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synbiosys · 3 years

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OREGON FRIENDS, PLEASE HELP SAVE NATIVE BIODIVERSITY! STOP THE BASALT QUARRY AT LIBERTY HILL!

There’s a really special place of great conservation importance located northwest of Portland, just north of the small town of St. Helens, and it’s gravely threatened by the expansion of a basalt quarry. Before I continue, I think I need to explain what makes this site special.

A lot of people living in western Oregon today are unaware of this, but the Willamette Valley was once dominated by oak savanna. The valley bottomlands were a complex mosaic of wetland types, including shrub swamps and sphagnum bogs, and any upland areas with well-drained soils were oak savanna; large expanses of prairie with scattered oaks. The moist, shady douglas-fir forests that Oregon is known for today were historically confined to the coast range and to the western slope of the cascade mountains. Furthermore, the oak savanna was maintained through a system of prescribed burning by the Kalapuya, the indigenous people who once called the Willamette Valley home. This system of prescribed burns prevented encroachment by douglas-fir; white “doug fir” trees lack fire resistance until are very old, the native oak species, Quercus garryana, is highly resistant to fire, even at a relatively young age. The herbaceous plants that require oak savanna also tend to be fire-resistant, and some of them could be considered pyrophytes; they require periodic fires in order to thrive. Several of them are also edible; the Kalapuya maintained the oak savannas primarily to harvest the edible bulbs of Camas species (Camassia quamash and Camassia leichtlinii), but also because they attracted deer and elk, which were important sources of protein.

After European settlers showed up in the early 1800s, the Kalapuya were decimated by disease. In the 1850s, the people who remained were forced into ceding their land to the United States and rounded up into reservations, where they were nearly lost to a well-coordinated attempt at ethnocide by the federal government.

At this point, their lands had been almost completely lost to white settlers, who began to suppress the prescribed fires long before the Kalapuya were marched away to reservations. Camas fields, which require wet soil in winter and spring (Camassia leichtlinii essentially requires seasonal wetland conditions), were ditched and drained, and the douglas-fir slowly but surely crept into the oaks. Later, once the value of douglas-fir as timber was fully realized, this trend was accelerated by deliberate planting of douglas-fir trees. Much later, in the 1900s, extensive urbanization began to eat away at what remained of native Oregon prairies and oak savanna.

Today, only about 5% of the original extent of oak savanna remains in Oregon. And most of that 5% is in need of restoration or has already lost the great majority of its native species. The very best remnant oak savanna I’ve personally seen still retained a number of plant species that I’d never seen before in person, but was suffering from invasive species brought in by a quarry that was started nearby. And that’s the unfortunate part; because some of the better remnant oak savanna occurs on basalt outcrops in the foothills of the coast range, it is also vulnerable to quarrying.

Which is where Liberty Hill comes in. Liberty Hill is a mosaic of camas meadows, oak woodland, and wetlands occurring on a large basalt outcrop overlooking the Columbia River. I have not visited Liberty Hill in person, but from the photos I have seen, it has somehow escaped the abuses of the last century and also retained its herbaceous plant species, including many species that have become extremely rare in the northern Willamette Valley. I have attached a link to the iNaturalist observations for vascular plants on Liberty Hill and the surrounding area so that other people can see what grows there.

Sadly, Liberty Hill is private land, owned by Weyerhauser. Weyerhauser has leased the land to Knife River, a building materials company that operates other basalt quarries in western Oregon. Predictably, Knife River has submitted a mining permit application to mine out a part of Liberty Hill. The details of how the quarry would affect Liberty Hill are available in the links below, but it would essentially be a lost cause if it were quarried. The hydrology would be changed drastically, causing wetlands to dry out sooner, and these types of operations typically result in the introduction of invasive species, clinging to heavy machinery as seeds hidden in dry mud carried between worksites.

The public comment period for the mining permit is ending TODAY, 3/3/21; if any of my followers on Tumblr could please consider sending an email comment, it would really help. If you have time, writing a unique comment is far more effective than copying the suggestions in the links below. If you don’t like the comment suggestions offered, here are some that I have thought of:

- Seasonal wetlands are important amphibian habitat for red-legged frogs and western toads

- Native pollinators require native plants; this is one of the last strongholds for some of these plants in northwestern Oregon

- Liberty Hill is a time capsule of what western Oregon once was; it is an important reference for restoring similar sites

Finally, your email comments must include the REFERENCE NUMBER FOR THE PERMIT APPLICATION and the commenters REAL NAME and ADDRESS

To make it easier, I have copied the correct email address and project name/reference number below, as well as a simple heading for you to include in the body of the email comment:

Email address: [email protected]

Email subject box: Public Comment For: Watters Quarry Expansion (NWP-2020-065)

Email text (below this line):

Name: [real name]

Address: [real address]

LINKS FOR MORE INFO:

General Info: https://www.oregoncamas.com/conservation

Comment Period Info: https://www.oregoncamas.com/pending-removal-mining-permit

Army Corps of Engineers Mine Application:

https://www.nwp.usace.army.mil/Missions/Regulatory/Notices/Article/2490987/nwp-2020-065/

List of Vascular Plant Observations (iNaturalist): https://www.inaturalist.org/observations?nelat=45.87331367450567&nelng=-122.80286164270085&place_id=any&swlat=45.865096152803716&swlng=-122.83923955037328&taxon_id=211194&view=species

#native plants #biodiversity #conservation #oregon #mining

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pynkhues · 3 years

Note

7 for the intimacy prompt with Mick x Mary Pat?

Anon!!! You are my absolute favourite for requesting my favourite crack ship baby, haha.

This is set in the same ‘verse as Navigate a Broken Path, but you don’t have to have read that to read this. I hope you like it.

7. Kissing Scars.

Thing is, he’s waiting for her to ask.

Figures he and her have been doing this long enough now – whatever this is – for her to get her foothold in familiarity. Hell, she’s halfway there already, with the way she keeps apricot jelly (he just likes it is all) in the fridge door and the polish for his boots in the laundry.

Shit.

The way, every night, she keeps him a plate.

Figures they might not ever sit down and tell each other their life stories, but they’ve told each other enough – offered snapshots of memories like flipping through an album – stories of dead parents, exes, old grudges and new ones and Mick had answered and asked in equal measure.

Liked that nothing seemed to phase her.

He thinks she likes that nothing seems to phase him either.

(“You know what it smells like, don’t you?” she’d asked him one night, after a few too many beers. “The dead body of someone you love?”

Yeah, he’d thought. He knew what that smelt like.

Still.

He’d just held her hand.)

It’s why it surprises him, that’s all, that he can catch her gaze in the mirror when he gets ready to go out, see her tracing his scars – the ones across his arms, stomach, burrowed deep in his shoulder – can see her inhale, swallow, wet her lips, and still never hear the question.

Can hear the how? even as she says: “Pot roast for dinner?”

Mick inhales sharply as he pulls his shirt away from the wound, gritting his teeth when the fabric – damp with blood – sticks to the skin already starting to scab.

Across from him, Rio’s gaze flicks up, eyebrow raised – a silent a’ight? – and Mick just nods, getting his shirt the rest of the way off as Rio finishes soaking the small, folded towel in alcohol and passes it over for Mick to press to it.

Stings like all fuck, but Mick grunts through it, throat constricting, as he rests his ass back against one of the crates of liquor in the backroom of the bar. The air is stagnant here, damp almost to the touch, and cold from the Detroit winter outside holding to the stone walls and concrete floors inside. He shivers, and looks back at Rio, who’s still crouched on the floor, knuckles bruised and lip split. He fared okay. Better than Mick anyway, who didn’t even see the flash of silver before the knife was stuck into his gut.

Still, Mick’s had worse.

“You called your girl?” Rio asks, and Mick blinks, gaze re-focusing as the other man starts to unpack the kit they keep stashed back here to stitch him up. Mick swallows, looks down at his belly and pulls the towel away just enough to see it soaked red with blood.

“You called yours?”

Rio just snorts at that, grabbing one of the sealed packets of needles and tearing it open with his teeth.

“Nah, I ain’t the one who got stabbed, man.”

“You really saying that like you would if you were?”

He doesn’t reply to that.

He leaves it a few days before he goes back to her place, but he makes sure to text her so she knows. Tells her he’s on a job, and she texts him okay, she texts him good luck, she texts him Billy really wants you at his sixth grade concert next week, and then, later, I want you there too.

He wants to tell her he wouldn’t miss it, but he doesn’t know how, so instead he just shows up for dinner, and it means something – the way her face lights up, the way the boys yell, the way she had a plate waiting for him in the oven, even though she didn’t – couldn’t have known he was going to show up, but still.

It’s nice.

To feel wanted.

So they watch Monsters, Inc with the kids and he feeds the baby while she gets the boys to bed, and he nurses his movements in a way she doesn’t notice until they go to bed and he figures she’ll just look at it when he takes his shirt off to reveal the puckered stitches (Rio’s never been good at fiddly work like that) and the orchid-blue petals of bruises across his stomach, stark even against his tattoos.

And she does just stare, sitting on the bed in a loose tank and her underwear, her face open, her blue eyes so wide they look like marbles, and Mick should say something, should tell her it’s nothing, that this is what he does, and she knows that, only suddenly she opens her mouth and what comes out is:

“Sharks are mean this time of year.”

Mick blinks.

“What?”

Mary Pat just nods, pushing the blankets down to wriggle underneath them, her hands shaking just a little (just enough that he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t getting familiar with her too).

“They’re just all - - all fangs,” she continues, voice pitching high, and she laughs, shakes her head more to herself than to him, and Mick slips his belt out of his pants, dropping it onto the dresser as he considers her.

