#and british but in a good way. british anarchists get a pass from me for real
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not to be entranced w mainstream media . but like. spiderpunk is so fucking cool
#he reminds me of some of my high school buddies that i wanted to be like so bad lmao...#EXTREMELY cool#and british but in a good way. british anarchists get a pass from me for real#and we could go back n forth all day about if capitalist mainstream depictions of anarchists can actually be punk#but it straight up doesn't matter because the cool factor is off the charts#they did him severe justice
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When the means are good, but the ends kinda suck
Back when I was younger I was really desperate to find a personality. Specifically, I wanted to find my personailty in music. I initially tried to find this in punk (and perhaps if I didn't, I wouldn't have started this blog) but I will be completely honest; I didn't choose the best introduction to the genre.
I found The Sex Pistols through the Wikipedia page for punk. I figured; "Wikipedia should be able to help me find a good punk band to get into the genre" and I certainly thought I did. I learned about the stories, their antics, I saw their fashion, listened to their songs, read the radical lyrics and thought; "Wow, these guys are crazy! So this is punk, huh? What a cool genre!"
A particular stand-out had always been “Anarchy in the UK” which in many ways was my introduction to the concept of anarchism. Admittedly, it might not have given the most accurate depiction of anarchy. After all, most anarcho-communists would prefer to give food to the homeless guy passing by rather than destroy him. However, there was such an exhilarating appeal to the song. From his frantic pubescent-sounding screams and squeals to the guitar grinding away like it’s never been played. It captured the spirit of a revolt of the disenfranchised, the spirit that ultimately lies at the heart of every anarchist movement, no matter how it might try to achieve this. It felt like a song truly written by, and for the kids who felt like society didn’t give the slightest fuck about them. It felt punk.
Turns out they were only punk on the surface. Granted, this is what a lot of early punk was (at the least the well-known bands). They generally didn't care much about actually achieving anarchy. Hell, they barely even knew what anarchism was. They were just a bunch of art school drop-outs, closeted conservatives, trying to be edgy by appropriating what the public eye perceived to be the ideology of pure chaos. Ignoring the O around the A, they had not heard of a single anarchist theory in their life.
With that being said, maybe I should be the one to introduce some theory then. Specifically, I would like to introduce the Italian revolutionary Errico Malatesta. Malatesta believed that in order to achieve a goal, one should not use means that contradict the ends. In other words, if you want to achieve a society without hierarchy, you should not use any hierarchical means to achieve it. This is a common theme in the anarchist critique of authoritarian forms of communism as they attempt to achieve a state-less, class-less, money-less society through creating a stronger state, new oppressive social classes, and only making some people money-less whilst giving it to the ones who already have it.
However, The Sex Pistols seem to contradict their means in a different way to all the Stalins, Pol Pots and Maos of history. In fact, their means are quite good. They challenge the status quo, they share empowering revolutionary messages, they express freedom through their fashion, and it certainly wouldn't be a stretch to say that their song 'Anarchy in the UK' inspired later bands like Crass, Against Me! or The Dead Kennedies to share their genuinely radical views.
However, their ends did not go much further than your average boy-band. They just wanted some attention, make some cash (especially for the manager who formed their band in the first place), but who can blame them within this capitalist system? We all need money after all!
Though that might be true, we don't need people posturing as radicals while being quite conservative behind the curtains. This was already true back in the day, but recently it's become increasingly apparant that their main vocalist Johnny Rotten is nothing but a giant hypocrite.
From his support for aspiring authoritarians, and his blaming of immigrants for the splits in British society, he is clearly far-gone from the anti-nationalist facts-spitter that he seemed to be in the mid-70's. 'Turns out, 'no future' has gone from an expression of solidarity with the nihilistic youth of his time to an expression of hope that nothing will ever improve.
Despite this, one cannot ignore the influence that The Sex Pistols had on the real anarchists that emerged from the punk scene. Though the Pistols might not have understood what the word means "Anarchy in The UK'' was still many people's introduction to the concept of anarchism. In fact, the anti-christian, anti-nationalist, liberatory themes of this song had been further elaborated on by the later anarcho-punk movement. In this sense, The Sex Pistols further prove Malatesta's theory as even their shitty ends were not enough to prevent society from taking one step forward towards emancipation.
Link to song:
youtube
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Men, like nations, think they’re eternal. What man in his 20s or 30s doesn’t believe, at least subconsciously, that he’ll live forever? In the springtime of youth, an endless summer beckons. As you pass 70, it’s harder to hide from reality.
Nations also have seasons: Imagine a Roman of the 2nd century contemplating an empire that stretched from Britain to the Near East, thinking: This will endure forever.
Forever was about 500 years, give or take.
France was pivotal in the 17th and 18th centuries; now the land of Charles Martel is on its way to becoming part of the Muslim ummah.
In the 19th and early 20th centuries, the sun never set on the British empire; now Albion exists in perpetual twilight. Its 95-year-old sovereign is a fitting symbol for a nation in terminal decline.
In the 1980s, Japan seemed poised to buy the world. Business schools taught Japanese management techniques. Today, its birth rate is so low and its population aging so rapidly that an industry has sprung up to remove the remains of elderly Japanese who die alone.
I was born in 1942, almost at the midpoint of the 20th century – the American century. America’s prestige and influence were never greater. Thanks to the ‘Greatest Generation,’ we won a World War fought throughout most of Europe, Asia, and the Pacific. We reduced Germany to rubble and put the rising sun to bed. It set the stage for almost half a century of unprecedented prosperity.
We stopped the spread of communism in Europe and Asia and fought international terrorism.
We rebuilt our enemies and lavished foreign aid on much of the world.
We built skyscrapers and rockets to the moon.
We conquered Polio and now COVID.
We explored the mysteries of the Universe and the wonders of DNA…the blueprint of life.
But where is the glory that once was Rome? America has moved from a relatively free economy to socialism – which has worked so well NOWHERE in the world.
We’ve gone from a republican government guided by a constitution to a regime of revolving elites. We have less freedom with each passing year.
Like a signpost to the coming reign of terror, the cancel culture is everywhere. We’ve traded the American Revolution for the Cultural Revolution.
The pathetic creature in the White House is an empty vessel filled by his handlers. At the G-7 Summit, ‘Dr. Jill’ had to lead him like a child. In 1961, when we were young and vigorous, our leader was too. Now a feeble nation is technically led by the oldest man to ever serve in the presidency.
We can’t defend our borders, our history (including monuments to past greatness), or our streets.
Our cities have become anarchist playgrounds. We are a nation of dependents, mendicants, and misplaced charity. Homeless veterans camp in the streets while illegal aliens are put up in hotels.
The president of the United States can’t even quote the beginning of the Declaration of Independence (‘You know — The Thing’) correctly.
Ivy League graduates routinely fail history tests that 5th graders could pass a generation ago.
Crime rates soar and we blame the 2nd Amendment and slash police budgets.
Our culture is certifiably insane. Men who think they’re women. People who fight racism by seeking to convince members of one race that they’re inherently evil, and others that they are perpetual victims. A psychiatrist lecturing at Yale said she fantasizes about ‘unloading a revolver into the head of any white person.’
We slaughter the unborn in the name of freedom, while our birth rate dips lower year by year.
Our national debt is so high that we can no longer even pretend that we will repay it one day. It’s a $28-trillion monument to our improvidence and refusal to confront reality.
Our ‘entertainment’ is sadistic, nihilistic, and as enduring as a candy bar wrapper thrown in the trash.
Our music is noise that spans the spectrum from annoying to repulsive.
Patriotism is called insurrection, treason celebrated, and perversion sanctified.
A man in blue gets less respect than a man in a dress.
We’re asking soldiers to fight for a nation our leaders no longer believe in.
How meekly most of us submitted to Fauci-ism (the regime of face masks, lockdowns, and hand sanitizers) shows the impending death of the American spirit.
How do nations slip from greatness to obscurity?
• Fighting endless wars they can’t or won’t win
• Accumulating massive debt far beyond their ability to repay
• Refusing to guard their borders, allowing the nation to be inundated by an alien horde
• Surrendering control of their cities to mob rule
• Allowing indoctrination of the young
• Moving from a republican form of government to an oligarchy
• Losing national identity
• Indulging indolence
• Abandoning faith and family – the bulwarks of social order.
In America, every one of these symptoms is pronounced, indicating an advanced stage of the disease.
Even if the cause seems hopeless, do we not have an obligation to those who sacrificed so much to give us what we had?
I’m surrounded by ghosts urging me on:
• the Union soldiers who held Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg,
• the battered bastards of Bastogne,
• those who served in the cold hell of Korea,
• the guys who went to the jungles of Southeast Asia and came home to be reviled or neglected.
This is the nation that took in my immigrant grandparents, whose uniform my father and most of my uncles wore in the Second World War.
I don’t want to imagine a world without America, even though it becomes increasingly likely.
During Britain’s darkest hour, when its professional army was trapped at Dunkirk and a German invasion seemed imminent, Churchill reminded his countrymen, ‘Nations that go down fighting rise again, and those that surrender tamely are finished.’
The same might be said of causes. If we let America slip through our fingers, if we lose without a fight, what will posterity say of us?
While the prognosis is far from good, only God knows if America’s day in the sun is over.
~~~
from an uncredited Facebook page ||Author unknown
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From the Ashes We are Born (Part 5)
a/n: take fucking two of posting this bc tumblr likes to fuck me over djdjjdjd. something that always bothered me with evey is the fact she left V?? I get not wanting to be stuck with a stranger for an entire year but you were the one who maced the cop. you decided to do it not v. he did not ask u to. now v torturing her there's not rlly a jusitifed excuse even though i can see why but it's still not justified either way. anyways as always enjoy.
Summary: V is away tending to his daily anarchist duties, which leaves you facing the wake of a treacherous thunder storm alone! Fluff ensues.
a/n 2: oh my god. i finally got the fucking gifs to work. had to navigate back and forth i stg I'm gonna dethrone the Tumblr god.
The music from your phone played throughout the deafening silence of the gallery. The infamously known masked criminal had left the gallery to commit his “righteous duties”. That’s how your friend, V, put it anyways. London was weeping over its people, at least, that’s what V had said once he heard the rain slapping the roof. Why can’t he just say it’s pouring, you thought to yourself as V fluttered about the house. “Dramatic as always V,” you snickered as you stood there watching him preparing to leave. You had been staying in the Shadow Gallery for a few months now. You weren’t very stoked to having to stay here for a year, but you had to. After all, you had sealed your fate after macing that cop. Even though you were upset about having to be stuck here away from your paints and gaming consoles, you understood. It was your decision to save him, he hadn’t asked you too.
V’s underground home was deadly quiet as he got ready. The playful aura and laughter was now gone. It felt lonely and cold, something you guessed V had felt before you arrived. “Hey V,” you asked, fidgeting with the flowy skirt you wore. “Yes?” The man in question picked up his notorious black hat and put it on top of his head. He smoothed his hair and turned to you after looking in the mirror once more. “C-can I,” you started, cheeks flushing a bright pink, “Can I have a hug?” You felt awkward as you stood there playing with your skirt. V didn’t say anything as he stared at you. The smiling mask was unsettling to look at with the awkward air and embarrassment you felt. “Y-y'know what, forget I asked,” you stammered, starting to turn before throwing a “good luck and goodbye” kinda thing. You heard him sigh. V wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close to his chest. The scent of lemon and the smell of pine made you hum. Your arms snaked around his middle as you stood there, together in front of the T.V. You were thankful V couldn’t see your beet red face. His mask rested atop your head and you shivered at the rumble of his chest as he spoke. “Forgive me, I was taken aback is all.” You pulled away a bit looking at the eyes of his mask. “It’s alright, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” “Nonsense my dear, you have yet to do so.” Oh we definitely have a crush. You pulled away giving him a smile. “Be safe okay V? I mean it. If you come home almost dead on the porch again, so help me, your bullet wounds won’t be the thing killing you.” V laughed, the sound of it making your heart giddy. “Of course, mademoiselle.” The tension between the two you was thick, neither of you breaking eye contact. Feeling bold, you grasped V’s shoulder with your hand and stood on your tippy toes. “D-dove-,” he started. You interrupted him, though. Your soft lips placed themselves on the cheek of his mask. “A good luck charm,” you said softly as you pulled away. Giving V’s shoulder one last squeeze, you let him go. “I shall return soon,” V said as he left. You scolded him again about being reckless, and to be safe . Your heart sank as V’s echoing footsteps faded away leaving you standing alone and cold.
