#and has the aforementioned. Bat infestation | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

throwaninkpot · 4 years

Text

There were so many better things I could have done with my time instead of doing a targeted relisten of all episodes that feature Mikaele Salesa, but here we are.

Some notes!

MAG014 - Piecemeal

there's not much here. a victim of The Flesh is losing parts of their body, and tries to strike a deal with Salesa for...something...presumably an artifact that he thinks will save or protect him. but he can't afford it, and is killed by the statement giver shortly after.

MAG038 - Lost and Found

"several crates packed to the brim full of heavy looking volumes" Leitners?

statement giver is struck by Salesa's laugh and isn't sure why; this is a Spiral episode.

thank God Salesa is no longer in possession of the vase, bc I swear, I swear, if it so much as sat on an end table in the same room as Martin or Jon, I would have crawled through my phone to drop the ding dang thing off a building and let it shatter below.

it's in his post-statement notes, while discussing Salesa and how he sells a large amount of artifacts to the Institute, that Jon spots the spider that he smashes, causing him to accidentally break through the wall and discover Jane Prentiss's worms as they prepare to invade the building. which feels significant, given the spider-filled company he seems to be keeping now.

MAG045 - Blood Bag

here's where things get interesting. the statement giver works in a lab studying mosquitos to find a preventative measure against them spreading malaria. the statement giver's boss is distantly related to a doctor who helped stop a cholera pandemic way back when. the boss owns an antique syringe case that belonged to that doctor, and then sells that item to Salesa to help fund this project. it's only after the syringe is sold that things start to go Wrong, and the mosquitos obviously become agents of The Corruption.

why is that interesting? when a statement features an artifact, usually The Fears only show up when that item enters the story, not when the artefact leaves it. The Corruption only starts to infect the mosquitos after the boss no longer has the syringe. especially with its connection to a man who stopped the spread of a disease, the syringe almost plays the part of a talismen against evil in this story, and with it gone, they have lost that protection. which is a curious flip for Salesa (known Cursed Artifact Dealer) to have bought something that might ward off The Fears rather than something that works for them.

MAG066 - Held in Customs

when the statement giver opens the box in Salesa's cargo (an artifact probably equal parts Buried and Lonely), and finds it empty, Salesa looks concerned. I always interpret that as he used to have someone in the box, but the box ate them already.

he warns the statement giver not to fall asleep (as a precaution against waking up to find himself in the box? as a survival tip for when he finds himself in the box?) which reminds me of Gerry trying to help various people survive the Fears, but he also placed a bet with Peter Lukas on whether or not the statement giver would survive, bc might as well get some fun out of it. Salesa contains multitudes.

"whatever this grand game is, Salesa is definitely involved. I just wish I knew whether he was a player or a pawn, or something else entirely." HMMM.

MAG115 - Taking Stock

statement from Salesa himself!

I relistened to Leitner's statement to double-check, and I'm pretty sure Salesa is the only surviving assistant from Leitner's library.

I don't have a lot of thoughts for this one, but get you a man who is so good to his crew that they help him cover up a spooky death without batting an eye.

MAG141 - Doomed Voyage

"he always used to say, he needed a crew to follow him out of trust, not fear" I don't know if this is just the fact I see this same sentiment over and over in Web!Martin fics, but, this reminds me of The Web.

"I don’t know exactly what was different but the whole mood of the ship was off. Kind of sour, somehow. I think it must have been Salesa. Everything always kind of… reflected him. You know people like that? When he was happy, satisfied, everything seemed to run smooth. When he was angry, everyone would be on edge, irritable." hmmm, again: The Web? maybe?

"Once found [Salesa] poring over an old photo album. The ship was there in the pictures, but a different captain, different crew. I asked him who they were, and he just looked at me, eyes sunken like hadn’t slept, and for a second I felt like he was seeing someone else, not me. But then he just shrugged. 'Dead now,' he said, 'doesn’t really matter.' " Hmmmm. what happened to your old crew, mister Salesa, sir?

I wonder if there is a connection between the photo album of his old crew, the final job which is procurring an old camera with a cracked lense, and the fact Salesa's ship is called The Dorian (as in, "The Picture of Dorian Gray").

speaking of the camera. We see the same thing here that happened in MAG045. Salesa and a handful of crew members go to an island to retrieve an artifact. they come back with the aforementioned old camera with a cracked lense, having lost two of the crew members that went with him. and, now the camera is out of its former owner's possession, a storm starts brewing over the island. lightning strikes the trees, and the statement giver can see some vast (nudge nudge) creature below the water surrounding the island, beginning to break the surface. the statement giver falls to the deck of the ship as they sail away, and when he looks back, the island and storm are gone.

just like how The Corruption began to infest the mosquitos once Salesa bought the syringe, The Vast goes after this island once Salesa takes the camera off of it.

CoincidenceIThinkNot.Meme

idk. this is probably me reading too much into it. but it's not entirely impossible that Salesa has been collecting artifacts that ward against The Fears somehow. and if he is, I wonder if that has something to do with how seemingly untouched his manor house has been by the Fearpocalypse.

anyway. when Salesa supposedly dies in an explosion, we only have the captain's word for it (who dies soon after himself). so he might have faked his death.

(and you know what they say. if one cool tank-top-wearing man survived the explosion that supposedly killed him, it's not entirely out of the realm of possibilities that another cool tank-top-wearing man may return from his relaxing kayaking trip. 👀) (I don't really think Tim will come back, but it's nice to dream.)

#tma spoilers #mikaele salesa #the magnus archives #theories #this has been a post

104 notes · View notes

pillsxcoffee · 3 years

Text

Short Story: “The Barkeep”

Each moment of our lives presents an excuse to pursue control. We sit in its grips and seek it while occasionally becoming validated by perceived successes at the practice. The idea of control is the biggest lie that the universe has ever sold us. But without its presence, who are we? I have often wondered why societies failed attempts at control result in such destruction and separation. My only guess is that it brings us down to size and allows us to descend further towards chaos. Our imperfections give our perfect world its imperfect equilibrium, and I believe that it has to be that way.

My attempts at deciphering control from the acceptance, the true from the false, the power to the power-less has led me right here, writing this all out for you. They may call this a manifesto of sorts. They will call me crazy, perhaps mentally ill, they will not remember their part, but they will remember the name, place, and time of the day when I finally broke down and said, "what am I to do?"

The evening began normally enough. I was sitting in a dive writing out my arduous truths while purposely sipping on a margarita that was far too sugary. My weathered glass stained a displeasing opaque brown. It was here where I began to consider my own mortality. At my misery's behest, I requested another. I downed half the glass before placing the drink on a crinkled, disgraced, and damp napkin that read: Cabalo Cantina, Just Like Paradise. While analyzing this feeble attempt at memorable marketing, the barkeep waltzed up to me and stared with an invasive gaze, his brow acutely furrowed. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost or witnessed something traumatic. He rotated himself towards the illuminated bar where bottles upon bottles of liquid relief occupied the splintering walnut shelves. Taking down a sorry excuse for top-shelf mezcal, he proceeded to grab a set of tumblers and swiftly pour two generous shots. He pushed one my way.

"Drink up, buddy. We're gonna need it."

He threw back the drink with an exaggerated gulp; it was almost like he wanted it to hurt. He winced, removed his Cabalo Cantina apron stained by bitters, rolled up the apron, and spiked it on the ground with surprising force.

"I can make ten times in a week on the trawler than I can here in a month. The tequila here is shit anyway."

Nobody batted an eye. He started through the tacky, Christmas light-infested archway and out the tinted double doors. Briefly, I was reminded of my father. I wished I had remembered what he looked like, but all I remember is that he, too, worked on a boat. He caught tuna deep in the unforgiving waters of the Atlantic. Thankfully, these thoughts were quickly supplanted by the view of the drink in front of me. I followed the dearly departed's lead with a shot of my own before returning to my notepad. If this is paradise, I would hate to see what hell is like.

After two more margaritas, I noticed the illuminated clock branded by some obscure Mexican beer company that I had never heard of: 12:50 PM, last call. I didn't need it; better to cap the night off at home anyway. I decided to exit the fluorescent arch and start my walk home. As the doors sealed behind me, I turned left to head to my flat. With my notepad carefully tucked against my breast pocket, I wobbled down the sidewalk. The street danced with a hand from the dimmed lights overhead, which created a greasy, orange hue. I made my way towards the day's end.

As the pavement moved beneath me, the streets became less illuminated and more littered. I began to pick up the familiar putrid stench that coated the air. It was musky, thick, and sour. The smell reminded me of last year's charter out of Chatham; towards the end of the trip, the men became more offensive than the dead fish. Vagrants, beggars, tramps, and drifters proceeded to voice their typical pitches in hopes of finding a generous passerby. I didn't have anything to give them, but I would tell them to get lost if I did have some money in my pocket. Tonight, I stayed quiet, however. We were all in the same boat, one which appeared to be taking on some serious water.

Since I'll be gone by the time this reaches curious eyes, I have particular freedoms that I don't have while wasting away in the outside world. The only thing that is truly mine in this world is my secrets. Even though therapists, social workers, and the like have told me that I am only as sick as my particular omissions. Even if I wanted to share them (which I don't), I wouldn't know where to begin. The darkness harbored under the surface of those truths is a prison, far worse than the one that I would be sent to if they only knew. I have never been known for my veracity; I prefer to live in the realm of the obscure.

To understand the breadth of my circumstances, I provided a bit of a picture in the aforementioned "memoir," It is strictly for your eyes only, and I hope that it adds some context. For those not privy to my life story, I would like to acknowledge that I believe myself or my story to be unique in no way. Despite how much I would like to think that my experiences are so different in contrast to those around me, it simply is not the truth.

As I approached my apartment, I engaged in my predictable anticipatory sigh before entering the lobby. Whenever I get home, I remember what my life is and what it is not. I am reminded of the loss, both monetary and personal, that has occurred at my hand. I try my best to accept present circumstances for what they are, but living in the moment has never been my strong suit. The best that I can do at any given moment is to give in and recognize things for what they are: shit. Luckily, I always have some writing to do; it's what keeps me busy.