“In Detroit?”

Mary Pat hums in affirmation.

“They’re taking over the River.”

“Ain’t it frozen over right now?”

“It’s a new species. They’re called - - Ice Sharks. Or so I’ve heard.”

“From who?”

“I don’t - - shouldn’t you be telling me?” she gestures at his belly, and Mick raises an eyebrow at her. “You’re the one who got in a fight with one.”

She offers it so matter of fact that it takes Mick a moment to catch up. To turn his look from her, half undressed, in her bed, tan sheets beneath her and patchwork quilt being tugged up her soft, bare legs, face set in certainty, and himself, still in his jeans, but otherwise naked, with no idea what the fuck is going on.

So.

He just asks it.

“What are we doing here?”

Through the walls, he can hear a pipe gargle. Can hear Benji snoring (kid’s got the lungs of a guy twice his size), and mattress springs whine as one of the kids rolls over, but in here, Mary Pat just looks back at him, shifts her weight a little, before she jerks her chin down at the barely-healed wound at his gut.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Which - -

Fuck.

“No.” He pauses, then adds stiffly: “It’s just work.”

Because it was. Because it was just another deal with just another guy who thought he could take more than he was owed, and it’s happened before and it’ll happen again, and Mick put a bullet in the guy’s head and it was over.

It is over.

He sighs, rubs a little at his chest, and suddenly, Mary Pat gets back up onto her knees, lifts her shirt up and pushes the top of her faded panties down. Mick blinks, gaze fixing, as she brushes down some of her wiry pubic hair to show a thin, puckered line.

“I had a C-Section with Andy,” she tells him. “You know you’re not supposed to lift your baby for six weeks after a C-Section otherwise you’ll scar? You know how many women aren’t going to pick up their babies for six weeks? I figure it’s a - - a work wound, right? That’s all it is. A part of the job.”

She inhales a little, cheeks flushed, but she still covers it with her hand, lets her shirt fall back down to cover her soft, pale belly, tries to make it look casual and Mick watches her fingers grope at herself, self-conscious, and before he can think anything of it, he says:

“You sure? It kinda looks like you were in a knife fight.”

The laugh is instant, and curls warm in Mick’s head, and she folds back down into the bed as she says:

“I’m guessing you’d know.”

He inhales sharply at that, looking at her, and he can’t figure out if she realizes it’s this one, if it’s what happened this time, or if she’s just figured that it’d be one of them. One of his scars. Wonders if she knows it’s the nick at his ear, or the one at his Achilles heel. Shit. Has she even seen that one? He wets his lips, and from the bed, Mary Pat just grins at him, her eyes a little dark, like she feels this too, but then she hums. The sound low.

“Actually it’s funny you should say that, I was in a knife fight once myself.”

Mick blinks, lip curled.

“Yeah?”

She nods, rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, wrinkles her nose.

“Lilli - - Lisa Bosw - - Bottom. Little Lisa Boss-Bottom. Yep. That was her name. We were at a carnival, and I had just gotten off a ferris wheel with this boy she kinda liked, and she just leapt right out at me. Unhinged. With a knife! There were rumours she was actually a werewolf.”

There’s something to the way she says it – like the lie’s sorta tumble rolling out of her, head over ass over feet, a way to it that makes his lips twitch, and Mick reaches for the buckle on his pants. Slips them off until he’s just in his underwear, before padding slowly towards the bed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mary Pat says, and she scoots across the bed to make room for him, lowering her voice when she adds: “You should see me the next full moon.”

She growls then, and then instantly looks embarrassed that she did it, closing her eyes, her cheeks flushing red, and Mick’s grin comes before he can stop it, finally climbing tenderly into bed beside her. Before he can think anymore of it, he sinks low across the mattress, pulls down the top of her panties, and looks at her c-section scar again, and says:

“You sure this ain’t from a bobcat?”

It’s her who laughs this time, her eyes opening, embarrassment still there but not quite running so deep maybe, and he presses his lips to the scar, feels the bristle of hair against his mouth, the bodily hitch of her breath. Then – a hand at his shoulder, calloused, working fingers smoothing over an old bullet hole scar, and fuck, it’s his breath that hitches then.

“I’m guessing this is from a - - a giant bee.”

“A giant bee,” he echoes, hand coming to palm at her too-soft hip as he starts to push his way back up the bed. “How giant?”

“Giant-giant,” she replies. “I heard they were engineering them in a lab in Portland to make crazy amounts of honey.”

It feels weird – how long the smile holds on his face, and his hand coasts up her side to gently grab her arm, hold it up so they can both see where she burnt herself on the iron last week.

“You get this volcano diving?”

She hums in affirmation, before saying: “To save a family of elephants.”

He can’t help it then, the bark of a laugh, but before it can bellow too loud, before he can think to stop it, Mary Pat’s leaning forwards, freeing her arm from his grip to curl it around his neck and kiss him. His laugh lost to the warmth of her mouth and the scratch of her fingers on the base of his skull.

“I know what you do,” she breathes into his mouth. “I know who you are. Please don’t think - - don’t think you can’t come here after.”

The air is sucked out of his lungs, and he leans back just enough to look at her – at her blue eyes and her working scars and the way her gaze holds him, and he thinks I’m not supposed to get this but he just says okay.

#mick x mary pat #i just love them a lot you guys #one day they'll have a scene together on the show #i am willing it into existence #navigate a broken path #fic asks #intimacy prompts #my fic #welcome to my ama #mick #mary pat #Anonymous

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havendance · 3 years

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More AtLA x Leverage Crossover

Because I still have a lot of thoughts. This is getting closer and closer to something I actually might write the more I think about it. The leverage crew + kids is top tier content and Zuko is prime adoption material. Look, he and Parker would get along great, that’s all I’m saying.

Edit: Now an actual story! Check it out here.

Background:

This takes place vaguely during season 5 of Leverage. Definetly before Eliot gets that haircut.

Zuko gets burned and banished and dumped in the states. Either at a port in boston, or a port on the west coast from which he eventually makes his way to Portland. It’s basically one of those ‘Zuko got dumped in the Earth Kingdom and gets adopted’ fics except it’s America instead of the Earth Kingdom. Nothing changes about the adoption portion. He’s got nothing but the clothes on his back, the knife his uncle gave him, and some money that was gone far too soon.

There’s bending in this world, mainly localized to the four nations. Zuko’s still a firebender. Anyone who’s a bender in cannon is a bender here. The Leverage crew is almost entirely non-benders like the majority of people in the US. Parker, however, has grey eyes and feels most alive when she’s falling, the wind rushing around her. Her bending isn’t conscious, she probably isn’t even aware of it, but she definitely has air in her blood. (Look airbender!Paker is just too perfect to pass up.)

For that matter, there’s also an Avatar in this world. They’re primarily a religious figure, also localized to the four nations. They’re still a master of all four elements, but their main role is that of the bridge between the spirit world and the material world. They haven’t been seen in a hundred years, possibly more, since the massacre of an Air Nomad Temple was the starting incident in what would prove to be a century of tension and intermittent war in the region. Zuko’s quest is still to find the Avatar and it’s just as impossible in canon except a little moreso because of the whole getting dumped in the US with zero resources thing. If you want to regain your honor, find the avatar, Ozai said. Just don’t expect any help.

The Story:

Parker finds him first. She’s out doing what she does for fun which usually involves climbing high buildings and breaking into places, etc. She runs into Zuko who’s doing roughly the same thing. He’s not bad at it either for a kid, so Parker naturally decides to give him some tips. She also ends up scaring him, and well, there’s some running and chasing and in the end she brings him back either to the Brewpub.

Nate and Hardison would like to know where Parker stole this kid from. Eliot sighs and gets him something to eat. Sophie starts fussing over him.

Zuko dissolves a little under Sophie’s mothering. He imprints on everyone after a while but she has a way with people and he imprints on her first and hardest.

He also tells them that his name’s Lee.

It takes Hardison a little while to find out just who ‘Lee’ is. He may be a miracle worker, but the kid has a rather large and fresh burn scar that messes with the facial recognition software and Lee’s a common (and obviously fake) name. Combine that with the fact that the Fire Nation takes the privacy of their royal family very seriously and that the official story of Prince Zuko’s banishment is both highly edited and buried pretty deep and out of the way. All that put together doesn’t really make for an easy search.

Once he’s put all the pieces together though… There’s a video. It’s shaky and low quality but that doesn’t make what it’s showing any less horrifying. The Fire Nation’s suppressing it; it keeps getting taken down nearly as soon as it’s put up, but Hardison still stumbles across it. He actually finds it before he realizes that it’s Lee. He’s curious and gets about halfway through before realizing with growing horror just what’s about to go down and noping out. Later, after he’s gone through about 50 different emotions where at least half of them are some form of anger, he goes back and watches it all the way through, he figures he owes Lee/Zuko at least that much.

Nate has to be talked down from immediately flying Leverage out to the fire nation to orchestrate Ozai’s downfall by the rest of the crew when Hardison shares the story of just what happened to Zuko. They eventually plan to do a long-term plan acting against him (like with Moreau) because everyone wants to make Ozai suffer after what they learned, it’s just facing off against an entire Nation is a big deal, even if they already kind of did it with San Lorenzo.

Anyway, as a result of this, Nate’s plans to steal the Black Book and retire get pushed back. The rich and powerful can wait. This is scary!Nate that we saw in the cross my heart job.

By this point, they’ve basically adopted him and start training him to be just as kick-ass as they are:

Zuko’s good at sneaking, really good. Not as good as Parker of course, but he learns quickly. She teaches him the other aspects of thievery as well and while he isn’t quite as good at picking pockets as he is at scaling buildings and avoiding security, he’s still good.