“ I love you baby , and if it’s quite alright I need you baby,” you sang as you grabbed the acrylic paint V had gotten for you. The clock read 1:54 on the wall while the rain continued to pour outside into the night. V had yet to return from doing god knows what in the streets. The smears of white and red paint were splattered across your arms and thighs. The scent of paint and V’s musky smell mixed together as you painted. Your arms and body tingled from the warm embrace he had given you. Thoughts of V took over as your paint brush made graceful strokes on the canvas. Did he even like you back? “As if,” you huffed. “He’s a man with taste.” But what about the pet names? And the flowers! He brings us flowers once he comes back. “He’s british, being called love and darling is something normal here. The flowers don’t mean anything. It’s not like an obvious red rose or anything,” you told yourself. Stop daydreaming and just accept the fact that V doesn’t like you like in that way.
4:33 . “Where the hell is he,” you muttered. The rain continued to pour outside. Your canvas was set drying on the table and you flipped through your phone to entertain yourself. Thank god for a VPN. You laughed at a funny meme as you scrolled through your feed. The lights flickered. You sucked in a breath and waited. CRASH! You jumped at the loud bang of thunder. Trying to calm yourself down, you continued to scroll through Twitter. The anxiety in your stomach wouldn’t stop eating away. V was out there in this godforsaken storm. What if he got hurt? What if he died? “Stop,” you told yourself sternly. “He’ll be fine.”
Pop! Darkness embraced you as you sat there. The lights are out. Your breaths became shallow; the dim white light of your phone providing some kind of light source. “Calm down,” you whispered. “We’re gonna be fine.” Turning on your phone’s flashlight and using it as a torch, you crept to the bedroom. Loud crashes and noises made your hair stand up on end. Loud noises meant trouble. Loud noises meant a tantrum from your dad had started or something was here, waiting . Silence meant peace. Silence meant safety.
There was some sense of relief as you made it to the room and closed the door. Diving under the blankets, you whimpered as lightning struck. You curled into yourself and laid there. Hoping that the storm would pass, or V would come home. His scent on the sheets was the only solace you had. He will come home, eventually. You wished for V’s arms to hold and comfort you like the very few times he did before. Usually after a panic attack or when you were at the lowest of your lows. You wanted him to finish reading Lord of the Rings to you and help lull you to sleep. But V wasn’t here. V wasn’t going to hold you, or read you to sleep. He was out saving the country he so loved from it’s awful dictator. You’re weak. V wouldn’t want someone weak. He wants someone brave, and courageous. Someone who’s willing to die for what they love.
A sob bubbled up in your throat and tears threatened to escape from your eyes. You couldn’t breathe; you felt suffocated under the sheets, but if you moved you’d be open, vulnerable. Vulnerability is a weakness, being sad and scared is a weakness. How disgusting you must have looked. Hiding like a small child from the scary monster in their closet. How disgusted would V be if he found you here, under his sheets that were now wet with tears. We need to calm down. We need to stop crying. How pathetic we must look right now. He should’ve left you in that station to die. You deserve to die, you deserve to- .
“Love?” V’s voice broke your thoughts. He sounded so soft and gentle. You cursed at yourself for not noticing the door opening. Now he was going to see how pathetic you really were. V’s black boots slid across the floor when he made way into the room.You felt the bed dip beside you as you laid there. Your breath caught in your throat as you laid there silently under the sheets. Please go away, please don’t uncover the sheets. The cool air hit you as V pulled the sheets back. Cursing at your luck, you took a peak. Funny how creepy the smiling mask was in the dark. V’s hat was still perched on his head, you realized. His gloved fist was curled around something in his hand. A rose.
“My songbird, what is the matter,” V asked as he took in your tear stricken face. The moonlight shone onto your beautiful face, revealing the wetness of your cheeks. How beautiful you were. V felt guilty once he saw you huddled under the covers, hiding from something. Could it be from yourself? “You’re late,” you croaked, “it’s almost 5 am.” “I apologize my dear, something went a bit south.” You didn’t say anything. Your eyes clenched shut and your teeth sunk into your bottom lip from trembling. V’s head cocked to the side, his lips pulled into a frown underneath the mask. He called out your name. The softness and caring tone made your eyes snap back at him. Suddenly, a crash of thunder hit. You flinched and wormed yourself underneath the sheets even more. V simultaneously realized, at that very moment, how terrified you were of thunder. He felt stupid as he sat there, staring at your shaking form. Of course you would try to seek out comfort whenever you were scared or moody. Hiding was your last resort if there was no comfort to be found. A hand stroked your head causing you to tense up.
The leather of the glove felt cool, and smooth. Brows drawn, you looked up at V. His right arm extended to you, with the gift he had brought. “V,” you whispered as you stared at him with shock. You gently wrapped your hand around the stem, taking it from his hands. “An apology for returning so late…and to ask for a courtship. With you,” V stammered. Even with the mask, you knew V was flustered. “It’s about time,” you joked, your voice a bit hoarse. “Ah yes, well you see I was so nervous and I-I've never-” You cut him off with your lips. The odd but smooth material of the mask’s lips felt foreign against your soft, warm ones.
V didn’t even have to feel your lips to know they were the softest thing to exist. He just knew. You pulled away slowly, your cheeks warming up a bit. You were bashful, a gentle smile swept across your lips. “Thank you for the rose, it’s beautiful.” “My beautiful maiden, it is quite dark in here. You could not be quite sure of such a thing.” “I’ll kiss you again, V.” You giggled, as he shut up.
“Close your eyes and keep them closed,” V said. You looked at him confused, “Why?” “I have another gift.” A brow was raised in his direction. He just gestured at you, waiting patiently. “You’re acting pretty sus not gonna lie, but ok.” Your eyes fluttered shut. Time seemed to pass by awfully slow as you waited. Not to mention, the dark that encased you as your lids closed. “V?” “I’m right here love.” You heard something untying and felt something being placed on the bed. How badly you wanted to open your eyes, but you would not betray V like that. The smoothness of his gloves grasped both of your cheeks softly. His fingers stroked them and held cupped your cheeks. You screwed your eyes shut, fighting the urge to open them. What was he doing? Your breath stopped at a halt; his breath was on your lips. He’s going to kiss me! His mask is off! You swallowed nervously as you waited. That’s when you felt it.
V’s lips were rough and felt scarred. The texture was very different from your own, but you didn’t care. In fact, you cherished it. A sigh escaped your lips as your fingers clutched his cloak, pulling him closer. Teeth nibbled at your lips playfully. V’s scent filled your senses and you felt your head starting to become dizzy. You almost whined once his lips pulled away from yours. Eyes still closed, you waited for the signal to open them again. Your ears perked up as you heard the rustling of cloth and a little grunt from V. “Thank you darling, you can open your eyes again.” There were little dots and squiggles as you opened your eyes, moving in the air. You were a little sad to see the mask on again, but knew better than to press. V would give you the world, but he was still insecure about his skin. You were curious to see him, especially after the glimpse of damaged skin you had seen on his hands. But, you knew better than to ask, let alone force him to show you.
V placed his hat on the bedside table next to him. He was surprised to find you had fallen asleep, though it was quite late. He quietly shimmied out of his cloak and set his knives down on the nightstand. A sigh escaped his lips as he got into more comfortable clothing, followed by discarding his gloves on the table beside him. You had wrapped V around your finger; encasing him with your humour and your kindness. He was at your mercy. You had captivated the man who thought he could no longer feel love. Oh how wrong he was. V wrapped his arms around you and held you close. His art swelled a bit at the sleepy hum you gave him. Your head rested lightly on V’s chest and his arms snuggled you tightly. Your soft snores filled the room once again and V couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Eventually, the masked vigilante fell asleep; the comfort of your love and beauty keeping him warm at night.
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Renegades Titanic AU Part 10
if you asked me what was going on in this fic anymore I couldn't give you an honest answer.
part 9
Nova could hear her blood rushing in her ears as she and Adrian escaped down the hallway and into an opened space with a stairwell. She started to head for them when Adrian tugged her hand toward the lifts, one having just opened and loading people. They shoved their way onboard, past the other waiting guests. Nova demanded they go down, just as Adrian said the same. Ingrid caught up to them when the gate was closing. The lift began to lower. Suppressing a smirk, Nova raised her middle finger in defiance. Anger roared in Ingrid’s eyes. Nova gave a tiny wave before the woman disappeared from her sight. Beside her, Adrian was chuckling and shaking his head. Nova gave him a light nudge.
“Shut up,” she said. “She deserves it.”
“I never said she didn’t.” Adrian reached forward and straightened one of Nova’s locks. She grinned at him.
They approached another level, and Nova told the operator to let them off there. Before the lift had even come to a complete halt, the gates still opening, Nova and Adrian hopped out and nearly ran into a passing employee who frowned at them even as they laughed and apologized. Nova quickly took note of the level they were on: E Deck. Hand in hand, they ran down the hallway and down another flight of stairs. Nova had known Ingrid for a decade; she knew they were being hunted.
They turned a corner and a laugh burst from Nova’s throat as she watched Adrian stumble into yet another employee, this one with a cart full of dishes. She pulled him along before he could stay and help clean up. They didn’t have time for that.
Finally, they came to a halt behind a set of double doors, breathing hard and grinning. They were in the employee side of the ship now, evident by the basic white hallways and lack of people. Good. Maybe they’d be safe here.
“Was that-”
“Ingrid Thompson.” Nova nodded firmly, leaning into Adrian. “She’s kind of pissed off at me right now. I don’t know how she found out where I was.” Adrian’s grip began to tighten on her waist, and she looked up at him, heart skipping a beat despite still trying to calm down.
From the small window on the door, Nova saw movement. She turned her full attention to the window and made eye contact with Ingrid, who didn’t waste a second in charging at the doors.
“Shit!” Nova leapt out of Adrian’s arms and yanked him down the hall, turning a corner and meeting a dead end. Her stomach just about dropped.
“In here!” Adrian pushed her past a door into a tiny room that was screaming with noise. He shut the door behind her and locked it. The deafening noises came from the machines in the room, which could only mean one thing. Under any other circumstance, Nova might have laughed. But they were stuck, their only way out being a ladder that led down to the skies knew where.
She covered her ears and looked at Adrian. “Now what?”
He seemed to contemplate her question for about five seconds before a smile overcame his face and he went for the ladder. Reluctantly, Nova followed, knowing that that was probably their only way out.
He helped her hop down from the ladder when she got to the bottom. She looked around at the red hued room and the filthy men hard at work. Those around them stopped what they were doing to gawk at them, especially Nova still in Ruby’s gown. One of the men approached them, scowling and holding a shovel in his hand.
“Wha’ ‘re you two doin’ down ‘ere!” A cackle erupted from Nova’s lips as she and Adrian ran. Behind them, she heard the man yelling, “Stop! I’ could be dang’rous! Wait!”
It was a maze getting through the dozens of workers. Nova had to dodge getting hit by something every five seconds. Beside her, Adrian had the audacity to shout out encouraging words to the men, only causing Nova’s laughter to increase.
“You’re doing great! Keep up the good work!”
