, but we all worked hard on co-producing, branding, and managing to create a cohesive end product, that sounds pretty good. But taking leadership for this band, we produced a book that is like no other, which gives the consumer a visual representation to enjoy as they listen to the song.

To close out the playlist, I have selected Do You Realize?? by The Flaming Lips. I honestly love everything about this song form the beautiful instrumentation to the incredibly powerful and realistic lyrics. The Flaming Lips adds tasteful elements to transform the track to a galactic melody by using robot generated noise, crazy synth sounds, and random church bells. Wayne Coin, the lead singer of the Flaming Lips, inspires me as an artist through his authenticity and creativity. This is one song I cannot live without.

Check out the playlist on youtube!

Rock On,

Justin Mandel

Follow me on Instagram @mandelsmusic

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thelion-thehound-and-thelam-blog · 7 years

Text

Title: Inversion

Series: Hannibal (TV/Novel Hybrid)

Rating: Everyone

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11994324

Pairing: Clarice Starling/Hannibal Lecter

Summary: Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter role reversal AU. Takes place in Hannibal TV verse after season 1 episode 5. Right now it's a oneshot, but I might write more stories in this verse later.

Serial murderer Clarice Starling, once a shining star of the FBI, is now imprisoned in the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

---

In the dreary gray of the basement of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Hannibal Lecter found himself across a startling pretty and intelligent young woman.

Death Angel Clarice Starling, the tabloids called her.

Clarice Starling, convicted murderer of 7, and killer of serial murderer Jame Gumb, known by the public as Buffalo Bill. That was only counting the ones that the FBI knew of.

Up until her incarceration, Clarice had been a brilliant agent at the FBI. Her teachers constantly scored her at the upper tier of the top 5% in all areas. Her discovery and murder of the high profile serial killer was just a cherry on top. She was the lioness to Will Graham’s hound in Jack Crawford’s pack.

It was this same lauded intellect and ability that allowed her to go uncaptured for years. Although Hannibal had long wished to interview her, his motive for his visit today was...a little more personal.

An orderly offered to take Hannibal’s coat when he entered the front office, which he politely declined. The man mentioned that the director was out at the moment, but would be back very soon and let him into the hospital director’s office.

Hannibal was left standing in the middle of the office and gave only a cursory glance at the gold plaque reading “Dr. Fredrick Chilton”.

The director’s office of the hospital was a room furnished considerably in contrast to the bleak grays and greens of the mental institution. On the wall hung many academic achievements in their ornate frames and waxy parchment, lauding the director with many degrees and accomplishments. This too, Hannibal only spent a few seconds glancing through.

The door behind him creaked. The same orderly from the front office opened the door for in a small, short man with oily hair that reminded Hannibal of a certain pigment secreted by the gall bladder.

“Are you Hannibal Lecter?”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

“I’m Dr. Fredrick Chilton, director of this hospital.”

Although the man emphasized on the doctor, in the short five minutes Hannibal spent conversing with Chilton in his tasteless office, he learned that the man had no medical degree at all.

“I can see why they sent you,” Chilton tugged his cuffs, his beady eyes narrowing at Hannibal’s tailored designer suit. “Starling rarely gets to see anyone so put together, not in this place. I’d rather not go down myself, you see.”

Hannibal only gave the man a nod. “I’m certain you have your reasons.”

“Indeed I do, she’s a terribly disturbed woman. You wouldn’t expect it, not from such a pretty face. But it’s so rare to get my hands on someone like her, alive. A female serial killer.” Chilton beamed. He reminded Hannibal of a schoolyard boy showing off a prized possession - odious. “She’s housed in the basement ward, where the worst go, under maximum security.

Chilton opened the door to his office, leading Hannibal down the hall to where they would take an elevator down to the lower level, his chatter never stopping as he spoke of all of his cases in the hospital basement.

Hannibal had little interest in Chilton’s collection quest of the vile and sick. Upon exiting the office, his fingers skillfully picked a business card off of the large wooden desk and whisked it into his suit pocket in one fluid motion; Chilton none the wiser.

---

The heavy steel of the gates lowered, making a clattering noise upon contact with the cement floor. Hannibal turned to face Chilton as they reached the basement cells that held the hospital’s more infamous inmates. “Thank you Dr. Chilton. However, I believe it would be best if I faced Miss Starling by myself.”

Chilton stiffened for a moment, before amicably holding out his hand. “You should have told me earlier, I would have sent you with an orderly.”

Hannibal knew, much to his distaste, that the slick shine of the man’s hand was from lanolin. He grasped it for a moment, holding it only as long as society dictated acceptable.

The moment Chilton turned around, Hannibal unfurled his handkerchief from inside his jacket, wiping off the oil in a practiced motion. He then carefully folded the handkerchief and placed it in his pocket opposite to Chilton’s business card.

At the door to the basement stood a different orderly and a prison guard. A nametag with Eric printed on it, gleamed in the fluorescent light of the ceiling lamps of the orderly’s work uniform. Chilton had sent a message ahead of time, thankfully, and Eric was waiting to let Hannibal in.

“Walk straight in the middle.” Eric instructed, his voice reedy in the cool air. He led Hannibal down the hall, the prison guard bringing up the rear. The basement’s ambient atmosphere, contributed partially by the lights within the cells, cast a dim blue against the cement and glass. “They’ll shout and scream as you walk by, it’s nothing personal. The cell you’re looking for is at the end, to the left. Don’t hand her any pens, she has her own. Make sure any paper you hand her is free of any metal. Don’t go near the glass, don’t touch the glass, or we will have to escort you out of here by force. Do you think you’ll need a chair?”

Hannibal appreciated the man’s courtesy and affirmed that he, indeed, would require a chair. Eric walked to one of the lockers at the end and pulled out a folding chair.

As he took a seat, Hannibal observed Clarice in her cell. She kept her back turned to him as she occupied herself with a magazine, seemingly unaware of his arrival. Books, periodicals, and newspapers were piled on the edge of the desk bolted to the wall, as well as the head of the sleeping cot. Mail was scattered to the corner, an afterthought.

The thick partition of solid glass that separated the woman from Hannibal reminded him of a specimen box for insects. Clarice’s fiery hair, incapable of being dulled by the atmosphere of the prison, shimmered like the vibrant color of butterfly scales.

He sat there, for a moment, observing her. When it became clear that Clarice had no intention of acknowledging his arrival, he spoke up. It was quieter at this side of the ward, carrying his words clearly.

“Hello Clarice Starling, I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter, may I speak with you?”

The woman smoothly closed the magazine in her hand and set it down, next to the letters and books. With a practiced twist, she turned to face him, her arms and legs crossing. Clarice Starling sat as if she were in her office at Quantico instead of in a tiny harshly lit supermax unit.

“Hello. Dr. Lecter.” There was a slight ghost of Clarice’s southern accent in those words, dripping a barely concealed amusement in the way she spoke his name. Her stare seemed to weigh him from the other side of the glass, glinting with a great intellect. “Are you here to poke around my head like everyone else?”

“Only if you wish me to, Clarice Starling.” Hannibal kept their gazes locked, speaking her name softly.

Clarice tilted her head.

“If you're not here to deconstruct me, then what are you here for?”

“My own interests and personal research. I read your paper in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, Clarice, it is brilliantly written.”

A snort. Clarice leaned back, her hand brushing her vibrant hair back casually. “I’m amazed, Doctor. Exactly how much research have you done on me already?”

“Not much. I’d very much prefer to speak with the genuine person."

Silence. Then Clarice began to tap her fingers, as if thinking. “Personal is it? Dr. Lecter, what reason do I have for answering any of your questions?”

This time, Hannibal graced Clarice with a small curve of his mouth. “If you so happen to wish for a fairer method, perhaps we could do a quid pro quo, Clarice?”

The silence returned, and they sat in mutual solitude. Clarice pondered for a moment, her tapping resuming. Next to her, lay the last month’s copy of Vogue.

“You tell me something and I tell you something. But Doctor, what do you have to offer me?”

There it was. Hannibal kept his eye contact with Clarice and spoke in a measured tone.

“I may be able to bring in Will Graham for a visit, Clarice.”

Clarice pursed her lips, as if she found the idea unappealing.

“And how would you be able to do just that, Dr. Hannibal Lecter?”

“He is my patient, unofficially. Some more recent cases have...upset him. I thought, since he has mentioned you before, that it might help him to center himself to see you.”

Clarice leaned back again, staring at her fingers. She seemed to ponder the offer for a moment.

“Dr. Lecter. Are you aware that the man who put me here was Will Graham? What makes you think that I would have any motive to help him?”

“Because, Clarice, you were the one who surrendered yourself to him.”

Clarice exhaled through her nose and wrapped her arms around herself. That was the one detail that both she and Will had left out during her surrender, left out during all of the court trials. “How is Will?”

Pleased, the curve once again graced Hannibal’s thin lips.

“Not in the best shape, unfortunately. Crawford has chosen to involve him once more in his quest for righteous justice.”

Clarice furrowed her brows. Her last face-to-face talk with Will had been after her prosecution. At that time, Will told her that he chose to formally retire from fieldwork, wishing to focus on teaching at the academy. Did Jack attempt to replace her spot as Will’s anchor with this man in front of her?