He also radiates pure fight-me energy. Eliot teaches him how to fight without bending. He also teaches Zuko how to cook, which he does use his fire-bending for. It’s all about the context.

Sophie tries to teach him about grifting but while he can manage reading people he can’t lie to save his life.

Nate likewise tries to teach him plotting but Zuko’s default plan is definitely winging it so they clash there and ultimately give up

Zuko’s less interested in most of the stuff Hardison does, but he is very interested in all of the ways that he does research and ends up helping with that a lot. And if he’s using his spare time to do as much research into the Avatar and his missing mother as he can, well, it’s his spare time.

Nate and Zuko spend a lot of time denying their father-son dynamic. According to them, Zuko doesn’t need a new dad and Nate doesn’t need a new son. It’s inevitable though. Nate may be a drunk bastard, but this is a kid and he was a father once. Also, Ozai sucks.

Zuko and Sophie are theater buddies! They both love the stage so much but can’t act to save their life (on stage at least). They also have wildly differing opinions on what makes good theatre so when they go to plays they have long arguments about what the production did right/wrong afterward.

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stxrrywildflower · 4 years

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hypothermia

pairing - spencer reid x reader

summary - you and derek go to extreme lengths to save a victim

warnings - injury, mentions of case, cursing

word count - ?

cold.

all you felt was cold.

you could barely remember where you were or what had happened.

your senses felt frozen.

all you could manage to do was shut your eyes.

___

the team arrived in portland, oregon a few days prior.

it was march, meaning the temperatures barely passed the the mid-fifties at the high, and dropped extremely low during the night. even snow fell on the ground as you landed, resulting in everyone on the team adding an extra layer or two.

the unsub was killing women and disposing of their bodies on the streets lining the beaches. it was becoming extremely difficult to narrow the suspect pool down, due to the large population.

hotch ordered you and spencer to go to the morgue and look at the previous victims to find out what you could.

“he must have some sort of emotional tie to to the ocean. it would explain why the unsub chooses that location,” spencer spoke from the passenger seat.

you nodded, “possible grew up on the coast or maybe even lost someone to drowning.”

upon arrival at the morgue, the two of you made your way inside. you both greeted the coroner before grabbing gloves. as you moved around the victims bodies, spencer talked to the man about what he could figure out.

“they’re not drowned. there’s a puncture wound in her foot, probobly died from a heart attack,” you concluded.

with that, you and spencer returned to the police station to alert your team about what you had discovered. while walking towards the doors, the wind picked up causing you to hug your jacket a little tighter. spencer pulled you closer to him to keep you warm.

the next four days were agonizingly slow. another body had been found, but it had the exact same marks as the others with nothing different. if anything, it slowed your investigation down rather than help you.

the team worked long hours, desperate to find a lead. and finally, after those four days, they found one.

hotch sent you and morgan to investigate the suspects house that night. it was dark and very cold. upon arrival, you found it was empty. but with further investigation, you two concluded that this defiantly was your guy.

pictures and articles on these women were pinned on the walls as well as an article about a little boy drowning in a riptide a month or so ago.

“stresser,” you informed morgan.

as you two were walking out of the house, a red car sped out of the garage of the house and down the road. you managed to catch a glimpse of the driver and passenger; it was the unsub and his current victim. thankfully, she was alive.

morgan jumped into the drivers seat as you got into the passengers seat. he sped off, following the car the best he could. at one point, due to the darkness and wind, you lost the car.

however, a few moments later, after driving around, you saw the red care carelessly parked on the side of the road. the unsub was dragging the girl, who was gagged and tied at her wrists and ankles, towards the end of the pier.

“unsub located, he has a girl with him. location is the pier just off of south street,” you spoke into your communication system.

you and morgan slowly stepped out of the car and took a step towards the unsub who had a sly grin on his face. he held an automatic rifle which was pointed at the girls head.

“morgan she has weights on her,” you informed your fellow agent.

“you don’t have to do this man!” morgan shouted, “just let the girl go. we can tell the judge you cooperated. let her go.”

the next moments happened all so quickly. the unsub pushed the girl off of the pier into the water. due to the weights attached, she slowly began to sink to the bottom. the man then pointed his gun at morgan. you fired a shot, killing him instantly. you and derek shared a quick look before taking off sprinting off of the pier and diving into the water.

the team arrived just in time to see you and morgan go under. rossi and emily went over to the unsub, checking his pulse before concluding him to be dead. the rest of the team stayed on the beach, narrowing their eyes at the water, no sign of you or morgan anywhere.

after hitting the water, your entire body tensed up. the water couldn’t have been more than 35-40 degrees. you managed to pry your eyes open, just enough to see the light from derek’s flashlight.

the water was pitch black and you needed to find the girl. you were both loosing oxygen quickly and no doubt the victim was too.

after then more seconds of desperately searching, you saw the woman floating towards the bottom of the water. as quickly as you could, you grabbed your pocket knife and sliced the ropes. the process was painfully slow, and with each moment, you felt yourself in more and more pain.

finally, the ropes fell and you took one arm while derek took the other. after pushing off the ocean floor, you made it to the surface, gasping for air. you used your spare hand to push back your hair as you frantically looked around.

in the distance, you could make out your team as well as the police standing on the beach. your whole body was shaking as you couldn’t believe how far out you were. slowly but surely, you began to swim towards the mainland.

in your mind, the process seemed to take forever. your boots finally made contact with the sand, allowing for you to stand up. you and morgan hauled the victim onto the sand where the emt’s were waiting.

you and derek, however, seemed locked in place, still standing waist deep in painfully cold water. spencer was helping the emt’s after orders from hotch but looked over when he heard a large splash. his head turned just in time to witness morgan collapsing, just after you went down. thankfully, emily and hotch were there to catch you both.

“w-who are you. where a-am i,” you spoke shakily, mind incredibly fuzzy.

the pain began to increase throughout your body, but it seemed to attack your head the most. after your legs went out, your arms were next. they were holding emily’s arms but then dropped. your head rolled to the side. upon looking at hotch, derek was having the same results.

“medics!” hotch shouted.

“hey y/n, i need you to stay awake. keep those eyes open. come on y/n, please,” the woman who you couldn’t quite remember in front of you pleaded. the next few moments were a blur as you couldn’t follow her demands and instead shut your eyes.

once the second wave of emt’s arrived, you and morgan were quickly loaded onto stretcher’s and rushed to the hospital. the team stood on the beach, still processing what happened. hotch and emily were starting to feel a little sick from entering the water to help their team.

“i know we all want to get to the hospital but it’s already late. everyone go back to the hotel and get changed and we can go to the hospital afterwards,” hotch spoke to his team.

as everyone began to walk back to to the car, spencer stopped, tapping his hands against his leg as he looked at the ocean. j.j. noticed this and made her way over, placing her hand softly on his shoulder.

“talk to me,” j.j. spoke with a calm tone.

“hypothermia is one of the most dangerous medical conditions out there. your body literally shuts down after being in the water for only a few minutes. but y/n and morgan were in the water for a long time. i’m just so worried,” spencer struggled to get out.

for a genius who knew so much, he had run out of things to say.

“spence, the doctors are going to do everything in their power to help them. you have every right to be worried. derek is your best friend, besides me of course,” j.j. joked, causing spence to smile slightly, “and to state the obvious, you’re so in love with y/n. you two have known each other for practically forever and she’s your girlfriend, of course you’re going to be worried. but for now, all we can do is go back to the hotel and then the hospital.”

he nodded slightly before allowing j.j. to lead him to the car and to the hotel.

spencer changed into a comfortable button up with a sweater overtop before meeting the team back in the lobby. everyone made sure to bundle up, especially after the situation with you and morgan, before they made their way to the hospital.

after using his status as an fbi agent for a little leverage, hotch managed to get the nurse to give them some information. you and morgan were currently in the icu but that’s all they received. the nurse permitted two members of the team to stay overnight while everyone could return the following morning. at that point, full medical information could be released.

spencer was as easy first choice. j.j. was nominated to be second. she was the closest with spencer and would be the best moral support. the team echoed their goodbyes to the two before promising to be there tomorrow morning right when opening hours started.

the two were led to an area where they could sit and rest for the night. it wasn’t outside of yours our derek’s room which wasn’t ideal, but spencer and j.j. accepted it. the two collapsed into the chairs, each pulling a blanket over themselves before slowly drifting to sleep.

the following morning, the team re-grouped in the waiting room of the hospital. surprisingly, spencer and j.j. had managed to get an actual good night of sleep.

“i can take you to agent y/n and morgan’s took where a doctor while then brief you,” the nurse told the group.

they were lead to a different floor and down the hallway. the nurse motioned for chairs to sit in while she went to go get the doctor later. a moment later, another women appeared in front of them, introducing herself.