At this very moment, I am staring blankly at my laptop screen, which continues to mock me for all of my literary atrocities. Perhaps if I don't end up in prison, Oxford will have something to say. Strange sensations overcome me when I'm with myself at night. I don't become tired, but there's a particular energy that overcomes me, but for whatever reason, I am unable to move. This type of paralysis brings the only semblance of normalcy in my life.

My body feels like it needs to run away. I become stimulated and overwhelmed by feelings I cannot describe. I want to rise up and move, but Newtons' third law has other plans, so I remain still. I have come to embrace this purgatorial, dream-like state that overtakes me. I see visions of the past that seem manufactured specifically for my broken mind to consume. I call them my "could have been," the way that I wish things would have gone. I close my eyes and see a young boy.

He looks and sounds like me, even has that 2-inch scar above his right eyelid, but he is not me. He is smiling, he is talking, he is with his father, and he is happy. I can see him resting on the edge of a broad, aluminum dock. He seems comfortable watching all of the boats set sail in search of that next big haul. He sits next to his father, a slender man of 40 or so who looks far more seasoned than his age suggests. The two have considerable space between them, yet they appear to have some bond I cannot relate to. For the first time, I can see some communication beginning to form. I can hear his father as he turns to his son and says, "my boy, if you will listen to anything I ever say, make it this. There is nothing in this world that is certain. Many men consider themselves experts of their crafts, leaders of enterprise, and patriarchs of their family, yet they practice utter ignorance towards the truth." The eerily familiar boy looks back at his father with interest, "what is the truth then, dad?" A strenuous pause ensued. The tired old man brought himself upright and looked at his trawler docked several feet away. "Nobody really knows anything. Nobody really knows." The man handed his son a tattered notebook with a tan leather casing, "there are more truths within these pages. These are for you, son. Read as much as you see fit, read until you no longer need to, and then begin to forge your own beliefs."

The boy stayed silent while accepting this unexpected parting gift from his father. He remained dockside, salty waves kissing his narrow, swaying feet. He opened up his new notebook, the first page read:

He stands within the confines of his vessel

Between himself and normalcy is a one way mirror

The room is soundproof

Bustling passerby are aware of his existence, yet they are unable to make a connection

It is not their fault - he understands this

His only weapon is his voice.

He yells

Howls for an attentive ear. Anyone

Only to realize that relief will be found in his silence

But only until it kills him.

Reflection allows him to see the truth.

That the vessel is of his own design

He accepts that.

Maybe it is never too late.

The little boy, who now seems more familiar to me, remains locked in place, confused, and not understanding much of his father's writings. He feels ashamed and stupid and reads the poem once more. After his second attempt at reading this vague prose, he hesitantly peeks up, expecting his father to still be somewhat visible in the distance. He is not. The crawler has made its way, the silhouette of the faraway ship begins to mingle with the horizon. Now, it is only the red masthead light that is visible. The boy becomes angry, tears out his father's words, crumples up the paper, and tosses it in the ocean, sure that it will never be seen again. He sits back down on the dock's edge, starting at the next page that simply reads: Just Another Day in Paradise. I wake up. I remember that boy now.

End.

TBC...

#short story #writers on tumblr #writer #fiction #poets on tumblr #poetsandwriters #my writing #pillsandcoffee #psychological

1 note · View note

spiderdreamer-blog · 3 years

Text

Batman: Soul of the Dragon

Batman: The Animated Series/DCAU creator Bruce Timm has had less of a full creative voice in many of the recent DC animated DTV films than one might think; he’s had little or nothing to do with the Nu52 film line that recently ended with Justice League Dark: Apokolips War, and his own endeavors outside of that have been decidedly mixed. Sometimes, we get a fun darker-edged Elseworlds tale like Justice League: Gods and Monsters, or the always welcome DC Showcase shorts centered on lesser-known characters like Sgt. Rock or The Phantom Stranger. Other times, we get things like the bafflingly misconceived adaptation of The Killing Joke or the so-mediocre-I-can’t-even-be-mad-at-it Gotham By Gaslight. Thankfully, Batman: Soul of the Dragon is far more in keeping with the former category in its delightful 70s genre cocktail, blending high-energy performance with terrific action and style.

Secret agent Richard Dragon (voiced by longtime fight scene legend Mark Dacascos) has discovered a plot by the Kobra cult and its leader Jeffrey Burr (Josh Keaton, playing WAY against type) to open the Gate, a portal leading to a realm of snake demons ruled over by the devilish Naga (it’s that kind of movie). Dragon has a past with the Gate, and he heads to Gotham City to recruit old friend Bruce Wayne (Grimm’s David Giuntoli), who has become Batman since their time together as students at the mystical mountain realm of Nanda Parbat under O-Sensei (James Hong). Together, they track down fellow old classmates Lady Shiva (Kelly Hu), now the crime lord of Gotham’s Chinatown, and Ben “Bronze Tiger” Turner (Michael Jai White, putting a Black Dynamite spin on a character he previously played under much different circumstances on Arrow). Together, they must stop Burr and his minions from unleashing the aforementioned snake demonpocalypse.

If I sound a little amused at the excesses on display, it’s because I very much am. More than perhaps any other animated Batman media before it, this most resembles what the comics were becoming in the 1970s under writers like the late Denny O’Neill (who gets a dedication here) that took the character onto a far more global and pulp adventure stage than the noir-infested streets of Gotham with the introduction of indelible villains like Ra’s Al Ghul. There’s snake-men, mystical swords, Dragon has received a Bruce Lee-esque makeover (he’s Causcasian in the comics), Ben naturally has an afro, the Batmobile is a sports car Steve McQueen could’ve driven, and we even receive an affecting cameo from Silver St. Cloud, Bruce’s often-seen girlfriend from the 70s runs, to bring the point home. It’s all played in the proper spirit, with Joachim Horsley’s score even getting in on the fun with plenty of funk riffs and John Barry stylings, especially in the Bondian opening credits sequence. Jeremy Adams’ script displays the proper amount of wit and twistiness to boot, with everyone getting to crack wise and have their moments of badassery. It also makes good use of a flashback structure, cutting between past and present in significant and clever ways until all plot points merge for a rousing finale. Though an early scene where Burr dispatches a sex worker through a snake pit is perhaps the only jarring note in the film; creepy and effective, certainly, but it leaves an unpleasant taste in one’s mouth. Better is a later false reassurance towards a group of children he plans to do a blood sacrifice with.

The cast is excellent across the board, which has not always been the case for these outings, but voice director Wes Gleason, to his credit, has hit his stride for the past several and deserves credit for coaxing not-overblown 70s-style performances out of the cast much in the same way Andrea Romano made the adaptation of Darwyn Cooke’s The New Frontier sound like The 50s without falling into stiff caricature. Giuntoli in particular is a pleasant surprise; there have been many Bat-voices, not all of them good, but he finds a nice middle ground of a young and fairly fresh-to-Batmaning Bruce with the familiar authority and presence that can nevertheless be undercut for a laugh (his best moment is a hesitant “I’m...working up to it” when asked why he hasn’t taken down Shiva as a criminal yet). Dacascos has always radiated charisma onscreen and proves to be a cheerfully vibrant Dragon, suave but relatable; he easily steals the film for me. Kelly Hu makes good use of her natural deadpan as Shiva, by turns funny matter-of-fact and totally badass, and White, as he did with Black Dynamite, makes what could have come off as an unfortunate stereotype into something real and distinct; his re-introduction is a quite lovely show of character growth in particular. Hong, a legend who needs no introduction, is a delight in two parts, first as the wise but eccentric mentor, second as the Naga-possessed shell who hams it up accordingly. And while Keaton has played villains before, none have been quite so unnerving in their combination of neuroses and god complex. Several VA ringers fill out the numbers nicely: Erica Luttrell gets one of the better sincere emotional beats in the film as the aforementioned Silver, while Jamie Chung is charmingly petulant as a more heroic version of Jade “Cheshire” Nyugen. Chris Cox has a fun couple of beats with a traitorous zealot, Robin Atkin Downes goes full villainous German as the creepy henchman Schlangenfaust, Patrick Seitz booms out a funny comeuppance scene as a cocky bouncer (and shows off a faux-British accent as a snooty opponent later on), and Grey Griffin does her ice queen routine to great effect.

Visually, the film is excellent, matching the modernized Timm style to the requisite 70s fashions and technology; I liked Bruce’s wall of TV screens in his penthouse being this story’s equivalent to the Batcave. Studio Mir, of course no stranger to great animated fight scenes, accentuates the choreography wonderfully, adding a great deal of snap and character to already well-staged scenes. A particular highlight comes with a fight where Shiva is instructed to only use one finger in her defense, and this goes about as poorly for her opponent as you’d expect. I was pleased also that it didn’t go overboard with the gore and violence, despite its R rating; it’s there, certainly, but far from how excessive it’s occasionally felt in other DC animated ventures.

Batman: Soul of the Dragon is easily one of my favorite of these films in a long time. In particular, I appreciated how Batman is nearly a supporting character, facilitating the others’ extravagance as more of a straight man, though he still gets plenty of good moments (one scene between him and O-Sensei is one of the best summations of the character’s core in ANY creative work, animated or otherwise, I’ve ever witnessed). Also, it has to be said that the ending of this in particular is a blatant and delightful sequel hook that I’d absolutely be onboard to see fulfilled. With the New 52 era behind us, hopefully we’ll get far more stories like this in the wild and strangest corners of the DC universe.

#batman: soul of the dragon #dc comics #dc animation #batman #richard dragon #bronze tiger #lady shiva #movie review #analysis

1 note · View note

tickletastic · 5 years

Text

The Golden Retrievers

Title: The Golden Retrievers

Rating: G/SFW

Warnings:N/A

Word Count: 1476

Fandom: Marvel

Ship: N/A

Summary: Nothing is normal the way it was before the snap, but new bonds are made and friendships grow stronger. A particularly unique bond occurs between three giddy heroes, and they help everyone realize that maybe the new normal is better than the old one.

The months following Thanos’ defeat and the reversal of the snap, things were going back to normal, or at least as normal as they could be. One difference that Tony couldn’t find himself minding was the state of the tower. Since the reversal of the snap, the avengers had grown a lot clingier to each other, and they had been spending far more time at the tower. Tony noticed that even heroes who had previously never been to the tower decided to stick around. He found it alright, he had plenty of room for more heroes.