Nova wasn’t sure which was more humorous, that or the looks they got as they tripped and stumbled passed dirty men and machinery. No one stopped them, thankfully, and eventually they ended up in a storage room. The temperature immediately dropped, sending goosebumps down Nova’s arm. Adrian closed the door behind them and they slowed their pace to a steady walk. She looked around at all the crates and cars of the elite. Adrian shot a smile at her and led her over to one of the cars, red with black and gold accents. He opened the door up for her and held out a hand.
“Thank you,” Nova said in an airish voice, playing along with him.
Sitting down on the cushioned seats relaxed Nova, somehow. Adrian got up front and honked the horn twice. She laughed and leaned forward, pushing down the glass divider between them.
In a pompous, British accent, Adrian said, “Where to, miss?”
Nova pretended to ponder it for a moment, hand trailing down his arm. Then, she craned her neck where her lips just brushed his ear. “To the stars.”
The look he gave her was enough to make her snort and yank on his arm, pulling him rather roughly to join her in the back of the car. He readjusted them until she was comfortably in his arms. She reached for the hand not around her shoulders and started playing with his fingers. Only then did she become aware of the beads of sweat on her forehead from running. Adrian, too, was sweaty. Her heart was still racing, but for different reasons now.
“Why was Thompson so adamant about catching you?” He brushed hair back from her face, the slightest of smiles on his lips. “I mean, you’re just a kid. Why are you so important to them?”
Suddenly, Nova felt cold. She had forgotten that Adrian didn’t know who she truly was. In the events of the past evening, Nova had attempted to forget about her identity. She licked her lips and shrugged sheepishly. “Maybe it’s just because I’ve been with them for so long that they don’t want me to leave.” It was a poor excuse; hopefully he would buy it.
Adrian hummed in thought. “Well, do you want to leave?”
Did she? Ingrid and Honey and Leroy were the closest people she had to family. And leaving them meant leaving everything she was brought up to be. She would fail Ace, her only blood family left. All for the son of the people responsible for her family’s death. Her father had trusted them, and they repaid him by sending a hitman to kill him and his family. But Adrian...Adrian was different. He didn’t enjoy his wealth, not like his parents did. Nova could tell he wanted to escape just as much as her. Them being together was a sign that neither were happy with their current situations. But could Nova give up her future, solidified with her non-biological family, for an unknown future with Adrian? Or just leave them behind all together, even if Adrian wasn’t in the picture?
“I don’t know,” she murmured, eyes dropping to his chin. “Maybe? They’re my only family.”
One corner of Adrian’s lips turned up. “I know how that feels. After my mom died, my dads took me in immediately. They’ve always been super close with their co workers, so I grew up with multiple parents, essentially. It was just us for a bit until Pops found Max while on his way home one day.” He shook his head. “He couldn’t bear leaving an abandoned baby alone. He’s always been that way.” A pang hit Nova’s chest, and she refrained from retorting. Part of her wanted to tell him the truth, but she also didn’t know how he would react. And she didn’t want to lose him. “Anyway, they’re all I have as well. I don’t know what I would do without them.”
“Where is your brother, anyway?” Nova wanted anything to diverge the conversation from a subject she didn’t have an answer to quite yet. “Is he onboard?”
Adrian shook his head. “He’s in the states. This trip would’ve been too much for him, so he stayed home.”
“Are you excited to see him?” Nova cuddled a bit closer to him, the cold from the outside beginning to drift into their tiny cabin.
“Very.” Adrian smiled. “This is the longest I’ve been away from him, and I have no doubt he’s bored out of his mind.
She laughed softly. “I really do hope I can meet him one day. If he’s anything like you, I’m sure he’s wonderful.”
Adrian pulled her closer, just slightly. His expression seemed to darken. “I hope so, too. It’s just my fathers…”
“Don’t approve of me?” The look she got made her roll her eyes. “It’s okay, Adrian. I was brought up to hate them, anyway.” He winced at that, and opened his mouth, probably to bombard her with questions, but she beat him to it. “Why are they so against us, other than my past? I mean, surely they understand what it’s like not being accepted for who they are, right?” She thought of the couple, how many no doubt frowned upon the union. Honestly, that one little detail about them made Nova hate them a little less, perhaps because it made them a bit less flawless.
“They do.” Adrian sighed. “Especially before they came into possession of their money. Back then, they had to hide who they truly were. Somehow, money changed that. They aren’t allowed to legally marry,” his voice seemed to catch, “but people keep their mouths shut because they know how wealthy my fathers are.” He shrugged. “I can’t really explain their prejudice other than your connection with the Anarchists.”
As if from nowhere, Nova got the urge to tell him everything and beg for forgiveness, She bit her tongue to prevent from spilling everything, though. Was he ready for that, yet? Would he ever be ready? Probably not, but she had to tell him. It was only right.
Nova swallowed, eyes dropping to focus on the seat. “Adrian, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He raised her chin up. “Okay. I’m all ears.” Nova opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. From his charming smile, to the way his fingers traced circles on her back, Nova was speechless. She couldn’t do it. He would turn her away in disgust and never speak to her again. So she did the only thing she could think of and kissed him.
Adrian drew back in surprise, eyebrows knitted together. “I thought-” But Nova didn’t let him finish the sentence, pulling him closer by his shirt collar. It didn’t take much for him to give in. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, only managing to undo the first few. She felt herself being pushed backward until he hovered over her, cradling her in his arms. When she kissed him harder, he groaned and pulled back, only to press open-mouthed kisses across her throat and collarbone. A tight knot wounded itself in her stomach as he murmured how beautiful she was against her skin. She was just starting to pull his face up, one leg wrapping around his, when she heard footsteps.
They both froze, exchanging looks full of fear. Nova could discern that it was multiple people. Did Ingrid bring the others with her to search for Nova? A sick feeling entered her gut, replacing the previous pings of pleasure. Quickly, they scrambled out of the car. A flashlight shone in their direction as Nova tried to shut the door softly. She cursed under her breath and reached for Adrian, who already had a hand outstretched.
It would be too hard to escape without making noise, so Nova pulled Adrian behind a stack of crates. The footsteps grew louder. Nova peered around the corner to see two men, crew members, from the looks of it. One shone their flashlight on the car she had been in with Adrian and beckoned the other closer. Nova bit her lip and glanced at Adrian, who was also watching the men. There was a mischievous, almost smug, glint in his eyes. She rolled her eyes and turned back around. The men were fixated on the handprint that was unmistakably Nova’s, based on its size, that she must have somehow left during her short-lived session with Adrian. Well, what could she say? He had quite the effect on her.
The crewmen murmured to one another before the one who had identified the handprint opened the door violently, yelling out, “Gotcha!” to an empty cabin. Nova couldn’t help the snicker that escaped her lips. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, although she couldn’t stop the flood of giggles. Thankfully, the men had already moved on to examine the other side of the storage room. Adrian squeezed her hand, nodding to a stairwell not far from them. Nova followed him, still attempting to suppress the laughs that shook her shoulders. They were led to a door. Only when they were safe, back outside, did she let them loose.
“Did you see the looks on their faces?” she gasped. The cold air was welcoming. She loved how it sent a chill down her bare arms. “Sweet rot, I thought it was Ingrid.”
She stumbled a bit, taking Adrian with her, and spun around to face him, grinning. A wide smile graced his lips as well. He pulled her closer to wrap his arms around her waist.
“You almost gave us away,” he said in between laughs. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”
“Hey!” She swatted his arm lightly. “I knew what I was doing. Have some faith.”
After a bit, their laughter died down. Adrian’s smile remained, though it grew soft. He cleared his throat.
“Nova, what were you going to tell me in the car?” Nova tightened her grip around his arms instinctively, but forced herself to relax. Was she going to tell him now?
Nova inhaled a shaky breath. “I just wanted to tell you that...that...” I’m actually Nova Artino, daughter of the man your precious Council betrayed and niece of their greatest enemy. Oh, and I’m also Nightmare, Europe’s most wanted criminal. “When the ship docks...I’m getting off with you.” She couldn’t. So she searched his face, breathing hard.
Adrian blinked at her. “This is crazy. You’re...you’re crazy.” Yet he was beaming again.
Nova forced a smile to replicate his. “I know.” She placed a hand on the back of his neck and wrapped her fingers in his curly hair. “It’s crazy, insane, even. But that’s why I trust it.”
This time when they kissed, it was slow, not rushed or desperate like before. Nova allowed herself to be wrapped up in him, wrapped up in the possibility of leaving the past behind and keeping the truth a secret. She could continue her life as Nova McLain and no one would know. She could finally lead the life she wanted.
An ear piercing crash tore them apart, followed by the sudden trembling of the ship. Nova grasped Adrian tighter, eyes wide. A woman on the other side of the deck cried out in surprise. The entire ship shook. Everyone on board the deck looked around in confusion. Nova’s mouth fell open at the iceberg that loomed over them, getting closer and closer until it struck again right in front of them.
“Get back!” Nova yanked Adrian back as large chunks of ice tumbled down onto the deck. Just as quickly as it appeared, the iceberg was gone. Yet the ship still shook from its impact. Nova ran forward, hopping over ice, to lean over the railing and look down the side of the ship as they passed the mass of ice. It was still scraping the side of the ship, making a horrible, toe curling sound. Others joined her, including Adrian, who immediately wrapped his arm around her waist.
And then the ship was still. They had passed the iceberg. All the way down the side of the ship, heads popped out of windows. Nova gulped.
“Will the ship be alright?” Adrian asked, his grip tight on her waist.
Nova peered over the edge, pursing her lips. “There doesn’t seem to be much damage. The hit wasn’t that hard.” Still, a coldness washed over her.
The other people on the deck seemed to have forgotten all about the berg, as many began horsing around with the chunks of fallen ice, tossing them back and forth and kicking them around. Nova looked back at them, then at Adrian, who had picked up a smaller piece and was about to put it down her back. She wrestled for it with him, managing to pry it out of his hands and force it down his shirt. Though she laughed with him and dodged another piece of ice to her skin, she couldn’t shake this new sense of dread.
#renegades#archenemies#supernova#nova artino#Adrian everhart#nodrian#Oscar silva#ruby tucker#tuckva#danna bell#my writing#max everhart#captain chromium#dread warden#hugh everhart#simon westwood#anarchists
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Old friends, aliens and curiosities - Part I
Listen, I can’t stop thinking about this gifset made by @lonely-night in which H.G Wells (Warehouse 13) & Lena Luthor (CW Supergirl) are old friends and working together in the present to retrieve a curiosity (A ping, darling) meant to kill Lena.
So this is VERY AU-ish and with a crossover no one knew we needed but well, we do. Here’s the first part (it covers the two first gifs, I think), I’m gonna try to write the whole thing.
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“Uh, I’m really sorry to disturb you Miss Luthor but … You have a … an unexpected visitor.”
Jess’ uneasiness can be felt through her clipped tone and the slight pauses she marks in between her words. It’s so strong that even the disembodiment caused by the interphone doesn’t mask it.
Lena looks up from the blueprints she’s been studying for the best part of the last hour and frowns.
She’s specifically left instructions not to interrupt her under any excuse, not unless it was a matter of life or death and until today, Jess has never, not even once, disobeyed her. She’s always been nothing but an exceptional assistant, excellent at keeping Lena’s days smooth and organised amidst the ordinary chaos of everything going on in her life.
Lena glances at the TV playing in a corner of her office and sees Supergirl displayed on the screen, apparently busy dealing with the newest menace in town. Besides, Jess knows better than to allow Kara in nowadays.
Lena sighs and rolls her shoulders, a vain attempt at getting rid of the tension permanently settled in her muscles and at the base of her neck.
“What is it, Jess?” Lena asks, a finger on the button of the interphone.
She doesn’t want to sound too short but really, she’s getting tired of interacting with people. She’s never been good at it but it’s been even worse lately, with the amount of betrayal she had to endure.
There’s a beat on the line before Jess’s voice echo again.
“The woman says her name is … H. G. Wells?”