“first of all, agent y/n and morgan will be okay,” the doctor spoke causing a relived sigh to echo through the hallway, “but, both have sustained serious injuries. hypothermia is the obvious one. y/n and derek were in the freezing water for an extremely long time causing their bodies to almost shut down completely. i’ve never seen two patients cases mirror each other but y/n and derek’s do. y/n’s heart stopped for a quick few seconds but quickly started beating again. moments later, derek’s stopped also. thankfully, both are hooked up to iv’s and are recovering nicely. the only problem is, it may take awhile for the two to wake up. they really should have died, and i am unsure how they’re still okay. without their selfless efforts, the woman who is now in recovery would be dead. so i wanted to thank your team for their actions.”

the team processed the doctors words. “can we see them?” emily asked. “yes of course, we put them both in one of the larger rooms. it’s room number 503, three doors down on the left,” with one more smile, the doctor then left.

entering the hospital room, the team paused. you both had thick blankets covering your bodies, a slight buzz sounding from the electric heater inside. spencer looked at you first. your lips were still a slight shade of blue and your fingertips had a few black marks on them. derek was the exact same.

spencer teared up at the sight of the two of you. he collapsed in a chair by your bedside first. he pressed his lips together and rubbed his temple. all the team could do was wait for you two to wake up.

a week later, at around 10pm, derek woke up. the room was dark and the hallway lights were dim, as it was past visiting hours. he went to sit up but his muscles were weak. it took a large effort to move his hand to the ‘call nurse’ button. after pressing it, he moved his head to the side where you were still laying. a few moments later, a nurse entered the room. “good to see you awake agent morgan, how are you feeling?”

“not great. what happened?” derek asked.

“you and agent y/n went into the freezing ocean to save one of the victims. luckily, she has since been released. for the two of you, your hearts both stopped momentarily as a side effect of the hypothermia. but, with lots of rest and recovery, you two should be fine.”

derek nodded to the nurses words before leanining back into the hospital bed.

at close to 4am, you woke up. you felt the same way as derek did but managed to move your head to the side. derek was sitting up, looking at some magazine the nurse must have given him.

“hey kid,” derek spoke softly.

you moved your hand up to your head. “remind me to not go swimming ever again during the winter,” you first spoke resulting in derek to laugh. soon after, a nurse came in, checking over you first before changing the iv’s. “your team should be here in a few hours, they’ve visited everyday,” the nurse told you with a smile.

true to her word, once visiting hours, you heard talking from outside of your room. the doors opened seconds later. spencer immediately rushed to your bedside, hugging you softly as you did your best to return it.

“you’re amazing,” spencer spoke before cupping your cheeks and kissing you softly.

the two of you stopped when morgan called over, “hey lover boy, no hello to me?” loud laughs echoed through the hospital room as relief washed over the team that you two were okay.

#criminal #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #david rossi #penelope garcia

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semperintrepida · 3 years

Text

Spark Check

The truck's gas pedal had long been stomped to the floor when Kyra drummed her palms against its steering wheel and tried to coax a little more oomph out of its tired motor. "Come on," she pleaded.

Without her little Toyota, she couldn't have fled Portland and her on-again, off-again relationship with Thal. Their latest blow up had flipped them back to off-again, and this time she had to get away, get out of the city. She was sick of green — she wanted shades of brown: dust and sagebrush as far as her eye could see and sketch and paint. So she'd packed her things and headed for Oregon's high desert, the road taking her southeast into the Cascades, past Mount Hood, and into dense forest dotted with blue lakes.

But it seemed this was as far as her pickup could go, on a long climb up a mountain in the middle of nowhere. The truck had slowed to a crawl, and she pulled over as soon as the roadway widened enough for it to be safe.

"Fuck," she said into the silence.

She jumped out and popped the hood open. The smell of hot rubber and oil surrounded her, and she shook her head at the confusion of belts, cables, and tubing she found inside. Fuck. She'd seen three cars during the hours she'd spent on this road, and when she swiped her phone's screen awake, it showed no signal.

Breathe, Kyra. Think. She was okay for now. She had her backpacking gear, plenty of food and water. She could overnight here just fine. All she had to do was wait. She took another deep breath, then launched a psychic message into the universe: Please send someone to help me.

She glanced around. It was pretty here, at least, with a postcard view of a forested valley from the shoulder of a mountain. The light was decent, if a little harsh, but it wouldn't be long before the sun's angle changed and sent shadows knifing across the road.

All she could do was wait.

A few hours later, she was dozing in the front seat when she heard a far off sound: a deep, loping rumble that grew louder, quickly, into noise that slapped her ears as a dirtbike blew past her without stopping. She slumped back against her seat.

Then brake lights lit up, and the dirtbike made a sharp u-turn in the middle of the road and backtracked closer. Damn, she was kinda hoping for a minivan driven by a soccer mom. She was all by herself out here. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and she got out of the truck and stood by the hood and waited.

Her stomach knotted and her chest tightened as she watched the bike roll to a stop a little ways away. The bike's engine fell silent, and then its rider hopped off and approached her.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, face hidden behind a helmet and mirrored goggles, and his jersey and pants were patterned in brash splotches of black, blue, and yellow. He wore plastic armor slung over his chest, guards over his elbows, and chunky boots. He looked like some futuristic video game warrior.

The boots must have been stiff. He clomped gracelessly towards her while stripping his gloves off to reveal large hands, and then he reached up and unbuckled his helmet. He pulled it free, shook a long dark braid loose over his shoulder, and Kyra froze like a leaf in a cold snap as she realized the rider was a woman.

A fucking hot one, too.

It took Kyra a few moments to recover her poise. "Hi," she said, to keep things simple.

The woman was even hotter when she smiled. "Hey there." Her cheeks and forehead were coated in dust, but it only made the unusual color of her eyes more prominent. 'Brown' and 'hazel' didn't do them justice. They flicked away from Kyra and over to the truck's engine. "Trouble?"

"Yeah. We barely made it up this far."

"Huh. No power?"

Kyra sighed. "Not as much as it should, which isn't much to start with."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"Go right ahead."

The woman bent down to put her helmet on the ground, but Kyra held out a hand and said, "Here, give it to me."

It was lighter than Kyra expected, its dusty white shell covered in scratches and scuffs. She placed it carefully in the truck's front seat, and when she circled back to the engine, the woman had already starting taking things apart.

She held a rubbery cable up to her eye, murmuring to herself as she inspected it. "You got a tool kit?"

"No." Kyra's cheeks warmed. Probably not a great idea to be traveling through BFE without a tool box, but her pickup had never let her down before.

"I've got one that might work. And lucky for you, my bike's Japanese too."

Kyra wasn't sure what that had to do with anything, and she mulled it over as she watched the woman walk to her bike and open the small pack strapped across its tail. Maybe the Japanese had a different school of arcane engine knowledge than anyone else.

The woman returned soon enough, and unfurled a canvas roll of tools that reminded Kyra of the paintbrush case that sat with her art supplies in the passenger seat of her truck, a variety of implements lined up in a neat row. Then the woman was plunging the length of a socket into the engine, turning the wrench with strong hands, pulling it out.

A frisson of excitement shivered out from behind Kyra's eyes, down her spine, and into places between her legs. Her cheeks warmed again, and she ducked her head and hoped she'd gone unnoticed.

The woman tapped something out of the socket into the palm of her hand. A spark plug. She plugged it into the cable. "Let's give it a check. Can you start your truck?"

Kyra hurried off, glad to be given something to do. She moved the helmet aside and slid behind the wheel. "Ready?" she called out.

"Yeah. Go for it."

Kyra turned the key. The engine coughed over unhappily.

The woman's voice floated out from under the hood. "That's enough. Come on back."

When Kyra returned to the front of the truck, the woman held up the cable and said, "You've got a bad spark plug wire. And if one's going bad, the others are too."

Kyra winced. "Perfect." Her breath squeezed out from her, as if a load of sandbags had landed on her chest. If she couldn't get the truck running here, she'd have to get it towed — and she didn't have the money for something like that. She'd have to call Thal, beg him for help—

"Well, Detroit Lake's just down the road. Maybe twenty or thirty miles, but it's downhill the whole way. If you want, I can follow you to make sure you make it there, and then we can figure out what to do next."

That we made the weight on Kyra's chest lose a few pounds. "That sounds great," she said. "I really appreciate it."

"Happy to help."

She extended a hand. "I'm Kyra, by the way."

The woman set the wire down and wiped her hands on her jersey, leaving a dark smudge of grease behind. It would stain if someone didn't soak it in detergent first before washing. She shook Kyra's hand with a firm grip. "Kassandra," she said, along with another smile. "Nice to meet you."

She put the truck back together in short order, and then she was pulling on her helmet and saying, "I'll pass you when we get close to town and you can follow me in." Kyra climbed back into her truck, buckled her seat belt, and tried the key. The engine fired up on her third attempt, and Kyra sighed with relief to be moving again with a clear plan ahead.

It took an hour to coast down that narrow and winding road, and once they reached Detroit Lake, Kassandra led her to a rustic-looking resort nestled among giant trees. The dirtbike came to a stop in front of a small cabin, and Kyra parked alongside it.

While Kyra locked her truck and walked to the steps up to the cabin's porch, Kassandra pushed the bike up the porch's ramp and parked it next to the front door. Kyra waited on the steps as Kassandra removed her gloves and helmet.

"Back to civilization, safe and sound," Kassandra said.

Kyra nodded. "And I owe it all to you." She supposed the tiny gas station across the road counted as civilization. It did have a pay phone.

Awkward silence. Kassandra straightened her braid over her shoulder. "Well, then." Her hands played with the straps on her helmet.

"Can I buy you dinner?"

She looked surprised. "You don't have to do that."

Was she being careful for a reason? Maybe she was taken, and there was someone waiting for her in that cabin. But she was too damn gorgeous for Kyra not to try again. "I insist," she said, letting an amused grin sneak across her lips. "I'm starving, anyway, and you did say we'd figure out what to do next."

Kassandra's hesitation was brief. "All right, then," she said. "But let me change out of"— a gesture at herself —"this, first."

When she emerged from the cabin a few minutes later, her face and neck were damp and she was wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans and a worn pair of work boots. The shirt was tight enough to jolt Kyra's clit wide awake: Kassandra had muscles for days, in the long lines of her forearms, the swell of her biceps, and the curve of her shoulders into honest-to-God traps framing her neck. Generous lips smiled and her eyes sparkled with amusement as she asked, "Are you all right?"