A unique friendship emerged as a result of the sudden unity between heroes, a friendship that Sam fondly referred to as ‘The Golden Retrievers’; Peter Parker, Peter Quill and Scott Lang. Every weekend they could be found in the game room, or in the theatre room, having a blast. Tony would occasionally overhear heated debates between the three of them, about old films or arcade games, and Steve once found the three of them cuddled under a blanket fort sleeping, The Breakfast Club coming to an end in the background. Natasha once overheard loud laughter, and peeked her head into the games room, seeing Scott tickling the older Peter, and the younger Peter, who they had decided would be Pete or Petey for clarity, cheered, claiming ‘that’s what happens to cheaters’.

It was cute how close the three of them had become. After enough observations made by Sam and Bucky, the two of them had decided that the trio was like a group of excited puppies. `Bucky thought that Peter’s personality was enough to give him a sugar rush, but seeing the three of them together and bonding was diabetes-inducing.

With Scott around so often, Cassie had grown close to the others too, especially Morgan and Shuri, who would often visit to show Peter and Cassie her new inventions.

One night, Tony had invited a majority of the heroes to dinner, and with a decent turn out, everyone was talking and having a great time. After Tony realized he would be having more company around after they saved the world, he had expanded one of the tower’s kitchens, adding tables, giving it somewhat of a diner feel.

Tony was standing behind the island that separated the appliances and counters from the booths and tables, taking in the sight of his friends, new and old, coming together for a rare occasion where they could all relax, without worrying about saving the world.

“Never thought this day would come, huh?” A new voice inquired, approaching Tony’s side.

“No, I never would have imagined this,” Tony began, looking over at Steve, “It feels like a dream, a moment where we’re all okay, and none of us are getting killed or trying to kill each other. It feels nice.”

Steve hummed in agreement, taking a sip of his drink and placing it on the island next to Tony’s.

“Hey Steve, come over here for a sec!” Bucky called from the corner of the room.

“Duty calls,” Steve chuckled, retrieving his drink again, “Have some fun Tony, you’ve earned it.” Steve raised his drink as if giving a cheers, before turning and walking towards Bucky, T’Challa and Bruce.

Tony found his way to Peter, Pete and Scott’s booth, where Cassie, Shuri and Morgan were sitting at a table nearby.

Once Tony slid into the booth next to Quill, opposite the antman and the spiderman, Morgan ran towards him, jumping onto his lap. “Daddy, daddy, look! Shuri and Cassie helped me paint my fingernails!” Morgan exclaimed excitedly, shooting her fingers up in the air.

Tony examined the flowery design and laughed, grabbing the smaller hands within his own. “Wow, those are really nice, Cassie and Shuri did quite the job.” Tony complimented, looking up as the aforementioned teens pulled their seats up to the booth.

While Tony admired Morgan’s nails, the topic of Footloose was brought up again between the two Peters.

“Footloose is, and has always been the best movie of all time,” The guardian pushed, “Any other opinion is just invalid.”

“What are you, 80? So many better movies have come out since Footloose, and even before Footloose. With the way you’re talking, you sound like you could have met the dinosaurs at Jurassic Park.” The teen argued back, his tone snarkier than Tony was used to, he recognized his mentee’s attempts at provoking the older Peter.

“Hey, I have you know I think Footloose is a great movie too, and as much as Cassie would argue it, I wasn’t alive to see the extinction of dinosaurs.” Scott stated, feigning offense.

“Sorry, this whole time I thought Cap and Mr. Barnes were the only ones old enough to be grandpas,” Peter teased, a goofy smirk on his face.

“Hey, watch yourself Pete!” The winter soldier called from the other side of the room, as the teen covered his face in order to stifle his laughter.

“Kid, you’re really pushing it,” Quill warned, a smirk on his face too. Suddenly the tabletop shook, and the smirk on the younger Peter’s face was replaced by a giant smile.

“Hehey! Stop thahat!” Peter huffed, trying to move his knees away from the fingers he could feel spidering up and down them. “Mihister Stahark help!”

“Hey girls, do you hear that? I think Pepper just said there’s ice cream, lets go get some.” Tony diverted, putting Morgan on his shoulders. Cassie laughed, following close behind, touching Morgan’s fingers to make sure her nails had dried.

“Good luck Peter, I think you might need it.” Shuri gave her well-wishes before following the group over to Pepper at the freezer.

“Petey, this could end whenever you want it to, you just gotta take back calling us old.” Starlord notified the teen, his fingers finding their way to the back of the teen’s knees.

Peter was giggling, but he had himself under control… That is until Scott’s fingers started spidering frantically up and down his ribs. His laughter rose in volume, and he found that Scott, being a skilled tickler because of Cassie, knew how to get every one of his sensitive spots. “Nohoho! Mister Lahahang!”

Pete tried his best to bat at the hands of his attackers, but 20 fingers on his tickle spots was making it quite the task.

Clint heard the familiar laughter from across the room, and looked towards the source, a fond smile making its way to his face as he let out a chuckle. The trio were like three peas in a pod, and following the weeks after their victory over Thanos, the three of them managed to lighten the previously dark mood.

Back at the booth, Pete had thrown his head back and Scott let his fingers wiggle over the backs of his ribs. For some reason the teen didn’t mind the playful touches, and he wasn’t ready to apologize, but he was still gonna attempt to grab their hands and squirm like hell.

“Wanna apologize yet, kid?” Scott asked, soft giggles eliciting from Peter as Scott’s fingers met his collarbones.

“Fohohor whahat?” Peter snarked, trying to scrunch up his shoulder to avoid the tickly fingers.

Peter Quill had managed to pinch the teen’s side from his position across the table, avoiding the knees that were attempting to stop his hands from under the table.

The young hero was holding out until he felt knowing fingers touch his tummy, and his thrashing increased. His laughter had grown to be a fit of hysterical giggles, like a dam he couldn’t stop, and he desperately tried to catch the hands. “HEHEY! PLEHEASE NO!”

Pete heard Scott tell his accomplice to take over his tummy, and he suddenly felt hands on his shoulder blades too, a spot almost as bad.

The teen frantically shook his head back and forth, succumbing to his laughter. “Ehehehe! PLEHEASE!”

“Aww, c’mon Petey, just say you’re sorry and we’re done. This must tickle an awful lot.”

“IHIHIM SOHOHOREHEHE!” Peter squealed, hiccups infesting his adorable laughter.

“Wait, now say Footloose is an amazing movie,” The older Peter added, continuing his torture. This went on for a couple minutes, the spiderman laughing hysterically as a few tears escaped his eyes and he vehemently denied the quality of Footloose, until the older Peter felt hands under his arms, detracting his fingers quickly in an attempt to protect himself.

“Hehey!” The Starlord chuckled, trying to turn around. Scott had mostly let up on his torture, his hands gently running over the teen’s neck in order to keep a light stream of giggles.

“I’m alright with you torturing my kid for an apology, but just a blatant lie? That’s where I gotta draw the line Quill.” Tony spoke, stopping the torture to return to his previous spot in the booth, ice cream and bowls accompanying him. Everybody calmed down, Scott laughing at the adorable sight of the younger Peter recovering from the tickle attack.

They returned to their usual shenanigans, and it didn’t take long for another playful argument to ensue, this time on the topic of ice cream flavours.

Maybe nothing would ever be normal like it was before Thanos, but all the heroes seemed to like their new definition of normal more.

113 notes · View notes

internaljiujitsu · 4 years

Text

F*%! FEAR: 6 Steps To Becoming Fearless

I lived in fear for forty years. It felt like weakness — as if there was something wrong with me that made me more scared than everyone else. My mother would always tell me about how sickly I was when I was born. How I stayed at the hospital for a month afterwards and how my aunt just barely saved me from dying once (so I guess I was kind of on borrowed time). I hated eating as a kid and was really skinny, adding to my weak mystique. In school, what I now know was anxiety would create psychosomatic illnesses. I’d feel sick, but it was all in my head. Stomach aches, dizziness, shortness of breath — It frustrated my dad — especially when he’d have to come pick me up from school again because I was freaking out on the inside.

We grew up watching the crack epidemic take over our neighborhood. The drug dealers did their business out of the fourth floor of our building. My brother and I would sweep up crack vials on the weekends to get our allowance from the superintendent — our dad. The tiny plastic cylinders with colorful caps filled the dustpan as we swept the roach infested vestibule leading down to the spooky, filthy basement.

Several young immigrants that had just arrived from Mexico were found dead over the years in the building next door, where Dad was also the super. Death from unnatural causes was a very real thing where we lived. Around age eight or nine, my alcoholic uncle, who lived in a storage room in the aforementioned basement (and would sometimes walk me to school), was killed when he fell while trying to climb a building to get to his ex girlfriend. I was about ten when our close family friend’s son, a squeaky clean kid visiting from the marine corp, was murdered defending a girl in the playground. At eleven or twelve, I watched my best friend’s dad kill a guy in an argument over a prostitute.

When I was fourteen, I was mugged at gunpoint around the corner from my family’s apartment. My big brother, wielding a large, rusty machete, took me around the entire neighborhood that night looking for the robber. The dude had worn a mask, so my brother put the blade to every thug’s neck that we passed on the street and asked me to look him deep in the eyes. They all knew my brother and respected him. They pleaded for mercy. Thankfully, we never found the guy.

That kind of shit was common in my old neighborhood. Baseball bats were swung in search of skulls and group rumbles were still a thing. I had family members snorting coke in front of me by the time I was in the fourth grade (and immediately making me promise I’d never do the same). Forty ounce bottles of beer were smashed over people’s heads in street fights. My crackhead cousin once robbed a dude using my favorite toy gun. He confessed to me when I found the gun broken and complained to him about it. Bullets fired from roof tops for fun whizzed through the ganja heavy air. It feels like we fought every day at school. That big yellow bus was like the fucking octogan.

We finally moved out of that neighborhood when I was sixteen after a gunfight forced our entire family to jump behind a parked car for cover. That shit was stressful. I was jumpy as hell. It didn’t help that Mom and Dad were very old school disciplinarians, if you know what I mean. There were fights outside and fights inside — all the time. I was always scared.