Another voice instantly jumps on the line, thick with a British accent Lena hasn’t head in years. Centuries even.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! This is ridiculous.”
The doors to her office suddenly open wide and Helena Wells strides in with a trademark smirk on her lips and a knowing gleam in her dark eyes.
“Lena Luthor, long time no see!” Helena greets, walking around the office as if it was hers.
Jess stands in the doorframe, looking utterly confused and at a loss as to what to do. Lena doesn’t blame her, Helena Wells often had that effect on people.
“It’s alright Jess, I’ll deal with it. Thank you,” Lena smiles at her assistant, who only hesitate for a handful of seconds before nodding, closing the doors in her way out.
Lena sighs again and swirls her chair toward her open bay windows.
“You’re done quite alright for yourself, Lee,” Helena appraises from her spot on the balcony. “I always knew you’d make an excellent inventor.”
The way the sun hits her hair causes silver reflections to sparkle and glow and her fair skin looks a little out of place in this sunlight but her smile is wide and genuine. She looks incredibly good for someone who’s been bronzed for centuries, Lena thinks.
“Thankfully, this century is a little kinder to woman with ideas,” Lena retorts, keeping her voice neutral and clipped. “Not by much, mind me, but it’s still an improvement from the outrageous and blatant misogyny of our time …”
“I’ve seen your president, I’m not entirely convinced,” Helena replies without missing a beat. She comes back into the office and instinctively walks toward the liquor cabinet. “Drink?”
“It’s eleven in the morning …” Lena shakes her head, annoyed by how at ease Helena seems to be in her office.
“Like that has stopped you before,” Helena chuckles and the low sound makes Lena’s skin tingle with memories.
Images of a buried past flash in front of her eyes, a man in tweed with a bowler hat and an awe-shuck attitude. The echo of a spontaneous laughter. A living room filled with books and leather couches and armchairs. A mischievous child with remarkable wits and a smile that looked a lot like Helena’s.
Lena shakes her head and glares at her visitor. “Let’s cut the chase, shall we? To what do I owe this unexpected and quite frankly, not so welcome visit?”
Helena’s smile fades. For a moment, she focuses on making her tumbler swirl in her hand, slow and steady. The amber catches sunbeams sometimes and it sends bright sparkles of light all across the room, a myriad of lively tiny dots with a honey-ish glow.
“We used to be … friends,” Helena eventually says, nostalgia lining her voice. “The best of friends even, once upon a time.”
Lena doesn’t reply, she simply stares and waits.
The past has brought her nothing but pain, ever since she got debronzed, and she doesn’t want to reminisce it.
Helena seems to understand that because she doesn’t add anything.
Instead, she comes to sit in one of the chairs in front of Lena’s desk. Her eyes are dark but Lena still knows how to read them, even after all that time. She sees the loss, the regrets and the tentative affection in the soulful brown irises, the obnoxious heaviness of a life filled with painful memories.
Lena sighs and nods, offering a smile to her friend. She’s never been able to stay mad at Helena, despite everything they’ve been through.
“Believe it or not, it’s actually lovely to see you again, Lee,” Helena smiles in return. It’s a little tentative but the brown of her eyes lit up, shining with hope and joy. “I should have … reached out sooner.”
Lena chuckles and shakes her head before arching a brow.
“I’m guessing you’ve been busy with all sort of evil plans, which is what prevented you from reaching out to your oldest friend …”
“You’re not too far off, actually,” Helena chuckles again but something in the way the muscles of her jaw move tells Lena she’s been spot on. “However, I … calmed down. I let go of most of my anger and desire for revenges and now I’m …”
Helena pauses and tilts her head, seemingly looking for her words. Lena knows better than to speak so she waits.
“I’m not exactly happy nor am I in peace, but … I’m at ease with myself. I’m back at working for the warehouse, it provides me with a purpose and keeps me sane.”
Lena lets out a dry laugh at that.
“Did you just say that working for the warehouse keeps you sane? Who are you and what have you done with Helena Georges Wells?”
Helena throws her an unamused look but the smirk on her lips is smug.
It’s familiar and comfortable, it almost feels like no time has passed since they used to work for Warehouse 12 together. Lena finds herself relaxing a little more against the back of her chair.
“You’re one to talk, what happened to Agent Luthor, anarchist extraordinary?” Helena retorts, waving a hand around the office. “You used to hate every form of government, warehouse included, and now you basically supply every single one of them with tech weapons.”
Lena shrugs.
“People change, don’t they? Beside … that way I know exactly what kind of weapons end up in our government’s hands and I can make sure it’s as safe as possible ...”
“Hm, that’s one twisted point of view,” Helena arches an unimpressed brow but there’s another smile tugging at the corner of her lips, one Lena recognise as praise. She’s seen it on Helena before, usually reserved for Christina or even Wolcott but, in rarer occurrences, it’s been directed at her too.
“Look at us. Sharing anecdotes about our lives as if no times has passed …” Lena smiles and then her voice soften.
“It’s been a long time, Helena. I’m … happy to see you too.”
That earns her a bright, wide smile.
For a brief moment, it’s like they’re back to that happier time they don’t really talk about, one where the echo of a laughter only them can remember never fades.
#Warehouse 13#Meets#Supergirl#Lena Luthor#H.G Wells#AU-ish unexpected crossover#Sentences prompt#Listen I really can't stop thinking about this#I can't promise anything but I'll write the whole gifset#It's stuck in my head#What the hell am I doing?#No idea#You'll have to bear with me#Whoops
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Class of 1984 (1982)
Directed by Mark L. Lester
Screenplay by Tom Holland, Mark Lester and John Saxton
Story by Tom Holland
Music by Lalo Schifrin
Country: United States
Running Time: 94 minutes
CAST
Perry King as Andrew Norris
Merrie Lynn Ross as Diane Norris
Timothy Van Patten as Peter Stegman
Stefan Arngrim as Drugstore
Michael J. Fox as Arthur
Roddy McDowall as Terry Corrigan
Keith Knight as Barnyard
Lisa Langlois as Patsy
Neil Clifford as Fallon
Al Waxman as Detective Stewiski
Erin Flannery as Deneen
David Gardner as Principal Morganthau
Linda Sorensen as Mrs. Stegman
Teenage Head as themselves
Note: If you enjoyed Class of 1984 you may also be interested in the thematic sequel Class of 1999 by the same prime movers, which is much more overtly comedic, and Unman, Wittering and Zigo (1971) a very British spin on the same themes starring David Hemmings.
Also: I took the images from the Internet like the anarchist hell child that I am. No rules! no future! Rip the system!
I remember reading about Class of 1984 when it came out and thinking the review in Starburst made it sound like an incredibly exploitative and deeply unpleasant movie. Being 12 I immediately made a mental note to see it as soon as possible. Unfortunately the movie wasn’t passed uncut in the UK until 2005, by which time I was no longer 12 and thus somewhat preoccupied by the labyrinth of idiocy which is adult life. But that mental note still niggled, and so in 2019 that 12 year old’s simple ambition was belatedly fulfilled thanks to the UK blu-ray release of the movie. Turns out that not only is Class of 1984 incredibly exploitative and deeply unpleasant, but also (spoiler) my taste hasn’t evolved much since I was 12, because, me? I thought it was a hoot. A hoot and a half in fact.
Class of 1984 asks the old, old question Hollywood loves to ask - how far do you have to push a liberal milquetoast until he starts biting folk’s throats out? Because, as any decent hard working common sense fella with dirt under his fingernails will tell ya, it’s okay to have high-falutin’ ideas about equality and decency and edjumacation but, let’s face facts, when their wife’s blood soaks their corduroy jacket these liberal schmucks won’t hesitate to dip their fists in the basin of other people’s faces. It’s a small-minded, nasty genre that takes unseemly delight in demonstrating that the self-appointed avatars of civilisation have feet of clay. But it isn’t a stupid genre; it also recognises the fact that being a pigeon chested liberal weakling takes some doing against very stiff resistance. Basically, the genre exploits the fact that small-mindedness and mean-spiritedness are universal levellers. To err may very well be human, but to wish for violent revenge is, well, very human. Class of 1984 is one of the smartest of this, uh, cathartic genre; it is simultaneously a Push The Liberal Until He Snaps Movie and an Impotent White Male Liberal Revenge Fantasy movie. Everyone wins. Except women; it was made in 1982 so women get short shrift; being (mainly) either whores or wives to be sacrificed on the altar of manliness. If you are a regular reader of comics I should probably point out that this is not representative of women’s roles in the real world.
But then Class of 1984 is not set in the real world. For a start it was made in 1982 so it is set in the (then) near-future. “We are the future!” is the regular mocking refrain of the violent urchins, and also of the typically ridiculous Alice Cooper title song, which exists only to remind you just how seriously you should take any of this. (Not very.) This is the near future of every frothing right wingers most secretive wet dreams. The inner city schools are crumbling concrete nests of perversion and lawlessness. Kids carry knives and deal drugs while the feeble faculty fall apart, turn to drink, or turn a blind eye. Feral monsters in torn clothes roam the halls; rulers of the fallen kingdom of academia. This is where weak-kneed liberalism, left-wing learning and the kind word in place of the hard fist get you: a violent hellish maelstrom only the force of a quiet white man pushed too damn far can tame. Yes, Class of 1984 is the kind of movie that makes rightwingers spaff so hard and so often that by the time the credits roll only dust is puffing out. But by the time the put upon teacher is putting the buzzsaw to bloody good use in the woodwork room, effete liberal cheesecakes will also be readjusting their tortoiseshell glasses and getting sweaty under their white collars. Something for everyone, like I said.
There’s little point unfolding the plot of Class of 1984 since it’s familiar stuff, but it is very well done stuff. It certainly delivers the expected multiple frissons as Andrew Norris (Perry King) finds every humane alternative barred to him as he is remorselessly forced down the rat run built from liberal society’s failure to face his inner beast. And there is a lovely build to the finale; in which the hopes and dreams of the normal students, in the form of a concert, is contrasted with the ultra-violent theatre of vengeance unfolding in the corridors beyond. For a movie aimed squarely at the amygdala Class of 1984 is surprisingly wittily and smartly written. it is also surprisingly wittily and smartly acted. Perry King is ridiculously chiselled of chin, but elicits much sympathy as his flailing increases, and you feel a sense of both triumph and loss as he finally grasps the nettle of his inner ferocity. Merrie Lynn Ross has little do as the sacrificial wife, Diane, but she effectively provides the foil of the sheltered person who doesn’t understand how bad things are in the real world. Unfortunately, in a very, very, (very) tough to watch scene, the bad things finally become impossible for her to ignore. The actual class are pretty great too. Really horrible, each and every one of the scrofulous, disrespectful little shits. Special mention, though, for Timothy Van Patten as the sociopathic ringleader, Peter Stegman. A truly nasty piece of work who plays the system and his single mother with even more finesse than the piano he unexpectedly excels at.
(The kids’ convincingly unhinged viciousness is vital since you are supposed to cheer as they fall before the force they have unleashed, a force more dangerous than nuclear fire; the angry white man pushed too far. And you will holler as they drop, because the young cast have done their awful work well. Mind you, you are only able to applaud their painful demises since they all look to be in their mid-20s. Had they actually looked like the teenagers they represent the whole thing would have been too unpleasant for anybody, well, anybody not in the NRA. Movies like this can’t get too near the knuckle; it’s part of the unspoken arrangement with the audience.)