How quickly does faith slip away, how weak is the material that trust is made of. Gratitude, as Crawford liked to say, had a short half life.

“I see. Your turn.”

“Why do you kill, Clarice?”

Silence. Then the tentative shift of Clarice’s body as she straightened her posture. “Dr. Lecter, I cannot fathom why you would ask that question.”

“Why do you think I wouldn’t?”

“I am sure my motives have been thoroughly examined and analyzed by the press and scholarly journals. Journals, I am quite sure, that you read.”

“They only talk of simple minded speculation. I doubt, Clarice, that your reasons are as banal as ‘man hating’.”

“What makes you think I don’t hate men?”

“You certainly don’t hate Will. You tolerate Jack Crawford.”

Silence again.

“You’re right. I don’t.” Clarice laced her fingers together. “I do it to silence the screams.”

“What screams, Clarice?”

“The lambs.”

“Why lambs?”

“What case is Will working on right now?”

“He just finished with the Angelmaker. Jack has, for once, allowed him a moment of peace before plunging him head first into another gruesome case.”

“The lambs are from my childhood. My mother sent me to live with my aunt whose husband owned a slaughter barn. Do you think you could tell Will to stop, Dr. Lecter?”

“I believe Crawford already offered him that option. He refused.”

“That-” Clarice stopped herself, her laced hands clenching in anger, as if offering prayer. She grasped that anger, tamping it down with great willpower and used its edge to clear her mind. “I apologize for that, Doctor. Your question?”

“Why did your mother send you to live with your aunt?”

“My father died and there was too many mouths to feed. There’s only so much you can do on a high school education. What was the first case Crawford dragged Will into?”

“A missing girls case. He believed they were being murdered, but lacked evidence.”

“And so he sought out Will Graham, thinking he could find the murderer even with the lack of evidence. How did that turn out?”

“Badly.”

There was a pause - one final time - as their conversation reached its end. Without looking away, never looking away, Hannibal asked one more question.

“What, Clarice, was the memory that led to the screaming of the lambs?”

Like a thin stream, Clarice’s voice quietly slid through the glass partition, through the small holes in the barrier.

Any person other than Hannibal would have had to struggle to hear.

“When I came to the farm, I was happy. I’d always loved animals and my aunt’s family treated me well.”

“You were happy, Clarice. Until you learned they fed out animals for slaughter.”

“Yes. The farm mainly fed out slaughter horses, although they did other animals depending on the season. All of the horses on the farm were either sick or lame. I hadn’t realized it at the time.

“I became attached to a blind mare. None of the slaughter horses on the barn had names. They don’t tell you when you’re feeding them out, so I called her Hannah.”

“What happened to the horse, Clarice?”

“We ran away. It was summer, we could sleep out.”

“Did you lead her or ride her?”

“A little of both. I had to guide her to a fence for me to climb on to ride her. We rode out to a livery stable outside of town. For 20$ a week, I could keep Hannah in the corral. There was enough on me to pay for it but the owner’s wife called the sheriff on me.”

“What happened after?”

“My aunt decided to let me go. They sent me to a Lutheran orphanage after.”

“Did they slaughter Hannah?”

“No, she went with me. The orphanage was on a farm, they let her plow the garden.”

“Why did you run away with the horse?”

“They were going to kill her.”

“Did you know when?”

“No, but she was getting fat.”

“At what time did you set off with Hannah?”

“Early, it was still dark.”

“Something woke you.”

“Screaming. The walls on the farm were pretty bad at keeping sound out and I woke to screaming in the dark. They were slaughtering the spring lambs.”

“And this prompted you to run away.” He spoke it as if it were a fact and not a presumption. It irked her, but Clarice found herself unable to rebut his statement.

“Yes.”

“Yet you still hear them. Are they in your dreams, Clarice? Or do you hear them even when you are awake?”

“Dreams, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes I hear them even after I wake up, even though they couldn’t possibly be real.”

“And does killing stop these screams?”

“Depends. If it’s just killing, no. They stop when I save someone.”

“And then you’re free, for a time. But later you find that you must do it again, to make them stop.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal leaned back, his face still with calm and at peace. Clarice, given time to ponder, wondered what this man wanted. He held no notepad, nor did he ever break eye contact with her. He seemed too proper to wear a wire and Clarice could not see anything on him that would suggest such an instrument. He didn’t even seem to carry a briefcase.

“Thank you, Clarice.” There was warmth in the thank you that had not been present in their earlier conversation. A good-humored crinkle appeared at the edge of his eyes. A genuine smile. “I will be sure to bring Will next time.”

Clarice watched from her side of the glass. Watched as Hannibal stood and gestured to Eric. Watched, as he gave her one last look as the guard led him away. Watched long after the doctor’s silhouette vanished from the hellish basement ward of the Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

#inversion AU #Clarice Starling #Hannibal Lecter #Oneshot #role-reversal #Will Graham (Mentioned)#fan fiction #WEH MY INTERNET IS FINALLY BACK I CAN POST THIS #sorry im a bit awkward w dialogue

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vagrantblvrd · 7 years

Text

We’ve Made Our Way to Here (1/1)

Summary: Gavin looks at the Vagabond, and instead of keeping his distance, moves closer.

Takes to poking and prodding him the way he does the rest of the crew, drawing him in with random thoughts and questions because the man is a delight.

AO3

Gavin looks at the Vagabond, and instead of keeping his distance, moves closer.

Takes to poking and prodding him the way he does the rest of the crew, drawing him in with random thoughts and questions because the man is a delight>.

Aloof and menacing, living up to his reputation as the Vagabond.

And under it, he's fascinating, bit of a puzzle Gavin can't just leave alone.

To his surprise, the Vagabond bites back. Argues Gavin's thoughts and questions, bickering and bantering and engaging and it's lovely.

The others have long grown used to Gavin and the way his mind doesn't quite work the way most people’s do. Familiar with the odd twists and turns it takes, but the Vagabond is new, he doesn't know, and Gavin loves it.

Loves being a little troll just to see him get riled up, angry because Gavin keeps insisting he's right and the Vagabond is wrong, and damn the science of it while the others watch in varying degrees of amusement.

He snaps and snarls and utters low, menacing threats when they argue or when Gavin pokes and prods him, hoping to get a reaction, but it's all for show. Bark worse than his bite and all that, and oddly enough, he begins to -

Not relax, around them, but perhaps let his guard down.

Bit by bit, the longer he stays with the crew, gets to know them. Trust they won't turn on him, betray him, and it goes both ways.

Michael losing that wary, protective look to him when the Vagabond is around, joking with him and joining him in bullying Gavin. Ray remains the same, seemingly indifferent to the addition to the crew, offering up dry, sarcastic observations and one-liners. Jack talks cars with him, admiring that sleek Zentorno of his, a fitting car for someone like the Vagabond.

Geoff.

Well, Geoff's always been an oddity, but there's a smugness in his smile when his gaze sweeps across the crew, eyes lingering on the Vagabond's form.

And eventually the Vagabond becomes Ryan, becomes even more endearingly dorky and oddly, awkwardly sweet. Fumbling his words when his mouth races ahead of his brain, frowning and scowling at the others when they tease him for it, terrible hypocrites and shameless about it.

The Vagabond becomes Ryan becomes crew>, and something shifts in Los Santos at that, takes note.

========

Inevitably the day comes when things go badly, a meet turning sour and violence breaks out.

Gavin makes his way back to Ryan once it's all over and finds him staring at his handiwork, breath low and harsh, knuckles white where they're gripping his gun.

He meets Gavin's eyes for a moment, then deliberately turns his head away and suddenly he's back to being cold and aloof, dangerous.

Gavin looks around the room. At the bodies of people who had turned on them, years of loyalty nothing against greed and ambition and the slow-burn of resentment.

Ryan steps back when Gavin reaches out to him. Head snapping around, eyes narrowed behind the mask.

And Gavin.

This isn't new, this kind of betrayal, not in Los Santos at any rate. The Fakes have seen it before, and will continue to do so because that's the price of their own goals, ambitions in a city like this.

He knows Ryan's seen it before himself, has been hired to take part in it or put an end to it, seen it from the sidelines.

This is the first time Gavin's seen what Ryan's capable of as the Vagabond, and it's terrifying, but no more so than when it's any of the others, when it's Gavin himself.

“Oh, love,” Gavin says. “How do you think we got where we are?”

They're all monsters to the people of Los Santos, the Fakes, every single one of them.

Capable of such horrible atrocities in the name of protecting the crew, each other. For Geoff's dream of rising to the top and ruling Los Santos, temperamental and merciless city that it is.

Ryan cocks his head and glances at the people he's killed today.

Messy and ugly and lingering, in some instances. Not wholly intentional, but Gavin knows Ryan well enough to know he doesn't regret it, not after what these people had done, tried to do.

“Not like this, though,” Ryan says, like he's trying to scare Gavin off. Show him he's not like the other Fakes, not safe, whatever that means.

And Gavin, he laughs.

Cold, brittle, and flips the knife he's holding. Easy, smooth, like it's an extension of himself.

Ryan watches it, light catching on the blade as it arcs through the air – tinted gold, because of course it is, the Golden Boy wouldn't possibly settle for less.