And that’s how I continued to grow up — I just didn’t show it, or let it stop me from fighting. When it was time to throw down in the street or at school, I always did. Partially because I knew my badass big brother would disown me if he heard I punked out. Backing down meant you were a victim. I once accidentally stepped on his buddy’s shoe and apologized. I’ll never forget what the guy said, “You never say sorry. It makes you look weak.” But a man’s sneakers were sacred in the hood, and I sure as hell never looked for a fight — unless I was channeling big brother.

He loved throwing the first punch and bragged about knocking guys out cold at night clubs — until a near death experience and one hundred and fifty stitches thanks to razor blade slashes made him reconsider his life choices. I’ll never forget when the call came in the middle of the night. I don’t remember why I answered the phone instead of my parents, but the voice on the other end is clear as day, “Your brother has been stabbed.” At that moment I thought the worst, and was relieved to see him gingerly walking through the door later that morning, battered, bruised and slashed to bits — but alive.

When I pretended to be my brother, I wasn’t above throwing a preemptive strike. We all had it in us. Hell, my dad was known to go into some destructive ass kicking rages when people pissed him off. I certainly tried my best not to get on his sizable bad side. Mom and sis aren’t exactly shrinking violets either.

My recurring nightmare as a child was of me walking down a beautiful tree lined street, the very one I always wanted to live on. It was only a few blocks from our shithole, but felt like a world away. In the dream, as I reluctantly step, there is the overwhelming feeling that someone is hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack. I’m petrified to move forward, but I keep going — slowly heading toward the inevitable. It was terrifying torture.

I don’t remember ever actually seeing the attacker. I’ve attached a bunch of meaning to that dream ever since, but at the root was my fear. For most of my life I moved forward, steadily but fearfully. I did things that made me want to shit my pants and forced my way through, hating every minute. In retrospect, these all helped build toughness and character, as did my old neighborhood, but the fear persisted. I became a bouncer, champion bodybuilder and an expert martial artist, but felt like a fraud for the unease that was my base level.

It wasn’t until I took these seven steps that terror’s grip on me loosened. Fear doesn’t have to be your enemy. If you learn how to use it, it will energize your actions and help you break past limitations. But first, you have to acknowledge that it’s there.

Accept that you and everyone you know will die. There’s no way around it. Yeah, it’s bleak, but if you wanna live in denial of death, you’re liable to swallow a bunch of bullshit to ease your mind. At its core, all fear is fear of death. When I was a kid, I hated when anyone brought up dying, especially my parents. The uncertainty was too overwhelming. There’s nothing more worthless than fear of the inevitable. It took me a couple of years of suicidal depression, meditation and time in sensory deprivation tanks to get comfortable with the idea of not existing. The tank feels like you’re floating in the womb. It’s pitch black, soundproof and the water is the same temperature as your body, so it feels lke there’s no separation. You and the enviornment become one. It’s blissfully peacful. Sure, I don’t want to die right now because I’m loving life, but I know it will happen one day — and I hope to enjoy that ride as much as I’m enjoying this one.

You’re not your personality. It’s easy to feel like a single, solitary soul drifting in a vast sea of faces. Valuing our individuality as we do, many of us strive to be unique while others do their best to blend into the collective. The way I see it, we’re all the current that powers these appliances we call our bodies. I feel like I’ve lived several separate lives filled with rich, distinct experiences and at the end of each, I mourned the death of an identity. While it feels like I was different people, the throughline was the same. The real me didn’t change. Our personalities are just things made up by our circumstances. They’re the features of the toaster. We’re the electricity that makes it work. I had to lose everything I had built to figure that one out. Once my marriage, home, business, students, money and identity were gone, it was just me — I had to be OK with that.

Your ego is not your life. Learning how to lose isn’t about being resound to failure. Losing is vital because it’s the only way to discover that life will go on when you do. The first time I lost something when I was sure I’d win was devastating. Everything I believed about myself was shattered. My invincibility was gone. Once I realized that defeat wasn’t death and the people that mattered would love me either way, I began to enjoy every aspect of competition instead of only focusing on the result. It wasn’t until I stopped giving a shit that things clicked. Being afraid of the embarrassment of failure is guaranteed to keep you from enjoying success.

Forgive your fear. Far worse than being afraid was my sense of shame. I hated that I wasn’t brave, like the thugs in my neighborhood. To me, being tough meant never being scared. As I became dedicated to martial arts and more interested in understanding fear, I realized that all those guys were probably just as scared as me. It would have been abnormal for me not to be afraid. The environment was so consistently charged with the potential for violence that I frequently lived in a survival state. Getting out unscaved would have taken a level of psychopathy I didn’t possess. When I forgave the little kid I was for being afraid, the shame melted away and the residual fear soon followed.

Whatever happens, everything always works out. You always know you’re in the right place because that’s where you are. No matter what, the world will keep moving on. It will do the same thing it’s doing now when you’re gone. You don’t need to worry quite so much about making the wrong choice when you accept that it doesn’t really matter what choice you make. Yes, of course you matter, your family will miss you and you’re a beautiful soul — all that jazz. But in the end, the world will continue to unfold, and the Earth will be incinirated by the sun — so fuck it. Embrace the experience but don’t cling to any result.

Step up. A sure fire way to kick fear’s ass is to look it in the eye and blow it a kiss. Fear is a bully. It’s all talk. It will try to shout you down until you grovel your way back to mediocrity. Pick something you’re afraid of and do it! Don’t try to not be afraid. Be afraid and do it anyway. But here’s the important part: Smile while you’re doing it. For me, it was roller coasters. I hated them as a kid. They terrified me, and each time I got on one, I regretted every click up to the top. The thought was always the same, “Why did I get talked into this? Let me off!” I never enjoyed the ride, closing my eyes tight and clenching my body until the hellish few seconds was over. One day, I decided that roller coasters represented the fear I wanted to conquer, so I got on the legendary Cyclone. It’s the old, rickety wooden monster at Coney Island in Brooklyn. The thing screeched a death knell and I loved it! I forced myself to smile from the moment I sat in the seat. I told myself that if that car came off the track, I was gonna soak in my final moments. I was sick and tired of being afraid of fear. My mindset shifted, and the click clack became excitement and anticipation instead of anxiety and fear. Funny how those can feel the same.

If you wanna take it a step further, start embracing pain. It may sound a little masochistic, but I like to stare at the needle when it goes in at the doctor. I like going to the dentist. They both used to scare the shit out of me. Even though I had always sought out the painful burn of a brutal workout, it was the pain I deemed unwanted that I sought to relabel. Smiling at the dentist or laughing after my knee was popped back into place in training were not ways to prove to myself that my body was tough, but that my mind was strong. The anticipation of pain is normally much worse than the physical sensation. Change the way you see pain and the way you interpret the sensation will transform

Of course, no one is fearless — unless they’re a psychopath. Fear will always be with you. It’s what you do with it that determines how far you go. The fluttering in your belly is a sign to take action that scares you because it will force you to grow. The quicker your pulse, the bigger the potential change. Don’t deny your fear. Jump on, throw your hands up and enjoy the beautifully terrifying thrill ride.

#mind #body #mindset #motivation #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #wellness #coach #internaljiujitsu #awareness #mindfulness #fear #fearless #competition #Performance Anxiety

1 note · View note

bubblysnake · 5 years

Text

The Plight of the Wisconsin Bee

Bee populations in Wisconsin are in fast decline. Wisconsin beekeepers lost more than 60% of their colonies in 2014 and 2015, according to recent data from the USDA-funded Bee Informed Survey(Stentz). Certain species are being hit harder than others. When R.P. Macfarlane, a New Zealand bumblebee researcher employed by Wisconsin's, cranberry industry, studied bumblebee populations in northern Wisconsin in 1993, researchers reported that the yellow-banded bumblebee made up approximately 93% of the bumblebees recorded; in 2009 they constituted less than 1% of bumblebees in the region. Secluded populations of this bumblebee located in the towns of Moutain, Manitowish Waters, and Two Rivers in 2007 and 2008 were the only chronicled observations of this species in the Midwest(Sperling). Bees are vital to Wisconsin's agriculture and ecosystem. According to Kent Pegorsch, a beekeeper in Waupaca and the president of the Wisconsin Honey Producers Association, “Wild honeybee colonies have almost vanished from the landscape compared to 30 years ago.” Their numbers are declining due to urbanization, pesticides, parasites, habitat loss, and exportation, but they can be saved through various methods.

Bees are essential to our way of life in Wisconsin. Without them, the agriculture industry would be severely damaged. Bumblebees use a technique called "buzz pollination," where the female bee holds the flower's stamens in her jaws and flaps her wings to shake them - shaking off grains of pollen. This behavior is very useful in cross-pollinating berries, tomatoes and peppers. Large fruits and plentiful tomatoes are credited to plants pollinated by bumblebees. They are also vital pollinators of native plants whose seeds nourish game birds. Although some plants are additionally pollinated by the breeze and by mammals such as bats, bee pollination from controlled hives and wild native bees continues to be an essential piece of the puzzle, nurturing both indigenous and cultivated plant species(Sperling). According to Kent Pegorsch, “Crops like cranberries, melons, pickles, etc. require honeybee pollinations. Without healthy honeybees, production is greatly reduced.”

Wisconsin agriculture isn’t the only thing being severely damaged by bee deaths. Our ecosystem is under stress, too. Pollinators are cornerstone species in the majority of earthly ecosystems. Fruits and seeds derived from insect pollination are a large component of the diet of about 25% of all birds, and of mammals of any kind. In many areas, the necessary benefit of pollination is being threatened(Xerxes Society). By helping in wild food growth, aiding in nutrient cycling, and as prey, pollinators are necessary in food chains. Many nomadic songbirds need a daily intake of berries, fruits and seeds from insect pollinated plants and the larvae of these insects are a valuable aspect of the nourishment of these birds, according to the research team from the Nebraska Ornithologists Union. Bumblebees are thought to be the leading pollinators of many indigenous plants and cranberries. The key to keeping produce abundant and flowers growing is amplifying native bee populations(Sperling). According to Pegorsch, “There are fewer and fewer native bees and butterflies to pollinate. A healthy environment needs a balance and bees help provide this.