But, unpopular news as it may be, not all the kids are shits. Future star Michael J. Fox plays the thankless role of Arthur, The Good Student, complete with puppy fat. Together with Erin Flannery’s Deneen he represents the kids who get left behind but just might make it. Bit of optimism there, snuck in amongst the eruptions of violence. But… Roddy McDowall! Dear, sweet, Roddy McDowall is a revelation. His slightly theatrical aspect is just spot on for Terry Corrigan, the teacher ground down to a desperate, alcoholic wreck, who cracks in a different way to Norris. His heart-breaking descent, together with Fox and Flannery’s kids are the secret heart of the movie. Class of 1984 flirts hot and heavy with nihilism, but is brave enough to finally put out for humanity. All the sturm und drang pandering to the basest emotions is camouflage for a small sliver of optimism. Which isn’t half bad for what’s basically Straw Dogs (1971) set in a 1980s American inner city high school. But, Christ, that Roddy McDowall. Respect is due, sir. As if kids today even know what respect is. The little shits.
#Class of 1984#Movies#Exploitation#Science Fiction#Revenge#Mark L Lester#Tom Holland#Perry King#Merrie Lynn Ross#Timothy Van Patten#Michael J Fox#Erin Flannery#Roddy McDowall#1982#The 1980s
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Warren “The Mass-Murderer” Worthington III
Now that I’m trying to catch up with X-Men after I abruptly left in 2012 after the ending of the Dark Angel saga...
You might have no idea how it feels to discover your favorite hero (turned temporarily bad to good to bad to good to bad to good then... I stopped counting before Second Coming even happened) character ever is a mass-murderer that guys like X-fellow Wolverine pale in comparison.
Given that I left right after the aforementioned Dark Angel Saga, I did know about Tucker Creek/Tabula Rasa (although I either forgot the detail or in the X-Force issues it wasn’t mentioned the population number), but... hm.
So, old metal-winged Warry, as first action of his glorious but short-lived ruling of Apoccydom as King Archangel the First, murdered 5301 people. Ok. I guess... Fine. I mean, who’s the loser who doesn’t wipe out an entire city from the maps on a plan to start-jump evolution at least once in their life?
Don’t get me wrong, I love to death (no pun intended) the X-Force/Uncanny X-Force run that ended with the Dark Angel saga, so beam me up to all this Warren-shaped murdering, Scotty.
But then the children he impregnated his Horseman Death with in a creepy one-night stand when he was still spoken for with some very in-love British ninja called Psylocke.. I was saying, those Worthington heirs, raised in the future by a time-traveler child-kidnapper who’s in serious need of reading some good-parenting books (because ordering your adoptive son to remove his twin sisters’s eyes as punishment because he failed to hate humans after you dumped them in a mutant concentration camp of a dark future timeline to have them grow out of that silliness that is “mercy”... is a no-no, in every good dad’s book; even Magneto isn’t that shitty, and he’s the worst father around, if you ask Scarlet Witch!), after some murdering here and there because of reasons (all their own worshipers from clan Akkaba / "out of mercy") go and put a plan in motion that will have all the population on Earth - minus the mutants - wiped out of existence thanks to the handy anger of a not-friendly Celestial. A plan that is successful (Earth is crushed and the Solar Systems loses its lovely third planet), that eventually fails and status quo is fixed back to its proper state (namely = an Earth standing between Venus and Mars) only because 7-something years later a stubborn Summers (what’s with the Summers? Everything’s always about them!) manages to win his anarchist rebellion (against the powers that be in the X-Heaven the mutants are living after Earth went kaboom) and his Uncanny Avengers can finally go back in time and change things so that Thor can stop the Celestial from blowing up Earth.
Ah, yes, I was forgetting that the plan also came with the deletion of SEVEN TIMELINES that became one, so... how many bilions (of bilions) of people does this amounts to?
Way to go Warren! I’m so proud of you. As Archangel you surpassed your metaphorical father, that blue-lips small blip in history called a so-not-treating name like APOCALYPSE to ascend to Best Apocalypse ever. Clap clap.
To know you will never discover how much you achieved with that night-stand (because I doubt anyone ever told you about the Apocalypse Twins, especially given you still were in your “Formatted Then Installed a Different Operative System Just Please Revert Back Because The Hardware Doesn’t Agree With The New Version” state at the time) brings me such sadness...
But, between you and me: just to be on the safe side, I’d opt for a vasectomy. I’m not sure if you’ll ever get back with Elizabeth again (after breaking up during the X-Man crisis) in the coming Dawn of X era (I will make sacrifices to the gods for it to happen because NOBODY TOUCHES MY FAVORITE X-COUPLE but I’m much pessimistic as of now), but I wouldn’t trust you and the former-ninja-assassin-killing-addict Betsy with an heir, not even adopted - let alone one who shares with you genetics and mutant abilities.
We already have an Apocalypse (or not?), and a Galactus, and a Thanos for our mass-murdering evil needs: an Archangel Jr. with Omega-telepathic abilities and Hand-training skills inherited from mommy... hm, no. I’ll think I’ll pass, thank you.
Jean Grey went (or not) Dark Phoenix and ate a star, killing its star system (and its billion of inhabitants). Cyclops went (or not) terrorist. Beast... hmm, he plays with time continuum like we sapiens play with our tv remote control...
What Iceman could do to keep up with his best-and-oldest friends? Bring back the Ice Age and kill all life on Earth?
I mean, he cannot just twiddle his thumbs until the time comes he’s ready to become that Ice Master guy whose inability to pick his lovers will doom the galaxy. I mean, yes, that would put him right in the winning place, surpassing Jean’s Dark Phoenix’s deeds, and he would stand a chance to beat Nate Grey for the award for X-Man Who Fucked Up The Worst Ever, but that’s just tooooooo forward in the future. He needs to act now!
I hear he encased Earth in ice at some point? I still have to get to that part or X-Title, but it’s not enough, my beloved X-icicle.
^ picture above featuring a confused Bobby Drake wondering what he should do to not be snubbed further by the “Mass Murders, Jerks, Terrorists and Friendly Time-place Continuum Threats Club” his O5-friends have founded without giving him a call (or not even sending him a card, how rude of them!). They go and award Professor Xavier the honorary membership* and him, the reliable joker and beer-cooler of the group, just nothing? Not a fancy certificate on precious paper with gold engravings to hang next to the accountant certification to make papa William and mama Madeline proud or to show to potential new lovers? Not even an invite to crash at the inauguration party? They didn’t even save him a Phoenix-shaped expensive canape or a piece of the Archangel-shaped blue and purple cake!
* Seriously, Charlie’s a jerk, a creep (coff loving 15yrs JeanGrey coff) a manipulative liar and someone who raised scared children into ruthless soldiers (coff Scott Summers coff) and erased the memory of the very existence of teens who died in the field (coff Gabriel Summers coff), but, recent-O5-strictly speaking...
Brought to you by 20th Century X, with supervision of the Cameron Hodge Right and in collaboration of Apocalypse Production, only on Mojo Prime:
The high-flying Angel Gets Mass-Murdererer: the series.
S2, E10: That one time when it was Xavier’s Fault that I got my metal wings spattered with blood and body bits and nor I nor my closest friends remember it happening because our putative father whom we trusted for the most of our lives manipulated our minds, including the one of our own Omega-level telepatic one/fifth, into forgetting.
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The Haymarket Affair
So? For a bit of context, I wrote this after asking people on the offical Assassin’s Creed Forums to give me a time period/an historical event and I’d try to write up the synopsis of a game that could happen during this time. So yeah, there’s a lot of historical context and assassin’s creed related stuff too lol
Also you’ll notice the synospsis isn’t finished yet, it’s on my to do list
Also also there are a few links to wikipédia articles on some historical events and stuff
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For anyone who might not be American (just like me) and wonder what the heck is the Haymarket affair (just like me before I started this research), here’s a link to the wikipedia page, but basically; May 4th 1886, in Chicago, there was a protestation meant to be peaceful organised by the labour rights movements to obtain the 8h workdays (which in the end was only obtained in the 1950’s in America if I recall properly), things went sour when someone from the crowd threw a bomb at the policers, killing one of them, which led to a massacre as the law enforcers shot in the crowd. Now, without further ado…
Our story begins with the industrial revolution and the advent of steam engines. With the arrival of more industries everyday and the rapid growth of metropolises all over Occident, a new world divide imposed itself. Money now ruled the world, labours were now the new serfs and industrials the kings and queens. The Templars were amongst the first to catch the trend and we saw the birth of many groups such as Starrick Industries all over the globe, which tilted the fight in favour of the Order, much to the Brotherhood’s dismay. As the upper classes were overflowing with Templars, the Assassins saw an increase of initiates coming from the lower working classes.
It’s in 1868 that the Brotherhood shifted the balance for the first time ever since the start of the revolution, as the Frye twins single handedly caused the downfall of British Rite as they took back London for the first time in a century, but it was only the start of the fight. After all, Britain in those times may have been the center of the world, but it wasn’t its entirety.
Born on March 25th 1865, our hero, Aloys Müller, is the grandson of German Forty-Eighter who had been forced in exile to Chicago following the failed March Revolution. Being from a poor family (most Forty-Eighters that arrived in America had lost everything while fleeing their homeland), Aloys started working alongside his father and older brother at the factory at the age of 9. It's on his 13th birthday that an accident occurred and he lost his father, forcing his brother and him to be the providers for their mother and their younger siblings. (I was thinking that they could have been the two oldest sons of a family of 8 since families in those times rarely were with few kids, now, if we talk about “what if this was an ac game”, I feel like the first sequence/the intro of the game would be about the protag and his brother trying to free their father from whatever machinery is killing him.)
Constantly struggling to keep their family afloat, the two brothers would slowly gravitate towards socialists groups, participating in all sorts of protestations and riots. In 1882, they ended up preparing and participating in a protestation that quickly turned riot and caused the death of the eldest at the hands of police officers that came to disband it. Now alone to provide for the family, our protagonist drifted towards anarchy and met the assassin August Spies who saw in him the perfect initiate and introduced him to the brotherhood in 1883. (Here we could have the second sequence/the real proper first sequence be centered around Aloys preparing the rally/riot with his brother. I feel like they'd have to share the information around while making sure the Pinkerton agency (more on them later) try to stop them. During the actual protestation, some infiltrated Pinkerton agents would sort of be responsible for the protestation going South and we'd have a memory with the hero trying to escape the chaos alive with his brother… and we all know how that goes.)
I'm taking a brief pause here to explain the concept for the Templar’s allies in this story. Now this is an agency that still exists so in the optic of making a game that wouldn't get anyone in trouble legally, the detective agency would have a different name most likely. What agency, you asks? The Pinkerton agency, I say. So basically, during the industrial revolution(s), the agency would infiltrate socialist and anarchist groups AND factories to keep an eye on the worker class and stop them from “revolting”. They'd usually be employed by rich industrials to impede the walk towards syndicalisation and, in a few occasions, they prove to be damn good at it. As a matter of fact, it is said that a pinkerton agent might have been the one responsible for the going sour of the haymarket protests, but more on that later. Since we already know templars basically rule the place with their companies and such, the Pinkerton detective agency works super great with the idea of being an extension of the order. Let's go back to our story now, shall we?
It is to avenge his brother that Aloys joined the Brotherhood since Pinkerton was their main target as of late. In the following months, he worked his way through the agency’s ranks, taking down a few minor leaders here and there, but nothing that could be deemed big as of yet. In 1884, he went to Buchtel to take part in the Great Hocking Valley Coal Strike that was taking place. Aloys took down several scab workers and several armed guards defending them, before helping the strikers to set seven mines on fire and blowing three railroads. The entire riot culminated when Aloys blew the last railroad, killing one of the leading figures of the Order and drew their attention (and wrath) for good to the Chicago bureau. 9 months after the start of the strike, the workers gave up and Aloys was called back to Chicago by the Brotherhood. ((Here the sequence could start off with the player having to hunt down a kill a few minor Pinkertons, nothing too complicated, before they get to Buchtel and take part in the riot. In one memory they’d have to protect the strikers from the armed guards while in the next on they’d be preparing and setting the mines on fire, the last one culminating with them killing the templar by blowing him up with the railroad.)