“You'd be surprised,” Gavin says, odd little smile playing around his mouth as he catches the knife and tucks it away. “You'd really be surprised, I think.”

========

It's that moment, above them all, that tips things over to the side of decidedly ill-advised between them.

Gavin's always been in Ryan's space, from the moment he first stepped into the penthouse to this.

Sprawled out beside him while some summer blockbuster plays on the television, Ryan methodically breaking down his weapons to clean him with the soothing sound of explosions and gunfire as a backdrop.

Gavin's idly poking at something on his laptop, warm and comfortable and content like this.

“Bullshit,” Ryan says, the way he counters Gavin's arguments. “Idiots don't know how C4 works.”

Gavin looks at the television where the antagonist is laying out a plan that would never, ever work in real life, and making some sort of declaration of love to his co-star while he's at it. Real multi-tasker, that one.

Sliding a glance at Ryan, he opens a new tab on his browser and does a quick search, eyebrows going up at the result he gets.

“The scriptwriter lives in Los Santos,” Gavin tosses out casually. “Think we should give him a tutorial on the stuff?”

Ryan tilts his head to look down at him, trying for something in the area of Functioning Adult and only making it to Easily Swayed Quasi-Adult.

“We shouldn't,” Ryan says, slowly, reluctantly. “It might bring attention to us.”

Which they don't need or want, with a heist in the offing, but -

“It's a crime, isn't it?” Gavin asks, waving a hand at the television where the antagonist is wiring some sort of contraption for what looks like an overly cliché heroic sacrifice. “What they're doing with that C4, I mean.”

He can see Ryan wavering, and bites back on his grin because he loves this about Ryan too. How he's up for causing all kinds of chaos and destruction for the fun of it. (For science.)

“I mean,” Ryan says, and Gavin can hear the grin in his voice, even if the mask obscures it. “You're not wrong, exactly.”

========

There are other moments, here and there, stolen or borrowed, and all the more precious for it.

Gavin wandering out to the balcony when Ryan can't sleep, eyes sleep-soft and hair an even wilder tangle than usual, and leans up next to him to start a conversation on something he read about online or saw in one of his documentaries. Gavin sweet talking Ryan into joining his team when Michael and Ray challenge him to multiplayer.

It goes from there, a comfortable sort of give and take and compromises on both their parts, and it works.

It works.

========

It's inevitable, isn't it.

People look at Gavin, and they see someone easy to manipulate, to break.

Doesn't matter if he's being the Golden Boy or that annoying piece of shit who hangs off the others and makes stupid bets with them. Coaxing or daring them until they give in. The one who wanders around the penthouse in old, worn hoodies and jeans and mismatched socks, looking like any other scruffy twenty-something in the world rather than a hardened criminal and key member of the Fakes.

They see Ramsey's Golden Boy, and zero in on those gold-framed sunglasses, the designer clothes. They don't know it, but Gavin's accent changes when he's playing the Golden Boy.

Goes posh and arrogant and his body language shifts to accommodate it.

They see this rich kid running with the big boys and think, yes, him, he's the weak point, and they try to drive a wedge between the Golden Boy and the Fakes.

Promise him more money than Ramsey could ever offer him, anything he wants, and all it'll cost is a little favor or two. Whisper a few secrets in their ears, and he can have it all. (They never stop to think, to wonder, what would someone like him possibly want?)

They see him when they bust into the safe house he's hunkered down in, Fakes scattered after a heist gone bad. See him with bandages dark with blood, hair flat and listless and dark circles under his eyes, exhausted, and hurting and so, so worried for his crew, his family.

There's a computer in front of him showing feeds from security cameras around Los Santos. Chatter coming from the police radio beside him nothing but white noise. Empty cans of Red Bull, a coffee mug with its contents gone cold hours ago.

They see him like this, defenses stripped from him and horribly, unbearably human and think, this one can lead us to the others.

========

When Gavin's taken, grabbed right out of the safe house and taken to some depressingly cliché warehouse days away from being condemned, he bends but doesn't break.

Offers up little tidbits of truth sprinkled in with the lies he spins easily as breathing.

Yes, the Vagabond works for the crew. Yes, he's bloody terrifying. No, Gavin doesn't know who he is under the mask, or where he might have gone to ground. (Perception plays a heavy part in the lies Gavin weaves, the bits of truth he doles out like breadcrumbs because people will fill in the blanks themselves as they grasp at them greedily, and do so beautifully.)

And so these people, lesser thugs in a city full of them, latch onto the things they see as weaknesses. See the shadow of bruises on his arms, his neck from miscalculations during the setup for the failed heist, roughhousing with Michael. Sheer clumsiness on Gavin's part.

They see the way he shudders away dramatically from one of them when they press lightly on one dark purple edged in green and painful looking, and conclusions are made.

Empty promises are given, because Gavin knows once they have what they want he won't be leaving this building alive. Promises that Gavin won't need to worry about the Fakes, about the Vagabond ever again if he just helps them out. Give them an idea as to where they might be, just a starting point, they'll handle the rest.

Through it all, these thugs, these idiots, forget that the bedraggled figure they came upon in that safe house is the Golden Boy.

Ramsey's Golden Boy.

The one who runs with the big boys and hasn't stumbled once, hasn't fallen in all this time.

He carries knives, the Golden Boy.

Tinted gold, but cold steel at their core. They're gone, now, taken away along with his gun and other assorted weapons, but they missed one.

Not his weapon of choice, too personal, but needs must and he's alone with the others spread about the city.

The Golden Boy's shoes are lovely, lovely things. Fine leather and elegant stitching and a false compartment in the heels, shoelaces that don't come standard.

But the thing of it is, Gavin hasn't always been the Golden Boy, hasn't always been Ramsey's.

Before this, before Los Santos, he was someone, along with Dan, something that only a few people know about. (Gavin's gone to a lot of effort to make sure of that.)

So when these lesser thugs in a city full of them thinks he's just Ramsey's Golden boy, a pretty little pet and nothing more, that's their own mistake, isn't it? Nothing is ever what it seems in this city, ever so simple.

Pain is nothing new, although it is sharp and brutal and has him gagging as he breaks his thumb, slipping his hand free of the metal cuffs. Shaky and unsteady he reaches for his shoes, timer in his head ticking down.

He leaves the shoelaces for now, not long enough for what he needs, and goes for the secret compartment.

The others had laughed when he told them about them, an old trick used by British servicemen and their allies during the Second World War. A bit of history that had fascinated him from the moment he learned about it.

The room he's been locked up had been used as storage in the past, solid walls and a door with at least one man guarding it on the other side. A handful more wandering the building, left behind to keep an eye on him while the rest went to check the veracity of the information he gave them.

In one heel rests a coil of wire, not Gavin's preferred weapon, but needs must, and he's alone. The others are spread about Los Santos, waiting for the heat to die down from the heist.

No point in waiting for rescue that won't come if they don't know to mount one.

It doesn't take much to get the guard's attention in the end.

Gavin borrows a page out of a movie and plays sick, tucking himself just out of sight and darting forwards to loop the garrote around his neck, and pulls. Feels the guard’s feet start to slip, stumble, from the force of it, hands coming up to scrabble at the wire digging into his throat as panic sets in.

Pain is singing through his hand, his arm, blinding spear of it in his head and still Gavin holds on. Breathing ragged, his own heart beating a terrified rhythm in his chest as he counts down in his head until the struggling stops. He holds on moment longer, gives the garrote a tug and when there's no reaction relaxes, breath rush out out of him as he crouches. Patting the guard lightly until he finds his gun, checks to make sure it's loaded and plucks a spare magazine from the inner pocket of his jacket.

Stands and sweeps out into the hall, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the shift in lighting before he moves.

Runs into a thug when he turns a corner and drops him with two shots to the chest. Stepping over him as he continues on, movements quicker now that the others have been alerted. It's less a running gunfight and more of a twisted, deadly game of hide and seek.

He takes out one more before things take a turn, bullet tearing through his side and he ducks for cover a moment too late. Draws in air like he's drowning, teeth gritted and fire long his ribs, gunshots pinging off the rusted out machine he's hiding behind.

“Come on out, Goldie!” someone calls, hard and mocking and no mercy in it. “I just want to talk!”

Gavin scoffs at that as another bullet sends up sparks too close to his head and he inches deeper into cover. Head pounding, body at its limits but still not done here, nowhere near close.

“Bloody hell,” Gavin whispers, resting his head against the hulking machine at his back and reaching for focus.

The bullet wound is just a graze, bleeding steadily and painful. Sapping his already flagging energy. He won't last long like this, might not make it out of this damned warehouse, and the thought burns.

Cold and sharp, an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with the others, crew and friend and family, all.

There's a lull in the gunfire, enough to have him cautiously hopeful, last little sliver of it left to him, and hears cursing. Low and angry and frustrated and then stomping feet, heedless of potential danger as they stride toward him.

“Last fucking chance, Goldie,” and there's arrogance in it, confidence that Gavin's out of ammunition, is at a disadvantage.

Smaller than the men who took him, lean and wiry against their looming bulk, and men like them always look at Gavin and see someone weaker than them, someone they can break.