One of the great threats against Wisconsin bees today is urbanization. Urbanization has damaged food sources and habitat. Paved streets and parking lots take up space that could be used by bees for burrowing(Mesch). Kent Pegorsch states, “(Urbanization) has reduced large tracks of land that formerly held important food sources for bees. It also limits areas where beekeepers can place bees and limits wild areas where native bees nested.”

Yet another enemy of the Wisconsin bee is pesticides and herbicides. According to Terri Fuller, president of the Friends of Horicon National Wildlife Refuge, and Corrine Daniels, the nursery director with Applied Ecological Services at Taylor Creek Restoration Nurseries, the bees in Wisconsin are being hurt by pesticides(Dargan). According to Kent Pegorsch, “Whereas chemicals are important to farming, the overuse of chemicals (in agriculture) are adding stress to honeybees and shortening their lives. This makes it hard for colonies to survive. New pesticides don’t kill bees immediately but they kill bees over a prolonged exposure so it is difficult to prove that pesticides are hurting our bees BUT they are. Unfortunately, because the damage is so gradual, more and more of these pesticides are being used.” UW Extension’s Arboretum Expert Susan Carpenter explained that “Agriculture by itself without the insecticides might leave some habitat in plants in the area, but you know when the herbicides are used edge-to-edge in fields, there's no extra plants around the edges or anything that the pollinators are going to use”(Mesch).

Parasites are also damaging the livelihoods of Wisconsin bees. Some Wisconsin beekeepers reported deaths of bees in the winter of 2017 to 2018, caused by a parasite called the varroa mite that infests hives and kills developing bees. Liz Meils, the state apiarist for the state Department of Agriculture, Trade and Consumer Protection, said that beekeepers had been losing around half their hives for the past 5 to 10 years(AP Regional State Report). Kent Pegorsch explained that “The varroa mite is a mite that lives on the bee. It shortens the bees life by stressing the bee and allowing viruses to enter the bee.”

Habitat loss also poses an intimidating threat to bees. Terri Fuller and Corrine Daniels have reported that a large portion of the creatures that pollinate Wisconsin plants are under stress from habitat loss(Dargan). Soft earth that would normally be used as a home for bees is being replaced with pavement more and more every day. Although we consider bees to be sociable bugs who inhabit hives with extremely systematized social roles, a majority of bee species are solitary and near 70% of indigenous bee species burrow their homes in the ground or close to the ground instead of in unsheltered hives. The female bees either dig up burrows with a collection of brood chambers or utilize preexisting tunnels or cavities dug by insects, worms, or rodents into dirt or bark. Protecting the homes and vegetation these native bees utilize is a substantial plan of action for maintaining acceptable amounts of plant pollinators where honeybee numbers are usually lower, have reduced greatly or are in small amounts(Sperling).

As if all of this aforementioned damage to Wisconsin bees wasn’t enough, one species of bumblebee are declining due to the international shipment of commercially-bred bumblebees. Two of those species formerly prevalent to the northeastern and midwestern states, the yellow-banded bumblebee and the rusty-patched bumblebee are broadly missing from their usual area. They are prolific pollinators of wildflowers, alfalfa, berries and other crops like cucumbers and pumpkins. Additional bumblebee species might also be diminishing, although it is difficult to judge if falling populations are localized or further across the board since indigenous bee populations are usually only studied in a small quantity of places instead of throughout their natural territory(Sperling).

In the face of all this adversity, what can one do to save Wisconsin bees? Well, the first to do is to look for those who are helping already. According to Kent Pegorsch, “The Wisconsin Honey Producers Association, American Beekeeping Federation, Foundation for the Preservation of Honeybees, Bee and Butterfly Habitat fund, and Bee Informed Partnership are just a few of the organizations working to save the bees.” Indigenous bee protection was first mentioned by the Farm Bill(Food Conservation and Energy Act) in 2008. The Farm Bill also supplied money for melittology(the study of bees) and bee habitat conservation. Services included by the House of Representatives turned pollinator preservation into a national priority in preservation systems managed by the federal Department of Agriculture. The Farm Bill additionally supplied $10 million a year for the following five years for grants to study honey bee and native bee biology, possible resolutions for colony collapse disorder, bee health, and bee ecology. An extra $7.5 million merged bee study initiatives into the USDA Agriculture Research Service, $2.5 million went toward examining and observing honeybee populations for five years, and giving insurance and disaster relief to beekeepers(Sperling). Acknowledging the significance of honey bees and other pollinators to farming and the well-being of natural system, President Barack Obama created the Pollinator Task Force to cultivate a nationwide plan of action to preserve and advance health of pollinators. The task force announced the Pollinator Research Action Plan in May 2015. This extensive project directs the federal agenda, along with investigation, to improve and advance pollinator habitat and populations. The National Institute of Food and Agriculture (NIFA) is making important contributions to conserve and benefit pollinator health and support U.S. agriculture. Between 2018 and 2014, NIFA invested around $40 million in competitive and capacity grants committed to research, expansion, and educational programming on the well-being of bees. In May 2016, NIFA released a contemporary, stand-alone $6 million financing opportunity by way of the Agriculture and Food Research Initiative's Food Security Challenge Area to devote effort into part of the first concerns of the Pollinator Research Action Plan(Ramaswamy).

Individuals are also doing their part to save the bees. In a survey of 690 Wisconsin inhabitants, 66.5% were confident that they had done something within the past year for the specific purpose of saving the bees. These actions included planting flowers, buying local honey, not actively trying to kill bees, building beehives, educating others about bees, encouraging others to stop using herbicides, refraining from removing or preventing the growth of dandelions, feeding sugar water to bees, gifting bee hotels to friends, encouraging others to stop overusing insecticides, donating to local beekeepers, planting vegetables, trying to recycle more, researching charities that are beneficial to bees, avoiding the use of herbicides and pesticides, participating in bee-positive social media campaigns, trying to maintain a rotational bloom, using wildlife-friendly landscaping, letting their garden overgrow, building bee houses, spreading awareness about the bee crisis, avoiding stepping on bees, researching the bee crisis, keeping the lawn unmowed, purchasing products from beekeepers, not pulling flowering weeds, protecting bee nests, signing petitions to help bees, purchasing products from bee-friendly companies, planting fruit trees, and wearing clothing that promotes the welfare of bees. When asked if they cared for a personal or community garden, 57.8% of respondents said no and 42.2% said yes.

One of the best things that a Wisconsin inhabitant can do for bees is garden. One doesn't need a field of wildflowers to attract bees. All you need is a small garden with various types of plants, even shrubs and grasses. Bees need a variety of flowers that bloom throughout the season. Keeping this in mind, plant flowers that bloom from early spring to mid-summer, and balance that with flowers that start blooming mid-summer through fall. Even a well-pruned garden can be bee-friendly if it has the right plants for the job. As long as it has (preferably fragrant) flowers that bloom throughout the season and yield nectar, a garden can be a feast(Mesch). Using native local flowers is important. Science shows us that indigenous vegetation is four times more appealing to native bees and butterflies than invasive species. In garden, heirloom types of herbs and perennial plants can also supply beneficial foraging. Plant multiple shades of flowers with a diversity of heights. Indigenous bees are especially captivated by blue, purple, violet, white, and yellow petals(Sperling). Bee-friendly Wisconsin flowers include, but are not limited to: Poppies, crocuses, heather, black-eyed Susans, wild indigos, goldenrod, milkweed, prairie clovers, and sunflowers. Bee-friendly flowers are full of easily accessible nectar and pollen. A good bee-friendly garden is big, with hedges that are at least 6 feet high. This is because bees tend to fly at head level, so this will force them to fly higher, making them less of a disturbance in a neighbor's yard. Flowers are best planted in clusters rather than alone, so that they can be more noticeable by the bees(Sillver). Try to avoid pesticides in your garden, as they can be toxic to pollinators. If using pesticides is absolutely necessary, use them at night when bees aren't around, and cover plants when the pesticides are still working to deter bees from touching them(Mesch). When asked for advice on growing a bee-friendly garden, Kent Pegorsch responded, “Gardens provide important nectar and pollen sources for bees in the ‘should’ seasons. Those are time of the year when there is not a lot of a bee’s main forage (like clover, alfalfa and other main honey plants). Buy your seed mixes from companies that specialize in pollinator mixes. And buy the mixes that are suited for Wisconsin. (Don’t cut your) lawn as quickly. Leave dandelions and Dutch clover bloom in their lawns and leave wild areas of flowers bloom. Generally – have smaller and weedier lawns.”

Although many common farming practices are detrimental to bees, Wisconsin farmers can also works to protect Wisconsin’s pollinators. One increasingly popular technique for farmers who are trying to use native bees to their advantage is to advance the inartificial development of grasses, shrubs and trees around their fields. For example, rather than leasing honeybees, canola farmers in Alberta discovered that they obtained higher-quality seeds and boosted profits if at least 30% of their farmland was kept in natural habitat and cover instead of planting fencerow to fencerow. These areas of wild plants supplied food and shelter for more indigenous bees and multiplied bee visitations at the time when their vegetation flowered. Influence from native bees can also induce honeybees to be more efficient and productive when pollinating hybrid seed plants by compelling the honeybees to travel more repeatedly between chains of female and male produce. In regions where farm fields have lost a large amount of their uncultivated pollinators, surrounding pastures become more important and offer two useful assets, according to agricultural and ecology scientists. Firstly, they serve as a backup resource for insects that pollinate crops. Secondly, they work as an asylum in which pollinating insects can increase their health before bit by bit recolonizing damaged farmlands(Sperling). Kent Pegorsch asks that farmers “Look for ways to reduce chemical usage. Leave some areas wilds so that honeybees, native bees and butterflies have food sources.” He also advises that farmers look into “Integrated Pest management. IPM – only using pesticides when they are really necessary. Monitor fields for insect problems and use pesticides only when they really need to be used. Not on a regular basis.”