Kyra suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss those lips while running her hands over the washboard abs she knew were hiding under that t-shirt. She swallowed hard and tried not to wriggle out of her skin with want. "I'm fine, yeah."

Kassandra eyed her for a moment. "There's a decent place to eat, up the highway a bit," she said.

Kyra gestured for her to lead the way. Far safer than opening her mouth.

The hamlet of Detroit was bigger than Kyra expected. A marina full of houseboats sprawled by the lakeside, and a handful of shops stood in a cluster a short distance from the cars hurtling up and down the highway.

A few minutes later, they arrived at a building that wore the facade of a hunting lodge, with weathered clapboard siding and a dozen chromed-out motorcycles parked in front. There was probably a deer head mounted on the wall inside.

There was a deer's head mounted on the wall inside, a great big rack of antlers spread above the stone fireplace. They sat, ordered drinks — beer for Kyra and a Jack-and-Coke for Kassandra — and fussed with place settings.

"You come in from Estacada?" Kassandra asked her.

"No, I spent last night camping at Timothy Lake."

Kassandra smiled. "I love it up there. It's gorgeous, and the riding's perfect."

"Is that what you're here for?"

"Yeah, I've got a few days between assignments. My crew just got back from three weeks in Tahoe."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a firefighter." Of course she was. Something must have escaped Kyra's expression because Kassandra grinned at her and added, "Wildland, not the firetrucks, ladders, and dalmatians kind. I work on a Hotshot crew based out of Redmond."

"Hotshot?"

"We work the toughest parts of a forest fire, without any other support. And we direct a lot of the action around us. We go where others can't."

"So you're good at what you do, then."

"I'm very good at what I do." And she had the confidence to match.

They were still smirking at each other when the waitress returned with their drinks. They ordered food. Handed over menus. Kyra excused herself to wash up, and when she came back to their table, Kassandra was staring out the window, showing off a profile so perfect it should have been struck on coins like royalty.

"So what do you do?" Kassandra asked her as she sat down.

"I don't, really." Kyra fought back her embarrassment. Very attractive, not having a job. No, she did work at something — it just didn't pay. Yet.

Kassandra's eyebrow raised.

"I'm an artist."

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"I paint, mostly." She was acutely aware of Kassandra's silent scrutiny. She sipped her beer and kept talking. "Small studies in acrylics, for now. I'm chasing that perfect light."

"Perfect light?"

"Yeah. You know, after sunrise, or before sunset. That golden glow?"

Kassandra nodded.

"It's so perfect it's a cliché. But I'm interested in other kinds of perfection: rays of sunlight moving ahead of a rainstorm, or light passing through ocean waves. Things like that."

"Lots of that around here."

Their eyes met. "Lots of beauty around here, too," Kyra said.

Under the table, Kassandra's leg jerked.

The food arrived just in time to distract them. Kassandra dug into a steak — rare — and an enormous salad. "I eat nothing but processed food and MREs while I'm on assignment," she explained. "The other six months of the year, I eat every vegetable in sight while doing odd jobs to make ends meet. Construction. Fabrication. That sort of thing."

So Kassandra knew about the gig life. "I usually end up finding work as a barista to pay the bills," Kyra said between forkfuls of potatoes au gratin. "I like slinging coffee well enough, but what I really want is to get paid for my paintings."

"A worthy goal."

"I've sold a few here and there, but I can't get my foot in the door of any galleries." She shrugged. "I'm not making the work I want to be, and it shows, I think."

"What's stopping you?"

"Money. Oil paints and canvas get expensive at large scale. I want to paint like J. C. Dahl or Bierstadt did. Huge canvases. Big views. When you look at one of my landscapes, I want you to feel like you could lose yourself in it." She scraped her fork through the remnants of potato on her plate. "But that kind of neo-luminism isn't exactly burning up the auction houses these days. I'd be better off learning how to paint with a spray can and a stencil." She gave Kassandra an apologetic smile. "And look at me, boring you with all this talk about my nonexistent career."

"I'm not bored. It's just that everything I know about art went into the finger paintings I made when I was in grade school."

Kyra laughed. "Well, I don't know a single thing about fighting fire, so I won't hold it against you."

"At least we've got something in common."

"What's that?"

"You make sacrifices to do what you love. You live with the uncertainty, and I bet you know how to make a dollar go a long way." She smiled faintly. "I know... because I do the same."

"Maybe you can give me some tips on dealing with the uncertainty part," Kyra said. That was what was hardest, not having control of her life, not having a plan.

"Ask away, if there's something you want to know."

There were a lot of things about Kassandra that Kyra wanted to know, but she steered the conversation in a lighter direction, and the second round of drinks became a third while their knees kept brushing under the table, and the biker gang peeled out of the parking lot with a cloud of exhaust and noise, and the shadows grew long across the highway.

"Sun's going to set soon," Kassandra said. "Where were you planning to stay tonight?"

"I was hoping to make it to Bend today, but that plan's been shot to hell. And I bet there aren't any vacant hotels around here."

"Not this time of year. I got lucky finding this room — someone bailed on a reservation." She slid her empty glass back and forth on the table in front of her, as if the coaster was a raft she was guiding through rapids.

"Looks like I'm sleeping in the canopy of my truck, then. Wouldn't be the first time."

Kassandra's glass lurched to a stop. "Tell you what. You're welcome to crash in my room tonight. We can take my truck in to Stayton in the morning, find you some new spark plugs and wires. You'll be back on the road well before noon." She'd said it in a rush, as if she'd reached a chute in the rapids and had no choice but to follow it on down.

Kyra breathed in slowly. It wouldn't do to seem too eager. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm grateful for the help."

They bickered gently over the check, when it came; Kyra wanting to pay the whole thing like she'd promised, and Kassandra insisting on covering her share. Kyra sensed her digging in, unwilling to cross some line of propriety she'd set for herself, and so Kyra relented. There were too many hills around her for all of them to be ones to die on.

On the walk back to the cabin, Kassandra told her about a wildfire she'd worked not far from here, felling trees and digging fireline along a ridge in a forest dried-out from years of drought, the flames in the canyon below burning so intensely that the heat had created its own thunderstorm right above it. She'd dug and dug, rain and hail pelting her hard hat while bright blue skies stretched behind her all the way to Mount Hood on the horizon.

"That sounds... beautiful and terrifying," Kyra said as Kassandra opened the door to the cabin and gestured her inside.

"It's often both, yeah."

The room wasn't large, but the bed was. Bed in the singular. Kyra kept her smirk internal.

A small sofa sat across from the bed, a TV hid in the corner, and two doorways led to rooms unknown. Wood paneling on the walls, simple wooden furniture. Kassandra's belongings were organized neatly in an open wardrobe.

Kassandra made a beeline for the sofa. She plopped down onto it, stretched her arms out to both sides. Her arm span was wider than the sofa was. "I'll sleep here." She bounced up and down, ignoring the dire creaking of its springs.

"This is your room."

She shrugged, then leaned forward so her elbows rested on her knees. "So? You're my guest."

"You're six feet tall and that sofa's the size of a postage stamp. I'll sleep on it before you do." Kyra crossed her arms. "But really, there's no reason why we can't share the bed."

Kassandra had started twisting her fingers together; locking them in place, breaking them apart. "I can't have you thinking that I brought you here because I'm wanting something from you, for helping you with your truck. I'll sleep right here. It's fine."

Kyra had to shoot her shot, right now, or she'd end up sleeping in that big bed all alone. "Maybe I'm wanting something from you."

Troubled eyes looked up. God, she was gorgeous. "I... " she started. Stopped. And Kyra's heart sank. This is when Kassandra would tell her she was taken, that she had someone back home to soak those grease stains out of her jersey, to worry about her when she was working a fire, to—

"I was hoping you'd say something like that," Kassandra said softly.

Kyra took her by the hand, pulled her to her feet, and then Kyra slid her palms along the undersides of Kassandra's forearms. Heavy. Solid, like bronze. But that was the color of Kassandra's eyes, and when Kyra kissed her it was like a circuit closing like an arc lamp turning night into day like a quality of light she'd never seen before but knew she'd be chasing the rest of her life.

When they parted, Kyra was breathless, and she tucked her face into the curve of Kassandra's neck, feeling the steady cadence of her breathing. "Kassandra?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm so glad you didn't turn out to be some redneck."

Kassandra's laugh filled the room, and she gathered Kyra's face in her hands and looked at her. "Honestly, when I saw your rig, I was expecting some dried-up gold miner with shaggy hair and missing teeth."

"You thought wrong, Bubba."

Kassandra laughed again. Kissed her again. But when Kyra's hands strayed down to her belt, she pulled away. "Hey, slow down there, forty-niner. I'm pretty sure I have dust in unmentionable places."

"Do you really think I'd let a little dust get in the way of working my claim?" She reached for Kassandra again.

Her paydirt maneuvered away a second time. "I kinda want to take a shower..."

She waited for the rest.

"Think you might like to join me?"

She answered by curling her fingers around Kassandra's belt, and she glanced about the room, considering her doorway options.

"That way," Kassandra murmured along with a tilt of her head.

She pulled Kassandra to the bathroom, each step driving her to even giddier heights. Was this even happening right now?

Kassandra flipped the lights on. Clean, white tile and a matching shower. Nicer than Kyra had expected.

"This could either be really awkward or really hot," Kassandra said.