Gavin smiles to himself, devoid of humor, and waits. Tracks footsteps and pictures the layout of the room in his head, obstacles and cover and angles. Shifts to circle around the machinery at his back, edging around it to get a peek, a glimpse, and sees the thug half-turned away, and takes his chance.

He's decent with a gun, when adrenaline and fear aren't present, when his life isn't at stake, and shades worse when it is.

Misses the first shot, and the second merely clips the man. Knocking him back a step, but he's already firing, low from the hip, spitting curses and threats and stumbling like a drunkard.

The third shot is a mistake, jolt of pain jerking the gun higher so the bullet his the man's neck and passes through in a spray of blood and gore, gurgling wetly as he drops, and Gavin's hand trembles as he lowers his gun.

“Christ.”

Gavin turns sharply at that, the sound of running footsteps and harsh breathing, vision spinning, blurring and -

“Gavin? Gav?”

And there's Michael, and Geoff and the others, Ryan moving forward to check the man Gavin just shot, sliding a concerned look at Gavin when he walks past, shoulder brushing Gavin's.

“What,” Gavin stops, has to clear his throat because his voice is rough and scratchy and hurts. “What are you doing here?”

Because they shouldn't be here. Should be tucked away nice and safe in their own safe houses, boltholes, until the support team sounds the all clear, not.

Not chasing after Gavin and the messes he manages to get himself into, even if he doesn't know who these people are or why they took him.

Well, besides the obvious, but there are a lot of people on Los Santos after the Fakes, hoping to bring them down and the aftermath of a heist gone bad would have seemed like opportunity knocking to them.

Michael and Geoff exchange a look, Ray mutters something to Jack who Jack rolls his eyes before he goes to Gavin. Eyes meeting his, asking for permission before he starts looking him over for injuries, expression darkening at what he finds.

“Ryan.” Geoff says, as he surveys the room, going for calm, even though it's clear he's angry. Hands shaking as he tucks them neatly in his pockets to hide it. Eyes following Jeremy and Trevor as they slide out of the shadows, coordinating with the support team to make sure the rest of the building is clear. “Asshole got antsy, went looking for us.”

Ryan grunts, rising to his feet and walks over.

“Well in my defense,” he says, like he always does. “It was a good idea, wasn't it.”

Geoff's eyes flash, angry and annoyed that Ryan didn't fucking listen, knew better than to run around nilly willy with the cops and half of Los Santos after them. When they didn't know who they could trust outside the crew.

“We're gonna have a talk about that later,” Geoff decides, and when Jeremy and Trevor get the all clear, gives a sharp nod. “Let's just get the hell out of here before this place falls down on us.”

========

“Ray and I were going to swap the wire out with condoms and lube packets to get you back for last week,” Michael says out of nowhere when they're back at one of the safe houses. “Good thing we didn't, huh?”

Gavin blinks at Michael, slow, because the world is blurry and soft and whatever they gave him when they patched him up is lovely.

“Might have made escaping a bit more difficult, yeah,” Gavin says.

He hasn't made a habit of checking the secret compartment of his shoes the way he does with his weapons, his parachute. Used to think of it more of a novelty than anything else, result of a several weeks worth of research, and trial and error that cost him several pairs of shoes until he got it right.

Michael smiles, gently ruffling Gavin's hair as he gets up to leave. “Get some sleep, idiot,” he says fondly, and then it's Gavin and Ryan and a bit of awkwardness.

“You make a lovely pillow Ryan,” Gavin says, words slurring faintly. “Lovely, Ryan.”

Ryan snorts, careful as he makes himself more comfortable.

The couch is an abomination, ugly fabric pattern and even uglier texture, but it's soft and comfortable and Gavin honestly doubts he could make it to one of the bedrooms in his state. Ryan would help, lovely, lovely, Ryan, but then he'd leave, or sit silent, vaguely creepy vigil beside the small bed, and that is unthinkable.

“You're going to regret this,” Ryan says, because he knows Gavin, how he'll complain about the crick in his neck, aching joints, and sore back on top of his other hurts.

“It's possible,” Gavin says, too tired to care, passing it off as a problem for his future self to handle. (That's caused him enough headaches in the past, certainly, but right now he honestly doesn't care.)

Ryan laughs, settling down against him, “Yeah, just try to remember that tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is forever away, and full of things, concerns.

The failed heist, and the men who took Gavin, and a hundred other things he can't get a firm grasp just now, thanks to a lovely mix of painkillers and exhaustion, so he stops trying. Lets go of the worry that was steadily eating away at him the moment the heist went wrong, bullets and yelling and Geoff ordering them to get out, for fuck's sake, fucking get out and find somewhere safe to hole up.

Ryan sighs, fingers coming through Gavin's hair, blunt nails scratching just so, and goes boneless. Thinks he'd purr, if he was a cat.

“God, you would, wouldn't you?” Ryan asks, laughter in his voice, and Gavin realizes he might be speaking out loud.

“You are,” Ryan says, so very, very amused.

Gavin hums, eyelids growing heavier and thinks he manages a passable retort before sleep rolls him under, Ryan a reassuring presence at his back.

#fahc #fahc fic #freewood #vagrant fic #i have no impulse control #also i am a fan of terrible movies #and terrible cliches #terrible everything really

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xadoheandterra · 7 years

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Title: Salt and Sugar (Cont. 6) Fandoms: Overwatch | Marvel Characters: Reaper, Soldier 76, Ana Amari, Widowmaker, Sombra, Tracer, Jesse McCree. Tags: violence, old men trying to kill each other, not so nice conversations, picking at old wounds, ana is a badass, old men acting like children, no one knows what to do, gabriel and jack at each others throats per usual, in this case literally, chocking Summary: Winston really should’ve performed a routine check on Tracer’s Chronal Accelerator. Maybe then this wouldn’t have happened.

Jack stepped out of the restroom and eyed the hotel room with mild distaste. Two days and he felt trapped, stuck in a room with Talon, with Gabriel, with Ana being even more overbearing than normal, and then the Overwatch kids. Jack didn’t know what to think half the time. Already Lena took to racing around the room to alleviate her own boredom, he could barely step two feet lately without having to dodge a blur of blue and yellow. Thankfully she tired out just as quickly which granted some alleviation. Then there was Widowmaker, who often stared at Jack and the rest distrustfully.

Right now the French woman curled around Gabriel, a book in her hand that Jack couldn’t place being in the room before. Sombra sat in Gabriel’s “chair” tapping away on the table at something only she could see, endlessly amused by something. Gabriel himself took to lounging in just a sweatshirt with his mask on his face. No matter what anyone said the man still refused to take the mask off in Jack’s presence. Honestly that more than anything grated on Jack’s nerves.

The television of the hotel room had some sort of soap on, as far as Jack could figure. A telenovela probably if Jack had to guess by the dramatic music and Spanish dialogue. He didn’t bother to glance at the screen, didn’t even bother to display any sort of interest. Instead Jack moved back to his “chair” and settled down with a groan. He picked up his pulse riffle and began to disassemble and reassemble the weapon methodically in silence. It worked to at least clear his head, like it’d done back in their SEP days while waiting for the results of Gabriel’s latest injections.

After a while Gabriel’s attention drifted from the telenovela when a commercial came on, and Jack was acutely aware of where his stare landed. It burned like an itch under his skin; Gabriel always had that effect on Jack. Jack stretched and shifted, half uncomfortable with the look and half embarrassed. Part of him missed that gaze, the way it’d burn through him and take in his general health with a quick check up and down. Eventually Jack grimaced and looked up, caught sight of Gabriel’s mask, and pressed his lips tightly against his gritted in an effort to stop from snarling.

Jack grunted. “What?”

He watched that mask turn away, watched Gabriel shift next to Widowmaker and change how his legs were crossed.

“What’s with the skin tight suit?” eventually Gabriel asked, although his words were a mere mutter.

Jack blinked, glanced down at himself in confusion at the perfectly reasonable question. Sure he’d given up on wearing the old jacket for now. It wasn’t really the best of things to keep on all the time; it didn’t have the greatest ability to breath. Jack just didn’t realize that maybe his choice of shirt underneath was an odd one without realizing that the jacket got hot and he needed something that helped cool him down.

“It’s moisture wicking,” Jack eventually replied with a tired sigh. It was also similar to the turtleneck he wore in Overwatch, although it did cover more of his neck then the old Strike Commander outfit and it fit tighter over his skin.

“And the brace?” Gabriel turned his gaze back on Jack.

“Helps with firing the pulse riffle,” Jack grunted. A second later Jack realized that perhaps he shouldn’t have admitted to that so easily, especially the way he began to itch from the sudden intense stare from Gabriel. Jack ground his teeth together. “What now.”

Gabriel didn’t say anything at first. Instead he slipped out of the bed. Widowmaker sighed and pouted, then shifted herself to shit up. She switched the channel on the telenovela and suddenly Jack could hear French. He wondered how they had a clearly French show in New York then decided he probably didn’t want to know. By the time Jack’s attention refocused on Gabriel the man stood right in front of him.

“What else,” Gabriel demanded lowly. His normal growl practically turned demonic.

“What?”

“What. Else.”