One of the best ways to reduce bee deaths is at the root, in education. In a survey of 690 Wisconsin inhabitants, 11.7% of respondents were unsure if they wanted to help stop the Wisconsin bees from dying, with these reasons being the majority of what was cited: not knowing where to start, being unsure if bees are truly in jeopardy, not knowing enough about the issue, not being aware that they could have any power in the situation, not feeling passionate about bees, being unsure of how many bees are living in Wisconsin, not wanting bees to start overpopulating Wisconsin, not being sure how to help from an apartment, not knowing how effective it would be to work towards bee conservation, and not knowing how bee conservation would benefit them personally. Many of these doubts stem from uncertainty, but education can reduce this. Respondents were asked to rate their knowledge about Wisconsin's falling bee population on a scale of 1 to 5, with 1 being a complete lack of knowledge and 5 being an expert in the subject. 36.5% rated their knowledge at 2, 33% chose 3, 21.4% chose 1, 7.8% chose 4, and 1.8% chose 5. Respondents were asked to rate their knowledge about Wisconsin bee conservation strategies on a scale of 1 to 5, with 1 being a complete lack of knowledge and 5 being an expert. 40.6% of respondents rated their knowledge at 1, 31.9% chose 2, 19.6% chose 3, 6.8% chose 4, and 1.2% chose 5. If these respondents were more educated on the subject of bee endangerment, they would have the ability to take action.

Bees are essential to Wisconsin's farm industry and environment. Their population is decreasing because of several factors, but their numbers can be conserved through gardening, changes of agriculture techniques, beekeeping, and education.

Bibliography:

"Wisconsin beekeepers see high bee losses this winter." AP Regional State Report, 10 Mar. 2018. EBSCOhost. Accessed 14 Mar. 2019.

Dargan, Jennifer. 5 Native Plants That Will Attract Bees and Other Pollinators. Board of Regents of the U of Wisconsin System and Wisconsin Educational Communications Board, 13 May 2015. The Larry Meiller Show. Wisconsin Public Radio. Accessed 19 Mar. 2019.

Doherty, Lucille Lynne. "Bees in Wisconsin." 27 Mar. 2019. Raw data.

Mesch, Shelley K. "HELP CAN BE AS CLOSE AS A BACKYARD; DANE CO., UW EXTENSION SAY RESIDENTS CAN BOOST NATIVE BEE POPULATIONS." Wisconsin State Journal [Madison, Wisconsin], 29 Oct. 2017. EBSCOhost. Accessed 11 Mar. 2019.

Pegorsch, Kent. E-mail interview. 26 Mar. 2019.

"Pollinator Conservation." The Xerxes Society for Invertebrate Conservation. Accessed 13 Mar. 2019.

Sillver, Hazel. "Give a Bee a Home." Are Mass Extinctions Inevitable?, edited by Noah Berlatsky, Detroit, MI, Greenhaven Press, 2012. At Issue. Opposing Viewpoints in Context. Accessed 7 Mar. 2019. Originally published in The Times, 21 Sept. 2008.

Sperling, David L. "What's the Buzz about Bees?" Wisconsin Natural Resources, vol. 33, no. 3, June 2009. Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources. Accessed 20 Mar. 2019.

Stentz, Molly. "Buzz Kill." Isthmus [Madison, Wisconsin], 28 Jan. 2016. Isthmus. Accessed 7 Apr. 2019.

United States, U.S. Department of Agriculture. Reversing Pollinator Decline is Key to Feeding the Future. By Sonny Ramaswamy, Dr., Economic Research Service, 24 June 2016. U.S. Department of Agriculture. Accessed 14 Mar. 2019.

#bees #wisconsin #research #insects #bugs #honey #flowers #milwaukee #madison #midwest #science #writing #studyblr #academia #animals #butterflies #nature #plants

3 notes · View notes

iphoenixrising · 7 years

Text

Dr. Tim Drabble: The Joker

This was a little hard to write >.< but if you do read it, please be careful. There’s not anything obviously triggering but it is a little dark. It takes place about a year after Tim’s been the pet doctor for N and Hood, but before they get together.

As he’s come to learn in the last year of being the go-to physician for a series of scary, self-sacrificing vigilantes, trouble can strike from all possible directions. Really, it’s literally Bat-credo.

Of course, it doesn’t apply to the helpful civilians that might just want to make Gotham’s protectors stay above the game (well, unless you count scaling tall buildings with literally a doctor’s bag and a prayer since some people just have to be ten stories up with massive internal bleeding--Hood), and since he’s the guy that comes in after all the dangerous crime fighting goes down for some very necessary snatch-and-stitch, the criminals are normally pretty well underway to unconscious city when he hits the scene. It’s nice he’s not trying to keep either one of them from bleeding out while dealing with a terrible bad guy monologue-- he’s pretty sure none of them would appreciate his brand of heckling while the details of this week master plan are laid out.

Scarecrow probably wouldn’t appreciate his version of ‘Name that Chemical.’

But since his luck runs about 60/40 most days, he really shouldn’t be shocked when he finally gets out of Mercy for the night, earbuds in so he can calm down from the rigorous pace set by the slew of second-rate thugs baring very distinctive injuries (obviously corresponding from a run-in with one or multiple aforementioned vigilantes), and a jarring amount of victims come through the ER doors with a well-known condition recognizable at first-glance by anyone that’s ever spent time in Gotham. A condition that shakes apart even his calm, cool, and collected when it becomes very obvious what he’s looking at:

Leukoderma: loss of pigmentation in the skin

Myoparalysis of the orbicularis oris: paralysis of the mouth muscles

Symptoms of Pseudobulbar Effect because the only sounds the patients can make are laughing or sobbing.

Everyone in the ER knows it’s time for shit to get real once more than one patient comes in displaying the same characteristics like this. It’s one of the few times he goes balls to the wall in the cramped lab with blood samples and trying to make his hands stop shaking long enough to starting working on a counter-agent to the chemical cocktail making ordinary, perfectly healthy people start showing signs just like these.

It means the Joker is back in Gotham.

Subsequently, it also means he’s running the path between the lab and ER like his ass is on fire to help strap down the most out-of-control victims, treat the injured, run tests on this version of toxin, synthesize a cure as fast as he possibly can with shitty, outdated equipment and a computer system slower than Steph getting out of bed in the morning. On nights like these, he and the rest of the staff at Mercy General’s ER do the best damn job they can to keep themselves sane enough to be the ones taking care of both sides of the equation.

The GCPD usually meandering around watching the fast-and-furious pace with tired eyes and hollow expressions talk loud enough between themselves to give updates so the staff know how the night could possibly end for them:

“That fucking clown managed to get away from the capes.”

“Yeah, but you know ‘em. He won’t be on the run for long. The Bat has it out for the asshole’s blood.”

Great. There’s probably going to be some vigilante owfuck on his fire escape later tonight.

He tries soothing a terrified child who is staring at his mom strapped down to a gurney and laughing while tears roll down her face and the husband is gripping her hand. He’s reeling from the unintended back-hand when one of the thugs gets a hand free and flails. He’s yelling obscenities in the cramped lab when his first try at the antidote completely fucking fails. He’s moving with the new one rolling in through the double doors already in cardiac arrest, the toxin mixing with a pre-existing condition. He’s talking it out with a haggard Steph when the composition finally, finally breaks down the sample of toxin and they’ve hit the fucking jackpot.

By the time the wave is over and the catastrophe calmed as much as possible, the next shift is in and briefed on what they’ve got, which patients have a positive prognosis, which patients are still in distress, what resources they have, and Doctor Drake is almost unconscious on his feet. He might register a few back-slaps on his way out while he’s shrugging into his hoodie, and he probably slurred something acceptable in response since no one is making him take at least a nap in one of the storage rooms before he goes home.

He’s tired enough to be surprised it’s daylight and pulls out his phone just to double-check no messages from bleeding, busted-up vigilantes or anything (but really, if either of them are that bad, they’re probably already on his couch eating cereal and watching The Ranch because Hood has terrible taste in TV shows).

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to put together the sound of the humming engine until the sound of a door to an inconspicuous van sliding back jars him enough to look up--

At plastic clown masks covering faces, faces inside a van, faces with grabbing hands that pull him right the hell in.

The hard fact is, as much as he followed the Dynamic Duo back before his parents died, as much as he believed (and still does) in what they were doing, as much as he wanted to help them even as a kid, as much as he could see how he could lend his skills to their mission, he’s never been or going to be one of them.

He’s never going to be Robin.

It’s a fact that exists in the very back of his brain pan and comes to the fore in instances like, well, this.

Because the owfuck right now, is real, and someday, someday, he’s going to learn that not everyone can appreciate his own brand of witty comebacks. Or the fact that, while he is pretty badass in his own right as a civilian, he’s never going to be able to take down five heavily muscled goons without taking a serious beating.

Which, he obviously has since the right side of his jaw and cheekbone are a hot, searing agony from the first few blows. His knee feels like someone kicked it (oh wait, someone did); his lower back is protesting the fact he still has kidneys because damn, right now he could be missing a semi-crucial body part and not feel at all bad about it.

But, at least the clown thugs are smart enough to realize he would need his hands for whatever reason they picked him up off the street. That knowledge doesn’t help the rest of his body when he finally comes to on cold, unforgivable cement, blinking blood out of his eyes and taking stock of what kind of injuries are in this little package of surprise.

His shoulder throbs when his muscles tighten only minutely before he forces himself to relax, to look like he’s still out cold. If he plays possum long enough, maybe some random vigilantes will figure out he isn’t at the hospital or his penthouse. Vigilantes with detective skills would really be nice right about--

“Well, well, well. What do we have here, boys?”

Oh...fuck...

“It’s a little birdy.”

--now. Holy shit, now, now. Right now would be a GREAT TIME--

Footsteps, sharp-looking spats enter his line of sight, and the hard intake of breath makes his everything hurt even more, but it’s not important, it’s not--it’s not-- Oh God. Oh God, it’s him.

Bending at the waist, a face comes in his line of sight, so close, too close.

“Trying to put one over on me, eh? That’s not very smart, kiddo, since I have a tendency to be a little, well, impatient.”

And the mouth twists more, sharp upward curves as the splitting sound of a sharp chuckle makes his blood run fucking cold.

“Get it, Doc? Impatient! Ahaa Ha ha ha, ha. Ah-haaa, ha, ha, ha, ha. Oohwah, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HAA.”

While he’s frozen in terror, staring at the face of Gotham’s most dangerous criminal, the arrant thought flittering across his brain pan is something to the effect that he hopes like fuck Hood and N figure out he’s missing a hell of a lot sooner rather than later.

Sometimes

You’ve gotta roll with the punches, see?