"You think this'll be awkward?" Kyra smirked and reached for Kassandra. There was no hiding in this light, no place for anything but want and confidence, and Kyra found her confidence in wanting to get Kassandra naked. Kassandra's t-shirt and sports bra ended up getting tossed in a corner, and then Kyra couldn't resist, she just had to kiss Kassandra while her hands found leather and metal to unbuckle, and she pushed fabric down over hips and thighs until Kassandra kicked it all free and stood naked before her in full glory.

Oh my God. Not only did Kassandra have muscles for days, she had them for weeks and months and years. Her proportions were perfect, in the horizontal of her shoulders to hips and the vertical of her torso to legs. Kyra's mouth went dry, her moisture draining to places south of her waist.

Kassandra flashed a rakish grin, then stepped into the shower, turning knobs while Kyra waited. Water jetted against tile with a loud hiss. Kassandra seemed to take a very long time — or maybe that was Kyra's thirst wringing out the clock in its search for droplets of satisfaction — but when Kassandra finally came back, she undressed Kyra with a touch both careful and reverent, her eyes drinking in the sight of Kyra's skin with every slow reveal.

Heat burned between Kyra's legs. Steam filled the bathroom. Her clothes joined the pile in the corner, and Kassandra's hands came to rest on her hips. She reached for Kassandra's braid, untied it, and worked the thick mane loose — along with a puff of dust.

Kassandra truly was covered in it, in streaks running down her steam-dampened skin. Kyra laughed and traced her finger through the grime between Kassandra's breasts, then drew an X on Kassandra's stomach. The hands on her hips shifted, nudging her towards the shower until she stood basking under its pleasantly hot spray.

The pressure was good: in the stream of water and the feel of Kassandra's hands on her skin. Calloused palms scratched and tickled the sides of her breasts, and she wriggled away, prompting an insincere "Sorry" as Kassandra played with her, alternating soft strokes from her fingertips with rougher ones from her palms.

Kyra bit back her want, slipped out of Kassandra's grasp, and said, "Your turn."

As Kassandra stood under the water, Kyra enjoyed the way it beaded over her skin, the way she glistened in the light. Then looking wasn't enough, and Kyra had to sample Kassandra's broad shoulders, the firm planes of her chest, the soft weight of breasts and plump nipples so different than a man. She smelled different too, none of that tang that men always had about them. It had been too long since Kyra had been with a woman, and Kassandra was showing her how foolish that was.

Kyra pulled Kassandra closer, pressed her up against the wall, and kissed her. Wet lips, water in her mouth, soft slick tongue. She was delicious, and Kyra grew greedy, wanting more more more as she ran her hands over sculpted abs and slid them lower—

That earned her hands a playful slap from Kassandra. "Ah, ah, ah. Hands off. I don't want to be distracted," she said, as she snagged the soap from a niche in the shower wall.

She knew exactly what she was doing, making Kyra wait, making Kyra watch as she soaped her skin and scrubbed it into a lather, making Kyra thirst while surrounded by water as she washed her hair. Her shampoo had the fresh, airy smell of citrus. It filled the shower, wrapped Kyra in its enticing steam.

This was a fierce kind of want. She scowled, snatched up the shampoo bottle, washed her hair as Kassandra emerged from the water clean and magnificent. The sight was too much; she turned her back to Kassandra as she rinsed herself. But as the last of the suds swirled down the drain, Kassandra's hands gently turned her around and soaped her from head to toe and she forgot everything except the hand slipping over her belly into the crease of her hip, slipping between her thighs, so close to where she needed, hovering without touching, moving from thigh to thigh—

"Fuck," she gasped.

"Is that what you want?" Kassandra asked. Her smirking grin was an inch away from Kyra's lips.

Kyra stared daggers at her.

"Sorry, you'll have to wait a bit longer," she said, and then she carefully rinsed Kyra clean. It was thorough, and luxurious, and melted Kyra's pique into forgiveness. She closed her eyes and her muscles went soft and pliant under Kassandra's hands, and she felt herself being guided out of the shower. She stood in the middle of the bathroom, waiting. Kassandra moved away. Kassandra came back. She rubbed Kyra down with a fluffy towel, wrapped her in it, then picked her up with breathtaking ease and carried her to the bed.

The length of Kassandra's body settled against hers. Dangerous weight. She could pin Kyra down, crush her with all that muscle. The towel bloomed open. Goosebumps sprouted across damp skin. The only illumination in the room came from the light in the bath. It snuck past the drape of Kassandra's hair and threw shadows across her face, and her eyes captured the sparks of want passing between them.

All that muscle on top of her, mouth at her throat, hands on her hips. Kyra's want buzzed and flickered, like a spotlight warming up. Now, find out now. She fit her thigh up between Kassandra's legs, pressed hard. A gasp from above. Kyra's heartbeat doubled-up, and there was no stopping her leg twining around Kassandra's. "Roll over." A demand, not a question.

Kassandra blinked, tilted her head as she searched Kyra's face. The sparks in her eyes danced. Really?

Yes, really. Kyra shifted her weight, used her leg as a pivot... and felt Kassandra yield.

All that muscle moved beneath her, hips made to be straddled, shadowed curves meant to be explored. Kyra's blood pulsed with an illicit thrill as she leaned forward. Skin pressing together. Breasts nestling together. Damp heat, water turning to sweat.

She kissed Kassandra, tasted her hunger, her soft mouth opening to let Kyra in. No games and no playing hard to get. Her want, Kyra's want, their want speaking in tongues. Kassandra's fingers tangled in her hair. That mouth should be on her clit. Those fingers should be inside her.

Wait. Wait longer. She sucked at Kassandra's lower lip, raked it with her teeth, apologized with her tongue. She pulled her mouth away, smiled as Kassandra groaned and stirred, muscles bunching, eyes burning like carbon filaments, captive and captivated. Kyra moved her mouth lower: the silvery scar on Kassandra's chin, the rapid pulse at her throat, the wings of her collarbones. Lower, until her lips found the soft swell of a breast, the nipple she could persuade to grow harder with teasing lips and tongue. First one, then the other. And Kassandra's back arched: Yes.

How sweet of her to offer. Kyra slid off to the side, surveying the chiaroscuro of the exposed planes of Kassandra's body. Choices, choices. Kassandra's spectacular abs, or the inviting shadows between her thighs?

Both. Kyra was getting greedy again. She ran her tongue along the sculpted grooves of Kassandra's stomach and slid her hand into soft curls. Swollen heat. Desire soaking her fingers, satisfying in a way arousing a man never was. And making this particular woman so wet... She smiled and drifted her mouth lower, tasted her own desire in a trail she'd left on Kassandra's belly, and her clit was bright and burning and her ache went deep, wanting to be fucked, wanting to fuck.

She stroked slick fingers everywhere but the places Kassandra wanted. Hard to be so patient, when every touch felt like it reflected back at her, teasing and being teased. She was dripping. Kassandra was dripping, her body twisting restlessly in a tangle of sheets and towels. Kyra stopped moving. Her fingertips hovered, waiting. And Kassandra's hips lifted: More.

Kyra's mouth was almost too close to Kassandra's clit. It tempted her, nestled in dark, feathery curls, proud and swollen and hard. That was Kyra's doing. She'd made that happen. Hard not to let that surge of power go straight to her clit, and she closed her eyes against the bright flare of her own need.

Focus. Come back. Breathe in air heavy with warm, damp arousal. Breathe it out across Kassandra's sensitive flesh. Kassandra squirmed under her cheek and let out a frustrated moan.

That sound was pleasing, and she dipped the tips of her fingers into silky wetness. The tiniest taste, no more. Kassandra's moans grew louder. Kyra's blood beat in her ears. So easy, capturing Kassandra's full attention in the spotlight of her breath and the smallest movements of her fingertips.

Wait. Move slowly. Kassandra's muscles corded and strained, and Kyra wound them tighter and tighter with every touch. All that strength in thrall to her fingers — the rush lifted Kyra to stratospheric heights. She could glide on it, never come down. She lost all track of time in the artificial, unchanging light. How long had she kept Kassandra like this? How long could she?

Beneath her, Kassandra was panting with her thighs spread wide. She rocked her hips, chasing Kyra's fingers, and Kyra made her fail again and again. Her attempts grew half-hearted. She gave up trying.

This was Kassandra primed like a canvas: body taut beyond trembling, senses tuned to Kyra, clit starved for attention.

Kassandra's sounds devolved into one long, unbroken whimper. And then, finally, Kyra went to work, sucking Kassandra into her mouth and easing her fingers all the way inside.

Nothing fancy: steady strokes, tongue on clit, the way women have been getting each other off since ancient times. She'd already tested Kassandra's patience at least that long.

Kassandra whispered Yes and Fuck to guide her. Kassandra angled her hips just so. Kassandra snapped at the point of release with a sudden growl, her hands grabbing fistfuls of bedsheets as she writhed, lost in pleasure.

Kassandra throbbed against her tongue and pulsed around her fingers and Kyra lay there not moving not wanting to move in the golden glow, wanting it to stay wanting to capture it and keep it.

But it faded, eventually. She slid up the bed and rested her head on Kassandra's shoulder and smiled for a long, long time.

"I'll be damned," Kassandra said quietly, once she caught her breath. "Is that how you always say thank you?"

"When I'm feeling inspired."

"You really are an artist."

Kyra smirked. No matter how the rest of their time together played out, she'd always have the memory of Kassandra writhing around her fingers.

The mattress compressed as Kassandra knelt above her. Kassandra rested a hand on her belly, and though there was no weight behind it, it pinned Kyra right to the bed.

"Well," Kassandra said. "You certainly set the bar high, honey. But it's my turn now."

Kyra opened her arms wide and gave Kassandra her dirtiest come-hither look. "Show me what you've got, hotshot."

Kassandra smiled, and did.