Jack couldn’t help it. His jaw sort of dropped and his brow furrowed in confusion. He couldn’t quite ascertain why Gabriel wanted to know. The man never showed any interest in the extent of Jack’s injuries or advancement of old ones before.

“Get that stupid look off your face, boy scout, and answer the fucking question,” Gabriel snapped, and that’s where Jack lost it.

With a snarl Jack burst to his feet and got right into Gabriel’s space. The other man jerked back in surprise at the sudden movement, at the way Jack seemed almost feral.

“Why do you suddenly care?” Jack spat out. “After seven fucking years why do you even care, Gabe?”

“You as well as I know that your condition and mine have correlating concerns!” Gabriel snarled.

Jack laughed bitterly and bared his teeth. “Oh, yeah? Well why don’t you tell me the state of your organs, Gabe. Had any heart attacks recently? What about liver failure? How are your kidneys doing lately?” Jack could practically hear Gabriel grind his teeth together. He let out another bitter laugh, but didn’t anticipate Gabriel decking him.

Jack grunted at the sudden strike across his jaw. He didn’t bother to test the damage, or even spit out the blood that began dribbled from his split lip. Instead he retaliated in kind, shoving his fist right into Gabriel’s gut. The other man grunted, a sort of wet sound, and then they were tearing into one another. Fingers scrambled for purchase as they grasped at each other. Fists smacked into known weak points. Knees jabbed up to knock the stomach, or a bowed head after a blow to the solar plexus. They brawled, didn’t bother to say anything more to one another aside from spat curses.

None of the girls in the room could figure what to do except stare at the two, grown old men duke it out fervently. They couldn’t exactly intervene—the sheer strength of the punches could cause irreparable damage to either one of them thanks to the enhanced strength of both men. Eventually they landed on the floor, twisted around one another. They flipped each other around, tried to gain the upper hand. Neither noticed the door open, or the smell of food, to intent on causing as much damage to the other as they damn well could.

Gabriel gained the upper hand, twisted Jack onto his back and wrapped his fingers around the soldier’s neck and squeezed. He sat on his knees, slightly above the other man’s waist, and grunted with every sudden gasped bit of air out of Jack. Gabriel’s mask was askew, cracked and broken in places, enough that Jack could see his teeth and the way he bared them. Jack could see the way half of his mouth seemed ripped and torn open, bare tissue and bone visible from gaping holes in his cheek.

Jack grasped at Gabriel’s hands, bucked up with a ragged, wheeze at an attempt to pull in more air. Gabriel just squeezed tighter and shifted to dodge the raised knee. He snarled, growled almost animalistic in his fury. So focused on Jack he didn’t notice Ana storm over to them, grab Jack’s pulse riffle, or slam the butt of it into the back of his head. Gabriel’s grip slipped, he grunted at the sudden strike, and Jack twisted and regained the upper hand. His own fingers went for Gabriel’s neck, but Ana slammed the pulse riffle into his side and knocked him off the other man.

“Jack! Enough!” Ana snapped out. Jack wheezed, and Gabriel moved to pounce when Ana slammed her foot onto his chest. “You too, Gabriel!” Gabriel stilled under the woman’s intense, furious stare. Once Ana was certain both men wouldn’t try to kill each other again she stepped back and placed her hands on her hips, face cold. “Now what the hell happened here, for you to be at each other’s throats?”

“He started it,” Jack coughed out. He rubbed at his own neck with a faint grimace. Fuck he forgot Gabriel could pack a mean punch when he really got going.

“I don’t care who started it, I ended it!” Ana snapped back at Jack who had the grace to turn his head away. “Do I need to treat you like you are five? You remember who I discipline Fareeha; don’t make me do the same to you! Answer my fucking question, both of you.”

Jack said nothing. Refused to, in fact given the way he set his jaw stubbornly and refused to even look at Ana. He knew full well that her threat was a valid one. Ana would treat Jack and Gabriel like Fareeha, like five year old children in need of discipline.

Gabriel answered instead after he had a second to collect himself. Cowed under Ana’s glare he grumbled a faint, tired, “Discussion gone sour. Won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” Ana ground out, and looked to Jack. “Will it, Jack?”

Jack grunted out a no. He still refused to look at Ana, or even at Gabriel.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Morrison!” Ana snapped out, and Jack’s gaze snapped right to her. “Will it?”

Jack huffed, scrubbed a hand down his face tiredly. He ached. “No, Ana, it won’t happen again,” he rasped.

Ana nodded. “Good. Get up. Shower. Jesse and I brought back food.” She shot a glance to Gabriel. “And take off that damned mask, Gabriel. It’ll only cut your face the way it is now.”

Jack could hear Gabriel grunt something out, and Ana say something further, but he didn’t care anymore. He focused on rolling to his side instead, and then getting to his feet. Jack limped toward the bathroom and winced at the way whole portions of him throbbed. He’d come out black and blue and swollen at this rate. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jesse cautiously setting down the bags, wide eyed. Jack closed his eyes. What a fucking mess.

#overwatch #soldier 76 #reaper ow #ana amari #gabriel reyes #jack morrison #fanfic #violence #chocking #jesse mccree #tracer #widowmaker #sombra #fic: salt and sugar

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greatdrams · 7 years

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25 of the best spirits ads in the world

Without ads how would we know which celebrities enjoy the same biscuits as us, or which shampoo will make our hair the shiniest? Ads are everywhere today. We’ve out together a collection of some of the ads that we think are the best spirit ads in recent decades. Which ones do you think work best?

Smirnoff Loch Ness

Smirnoff isn’t even Scottish, but they still managed to fit Nessie into their advertising. This ad makes Smirmoff out to be something different and to be the drink that offers adventure to those who enjoy it. This is abi more tongue in cheek than the usual ads we would see these days, but I think that makes us more appreciative of it. And lets be honest if we were offered the chance ot go water skiing with the Loch ness Monster, who would say no?!

Bergedorfor

Ok so this isn’t a spirit but it was too good not to include! It takes so many typical ideas and subverts them, all while creating the notion that this beer should be nurtured and considered on a higher pedestal than most. The images get slightly creepy if you look at them for too long, but I think it all adds to the effect really.

Absolut

There were a lot of Absolut ads to choose from, but this one is particular is perfect. It conflates Absolut with the greatest of the great and gives it a foothold in history. This ad is also adapt at making us associate Absolut with any one of these films, which is great for them, since these are pretty commonly talked about. The abstract form of the bottle captured by the stack reels is also a nice graphic without being to obvious.

Gringos Tequila

The message here is that Gringos Tequila is authentically Mexican. They are really able to capture this and give the product a lot of character, which can be hard to do in a print ad. The whole look of these ads is great with just enough minor details to keep the audience engaged. And it’s always nice to see a brand celebrate their heritage in such an inventive way.

Cactus Jacks

This ad is in a similar vein to the Gringos Tequila one and gathers a lot of imagery from Mexican culture to create a character for the product. The graphics here are especially good and I love the illustration. What they do better than the Gringos ad is giving the audience something to explore. While Gringos gave us enough to look at and take in, this goes further by swamping you with information and allowing you to fully explore it for yourself.

Pampero

This is an ad that takes some time to think about. The message is that Pampero is a perfect blend of good and evil, and we as the audience have to translate that into the image. I like it because it looks good and it gives us something to focus on that isn’t the liquid inside the bottle, but rather the idea of what else is inside the bottle.

Four Roses

Four Roses create a wonderful image for themselves ehre and give their product a story. This at once takes you straight back to frontier times and gives you the impression that Four Roses was there at that time too. It also gives the drink a macho image that will definitely resonate with anyone who loves a good John Wayne movie!

Alibi Bourbon

This ad is hilarious and just generally great at capturing the rough, tough, Devil-may-care attitude of Alibi Bourbon. It is also a distinctly American image, placing Alibi firmly in its Kentucky roots. Like many of the ads included here, Alibi have created a character that they want to people to associate their product with. Tis reaches a lot of different audiences, from those looking for a fun brand, to others who may relate more with the character that Alibi may have thought possible.

Waterloo Gin

Again we have an American brand that is using patriotism and Americans’ own love of their country to market to them. the rugged old flag indicates the age and therefore quality of the Gin, a drink that is often associated with Britain. It also gives them a place to call home and shows a deep pride for that place, making any association with Britain that Gin may have immediately disappear.

Hennessey

Like a lot of big brands Hennessey have gained a glowing celebrity endorsement here. Martin Scorsese, although he may not be instantly recognisable, is definitely a name that we all know and appreciate. He comes with a ready made reputation and audience trust, so Hennessey gains all of the when they are seen to be associated with him.

Effen Vodka

Effen is definitely marketing themselves as a premium brand for younger audiences in this ad. The black and white filter with the ultra modern bottle design gives them an edge over older competitors. The focus on design and designers specifically is evident and gives the audience the idea that this is a brand that cares about more than taking money out of your wallet and actually wants to help the little guy on the street rather than the fat cats.

Amundsen

It can be quite controversial to use murderous dictators in ads, just ask Nandos and Robert Mugabe, but Amundsen attach humour to what they are doing. This ad works because it is not denying the horror of Stalin, but rather is saying that their method of distilling their vodka six times, can transform anything into something far more pure and clean.