Needless to say, the Brotherhood wasn’t so pleased with Aloys’ reckless actions during the past months and his blatant disrespect to the Creed (after all, the scab workers were innocents and he certainly did compromise the Brotherhood when he blew those railroads off…) tensions arose between the different members of the bureau, some, like Adolph Fischer, Albert Parson, Michael and many more, sharing the rather anarchist views of August and Aloys, the others favourising the more tempered and less destructive approach, lead by [SOMEONE]. As time passed, the constant in-fighting ultimately led to the splitting up of the bureau, August and Aloys leaving with their own small following against the rest of the brotherhood’s wishes. They founded their own bureau, full of anarchists of all kinds amongst which we were to find the men that were ultimately accused of the Haymarket massacre.
#writing#synopsis#Alois#alois müller#historical fiction#as you can see#my favourite type of things to write are set in historically accurate settings
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IS THE SUN SETTING?
From an unknown author born in 1942
“Men, like nations, think they’re eternal. What man in his 20s or 30s doesn’t believe, at least subconsciously, that he’ll live forever? In the springtime of youth, an endless summer beckons.
As you pass 70, it’s harder to hide from reality.
Nations also have seasons: Imagine a Roman of the 2nd century contemplating an empire that stretched from Britain to the Near East, thinking: This will endure forever…. Forever was about
500 years, give or take.
France was pivotal in the 17th and 18th centuries; now the land of Charles Martel is on its way
to becoming part of the Muslim ummah. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, the sun never set
on the British empire; now Albion exists in a perpetual twilight. Its 95-year-old sovereign is a
fitting symbol for a nation in terminal decline. In the 1980s, Japan seemed poised to buy the world.
Business schools taught Japanese management techniques. Today, its birth rate is so low and its
population aging so rapidly that an industry has sprung up to remove the remains of elderly
Japanese who die alone.
I was born in 1942, almost at the midpoint of the 20th century – the American century. America’s prestige and influence were never greater. Thanks to the ‘Greatest Generation, we won a World
War fought throughout most of Europe, Asia and the Pacific. We reduced Germany to rubble and
put the rising sun to bed. It set the stage for almost half a century of unprecedented prosperity.
We stopped the spread of communism in Europe and Asia, and fought international terrorism. We
rebuilt our enemies and lavished foreign aid on much of the world. We built skyscrapers and rockets
to the moon. We conquered Polio and now COVID. We explored the mysteries of the Universe and
the wonders of DNA…the blueprint of life.
But where is the glory that once was Rome? America has moved from a relatively free economy to socialism – which has worked so well NOWHERE in the world. We’ve gone from a republican government guided by a constitution to a regime of revolving elites. We have less freedom with
each passing year, becoming more and more dependent upon a gov’t which can never provide
for us.
Like a signpost to the coming reign of terror, the cancel culture is everywhere. We’ve traded the American Revolution for the Cultural Revolution. The pathetic creature in the White House is an
empty vessel filled by his handlers. At the G-7 Summit, ‘Dr. Jill’ had to lead him like a child. In 1961, when we were young and vigorous, our leader was too. Now a feeble nation is technically
led by the oldest man to ever serve in the presidency. We can’t defend our borders, our history (including monuments to past greatness) or our streets. Our cities have become anarchist
playgrounds. We are a nation of dependents, mendicants, and misplaced charity. Homeless
veterans camp in the streets while illegal aliens are put up in hotels.
The president of the United States can’t even quote the beginning of the Declaration of Independence (‘You know — The Thing’) correctly. Ivy League graduates routinely fail history tests that 5th graders could pass a generation ago. Crime rates soar and we blame the 2nd. Amendment and slash police budgets.
Our culture is certifiably insane. Men who think they’re women. People who fight racism by seeking to convince members of one race that they are inherently evil, and others that they are perpetual victims.
A psychiatrist lecturing at Yale said she fantasizes about ‘unloading a revolver into the head of any white person. We slaughter the unborn in the name of freedom, while our birth rate dips lower year by year. Our national debt is so high that we can no longer even pretend that we will repay it one day. It’s a $28-trillion monument to our improvidence and refusal to confront reality. Our ‘entertainment’ is sadistic,
nihilistic and as enduring as a candy bar wrapper thrown in the trash. Our music is noise that spans the spectrum from annoying to repulsive.
Patriotism is called insurrection, treason celebrated, and perversion sanctified. A man in blue gets less respect than a man in a dress. We’re asking soldiers to fight for a nation our leaders no longer believe in. How meekly most of us submitted to Fauci-ism (the regime of face masks, lock-downs and hand sanitizers) shows the impending death of the American spirit.
How do nations slip from greatness to obscurity? *Fighting endless wars they can’t or won’t win.
* Accumulating massive debt far beyond their ability to repay. *Refusing to guard their borders, allowing the nation to be inundated by an alien horde. *Surrendering control of their cities to mob rule. *Allowing indoctrination of the young. *Moving from a republican form of government to an oligarchy *Losing national identity. *Indulging indolence *Abandoning faith and family – the bulwarks of social
order.
In America, every one of these symptoms is pronounced, indicating an advanced stage of the disease. Even if the cause seems hopeless, do we not have an obligation to those who sacrificed so much to give us what we had? I’m surrounded by ghosts urging me on: the Union soldiers who held Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg, the battered bastards of Bastogne, those who served in the cold hell of Korea, the
guys who went to the jungles of Southeast Asia and came home to be reviled or neglected.
This is the nation that took in my immigrant grandparents, whose uniform my father and most of my uncles wore in the Second World War. I don’t want to imagine a world without America, even though it becomes increasingly likely. During Britain’s darkest hour, when its professional army was trapped at Dunkirk and a German invasion seemed imminent, Churchill reminded his countrymen, ‘Nations that go down fighting rise again, and those that surrender tamely are finished.
The same might be said of causes. If we let America slip through our fingers, if we lose without a fight, what will posterity say of us? While the prognosis is far from good, only God knows if America’s day in the sun is over.”
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Pebelle
Article by Lauren Weigle
Photo by Wolfgang Steiner
Hair/Makeup by Claudia Haider
Models: Mark Stephen Baignet/Tempo--Suzi Stanekova/Look--Ina Rot/Stella Models--Leonie Böhm
Styling by Pebelle, Emma Bell, and Polona Dolzan
Pebelle brings the art of tie-dyeing back and takes it to a new level of amazing. Mixing old techniques with new ones, outfits are transformed into magical combinations with rad designs. The brand, along with its pieces, prides itself on being completely unique it its styles, incorporating aspects of nature and the world around us into each individual garment. Believing mass-production would take away from its appeal and it’s exclusivity of each clothing’s design, Pebelle sticks with its methodology, creating one piece at a time.
Tell me about Pebelle’s one-line “Re-think Tie Dye!”
Elle UK magazine used it to describe my work in one of the first features they did with my items. I loved this sentence right away as it describes the intent I had to take this old technique and blow new life into it.
I understand you use traditional tie dye techniques in addition to ones you’ve developed in your garments. Can you talk about some of the ones you’ve come up with or are they Top Secret?
Well, my techniques are top secret. Every pattern I create is unique, so there's no way to protect my work. So, I simply don't talk about what I am doing. The only thing I can tell is that I look at the dyeing process from the other way round and take a peek at the main principles of printing, then mix it all together in a non-scared manner. And, nothing is safe not to be used.
How did you first become interested in tie-dyeing?
I studied textile at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, Austria and we had a dyeing workshop. We dyed everything we could think of: wood shavings, shuttlecocks, etc. One of us brought stockings along. The outcome was so exciting that we decided to do a whole weekend with just dyeing tights and stockings......that was 9 years ago and I resumed it.
So what made you decide to develop an entire label around this aesthetic?
It was love at first sight- no need to explain that further- everyone knows how that feels.
Tell me more about the anarchistic attitude that goes into Pebelle.
I do create this certain attitude with not following specific dyeing rules. My dye supplier that I'm always buying from and use as a consultant when it comes to technical questions, well his neck hair nearly stood up as I told him I am mixing my own colors. The colors I use come as pigments, and you can get every facet you can imagine... so mixing is something you just don't do. After years of dyeing I have come to realize that this anarchistic attitude of mixing the dyes creates a new look as well, as I get lots of kaleidoscopic effects.
You’re creations are inspired by urban atmospheres, right?
I am inspired by urban atmospheres as much as by natural phenomena. Wherever I look when I leave the house, I see colors and patterns that impress me. For example, as I was in LA last summer, waiting for my friend to leave the house, I discovered these beautiful patterned leaves in his garden and the thought hit me to do a line with these. That's when the collection "A Forest" formed in my brain. The idea developed until I was at a point where I knew I wanted to do a camouflage for all kinds of surroundings. I started with the forest, we had a wonderful shooting in the summer and it worked out great; the model got totally lost in the under wood. The biggest compliment was as a butterfly came to sit down on one of my dyed silk scarves. And it had exactly the same color as the scarf! Right now I am in the process of creating the same for an urban surrounding. I do collect images of walls, redo them with tie dye on dresses, shirts, and will soon have a shooting with people wearing my items in front of these walls. Future prospects are to do it in the sea, in the sky, and so on.......a never ending story- maybe I'll make a book with it one day.
Any other sources of inspiration for your pieces?
Anything can be a source of inspiration, for me interaction with other people is a big field of inspiration, so I do love to sit in cafes and watch people pass by. Plus, I am a passionate reader; a lover of art; a fan of music, musicians, and music videos; and last but not least, I do enjoy films. All of it offers a variety of imprints they leave in my mind.
So, each piece is unique and created by hand?
Yes, totally.
What advantages and disadvantages go along with this?
A lot of my customers like the idea that the designer themself has had his/her hands on an item; a precious knowledge in days of huge factories filled with people working under slavery conditions. I think more and more people re-think their attitude towards shopping. In your previous question you have already mentioned another advantage, being unique. I wouldn't be able to create my own, typical patterns if I wouldn't do hand-work. I kept going through possibilities of re-creating items in large numbers, but came to realize that these patterns would get lost. Now every item is like a miniature-tableau, showing new details every time you look at it. This is why a tie-dye style pair of H&M leggings won't have the same effect on you. It's manufactured differently. Creating by hand can also turn into a disadvantage when it comes to produce big numbers. But to be honest, first of all I want my works to stay exclusive and secondly I'm sure I find a way (to say it with Joe Cocker's words: "With a little help from my friends") if the order to dress 10,000 people comes up.
Where can your latest creations be seen or purchased?
Right now my items can be bought and seen in various shops in Vienna, and exclusively in shops in Germany or Great Britain. In America you either have to head out to New Jersey, were Dahl Collection has a selection of Leggings or you just simply drop by my ETSY store. I do play with the idea of an own online shop but am not settled yet. There's a full stock list on my homepage, plus a link to all websites that show my items and even sell them. My items will be featured inside a fashion book that will be published worldwide in various languages in spring. Plus, I am fulfilling the dream of my life in June, which is a big blast for my pride and maybe for my career as well. Unfortunately, I am not allowed to talk about it right now, but it will be seen all over America.
So, what performing artists and designers have you collaborated with?
So far I have worked on creating textiles for British designer Emma Bell's SS10 collection and with the Austrian men's wear label SUPERATED on their SS11 Alleatory collection. I created a line of scarves and hosiery for men to go with their items. I did work with Fan Death, they used my hosiery for their European tour last year and collaborated on costumes with the finish Electro singer Kississings for her music video "Anything u want" or for the Los Angeles based band VUM, were I dressed Ballet dancers for a great video they shoot in the Joshua Tree desert- this video is not published yet but will soon be out. Other musicians that wear my hosiery are: Monique Maion from Brazil, Brilliant Pebbles, and Pure Magical Love from Chicago, US or Apache Beat, NY. Right now I do create T-Shirts for a hot and upcoming Indie Band "The Jamborines”. They are based in Switzerland but actually in possess of a lead singer from California, who lived in Seattle for a while, so Seattle is going to be their first stop when heading to the US in April watch out for them!