Can’t let a few bumps in the road stop ya from trying to make the perfect joke.

It’s aaaallllll about the

Punch

Line

Baby

Gets ‘em every time.

And the good people of Gotham know how to take a joke. That’s why he loves this dirty, rat-infested shithole of a city. It’s why he started his career in petty larceny only to take a little dip in the toxic sludge bath to become his

New

and

Improved

(Ha-ha-heh-ha-ha)

And, well, since he’s all shiny, he needed a new gimmic. A new image. Something so dastardly evil it would scare the pants off any inmate in Arkham. Something to get him some respect around this dump.

(hu-hu-hu-hooo)

And that’s when the Joker was born.

It was easy getting the thugs to fall in line when he needed bodies to carry out a little poisoning of Gotham’s water supply--because everyone should wake up with a smile. All he had to do was rip out a few vital organs of their last boss with his bare hands to make sure they all

Got

The

Joke

(A-ha-a-ha-aha-ha)

But that meddling caped crime fighter came right in and ruined the

Punch

Line

right as the water tanks were ready for his special little toxin.

The most beautiful moment of his grand plan ruined by a man dressed like a flying rodent.

Since then, he’s been playing such a game, matching wits and fists off and on for years. Pushing and pulling at everything that makes the Bat tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Wouldn’t it be funny to see the Bat finally break? Oh. Oh. To see him finally snap. (He-he-ha-ha)

To see him lose everything in his little arsenal of trick and traps, to see him get what he deserves.

Killing that little fucking brat was supposed to be enough.

Was supposed to drive ole’ Bats right into the next belfrey, put him next to all his buddies in Arkham, to drive him to the brink. Push him right over the edge of sanity with that little double-whammy.

Poor Batsy. Where’s your little Robin now?

(A-ha-a-ha-ha-ha over there, and a piece over there, ooh, there’s an arm! Isn’t that handy. AH-HA-HA-HA-HA)

It was back to their old fun and games again without the Brat-Wonder pulling Batsy back from the brink. If that new little brat hadn’t come on the scene, he might just have succeeded in having the

Very

Last

Laugh

But there’s always next time, isn’t there Batsy? The game just keeps going and they’ll get on and off this little merry-go-round until it’s all

Broken

Down

Leukoderma

Myoparalysis of the orbicularis oris

He gets more of an up close and personal look than he definitely would have liked.

The thugs on either side of him are half-restraining, half-carrying him because a bucket full of hurt, and showing off the hideout of the night is pretty standard protocol for bad guys (or so he’s heard Hood and N bitch about). Between limping steps, memorizing the layout, and hoping the psychopath leading them isn’t going to randomly turn around and beat him with a crowbar.

(“That sick son-uh-va-bitch, Timmy. You don’t want no piece of ‘im.”)

Since, you know, that’s one of his things.

Instead, they’re lead to what seems to be an impromptu emergency set-up with a blonde woman laying on a makeshift gurney, pale and obviously in distress.

Shit.

Now the bad guys want him to play Pet Doctor.

(Oh right. This is his life.)

“My poor, widdle Harl, here had an accident--”

But Tim is already pulling out of the hold and walking his ass right past the talking villain, unzipping his hoody and tossing it in one of the broken chairs in the corner. He’s still in scrubs, so the irony isn’t lost here. Just, can they get him a name tag or something?

Before he even starts with the ABCDEs, he takes in a deep, deep breath and feverently hopes he’s not going to get himself killed in a horrific way.

“Hi,” he starts out and moves, “it’s okay, I’m a doctor. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

He focuses on assessing her belly, pulling the dirty blanket off her costumed abdomen and sees the gunshot wound gushing blood. The next steps are running through his head in a calm collection of needs.

“S-shot me. The p-police.” And she’s obviously pale, in pain, maybe even scared (though with the company she keeps, he’s really not sure about that).

“Okay, okay. I’m going to help you. I just need to scrub my hands and get supplies. I want you to let me know if you feel like you’re losing consciousness.”

Sharply, he turns to the thugs and mad man over his shoulder (and he knows it’s a bad thing that the clown masks really aren’t that odd), faces them determined she isn’t going to bleed out, “I need a sink to scrub up. I need gloves, sterile gloves…” he goes on with the necessaries, and the list isn’t extensive, things they could find at Walgreens or Rite-Aid.

The thugs turn to the silently smiling villain, his back straight, with hands clasps behind him and narrow, assessing eyes.

Tim very, very much doesn’t want to know what’s going through that twisted mind right this moment.

The small lean forward, the tiny movement, makes his heart beat painfully hard in fear.

“A new nurse was doing rounds and overheard the surgeon yelling, ‘Typhoid! Tetanus! Measles!’ Curious, she asks another nurse, ‘Why does Doctor So-and-so he keep doing that?’ The colleague replies, ‘Doctor So-and-so likes to call the shots around here.’ Hu-hu-hu, get it, Doc?”

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t crack a smile because, honestly, that was worse than Superman’s travelling salesman jokes.

But whatever the Joker had been waiting for must have happened because the villain leans back, grinning horribly, “you heard the nice Doctor, boys! Get him what he needs.”

The woman, Harly Quinn, behind him on the gurney sighs in relief, but Tim is the only one that hears.

“What did the Doctor say when he removed the patient’s appendix?”

“What?”

“That’s enough outta you!”

His eyes roll up to that maniacally grinning face and back down to the forceps, gingerly pulling another piece of bullet fragment out of the patient’s side.

“What do you call a diseased criminal?”

“A good start?” He tries absently while working.

“A leper-con!”

The wound looks good, clean, no sign of infection.

With a shitty mask and his hair still hanging in his face, the conditions are not ideal. It’s fine. He’s worked in a hell of a lot worse (don’t think of Hood in Crime Alley with a few stab wounds), just with, you know, a little less crazy.

“The patient tells the doctor, ‘I think it’s curtains for me!’ The doctor says, ‘pull yourself together.’”

He sighs a little and starts to close, feeling better about Dr. Quinn’s chances. The two thugs immediately beside him haven’t budged in the last two hours, so some serious dedication there.

The Joker remains directly across from him, leaning over the unconscious patient with his never-ending slew of terrible jokes.

“What do you do for a poor, sick, little bird?”

And that? Is utterly terrifying.

“Give him proper tweet-meant. Aha-ah-ahahaha.”

Tim suppress the shudder of fear working up his spine, refusing to think about the Red Hood and the Robin he was before this, refuses to think about the next second that could be horrendously painful torture or death.

When he finally tapes on gauze pads, the thugs beside him seems to ease down as well. When he moves to check the IVs, thug number one moves without comment, letting him check the bags and pull the cheap stethoscope from around his neck to take her vitals again.

“A kid is in an accident, gets brought to the Emergency Room. The doc says, ‘I can’t work on him, he’s my son!’ The doctor wasn’t the boy’s father, how could that be?”

Tim’s eyes narrow on the Joker’s grinning face, “wait a minute, I thought the other guy told the riddles.”

He doesn’t jump when the Joker’s open hands slam down on the makeshift gurney around the patient’s inert form, the sound snapping off walls. He doesn’t jump, but damn it’s a stretch.

His hand steady regardless of how fucking terrified he is, Tim pulls the mask down under his chin, and leans forward this time to sneer, “the doctor was the boy’s mother. Satisfied?”

But he gets a string of that bone-chilling laughter, catching hints of a very, very big gun holstered in the purple jacket.

“Oh,” the Joker leans in to meet him, those eyes wide and full of unpredictable crazy, “oh, I think I like you, kiddo. You’re good for a laugh, hu-hu-hu.”

He opens his mouth, just about to say something probably unerringly stupid to a mad man with guns and thugs--

When the skyline crashes in on itself to rain glittering glass all over the place, and dark shadows drop down from the sky.

The Batman end up crouching on the gurney, feet braced around the patient, and looking like a whole lot of doom come to call. The thugs are immediately taken down by Nightwing and Robin (and even though they don’t know he knows, he gets why the Red Hood is missing on this little ride), who have no qualms pulling him back from the fast and furious fight about to take place.

When it’s Nightwing’s hands on his biceps, pulling him away from danger, out of that big room and into the fallen night, he lets himself shake in the vigilante’s hold, staring up wide-eyed at the domino and whiteouts.

“Oh...oh my God, N--”

“Are you hurt? Timmy, did he hurt you?” Is the immediate question cutting into his breathless babbling. Then hands are moving over him, Nightwing moving slightly to make sure there’s no visible wounds on him. His face is held between gloved hands, the bruises and busted lip probably terribly purple and black.

“I’m...I’m o...I’m okay,” he manages to rasp, both hands coming up to grip Nightwing’s arms tight while he is definitely not shaking like a leaf. Nope, all good. Nothing to see here.

Which is totally believable until his knees give out and Nightwing is basically holding him up in a stupid princess carry like he’s four or something, and the grip around him is just as tight, Nightwing blowing out a deep breath against his hair.

“You scared the crap out of us. We’ve been tracking you the moment you didn’t make it back to your place.”

What? The hope they might have noticed him missing was really induced by a whole lot of fear and possible I really don’t want this guy to be the one to kill me. There’s better villains out there.

“O-oh, I see. H-hey there, N. Hi. Seriously, thanks for r-riding to the rescue because that was not on my to-do list for today, and-and,”

“There he is,” the modified voice proves he was apparently wrong about the sitch because landing beside them, the Red Hood is already looking him over, a gloved hand under his chin to tilt his face into the soft street light.

“H-Hood? You too? M-must be a light on crime tonight?”

But his eyes are stupidly getting wet and hot, making him blink rapidly because fuck, is he relieved.

“Don’t get snatched, Timmers. Not ever again. Me and Big Wing gonna rip this fuckin’ ‘Burg ta shreds, you feel me?”

The loud clattering and breaking going on inside the abandoned cat food warehouse is getting louder, meaning the fight with the psycho has moved into the next room. The helmet snaps that way, and Hood’s muscles get obviously tight at the faint sounds of laughter.

“Hood,” N quickly delegates, stepping up to lay Tim in Hood’s arms, “get him out of here. He’s hurt. I’ll go help B and Rob.”

The helmet jerks back to him and whatever damage is done to his face, and the Red Hood takes him in the same hold, hoisting Tim up high against his chest, only needing one arms to keep him secured. He’s already got a grapple in the other hand, ready to fly.