Monopolowa

I think what I love about this ad is the hilarious irony. The most humble champion is obviously the brand with the medal around their neck and the awards lined up at the bottom right? Well for Monopolowa it is, and they are. I think this ad is the epitome of a humble brag and we only have to wonder whether it was intentional or not.

Alita

This ad has a lot to take in and I love that it builds up layers the more you look at it. The audience are given a hint at a story and allowed to fill in the blanks themselves, something that works to build up a character for the product as well. The story hinted at is quite unusual as well, with a shark jaw and frying pan involved, so that helps to make for something memorable as well.

Hendricks

I love Hendricks whole look. They capture a lot about the history of Gin while at the same time creating a whole new world with a modern twist to it. This ad is along the lines of their usual aesthetic and is always giving the audience something to look at. Everything works here and there is a definite theme to the ad, which helps to tie the whole brand together.

The Singleton

The worldwide taste test referred to in the tagline is perfectly captured in this ad. At first glance it seems a little strange but once you get to the tagline all becomes clear. I like this ad for its humour and the way it carries it out. The graphics look great and the message is clear.

Martel

A lot of spirits try to communicate their age and expertise but Martel seem to do it flawlessly here. We immediately conflate the past with the present and see how everything has remained the same, even Martel. There is almost no need for a tagline to tell us what they are saying, since the image is so good at relaying it.

Binboa

We get a greta idea of what Binboa are trying to say about themselves in this ad, even if it is a little strange at first. They give us a bogus statistic that we can all still relate to and that endears them to us. They pull apart the old societal norms of making bad jokes and allow us to final laugh at them and see how absurd they are.

DYC

These das are great. They take well-known pop cultural icons and transform them into the complete opposite. Within this they use them to sell their own message, one that becomes instantly funny at the simple twisting of images that we’ve all seen before. This makes them seem just as iconic as the images they are changing.

Martini

This ad is for their aperitif expression and this ad sums it up quick and easy. It literally makes beef “easy”. There really isn’t anymore to say except it must be very hard to make a cow look “easy” but I think Martini have given it a far shot. The only thing that perplexes me a bit is that she’s pink, but maybe that’s a reference to her being “rare”? you’llhav to figure it out for yourselves folks!

Lambs

I love this ad. It is funny and plays up the brand name perfectly. It also makes everyone who’s ever felt like the black sheep of the family feel a little bit more accepted.

Martini

More from martini, only this one is a little bit more sophisticated than sexy beef. They really do make an art out of the serve and it almost appears like a deconstructed cocktail. It is simple and eye catching, with lots of different elements for the audience to look at. It is also a nice source of inspiration should anyone be feeling particularly creative!

Stolichnaya Vodka

What could be better than playing with politics to promote vodka? The graphics of course recall the age-old communist propaganda that so many of us know and recognise. It uses this to create the idea of Russia in the mind of the audience and then plays on that by offering itself up to the UK but at the same time mocking their ability to catch Russians.

Mathusalem

Mathusalem paint themselves very much as the hero in this image, against the communist dictator Castro. This is a brilliant way to use their history to their advantage and to create an interest around their origins. They ad copy is also well thought out and very witty, which helps to complete this as a light hearted and humourous take on what was probably a lot more complicated past.

Absolut

What better way to end than with a healthy dose of Absolut? This is just one of their wide range of “In an Absolut world” ads and it perfectly sums up the idea behind them all. In an Absolut world, things are pretty much like they would be in a perfect world, because of course Absolut is perfection. The ads work well with the ad copy and don’t take away from the brand, despite not really being associated with drinking.

The post 25 of the best spirits ads in the world appeared first on GreatDrams.

from GreatDrams http://ift.tt/2rjZ0Jy Greg

#whisky #GreatDrams

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cryptoriawebb · 7 years

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Dead Men Tell No Tales: review

What the hell, gotta start somewhere.

When I first heard about this movie, I initially wrote it off. The Pirates of the Caribbean franchise has been around for so long and unlike, say, the Marvel Cinematic Universe or even the X-men films (of which I am personally partial to) they haven’t made any particular, long-standing mark, beyond Jack Sparrow as a character himself. That, and I wasn’t particularly impressed with On Stranger Tides. The story, I felt at the time, had wrapped up enough there needn’t be any further sequels, and standalone films (because that is what it felt like) seemed like nothing more than an excuse to keep pumping merchandise and Depp working in Hollywood.

However. I admit I have not seen On Stranger Tides since its release in 2011. I’m thinking I may go back and rewatch the entire saga, see if my overall opinion changes. I quite liked the first film, particularly the horrific angles and that it drew primary inspiration from a theme park attraction. When I heard this fifth installment was supposed to echo the first one in tone and supernatural involvement, I began to change my mind about writing it off. Then I saw the most recent trailer, a trailer that not only included Orlando Bloom, whom I assumed, along with Keira Knightly, left the franchise to pursue other opportunities, but Will and Elizabeth’s son. I admit, I’m a sucker for family relationship and tragic stories, and while yes, I would have been fine with leaving things At World’s End, a small part of me has always wondered what happened to the Turners after. Truthfully, I think I might have preferred a film focusing more on Bloom and less on Jack Sparrow; Jack’s…a unique eccentric, but as I said, I’m a sucker for tragedy.

Before I go any further I’d like to point out I tend to be anal about continuity. However many years apart these films are (any franchise, actually) they’re all telling one long story and things ought to flow as smoothly as possible. So I was a little confused, watching young Henry’s interaction with his father. If I remember correctly, Will could only return to land once every ten years, and the third film ended with the Dutchman sailing towards them. I may be wrong about that last part but I know for sure there was a ten year waiting period before reunion. So was this the first meeting between father and son? It didn’t seem that way, but the dialogue between them felt so melodramatic I couldn’t tell for sure. I’d like to think maybe it wasn’t, maybe Henry spent some months after meeting his father for the first time studying the Dutchman and mythology so he could find him at sea. Maybe along the lines of ‘finally meeting your father, seeing how much he cared for his family and how painful it was to say goodbye’ or something.

I blame the script more on Bloom’s delivery than the words themselves. I mean, they weren’t…the most original, reminded me of a soap opera, really, but there just didn’t seem to be any spark from Bloom, little or no energy. I don’t know if that was intentional or not but it kind of dampened what could have been a really dramatic moment. Ten years spent cursed among the dead…separated from your family against your will, that’s a lot to work with. I will say the boy who played Henry did a decent job capturing that urgent determination. I only wish it were reciprocated…

I’m not going to lie, part of me hoped, purely from a story perspective, Elizabeth had died. I think it might have added a little more to Henry’s character in adulthood; at the same time, I really did want to see the family reunited and I wasn’t expecting Knightly to appear, which might be why I informed my initial opinion. Off-screen mentions without appearance weakens a character’s intensity.

Honestly, I don’t have as much to say, scene-by-scene. Much of the film ran as most of in this franchise do: ludicrous schemes by Jack and his crew, chases and impromptu/chaotic character introductions, Barbossa’s sudden appearance, even the eerie sorcerous-types. Don’t get me wrong, the story itself contained elements I didn’t see coming; I’m referring to the overall method of delivery—the journey itself as opposed to the stops along the way.

I do want to mention Salazar before I forget. His opening scene was fantastic and probably my favorite moment in the film. It was, and such a tease. I’d hoped by the way he looked and carried himself I was in for a really dark, horrific ride. Instead, that promise fell a bit flat in favor of quirky inflection and sexual innuendo. I will give the movie points for blending both the dark and humor well together: I’ve seen a few movies over the last couple of years fail spectacularly in this regard. And I also admit my inclinations for the spooky really are more personal preference than anything implied by promotion. It has been a few years since I’ve seen the first movie; it may not be quite as dark or scary as I remember, older as I am now.

Back to Salazar…he was by far my favorite part of the film. Yes, I have seen a lot of villains driven half-mad by revenge, but he held a kind of captivating power about him when on-screen. I couldn’t look away. Normally I’m not the biggest fan of computer-generated effects over the practical but it worked really well for Salazar and his crew. His face, his hair…when he first introduced himself as death I genuinely thought he might be. I would certainly by Death having a vendetta against Jack. He escaped…twice now? Technically? Although not without help, if I’m remembering correctly. Going back to effects, I was absolutely fascinated by he and his crew: you could tell even before the backstory they walked exactly as they died—his hair mimicking the water he drowned in I didn’t catch until the flashback but damn…such a cool effect. I do also want to point out what practical effects there were though. Salazar’s mouth—really all their mouths. I watched a bonus feature included in the first film some years ago that went in detail about applying ‘pirate teeth’ to the actors. I’m sure methods have changed over the years, but it’s no less interesting. Oh, and the black blood, or whatever it was…that was truly horrifying. I loved it. Salazar was by far my favorite character in this film and in my opinion, its one notable highlight.

Praise aside, I’m not sure introducing a new villain in the ‘final’ film was the best decision. It hurts me to say it because again, I loved Salazar, but I really think bringing someone back, someone the audience saw perish on one of Jack’s adventures, someone who blamed him or perhaps actively pursued and failed to capture/stop/kill him, might have added emotional weight. I had read there was speculation regarding Norrington’s return; I personally would have preferred this. He really came into his own as a character and serves as a prime example of what getting involved with Jack Sparrow can do. To see him undead and commanding a power he never possessed in life would have been so…I don’t want to say horrifying again but it would have. Especially a reunion with Barbossa!