Any memorable moments to speak of?
I was very taken aback as I received the message that Whoopi Goldberg popped into a store in Vienna and bought one of my leggings. She had been in town for the Life Ball. And, I just recently sent a very important email, asking for my items to be used on-screen, somewhere huge. And a) there was an answer b) the answer was positive and c) they were so nice. This is going to be a big step for me. 2011 here we go!
So, what’s a definite plus when it comes to collaborating with others?
The interaction, the bonding of two individual lines with their own attitude - it's like with a recipe: mix two really good ingredients together and the result with be brilliant. Collaborating always creates something totally new, something a label wouldn't have managed on its own. I am glad it happens a lot lately.
But, what’s great about standing on your own and coming out with a garment or collection that’s “all you”?
It makes me proud. I live my dream. Pebelle is like a child for me. I care for her, am responsible for her, and try to bring her up. I am glad I haven't left it with the idea, but really created some attention.
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Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà
New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/behind-hong-kongs-black-terror/
Behind Hong Kong’s black terror
By Pepe Escobar – Hong Kong : Posted with permission
“If we burn, you burn with us.” “Self-destruct together.” (Lam chao.)
The new slogans of Hong Kong’s black bloc – a mob on a rampage connected to the black shirt protestors – made their first appearance on a rainy Sunday afternoon, scrawled on walls in Kowloon.
Decoding the slogans is essential to understand the mindless street violence that was unleashed even before the anti-mask law passed by the government of the Special Administrative Region (SAR) went into effect at midnight on Friday, October 4.
By the way, the anti-mask law is the sort of measure that was authorized by the 1922 British colonial Emergency Regulations Ordnance, which granted the city government the authority to “make any regulations whatsoever which he [or she] may consider desirable in the public interest” in case of “emergency or public danger”.
Perhaps the Honorable Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the US House of Representatives, was unaware of this fine lineage when she commented that the law “only intensifies concern over freedom of expression.” And it is probably safe to assume that neither she nor other virulent opponents of the law know that a very similar anti-mask law was enacted in Canada on June 19, 2013.
More likely to be informed is Hong Kong garment and media tycoon Jimmy Lai, billionaire publisher of the pro-democracy Apple Daily, the city’s Chinese Communist Party critic-in-chief and highly visible interlocutor of official Washington, DC, notables such as US Vice President Mike Pence, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, and ex-National Security Council head John Bolton.
On September 6, before the onset of the deranged vandalism and violence that have defined Hong Kong “pro-democracy protests” over the past several weeks, Lai spoke with Bloomberg TV’s Stephen Engle from his Kowloon home.
He pronounced himself convinced that – if protests turned violent China would have no choice but to send People’s Armed Police units from Shenzen into Hong Kong to put down unrest.
“That,” he said on Bloomberg TV, “will be a repeat of the Tiananmen Square massacre and that will bring in the whole world against China….. Hong Kong will be done, and … China will be done, too.”
Still, before the violence broke out, hundreds of thousands of Hong Kong people had gathered in peaceful protests in June, illustrating the depth of feeling that exists in Hong Kong. These are the working-class Hongkongers that Lai supports through the pages of Apple Daily.
But the situation has changed dramatically from the early summer of non-violent demonstrations. The black blocs see such intervention as the only way to accomplish their goal.
For the black blocs, the burning is all about them – not Hong Kong, the city and its hard-working people. Those are all subjected to the will of this fringe minority that, according to the understaffed and overstretched Hong Kong police force, numbers 12,000 people at the most.
Cognitive rigidity is a euphemism when applied to mob rule, which is essentially a religious cult. Even attempting the rudiments of a civilized discussion with these people is hopeless. The supremely incompetent, paralyzed Hong Kong government at least managed to define them precisely as “rioters” who have plunged one of the wealthiest and so far safest cities on the planet “into fear and chaos” and committed “atrocities” that are “far beyond the bottom line of any civilized society.”
“Revolution in Hong Kong”, the previous preferred slogan, at face value a utopian millennial cause, has been in effect drowned by the heroic vandalizing of metro stations, i.e., the public commons; throwing petrol bombs at police officers; and beating up citizens who don’t follow the script. To follow these gangs running amok, live, in Central and Kowloon, and also on RTHK, which broadcasts the rampage in real-time, is a mind-numbing experience.
I’ve sketched before the basic profile of thousands of young protestors in the streets fully supported by a silent mass of teachers, lawyers, bewigged judges, civil servants and other liberal professionals who gloss over any outrageous act – as long as they are anti-government.
But the key question has to focus on the black blocs, their mob rule on rampage tactics, and who’s financing them. Very few people in Hong Kong are willing to discuss it openly. And as I’ve noted in conversations with informed members of the Hong Kong Football Club, businessmen, art collectors, and social media groups, very few people in Hong Kong – or across Asia for that matter – even know what black blocs are all about.
The black bloc matrix
Black blocs are not exactly a global movement; they are a tactic deployed by a group of protesters – even though intellectuals springing up from different European strands of anarchism mostly in Spain, Italy, France and Germany since the mid-19th century may also raise it from the level of a tactic to a strategy that is part of a larger movement.
The tactic is simple enough. You dress in black, with lots of padding, ski masks or balaclavas, sunglasses, and motorcycle helmets. As much as you protect yourself from police pepper spray and/or tear gas, you conceal your identity and melt into the crowd. You act as a block, usually a few dozen, sometimes a few hundred. You move fast, you search and destroy, then you disperse, regroup and attack again.
From the inception, throughout the 1980s, especially in Germany, this was a sort of anarchist-infused urban guerrilla tactic employed against the excesses of globalization and also against the rise of crypto-fascism.
Yet the global media explosion of black blocs only happened over a decade later, at the notorious Battle of Seattle in 1999, during the WTO ministerial conference, when the city was shut down. The WTO summit collapsed and a state of emergency was in effect for nearly a week. Crucially, there were no casualties, even as black blocs made themselves known as part of a mass riot organized by radical anarchists.
The difference in Hong Kong is that black blocs have been instrumentalized for a blatantly search-and-destroy agenda. The debate is open on whether black bloc tactics, deployed randomly, only serve to legitimize the police state even more. What’s clear is that smashing a subway station used by average working people is absolutely irreconcilable with advancing a better, more responsible, local government.
My interlocutor shows up impeccably dressed for dim sum on Saturday at a deserted Victoria City outlet in CITIC tower, with a spectacular view of the harbor. He’s Shanghai aristocracy, the family having migrated to Hong Kong in 1949, and he’s a uniquely informed insider on all aspects of the Hong Kong-China-US triangle. Via mutual Chinese diaspora connections that hark back to the handover era, he agreed to talk on background. Let’s call him Mr. E.
In the aftermath of dark Friday, Mr. E is still appalled: “Not only you’re harming the people making their living in businesses, companies, shopping malls. You’re destroying subway stations. You’re destroying our streets. You’re destroying our hard-earned reputation as a safe, international business center. You’re destroying our economy.”
He cannot explain why there was not a single police officer in sight, for hours, as the rampage continued.
Cutting to the chase, Mr. E attributes the whole drama to a pathological hatred of China by a “significant majority” of Hong Kong’s population. Significantly, the day after our conversation, a small black bloc contingent circled around the PLA’s Kowloon East Barracks in Kowloon Tong in the early evening. Chinese soldiers in camouflage filmed them from the rooftop.
There’s no way black blocs would take their gas masks, steel rods and petrol bombs to fight the PLA. That’s an entirely new ball game compared with thrashing metro stations. And color-coded “revolution” manuals don’t teach you how to do it.
Mr. E points out there is nothing “leaderless” about the Hong Kong black blocs. Mob rule is strictly regimented. One of the black shirt slogans – “Occupy, disrupt, disperse, repeat” – has in effect mutated into “Swarm, destroy, disperse, repeat.”
Mr. E asks me about black blocs in France. Western mainstream media, for months, have ignored solid, peaceful protests by the Gilets Jaunes/Yellow Vests across France, against corruption, inequality and the Macron administration’s neoliberal push to turn France into a start-up benefitting the 1%.
Charges that French intel has manipulated black blocs and inserted undercover agents and casseurs (persons vandalizing property, specifically during protests) to discredit and demonize the Yellow Vests are widespread. As I’ve witnessed in Paris first hand, the feared CRS have been absolutely ruthless in their RAND-conceptualized militarized operations in urban terrain – repression tactics – without excluding the odd beating up of elderly citizens.
In contrast, mob rule in Hong Kong is excused as protest against “totalitarian” China.
Most of the conversation with Mr. E centers on possible sources of financing for the initial nonviolent protest and, particularly, for the mob rule that the black blocs have brought in its place.
Motivation and opportunity will get you on the list, which is not terribly long – but is long enough to include names of people and organizations diametrically opposed to one another and thus unlikely to be working together.
Among governments, we can start with the still (if not, probably, for much longer) number one superpower. Trump administration officials, locked in a trade war with Beijing, would have no trouble imagining some advantage coming from a weakening of the People’s Republic’s rule over Hong Kong, and could perhaps see good in positively destabilizing China, starting with fomenting a violent revolution in the former British colony.
The United Kingdom, contemplating a lonely post-Brexit old age, could have pondered how nice it would be to get closer to its favorite former colony, still an island of Britishness in a less and less British world.
Taiwan, of course, would have had interest in provoking a test run of how One Country, Two Systems – the formula that the PRC and the UK used with Hong Kong in 1997 and that Beijing has offered to Taiwan, as well – might work out under stress. And after the stress of peaceful protest had exposed weak underpinnings, the temptation may well have arisen to go farther and make such a hash of Chinese-ruled Hong Kong that no Taiwanese would ever again fall for the merger propaganda.
The People’s Republic seems an unlikely protagonist for the initial, nonviolent phase, but there are plenty of Hong Kongers who believe it is now encouraging provocations that would justify a major crackdown. And we can’t completely rule out the possibility that a mainland CCP faction – opposed to the breach of recent tradition with which Xi Jinping extended his time in the presidency, say – is trying to discredit him.
OK, enough about governments. Now we need some on-the-ground agents, Chinese with plausible deniability who can blend in as they receive and disburse the necessary funding and handle organizational and training matters.
Here the possibilities are far too numerous to list, but one popular name would be Guo Wengui, aka Miles Kwok. The billionaire fell out with the CCP and, in 2014, fled to the United States to pursue a career as a long-distance political operative.
Even more popular would be name of Jimmy Lai, mentioned above. Confirming another of my key meetings, when Mr. E points to the usual funding suspects, the name of Jimmy Lai inevitably comes up. In fact, a US-Taiwan-Jimmy Lai combination may be number one on the hit parade when it comes to the common wisdom.
But when I tried that combination on for size I encountered problems. For one big thing, Jimmy Lai has made no effort to hide his aid to pro-democracy groups but in his public remarks has invariably encouraged nonviolent agendas.
As South China Morning Post columnist Alex Lo wrote not long ago, “What’s wrong with making massive donations to political parties and anti-government groups? Nothing! So I am puzzled by the media brouhaha over Apple Daily boss Jimmy Lai Chee-ying’s alleged donations worth more than HK$40 million to his pals in the pan-democratic camp over a two-year period.”
Let’s not give up so easily, though. I believe that some things are best hidden right out in the open in bright daylight.
Yes, Lai’s public voice happens to be Mark Simon, who worked for four years as a US naval intelligence analyst.
Yes, Lai has been good friends with neo-con guru Paul Wolfowitz since the latter became chairman of the US Taiwan Business Council in 2008, according to a Lai aide.
Wolfowitz served as deputy secretary of defense from 2001 to 2005 under Donald Rumsfeld, sort of by accident: He was supposed to become George W Bush’s head of CIA. But, alas, that didn’t work out because his wife got wind of an affair Paul, a member of the board of the National Endowment for Democracy (NED, had with a staffer, who was married at the time … and so it goes.