“Kick that fucking clown in the nuts f’ me, Big Wing. Get it?”

But Nightwing just smirks and takes off back inside to join the fight.

And Tim grips the Red Hood’s jacket with both hands, not at all disturbed when the helmet stays pointed right at his face even when the grapple fires and they’re off into the night.

The next morning, his door and window are like replaced without him even knowing. The reinforced glass and locks are, well, thoughtful? Maybe?

Even better, he gets an ice pack for his face and another for his swollen knee. He also gets masked vigilantes in sweats and t-shirts making food, watching Netflix with him, and seemingly unwilling to leave him alone.

Hood literally carries him from the couch to the table instead of watch him limp his hurt ass twenty feet away, and N is no better, hoisting him up on the kitchen counter when he makes the best smelling chicken parm on the planet.

By nightfall, they’ve told him how they tracked his movements and had a good friend searching through the traffic cams outside the hospital and his penthouse until they knew what happened and tracked the unmarked van down.

It’s...odd to be taken care of and strangely nice at the same time. He lets Nightwing re-wrap his knee and watches those hands work around the pulled muscle carefully, knowledgeably while the whiteout are up and those blue, blue eyes look at him fondly.

He argues with Hood on how Chaucer was just a poser over a game of chess, already planning out the winning moves.

He still amazed at their duck and dodge skills when Steph practically barrels into his apartment and throws her arms around him, sobbing with relief. His eyes roll up to Nightwing bracing all fours on his ceiling, grinning like an idiot before he swings gracefully, silently behind them to disappear again while the Red Hood hiding behind his couch joins him down the hall.

And when she leaves and night falls, they argue with him and each other about leaving him to his lonesome to patrol the city against other crazies that probably have sharp, pointy things and chemical bombs for something different thrown in.

He leaves the window cracked and gets ready for bed, shivering slightly at the cool sheets and the feel of their hands lingering on him in concern and (what he might call) affection. He thinks he might have to whack himself in the head a few times before he sees them again because, seriously, he’s a civilian, not one of them, just an ordinary guy that happens to patch them up from time-to-time. They might even be friends at this juncture since they like to crash at his place after bad injuries and hard nights, they like to eat his food and listen to how his day went, they like to talk haltingly about what minor crooks they stopped that night, and general information about their real lives without giving anything away.

They’re…

His heart picks up, beating faster when he realizes how screwed he really is.

#tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #the joker #my fic #my writing #hope you like it #i've wanted to write this for a while #doctor!tim

67 notes · View notes

gokinjeespot · 5 years

Text

off the rack #1265

Monday, June 10, 2019

Well sir, summer weather has finally hit the nation's capital. I am reluctant to fire up the AC yet but the ceiling fan was turned on overnight. The welcome heat means the flower gardens are showing off their myriad colours. The birdies are singing and the fish are biting. I am a happy and contented guy.

Domino: Hotshots #4 - Gail Simone (writer) David Baldeon & Michael Shelfer (pencils) David Baldeon, Michael Shelfer & Craig Yeung (inks) Jim Charalampidis (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). Cold War part 4. It looks like the team has saved the world from extinction but wait, there's more. Someone else has been given great power and she's made it her responsibility to get revenge on the Hot Shots. The conclusion next issue should be epic.

War of the Realms: Journey Into Mystery #4 - The McElroys (writers) Andre Lima Araujo (art) Chris O'Halloran (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). I don't know The McElroys from Adam but I sure do like the way they write. Ares catches up with the team and their mission goes FUBAR. Now they have to rescue the demon baby. The conclusion next issue should be epic.

The Incredible Hulk: Last Call #1 - Peter David (writer) Dale Keown (pencils) Mark Farmer, Marc Deering, Walden Wong & Scott Hanna (inks) Peter Steigerwald with John Starr (colours) VC's Cory Petit (letters). If you've been reading the Immortal Hulk you know that Betty Ross plays a major role in the recent story. This $4.99 US one-shot gives you some history and it's brought to you by the creative team that made reading Hulk comics so much fun in the nineties. The super villain was a complete surprise but made a lot of sense.

Batman #72 - Tom King (writer) Mikel Janin & Jorge Fornes (art) Jordie Bellaire (colours) Clayton Cowles (letters). I'm not quite sure but this story looks like a team up of Bane and Thomas Wayne to kill Bruce/Batman. This whole issue is narrated by Thomas with not a peep of dialogue and references events leading up to the beating Batman gets from Bane this time. At least I think it's Bane. Jorge Fornes's protagonists aren't as bulky as some artists draw them.

Black Cat #1 - Jed MacKay (writer) Travel Foreman (art) Brian Reber (colours) Ferran Delgado (letters). Marvel's version of Catwoman first appeared in 1979 and I've liked her ever since. I think the last page of this debut pays tribute to DC's feline femme fatale with the bats escorting the getaway car. There are two short back-up stories so you get good value for $4.99 US. This first heist isn't too elaborate but it does serve to introduce Selina and her crew. This was good enough that I will read the next issue.

DCeased #2 - Tom Taylor (writer) Trevor Hairsine (pencils) Stefano Gaudiano (inks) Rain Beredo (colours) Saida Temofonte (letters). This zombie virus infesting the DCU story isn't kidding around. Two major characters bite the bullet this issue. The only reason I would keep reading the rest of this 6-issue mini is to see how the good guys beat the walking dead and who else might possibly die before they do.

Guardians of the Galaxy Annual #1 - Four stories featuring a bunch of team members and a mysterious bad guy.

"Faith" by Donny Cates (writer) John McCrea (art) Mike Spicer (colours) & VC's Cory Petit (letters) has Cosmo the talking Russian dog cosmonaut and the aforementioned villain foreshadowing some nasty doings for our heroes.

"A Long Time In Politics" by Al Ewing (writer) Yildiray Cinar (art) Rain Beredo (colours) & VC's Cory Petit (letters) starts with two guys walking into a bar who wind up talking about intergalactic politics. The two guys are Nova and Quasar. This is not a joke.

"Advent Horizon" by Tini Howard (writer) Ibrahim Moustafa (art) Jay David Ramos (colours) & VC's Cory Petit (letters) has Adam Warlock dealing with a planet of peaceful aliens being controlled by a malevolent god. Gee, I haven't seen Warlock in a while so I'm not familiar with his current status but this Warlock could have been a brand new character to me. He didn't spark any joy.

"You're Only Young Twice" by Zac Thompson & Lonnie Nadler (writers) Filipe Andrade (art) Mike Spicer (colours) & VC's Cory Petit (letters) features Darkhawk in a freaky Friday situation. I forgot that Darkhawk was a merger of two things like DC's Firestorm.

I was not impressed with this sausage fest. No female characters at all and no one that I really cared about. I don't think you would be missing anything crucial if you're a fan of the regular book if you decide to skip this.

Shazam #6 - Geoff Johns (writer) Marco Santucci, Marco Santucci, Dale Eaglesham & Scott Kolins (art) Mike Atiyeh (colours) Rob Leigh (letters). I was thinking of benching this book as I read the first few pages but then things take a turn with Billy's dad showing up and now I want to keep reading. The last page sealed the deal.

War of the Realms #5 - Jason Aaron (writer) Russell Dauterman (art) Matthew Wilson (colours) VC's Joe Sabino (letters). Showing the war on Midgard on all its fronts would be a daunting task for any creative team but this one does it beautifully. I hope they do an oversize full colour hard cover reprint of this main story. I would not hesitate to add that to my meagre collection. I've complained about excessive super-sized super hero versus super villains fights before but this one has just the right amount of action and suspense for me. I have enjoyed the evolution of Jane Foster that Jason Aaron has plotted and now she's in for another surprise metamorphosis.

Marvel Team-Up #3 - Eve L. Ewing (writer) Joey Vazquez with Moy R. (art) Felipe Sobreiro (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). The conclusion of the Spider-Man and Ms. Marvel body switcheroo story made me smile. I love a happy ending.

Young Justice #6 - Brian Michael Bendis (writer) John Timms (art) Gabe Eltaeb (colours) Wes Abbott (letters). This is a good jumping on issue even though it's the conclusion of the first story arc. It gives you tidbits of information on almost everybody on the team and why they're on Gemworld fighting the evil Lord Opal. When you get to the last page there's the patented Bendis ending that makes you want to read the next issue as soon as it hits the racks. I was particularly impressed with Gabe's colours this issue.

Savage Avengers #2 - Gerry Duggan (writer) Mike Deodato Jr. (art) Frank Martin (colours) VC's Travis Lanham (letters). The cover may show Wolverine attacking Conan but nothing like that happens inside. This is one of those comic books that I was able to finish reading in about 5 minutes. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it, I actually got a chuckle out of it. The big bad Is revealed to be the wizard Kulan Gath who is also time displaced like Conan. I was thinking that Conan would only be able to survive in the modern world if he learned how to shoot a gun. Who better to show him the ropes than the trigger happy Punisher? Guess which Savage Avenger makes his first appearance in this issue? They've shown the cover to Savage Avengers #4 and the two macho men are featured, one with a sword and the other firing a gun. Ninjas of the Hand pop in with Frank so I hope that means that Elektra isn't too far behind.

War of the Realms: New Agents of Atlas #3 - Greg Pak (writer) Gang Hyuk Lim (art) Federico Blee; Andres Mossa; Erick Arciniega (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). Here's another fake cover. It makes it look like the good guys lose the battle but the battle has just begun in this issue. Who picks these? I'm not a fan of the little ID captions naming everybody cluttering up each panel. I know there are a lot of characters in this book and some fans may need help identifying everybody. They should do what the main War of the Realms book does and have a full page showing who all the players are. Chances are really good that the heroes will find a way to stop Sindr from winning.

Batman Last Knight On Earth #1 - Scott Snyder (writer) Greg Capullo (pencils) Jonathan Glapion (inks) FCO Plascencia (colours) Tom Napolitano (letters). Welcome to the future where the super heroes have lost the never ending battle with evil. This is a terrific first issue that sets up the story with everything making sense and there are no "what the heck is going on here?" moments. This 3-issue deluxe $5.99 US mini is going on my "must read" list. Thanks to Doug for lending me his copy to read.

0 notes