Don’t get me wrong, I do think there is importance and significance in delving into Jack’s past. We see a lot of who Jack is and hear of what he’s done but we never see who he was and what made him the way he is. Though Jack isn’t my favorite character I know he’s the heart of this franchise and he deserves development, too. He’s constantly called ‘the worst pirate [I’ve] ever heard of.’ And that’s true, he really isn’t a good pirate…but he carries with him the essence of someone who once was. He still sees himself as this great, untouchable captain and I bet that’s why he’s stepped in so many times and prevented a lot of awful things from happening. That, and I’m sure some part of him cares about the people he’s with (which in hindsight may be why some people see him as a poor excuse for a pirate.) I don’t know…this isn’t meant to be a character study. Just some things to think about.

While not entirely necessary I did find it cool, seeing how Jack achieved much of his iconic attire. And where the compass came from…although I can’t for the life of me remember why it’s tied to the Devil’s Triangle. I really should have rewatched the other movies beforehand.

As far as the other new characters, I was pleasantly impressed. I worried I’d see copies of Will and Elizabeth in Henry and Carina; while there were small nods here and there both stood out as individuals, Carina especially. I was afraid she’d follow the same trend several female protagonists seem to suffer from lately; namely, a staple for female empowerment and nothing more. Thankfully, she wasn’t. Yes, she was strong-willed and stubborn but so is most everyone in this franchise and those traits are not at all signs of surefire propaganda. Adding astronomy/horology to her character also helped her stand out; I haven’t seen a character in the PotC world yet really touch on it, and it’s such a fascinating concept, at least to me, in historical fiction. Before the world of google and apple maps, there were stars. And people who could read them as easily as Siri can our phones fascinate me.

Loved her banter with Henry, too. It was cute, playful but not without that stubbornness on both ends. I’m usually adverse to the whole ‘love interest’ subplot; there’s hardly enough time in movies and during ones that move ahead, rarely any chemistry. I didn’t mind these two, even though I expected it. I think that lively, friendly spirit between them helped: they felt a lot more like equals than a lot of other romances I’ve seen on-screen lately. Speaking of the on-screen experience, I did not at all expect her to be Barbossa’s daughter. I’ve seen enough movies now I can usually predict most twist and turns; I didn’t at all see this coming. That was a pleasant surprise, especially when so much else about this film carried an almost fatigued familiarity. I did enjoy it, and I would probably go see it again, if only to see if there’s more to pick up, but it never once heightened the stakes beyond what this series has come to be known for. That, in my opinion, was probably the greatest tragedy.

Going back to the characters, because I’ve still more to say, I’m repeatedly amazed how Barbossa’s character continues to develop. In my personal opinion, he stands out the most because of it. Looking back on where he came from in the first film to now…there’s a real, honest heart and realness to him—you really feel what he feels and I was genuinely saddened by his death. I know someone had to die—someone usually does in ‘final’ chapters but I really wish it hadn’t been Barbossa. I think some of this is definitely attributed to Geoffrey Rush, but some of it, too, to the script and direction. When he learned the truth about Carina, you could really see and feel what he felt; this continued in every scene following her but didn’t disrupt the pirate he was. Rather, I think it allowed another side only previously glimpsed to come out. Not just in previous films, but this one, too. I find it really interesting, and maybe clever, now, that he’s introduced as this lavish, temperamental ruler of the high seas. One might get the implication he’s become shallow, callous and full of himself, but this begins to change as his men begin to die and you discover more has changed than first assumed.

I really do wish Jack had been given an arc like Barbossa. Maybe not a surprise child, but something that drew more from him than his eccentricities. Although…one might argue the drunk, down on his luck pirate is development in of himself. We’ve seen Jack at his high points, but he isn’t where he was anymore and I wonder if the alcohol and insistence on tribute and whatnot are an attempt to cling to that greatness he once held…I digress. I would have liked to see more. Especially if this is the final installment. Jack is back on top again, but I’m not…entirely sure he earned it? If that makes any sense. He felt a lot more like a passenger in this film, an observer as opposed to an active participant. Strange, given the villain’s primary motives. In that regard, it is interesting when comparing him to Barbossa. At the start of the first film, they were in opposite positions. I mean Jack didn’t rule the high seas but he carried himself with an air that implied he believed it.

That sums up most of what I had to say. There are a few loose ends, however:

1) Why did no one age? Hollywood has this bizarre notion we can just pretend however many years have passed despite no one except the young characters aging. I don’t buy it, and I don’t like it. Barbossa was the only one I felt who looked older, but only just. I would have liked to see Jack with a bit of gray in his hair, or Elizabeth with a few more lines. I’m fine with Will not aging, it makes sense for his character and it’s kind of interesting to think about: he’s spent so long aboard that ship, so long trapped in his cursed state while his son’s grown up…and for Will, physically, it’s like almost no time has passed at all.

2) I’m glad Gibbs is back. He’s always been my favorite member of Jack’s crew. I did, however, miss those two goofy pirates. I forget their names, but one of them had a glass/wooden eye. They were always such fun characters and I can’t for the life of me remember what happened to them at the end of the last film (third film?)

3) Paul McCartney! Didn’t recognize him until afterwards. I enjoyed the exchange, but I admit, that little scene confused me; I wondered if Uncle Jack had been mentioned or seen before. Now I understand.

4) Did Barbossa know about the triton the whole time? Did he really believe it and study the location? I can’t remember.

5) That possession scene was not nearly as freaky as it could have been. Salazar seemed so assured the Triton would fix everything it kind of killed its encompassing awe. There should have been more emotional weight and it should have lasted longer. I think that would have helped heighten the stakes. Everything in this movie was ‘a little of this, a little of that.’ Sampling but never having a full dish to yourself.

6) I would have loved to see Poseidon. He’s one of my favorite Greek gods...although I doubt he’d actually look remotely Greek, but that’s another personal thing. I’m wondering if we’ll see him in a later film, now that his triton’s been destroyed. Or maybe he and the other gods have long since vanished—it kind of seems that way, with Calypso being a remaining oddity. Maybe the triton is a lone remaining artifact. Although I’m still surprised there wasn’t more protecting it. I can appreciate a different angle, although I think it hurt any direness the climax might have held.

7) Speaking of the gods, do their curses remain in place, with the triton broken? That was never made clear…I hope so. I love the mythos of the sea and if this isn’t the last movie I’d like to see it brought back in some way. It’s always (well, once I got over my crush on Jack) been my biggest draw.

8) What happened to Bootstrap Bill? Did he not board land with Will at the end of the film? Are we to assume he did even though we didn’t see it? Given the parallels between generations of fathers and sons, I’d hoped we’d see something more of him.

9) Speaking of Will’s return, I did tear up a little but I felt Bloom’s acting fell flat, again. I really hope that’s just me though. I loved Will’s character arc and if there is another film I hope it follows the buzz I’ve heard so far: focusing on him and his son. Provided Orlando’s up for it, of course. I don’t want to sit through two and a half something hours of him half-assing it.

10) Didn’t expect Keira’s cameo either. That was really touching.

11) Davy Jones????? Is he back? Wikipedia (yes, Wikipedia) said the Triton freed him from Calypso. I’m wondering if that means curses set upon by gods remain unaffected by the triton. It would explain that slimy, tentacle-silhouette. But if he has returned, then why? How? Is he the last cursed creature of the sea? What does he have against Will, now? And will there be another movie?

12) Less a critique and more personal wishlist: I wanted more skeleton pirates. I don’t know how or why, but I wanted them. Really bring everything full circle although I have no idea how you’d bring it back. Maybe Salazar succeeds in ‘killing’ Jack or something but the Triton’s power gets in the way? I have no idea. That final battle in the first film was so memorable I really wanted to see something similar. I also wanted to see the Dutchman in action. The sea was literally parted, how cool would it be to see that ship swimming alongside one wall?

I really need to rewatch these movies. So many unanswered questions! I can’t believe I’m getting excited about PotC again…never thought that would happen in a million years.

#pirates of the caribbean #dead men tell no tales review #jack sparrow #will turner #henry turner #hector barbossa #carina barbossa #armando salazar #returnedtothecrypt

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magnificentophidian · 7 years

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What’s In a Name? Character Design and Samurai Jack: Scaramouche (Villain)

So with the newest episode of Samurai Jack out, I feel like there needs to be something that has to be addressed: The character design is absolutely impeccable. Samurai Jack to me always picks up archetypes and the like and portrays them with such colorfulness that it’s hard not to be entranced by hero or villain. Because it’s a new season and a new villain, we ought to take a look at this guy:

How good a design/villain is he? I think he’s absolutely fantastic, and not because of his actual character, but everything that goes into him. His influences create this character and it is utterly fantastic because his name is Scaramouche and he lives up to that name. This is the proper way to use your influences while designing your own character that has a recognizable name they need to live up to.

Analysis under Read More

Tl;dr Scaramouche is a fast talking, boastful swordsman who the moment things go south for him wants to run away and tries to run...and it fits his character down to a T.