And, yes, according to Wikileaks documentation, in 2013 Lai paid US$75,000 to Wolfowitz for an introduction to Myanmar government bigwigs.
A document suggesting a transaction between Lai and Wolfowitz.Photo: Wikileaks via SCMP
But none of that really proves anything, does it now? Innocent until proven guilty. Colluding with arguably the most important US policy and intelligence operative of the past two decades, apparently yes – but can we establish active involvement by either the Pauls or the Jimmys of this world in black bloc provocations to achieve the bloody Chinese intervention that Lai forecast? Innocent until proven guilty.
This is going to take some further work. Back to the old drawing board with Asia Times.
There will be blowback
“We in Hong Kong are few in number. But we know that the world will never know genuine peace until the people of China are free.” – Wall Street Journal op-ed by Jimmy Lai, Sept 30
As much as there have been frantic efforts by the usual suspects to obliterate them, the images of black bloc mob rule and rampage across Hong Kong are now imprinted all over the Global South, not to mention in the unconscious of hundreds of millions of Chinese netizens.
Even the black blocs’ invisible financial backers may have been stunned by the counter-productive effects of the rampage, to the point of essentially declaring victory and ordering a retreat. In any case, Jimmy Lai continues to blame the Hong Kong police for “excessive and brutal violence” and to demonize the “dictatorial, cold-blooded and violent beast.”
Yet there’s no guarantee the black terror mob will back down – especially with Hong Kong fire officials now alarmed by the proliferation of online instructions for making petrol bombs using lethal white phosphorous. Once again – remember al-Qaeda’s “freedom fighters” – history will teach us: Beware of the Frankenstein terrors you create.
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Text
Getting arty in Barcelona
I woke up the next day to the Spanish woman’s bare boobs and was suddenly awake. Her partner, who I could see in the reflection of a mirror, was still lounged in bed and laughed when he saw my reaction to her. I had been forced into their sex life whether I liked it or not. She then looked up to see me looking at her and she gave me a dirty stare – I felt that this was a grave misjustice considering they had openly had loud sex in a room of 12 other people, at that point she may as well have asked me to get involved.[1] Luke then came to my bed and said that we should go out and do something. I quickly showered, changed and joined the others in the communal area. I asked the receptionist where the best place to get a cheap bite to eat was and she directed us to a café round the corner. This was our first opportunity to speak Spanish in a real life situation, JUGB entered first and was essentially told what he was having by the waitress and I’m pretty sure he had no idea what it was. The rest of us sat down and she came over to our table – we ordered the sandwich of the day without meat and Luke was annoyingly congratulated by the waitress on his flawless Spanish. My attitude to speaking to someone in Spanish is to blunder in with a huge amount of confidence and leave the conversation utterly bewildered with a deep sense of shame. Whereas Luke carefully prepares the conversation in his head and is patient like a sniper in a nest – he then strikes with precision and accuracy. I’m not quite sure what JUGB plans to do but it always seems to be: say something, panic, say the phrase again in English but with a heavy Spanish accent so thick nobody involved in the situation knows what he is on about. Luke is most definitely the best with me and JUGB lagging behind, but we are still better than Seamus’: “Can I ‘av a botlle of warta mate?”.
After breakfast we went back to the hostel to plan our day. We decided that the best course of action was to head to Sagrada Familia then to Park Guell and finally to the beachfront. We walked to the Sagrada Familia which took about 15 minutes (under my careful leadership and map skills). It is hard to describe our reaction to the Sagrada Familia other than: “Yep, there it is.”. It’s a strange feeling when you actually see a heavily photographed and documented place in reality – I always think it will be somehow better or more awe inspiring but turns out pictures are pretty good at capturing reality[2] so I always find it slightly underwhelming. The Sagrada Familia itself is interesting, it feels like it should be placed at the centre of a theme park or on the set of an alien apocalypse blockbuster. Whatever Gaudi wanted to do the city of Barcelona clearly let him like some sort of Sim City player. I thought that the modernist curves and slightly abrasive spikes represented the Catholic Church more effectively than the regimented and bold architecture of British cathedrals. I felt there was a symmetry between the surrealism of the Sagrada Famila and the surrealism of a fictitious set of principles controlling much of society – just as the Sagrada Famila felt like a governing alien mothership, the Catholic Church very much fufilled the same role. My musings were interrupted by a man selling fake Ray-Bans on a cotton cloth; he said they were very nice and they weren’t bad to be fair to the lad.
We then took the Metro to Park Guell. Whilst on the train Seamus nearly fell asleep, he was working off the back of a 3 day trip to Canada during which, there is photographic evidence of him drinking champagne on stage with DJ Quik. On top of this I’m pretty sure he was battling a stomach bug which he had contracted whilst jumping off bridges – I’m painting a very dynamic character for Seamus but it’s also important to know he spends almost every day sat in a small wooden cabin making music. When at Park Guell we found out it was 7 euros for entry which sickened me to the pit of my being, we all agreed this was a decadent luxury we could ill afford on our budget 20 day trip. As we meandered towards the park we found that you didn’t actually have to pay to have a walk around, only to be let into a sort of inner circle a bit like that circle at the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury that cunts pay for. As we weren’t cunts nor rich we simply walked round the free part of park. As we passed more Gaudi art, men were selling various tat on the side of the path which ranged from bird whistles to a dancing Spongebob[3]. Ivy was enticed by everything they were selling but, like a kid in a candy store, she didn’t possess enough individual wealth to splash out. We reached the centre of the park and were confronted with a brown, contorted set of pillars and, to a certain generation, they were inescapably similar to the Jungle Run set[4]. I did my best kids TV host impression and welcomed the participants to the challenge, then shouted “Right guys let’s go!” and sprinted into the distance. 20m further ahead I turned, expecting to see at least 2 of my friends but was faced by a stony scowl from an elderly American woman and thought that neither she nor my friends were going to get any sick personal games consoles. I waited on a ledge for the four of them to catch up, to be fair to Seamus he was an absolute husk of a man by this point and the going was slow. We gradually hiked up to the highest point. At the zenith of the park was an ant hill shaped raised platform with a path circling it and a crucifix at the top, tourists gathered to take pictures of the Barcelona skyline as the park overlooked the entire city. Dusty rooftops stretched towards a glistening blue sea, an occasional modern skyscraper or spire burst through the desert of red tiling. At the water front a leviathan cruise liner basked in the sunlight surrounded by glass buildings and beaches. Right in the centre of Barcelona was a wooded hill with a magnificent 1800s building sat upon it, I assumed it was some sort of palace or old government building.[5] In the foreground a slightly rundown building had anarchist messages scrawled all over it and women’s faces painted on the walls in the style of British fun fair rides’ art; the style where all the bikini clad women are slightly blurred and heavily airbrushed but really get you in the mood for adrenaline when you’re 2 bottles of Frosty Jack’s deep.[6] The anarchist logo took centrepiece whilst “Fuck the Police” and “Capitalist slaves” lay either side of it. I found it ironic that the people inside the anarchist housing association only knew the cultural significance of the phrase: “Fuck the Police” because of globalist capitalism but if I met them I wouldn’t have mentioned it due to the possible repercussions of getting a lit cigarette rammed in the eye.
Whilst taking in this view, behind me the men selling bric-a-brac had been replaced with a middle aged man wearing zebra leggings playing the guitar. There was never really a tune as such, more of an improvised musical stream of consciousness; like a deranged Miles Davis he would use the chance procedure of different audience members to dictate his performance. This improvisation normally took the form of calling a woman beautiful then screaming “MEOW!” at her for 30 seconds – if you search ‘Turkish man yelling at egg’ on YouTube you will very much get the flavour of this musical display. After taking some pictures and literally running past Miles Davis we took the Metro down to the Dessannes station and walked out onto an avenue right next to the ocean. Me and JUGB saw a signpost for the Maritime Museum and thought it would be a good idea because it would firstly be cool and would be a good opportunity for Seamus to have rest because at that point, around 3pm, he was only present physically and his mind had left him somewhere in the maze of underground train tunnels. Before this resurrection, we needed lunch. We headed for a small supermarket and bought some bread and cheese, Ivy had a liquid lunch of an Estrella which set her back a whopping 85 cents. After walking out into the street I wondered why everyone wasn’t rolling around on the floor knee deep in their own excrement and vomit with alcohol prices so low. I also wondered about the rehydration qualities of beer considering my refreshing orange juice was a whole euro more expensive than Ivy’s beer – I assumed they weren’t very good but a euro is a euro. We ate lunch to the sound of what we assumed was a heroin addict on a heavy come down’s screams. Somebody gave him some juice and he fell asleep shortly after. Luke explained that if he was rich enough to be a heroin addict he would be, I looked at the passed out man and wasn’t so sure.
After lunch, we attempted to head to the Maritime Museum but on our way we passed a modern, white building with its doors open, I’m not sure how or why we entered it we were just drawn to it and we slowly filed in then past the reception then past a curtain into an enormous dark room. Green and purple lights softly scintillated across the room from spotlights way up on the ceiling. Atmospheric ambient music reverberated around the cave room. Seamus identified one of the songs as belonging to Flying Lotus but other than that the music sounded alien. In the centre of the room were 4 leather sofas. Me, Luke and Seamus laid down and Seamus instantly fell asleep. The whole room was entirely peaceful, the experience would not be out of place in an art film about existence or a stylised educational depiction of the beginning of the universe – I wouldn’t bat an eye if I found out the room was based on a Kubrickian vision of death. JUGB and Ivy either became bored or curious and took a glass elevator to the next floor or more fittingly: transcended to higher state of being (that was located on the second floor). After maybe 20 minutes me and Luke rose from our dazed state, decided that trying to wake Seamus from his coma would do more harm than good also transcended to the second floor. The first exhibition was a series of subverted mathematical graphs, the antithesis between pure artistic expression and numerical boundary was interesting but didn’t change my life. The next room consisted of frosted plastic boxes on walls containing gradually changing light schemes. The overall effect was one of harmony and it was aesthetically pleasing but after 30 minutes of atmospheric tranquillity you probably could have shown me and Luke a bouncing ball and we would have came in our pants. The next room was in the same vain as the previous room filled with coloured boxes except this time the pattern of colours projected onto the walls were remotely controlled by two iPads that patrons could play with. None of mine and Luke’s creations were particularly meaningful but the immersion of the installation was enjoyable and we stayed for maybe 10 minutes just smashing our fingers on a bit of glass. The final room was a 45 minute film that seemed to explore the relationship between eye and camera. The entire film was subtitled in Spanish but half of the voiceover was in English and the other half in French. The film itself was a Victorian style physiological autopsy assessment in which a doctor mechanically examined a naked bearded man. The bulk of the film was broken up by shots of a roaming modern camera and other cameramen also with cameras. The English voiceovers were clearly intended to be placed together to form an intellectual essay from a machine’s point of view. The essay included humorous truisms about the fallacies of human experience and an unrelenting rhetoric of technological superiority. It was difficult to understand what the French essay was about but it dealt with many of the same issues, perhaps from the human perspective. The nature of the film was relatively poignant but the thing we all took away from it was the naked guy had massive balls. We went back to the ground floor and found Seamus where we left him, picking him up was similar to the climax of a Studio Ghibli film where the hero must find somebody’s soul deep within a dreamscape and return it to their body – we gave him the kiss of life and left for the beach.
[1] I probably would have.
[2] Who’d have thought it? Not me, personally.
[3] These items were equally impressive. I still don’t know how the Spongebob was dancing.
[4] Not sure exactly which series this specific set item appeared in but I know it was when the angry white dude hosted the show before Michael Underwood got involved and it all went a little bit soft – if those kids aren’t getting those monkeys quick enough they need to fucking know.
[5] This isn’t a travel guide and I am not an expert.
[6] I assume this is the case because there MUST be a reason for this art choice.
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