Part of the Heat Index...

#kyssandra #kassandra #ac odyssey #shameless smut #plot what plot #wildland firefighter kassandra #there was only one bed #kyra's on top #tropetacular but i dun curr #heat index #once upon a time #i may have been riding my dirtbike on this road #when i came across a hot lady firefighter with a broken down truck #alas that encounter did not end like this story did #bc i was on my way to meet up with a riding buddy #but man what perfect writing fuel that experience was

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redrootblades · 4 years

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Pacific Yew for a taste of the PNW. This went out to a customer in Florida missing the opposite side of the country. Coast to coast, we’re doing this. redrootblades.com . . . #knife #knives #handmade #carbonsteel #survivalknives #bushcraft #hunting #huntingknife #knifepics #tactical #knifelover #fixedblade #edc #americanmade #usamade #knifepics #kitchenknives #knifemaker (at Portland, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/B_th_N1jWln/?igshid=18m2nwwyvm33y

#knife #knives #handmade #carbonsteel #survivalknives #bushcraft #hunting #huntingknife #knifepics #tactical #knifelover #fixedblade #edc #americanmade #usamade #kitchenknives #knifemaker

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costaxserena · 4 years

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Introducing Isaac “Ice” Bjorn. He is a Tourist that is staying at the Wild District. He’s 28 years old and strongly resembles Daniel Kaluuya. He’s open.

Get to know him…

Being the youngest, Ice has supported both his older brothers in all of their crazy endeavors. He’s a fixer and caretaker that doesn’t like to call attention to himself; even if his brothers are too distracted to realize it, Isaac’s always the one on the lookout for any mishaps that might get in their way. Isaac is someone that enjoys being home and taking care of his living space; growing up he took an interest in helping his mom do chores around the house and he’s got a natural talent for cooking just about anything. Though he’s extremely reserved and is not one to ever start a conversation with new people, it’s easy to see that Ice has one of the warmest hearts; he’s a kind and intelligent man that’s hard to get to know but so easy to love and trust.

Welcome to the coast…

Isaac can’t remember where he came from, but he does remember spending his earlier years growing up in an orphanage in Portland alongside two other toddlers named Gerardo and Pengfei. The three boys, being the youngest at the orphanage, spent all of their time together and getting in ridiculous situations was something their caregivers would have to be on the lookout for on a daily basis. In a ploy to distract them one lazy Sunday afternoon, one of the volunteers handed them a book about bears, unaware of the bond it would create between the boys. After reading every piece of information they could get their small hands on, they decided to forgo their given names and just call each other by their favorite– and most fitting, bear. The years went by and they truly became brothers, though this proved to be a setback for any of them to get adopted, given their utter reluctance to go with any family unless the three of them went together. Ice was nine when the right couple did come along: Karla and Charlie Bjorn. Ice has sailed though every day life without making much of a commotion, always a rare occurrence for him to loose his temper– except for that one time his new cooking knife set had ended up as a casualty in one of Grizz’s pranks. When college came around, Isaac didn’t give much mind to how things would change, when the three brothers ended up sharing an apartment in order to cover their expenses, he was glad he didn’t lose any sleep over what ifs. Ice has always been the old soul of the group, and as the years have come and gone, he’s pretty good with being the constant.

Stay a while…

Winning a one-way trip to a random destination was precisely what Ice would refer to as I guess this is what we’re doing now, cool. When Grizz broke the news, Isaac just started packing up the food that’d help them survive the travel; he always had a made bag with all the essentials tucked away in his closet, just in case. Weirdly enough, he felt intrigued about the journey, wondering just what new things they’d get to discover. Ice let himself enjoy the slow descent into leisure, into madness, and into the unknown–– no questions asked and especially not any about how and when they’d get back home. Long story short, it’s been a little over a month that the brothers have been in town and it doesn’t seem like any of them are in any particular hurry to leave soon.

Connections:

Gerardo & Pengfei Bjorn (Brothers): They mean the world to him; he might not be as affectionate nor vocal about it, but Ice is always looking out for them with his actions. He’s the one that takes the most time to do things on his own, but never hesitates to join them.

Chloe Park (Best Friend): Even if it took them a while to warm up to each other, Chloe made a place in his heart by not pushing him to be any different from how he acts around his brothers; she’s now his little sister.

Colette Tatou (Acquaintance): Seven Seeds became Isaac’s instant favorite restaurant and he was fortunate enough to meet the talented chef after Grizzly once decided to order everything on the menu.

#animation rp #town rp #open rp #daniel kaluuya #we bare bears #ice bear #tourist #c #wild district #openm

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archivedatl · 17 years

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AP web exclusive: All Time Low tour diary

Posted by Scott Heisel on 08-Dec-06 @ 04:43 PM

Last month, Baltimore pop-punkers All Time Low took to the road with Sugarcult for a series of shows on the West Coast. Here's some of what they saw, in words and pictures. Learn more at www.alltimelow.com.

#1------------------------------------------------------------ Ooohooo So last night we celebrated two awesome occasions...well 3 since matt's molars finally grew in...anyways yesterday was Haloween and our first night of our tour with Sugarcult. I must say, it is pretty strange touring with a band who I spent the better years of my middle school life watching on MTV. Regardless of where this band has been, it definetly didn't eff with their personalities. They were all super nice to us and each came up and introduced themselves. The show went pretty well but it wasn't a good judgement of our the whole tour is going to be because Sugarcult didn't even headline, the Eagles Of Death Metal did, and the tickets for $25 on Haloween night :) I'm sorry but I would never go to a show if those were the circumstances...I'd be out expanding my collection of holiday treats. Tonight the 'real' tour begins so we will see how it goes. We are playing Washington State University in Pullman Washington. We haven't done too many college shows, so this should be interesting...anyways before we got on the road a couple days ago we were couped up in Ben Harper's (formely of yellowcard, now in amber pacific) house/studio in long beach, CA working on our new CD :). We demoed some hot licks that were going to send over to our producer matt squire so that he can put in some input. I heard my blogs are going to be posted on the Alternative Press website for this tour, so if that's the case then...helll yeah! Well I just woke up from sleeping in the van so I am gonna walk out into the freezing streets of Pullman, WA crack my back and grab some Qudoba. Much Love, Jack --jbstar #2------------------------------------------------------------ Yoo dooodds, So I'm gonna update you guys on the passed couple shows...on Wednsday we played Washington State University. Those kids are freaking crazy! Everyone seemed to be having a good time and we made some awesome new friends. I cannot stress enough, how cool the Sugarcult guys are. Which is really cool because I have been listening to those guys since 6th grade! Anyways before we played, matt thought it would be a good idea to have a fork and knife fight backstage...yeah it turned pretty ugly and we should have some footage online soon enough. That night we partied at 'The Christmas House'. Lets just say that I'm pretty sure alex made out with a dog...I really miss Hit The Lights :( Anways...we played Seattle after the college show and it was offf the hoooook. Everyone in the room was dancing and it got pretty redic. As soon as we told them the alex/dog story they went nuts. We met up with the Pink Spiders that night. We were nervous about that because we've heard some stuff...but for real those guys are the shit. There all super nice and we have no complaints about them. We have yet to tour with a band who we don't get along with (fingers crossed). We also heard that we may be doing a few shows with Cobra Starship in Dec, if that happends that would be sick. I'll keep you guys updated. Someone made us a bucket of the craziest donuts ive ever seen at the portland show last night!! They were reallly good. Sorry for the lack of pics, I'll make sure my next post has more, its just hard to take good pics on a sidekick :). Talk to you guys soon!!Jacko #3------------------------------------------------------------ Yo Babaayyss, Last nights show was off the hook! I love playing at The Boardwalk in orangevale calii. The crowd was as wild as usual and a bunch of kids were singing along. A lot of the same kids who saw us there on the Amber Pacific tour came back. Its always cool to see so many familiar faces,,,cough cough hint hint nudge...you get the idea folks! The next couple shows should be interesting...reno and vegas. I wont be able to gamble but at least ill be able to look at a lot of lights. We all have family comming out, so that should be exciting. I havent seen my brother and sister in ages and i know their gonna be wasted so that means they will be even more friendly :) Also Meg n Dia join up in vegas which is sick, SO SIKED FOR THAT!!! We met them on warped and their super nice. anyways i think its time, i go to In and Out because after this tour im not going to be able to go back for a while :( im going to eat there everyday twice a day until we leave Arizona. Ive attached pics from our set on the Epitaph stage at this years Bamboozle Left and also some pics of our acoustic set the 2nd day! Thanks to everyone who watched us either/both days :) love you peace peace n a bottle o' hair grease, jack #4------------------------------------------------------------ Wow...vegas has to be one of the strangest places on this earth. First of all we showed up in Reno (shity city) only to find that only sugarcults crew was there and the show probably wasnt going on. We were welcomed by a hooker in a pink tanktop and no teeth asking if we had any shirts we could give her...Thankfully we have power windows and middle fingers. Thankfully zack was asleep or he might have took her up on some of her offers...he's getting desperate you know..just kidding! Anyways we decided to hang out with sugarcults crew for a little then start the drive to vegas early since it was 8 house. We got to go over the Hoover Damn which was sweet. It's seriously Vegas Vacation all over again! Anyways, we got to vegas around midnight and it was a fantastic site! My bro and sis were staying at the MGM so thats where i headed. Rian to the Excalibur, Alex and Matt to the Venecian and Zack to the Luxor. We all split up and hung out with our fam for the evening. My brother took me around vegas and boyyy was it interesting. I was approached by numerous drunk people. It was basically like an Ocean City, Maryland for older people. It's just a place for adults to drink, walk around drunk, act like teenagers and maybe gamble a bit here n' there. it was Akward to say the least. Anyways the next day was the show at the House Of Blues at Mandalay Bay...probably one of the nicest venues we have ever played. We introduced ourselves to the Meg n Dia folks and got to know our new tour mates as we shared a dressing room. We soon found they are awesome people and they share a love for getting wild! The show was pretty cool, and the crowd was big. It was weird though because the merch was not in the venue, it was in the cassino haha. Anyways Vegas was an experience we wont forget, and I cant wait till we go there again. I hope the next time we go, were 21...actually nevermind because that would be three years :)stay rad, Jack #5------------------------------------------------------------ Lame! Tonight was our last show on the Sugarcult Tour featuring The Pink Spiders and Meg n Dia :( Damone will be taking our place on this great lineup. I am jelous that they get to join up! Anyways we made some lifetime friends on this tour and it was a great experience for everyone. Every single show was amazing and the fans never let us down. Traveling to bumfuck arizona and hearing a couple hundred kids sing your song is the coolest feeling ever. Sugarcult was very warming towards us and their personalities suprised the shit out of me. they were such cool guys and even when zack was sick they made him soup and gave him Emergen-C. WHO DOES THAT !?!? Thats like something my mom does...so in a way Sugarcult are our parents. They actually reffered to us as their younger brothers on stage. At the last show of the tour in Little Rock, Arkansas us and Meg n Dia ran on stage during "Bouncing Off the Walls" and started bouncing around and took over Tim's Guitar n Mic, Marko's (my twin) guitar and Airens Bass. It was so fun to bro down with a band that ive been listening to since middle school haha. Alex also got to soundcheck with sugarcult at Texas AM College because tim was at the hospital taking care of his sickness (i think he had a nasty cold). It was so crazy to see alex soundcheck with a band who for the past few years have held a special spot on my ipod and in my cd player :) I attached a pic of him sound-checking for fun. At the end of the show we said our goodbyes and gave our hugs. This is'nt the end of these friendships though, only the beggining...now we head home to write a new cd. Catch us on the road in the northeast in december when we head out with Cobra Starship! Stay safe, Jack