Scaramouche is a name more synonymous today with the swashbuckler character, popularized by author Rafael Sabatini in the 1920′s, whose protagonist was an actor who played as Scaramouche.

So who is Scaramouche in history? A meme. Honest to goodness, he is a stock character from the 1500′s for the “commedia” theater, and he is the boastful and cowardly one who gets beaten by the jester for his incompetence. This image changed in the 20th century thanks to Sabatini so Scaramouche went from coward to expert swordsman.

So this Samurai Jack villain, named Scaramouche, is a funny, boastful, egotistical swordsman who claims to be Aku’s favorite assassin (because to say otherwise would be insulting to himself) who falls to pieces the moment he’s outmatched. His weaponry include him using a tuning fork, a pipe (ala the pied piper as he unabashedly admits to be) and singing, which were all a part of theatre.

However, his method of singing? Scat singing. It’s a style of singing that makes you use syllables to mimic words but instead you create a rhythm, a beat, and is used with humorous intent. When was scat singing popularized? By Ella Fitzgerald in the 1920′s, the same time period as Sabatini’s literary work.

And why scat singing? Because that way, Scaramouche can literally shit talk Jack.

All of Scaramouche ties his character traits and design, and really the only outlandish factors about him are the fact that he’s a robot, that he’s got a kasa, his music makes the rubble come to life and he has a pied piper tie.

The robot and the kasa is because this is Samurai Jack, the kasa is a throwback to the samurai vs samurai idea, pretty simple, and him being a robot means Jack can do whatever he wants to him without traumatizing the audience much.

However you can argue that the Pied Piper bit doesn’t belong, and well...that’s wrong. The Pied Piper comes from the same time period as Scaramouche, and this is a fellow who wore a super bright and colorful outfit along with being a gifted musician. However, what’s often overlooked is that the Pied Piper of Hamelin was ultimately an “evil” force. He got the rats out of Hamelin, playing his pipes, but he was told by the mayor he would not be paid for it. So the Pied Piper played his pipes and took all the children of Hamelin to the mountains, where they were never seen again and it is strongly implied he killed them all.

So even the Pied Piper ties into the ultimately twisted nature of Scaramouche the assassin, who killed an entire town to get Jack’s attention and stayed there hoping that Jack would come by so he can finish the samurai off. As for his line the Pied Piper of Destruction? He can only animate destroyed buildings and the like. The how here doesn’t matter, the why overrides rational thought and goes straight into suspension of disbelief because this is a character who you understand why they do what they do from their design and even their name if you find it somewhat recognizable.

I think what Samurai Jack has always done amazingly well is create characters based on simple premises and names and archetypes, and then push it to the point where it becomes something new, something enjoyable and something understandable both surface level and in depth.

I’m really looking forward to more episodes from this season of SAMURAI JACK.

Sources

Mazzone-Clementi, Carlo. “Commedia and the Actor.” The Drama Review: TDR, vol. 18, no. 1, 1974, pp. 59–64., www.jstor.org/stable/1144862.

Robinson, J. Bradford. "Scat Singing". In Macy, L. New Grove Dictionary of Music Online.

“The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” The Aldine, vol. 4, no. 6, 1871, pp. 90–91., www.jstor.org/stable/20636049.

#Samurai Jack #Scaramouche #Character Analysis

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oumakokichi · 7 years

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Hi! I've got another question for you! Writing genuinely intelligent characters is much more difficult than simply having a character seem 'smart' by making everyone else thicker in comparison. So in your opinion, are there any characters in DR (or just NDRV3) that are really, truly intelligent and smart?

Now this is a fun question to consider! I totally get whatyou mean—there’s definitely “smart” characters, but their intelligence ispretty much either explained or handwaved away as a literal super power,because it’s a given of their SHSL talent or an absolute necessity for the plotto progress. Junko, Kamukura, even Kirigiri to some degree by virtue of beingthe detective and having to explain things to everyone because they would allliterally die without her or Naegi hand-feeding them information, they all fitinto this category.

So thinking in terms of DR characters who are very smart butalso don’t quite cross this line into “inhuman superpower” is actually reallyfun! I’ll just try and list a few…

I’m not even sure if Ouma counts here or not, but I’minclined to say yes. His perception and analytical skills are, as far as weknow, entirely unrelated to his SHSL talent. Being a SHSL Supreme Leader orbeing SHSL Despair doesn’t automatically guarantee super analytical powers likeJunko’s or Kamukura’s, and he’s neither a detective nor a protagonist, so he’snot required to have these abilities for exposition purposes. He’s smart to thepoint where he’s actually a liability,stealing the “gameboard” away from Tsumugi for all intents and purposes. Heviews things in terms of a chess match and is very quick on his feet inrevising his plans as soon as something unexpected happens.

Interestingly enough, I also really want to count…well, Miu.She lacks common sense and intelligence in the way most people would consider(she had to look up the definition of the word “alibi” after the first trialbecause Ouma told her to), but she’s extremely smart in terms of her area ofexpertise, and she knows how to plan.I still vouch that her plan to kill Ouma was one of the best murder schemes inany DR game, and she would’ve gotten away with it had she been dealing with anyone else in the ndrv3 cast exceptmaybe Tsumugi.

I haven’t talked about Kirumi a lot either, but I want toinclude her, because speaking of talents that wouldn’t necessarily require asuperpowered level of intelligence or analytical prowess, the twist with a maidactually being “the shadow prime minister of Japan” was both hilariously animeand also really, really fun. Her methodical planning and ability to coveralmost all her bases was astounding, and what’s more, she knew exactly how tomanipulate people. Like Celes, sherelies on a very calculated façade of refinement and elegance, and unlikeCeles, she’s much better at keeping her composure when pushed. She even relieson extreme tactics of emotional manipulation when pushed into a corner, sayingthings like “do you not understand that this is in everyone’s best interests?”and that’s devious and cunning and very, very smart of her.

If we’re talking sdr2, I actually would like to count theSHSL Imposter. Impersonating other people might be his talent, but the factthat he relies primarily on personality traits, quirks, and inside knowledgeand has to keep up the act literally the entire time to the point where he’salmost never lived his own life is extremely interesting. In order to be animposter, you have to be a sort of “jack of all trades, master of none,” but hecan still imitate and display a number of talents so well that he almost countsas a master of them all nonetheless. Rather than being literally given everytalent like Kamukura, it’s more because he practices them through hard work andstudy. He’s a very impressive, very underrated character.

I am…going to include Komaeda as well. One could make a casethat Komaeda is so smart as a result of “good luck,” but the fact of the matteris that Komaeda’s ability to plan is something that seems rather inherent tohim, rather than any kind of superpower. His luck is already so much of a deusex machina that his intelligence doesn’t have to be superpowered—he’s justreally, naturally smart, and knows how to manipulate situations to his liking.Whatever he doesn’t plan for, he knows his luck will take care of in his stead.He’s exactly the sort of character I would say is not exactly a genius, but isvery, very smart.

From our original dr1 cast, Togami fits this category prettywell for many of the same reasons. He was bred to be “the perfect heir,” buthis eye for detail and ability to reformulate and plan in the worst casescenario isn’t something that teeters on the edge of inhuman superpowers. He’sstill fallible, he still makes mistakes—bigmistakes, in fact, because so much of dr1 is spent with him completelydismissing any words that are based on emotion, rather than cold, hard logic.But his ability to learn from his mistakes after realizing the extent to whichhe nearly messed up in dr1 Chapter 4 and his efforts to not repeat that mistaketo the same degree prove that he really can learn, and is therefore reallyintelligent.

Dr3 might not have left us with the most memorable cast perse, and the ending might not have been to my liking, but I will say that I haveto give Ruruka her credit where credit is due. She was little more than amidboss in the grand scheme of things, and she definitely made huge errors orpushed her act way too far, but she was incredibly devious, and rather thanhaving everyone around her appear more stupid in order to make herself looksmarter, she operated mostly by pretending to be very helpless and weak untilshowing her fangs. She wasn’t afraid to literally up and steal other people’screations or ideas and use them as her own, and was just all around pretty damnsmart (with a few big missteps along the way).

EDIT: On another dr3 note, I want to add Kizakura (I can’t believe I forgot him). He was smart enough to fly under most people’s radar, had a knack for knowing which people were suspicious or sketchy instantly, and could actually remember not to open his left hand for almost the entirety of the game (I’d have been dead in like five minutes if I’d had the same NG code). The guy was super smart and perceptive, and he would’ve made it all the way to the end if it hadn’t been for his feelings for Jin and the fact that he genuinely cared about Kirigiri.

There’s plenty of other characters who are smart, or atleast definitely not unintelligent, but these are just a few of the ones thatreally stand out, in my opinion! And again, characters like Kirigiri or Junkoor Kamukura are undeniably intelligent, but their abilities are all much closerto the definition you gave about everyone else having to be knocked down a fewpegs and intentionally portrayed as much denser than they would be otherwise inorder to shine.

This was really fun to write! Thank you so much for alwayssending really interesting questions!

#ask #opinions #ndrv3 spoilers //#i love kirigiri so much and she's my second favorite character in all of dr #but it's very true that she does become a kind of 'word of god mouthpiece' sometimes #really though this is a fun question to consider #ne0dym #okay to reblog

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