#2006 #blog #Jack Barakat #text #alternative press #all time low #sugarcult tour

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creepingsharia · 5 years

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The 9/11 Hijackers Last Steps – A Timeline

9/10/01—At the Pink Pony Nude Theater in Daytona Beach, FL, a man with a Middle-Eastern accent says “Tomorrow America will see bloodshed.” They leave a Koran behind...

(originally posted on Creeping Sharia on September 10, 2009)

Know your enemy, and never under-estimate him.

We pick up the timeline of the 9/11 terrorists, and hijackers to-be, from the assassination of Northern Alliance commander Ahmed Massoud on Sep. 9, 2001 – however the timeline begins well prior to that in the 1990’s and goes further than what we posted here. Excerpts from Free Republic.

Annotated Timeline of the 9/11 Hijackers for Researchers

various | 5/13/2002 | compiled from published sources

“We love death. The US loves life. That is the big difference between us.” — Osama Bin Laden

THE HIJACKERS FLIGHT 11 Mohammed ATTA (11) (also known as Mohammed al-Amir) Born September 1, 1968 in Kafr al Sheikh, Egypt. ATTA grows up in Cairo with his middle-class family. Abdulaziz ALOMARI (11) Saudi Arabian. Little is known about him. Walid AL-SHEHRI (11) From Khamis Mushayt in Saudi Arabia. Former teacher, who left his job allegedly to consult an Islamic holy man about his brother’s mental illness. Satam AL-SUQAMI (11) Born June 28, 1976. Saudi Arabian. Islamic-law-school student at King Fahd University in Riyadh. College roommate of MOQED. Wail ALSHEHRI (11) Born 7/31/73. Brother of Walid. Former phys-ed teacher who left his job because of “mental illness.”

FLIGHT 175 Marwan AL-SHEHHI (175) Born in United Arab Emirates on 5/9/78. Hamza ALGHAMDI(175) Born 11/18/80. From Beljurashi in southern Saudi Arabia. Was working in a “humiliating” job as a stockboy in a housewares shop when he was recruited for the jihad. Ahmed ALGHAMDI(175) From Beljurashi in southern Saudi Arabia. Fayez Rashid Ahmed Hassan Al-Qadi BANIHAMMAD (175-4) (aka Fayez Ahmed) Citizen of United Arab Republic. Mohand ALSHEHRI (175) Former student at the Imam Muhammed Ibn Saud Islamic University in Abha, Saudi Arabia for one semester.

FLIGHT 77 Hani HANJOUR (77)– Saudi Arabian Born August 13, 1972. Son of a wealthy businessman from the wealthy al-Faisaliyah section of Taif. Khalid ALMIDHAR (77) Saudi Arabian. Veteran Al-Qaeda operative about whom little is known. Majed MOQED (77) Saudi Arabian. Law student at the King Fahd University in Riyadh. The son of a head of the Baniauf tribe from Annakhil near Medina. Sometimes listed as the third “logistics” person after ALMIDHAR and Nawaq ALHAZMI. Nawaq ALHAZMI (77) “He told me once that his father had tried to kill him when he was a child. He never told me why, but he had a long knife scar on his forearm,” said an acquaintance. Brother of a police chief in the coastal town of Jizan. Salem ALHAZMI (77) Saudi.

FLIGHT 93 Ziad al-JARRAH (93) Born in Al Marj, Lebanon May 11, 1975. The son of a civil servant and a schoolteacher. Educated in a Catholic school in Beirut. Ahmed ALNAMI (93) Born December 1977. Saudi, from the town of Abha. Former law student at the King Khaled University Islamic Law School in Abha. Ahmed Ibrahim AL-HAZNAWI (93) Born October 11, 1980. Saudi from the village of Hezna. Son of an imam, and reportedly became one himself. Close to Hamza and Ahmed ALGHAMDI. Saeed ALGHAMDI (93) Saudi, from Khamis Mushayt.

September 9, 2001—Northern Alliance commander Ahmed Shah Massoud is assassinated by two al-Qaeda operatives pretending to be Arab journalists.

September 9, 2001—Foreign intelligence officials intercept a telephone call on between Osama bin Laden and his adoptive mother Al-Kalifa in Syria, according to a report by NBC. “In two days, you’re going to hear big news, and you’re not going to hear from me for a while,” says bin Laden. AJC 10/2/01 Link

September 9, 2001—The owner, Richard Surma, notices that AL-SHEHHI, another tenant, (AHMED/BANIHAMMAD, presumably) and one other visitor who was constantly with them, have left the Panther Motel. AL-SHEHHI shaves his goatee before he departs, leaving only a mustache. AL-SHEHHI then returns the rental Corsica to Warrick’s for good., with an additional 1,035 miles on it. Link AL-SHEHHI flies to Boston. After they leave, owner Surma, cleaning out the rooms at the Panther, finds a tote bag in the trash. It is packed with aeronautical maps of the entire East Coast, martial arts books, a protractor, an English-German dictionary, Boeing 757 flight manuals, books from a flight school, and computer printouts with a detailed list of airline flights and times. A maid, cleaning the room, finds a box cutter. –Chicago Tribune 9/17/01

In Boston, AL-SHEHHI rents the room next to AHMED/BANIHAMMAD at the Milner. He makes a call from the room to Western Union, which authorities believe was one final attempt to refund unneeded cash to their contact in the United Arab Emirates. At some point in the day AL-SHEHHI wires $5400 to “Mustafa Ahmad” in the UAE. Link

September 9, 2001—Waleed AL-SHEHRI (11) wires $5000 to “Ahamad Mustafa” in the UAE. At some point in the day Wail and Waleed AL-SHEHRI order a call girl and pay her $180 for a 20-minute session.

September 9, 2001, 8:27 AM—The white Mistubishi appears at Logan airport again, remaining until 9:13 AM. Boston Globe 9/23/01

September 9, 2001— ATTA arrives in Boston. At Logan Airport, he watches that day’s American Airlines Flight 11 as it prepares for departure. He stands there at the gate with no luggage or briefcase, only a folder. A passenger remembers: “When I was actually boarding the airplane, he was standing at the gate counter writing on a card…the only thing he could see of the airplane was the pilots and the front of the airplane.” Link The same witness had seen him at curbside, asking “strange” questions. Later, he meets up with ALOMARI. They rent a blue 2001 Nissan Altima with Massachusetts license 3335VI at an Alamo Rent-a-Car in Boston at around 6 PM. They spend the night in a Boston hotel.

September 9, 2001, 4:15 PM—The white Mitsubishi returns to Logan again. It leaves at 5:39 PM.

September 10, 2001—There are 4,526 put options bought on UAL versus 748 call options. For American Airlines, the number of puts is 60 times the daily average.

September 10, 2001, afternoon—One of the Flight 93 hijackers goes to Nardone’s, a go-go bar on Route 1 in Elizabeth, NJ., about two miles from Newark International Airport. He has one beer and pays $20 to watch a dancer in the private VIP room. Link |

September 10, 2001, 4:25 PM—The white Mitsubishi returns to Logan again. It leaves at 5:05 PM.

September 10, 2001—ATTA and ALOMARI drive 100 miles north to Portland, ME in the afternoon. At a toll booth at Exit 13 of the Massachusetts Turnpike, ATTA “boils over in anger” when the operator demands that he pay the $3.10 toll. He speeds away without paying, and the toll taker writes down their tag number.

September 10, 2001—Hamza ALGHAMDI checks into the Days Hotel in Boston’s Brighton neighborhood. He is signed in as “Ghamdi.” ATTA+taxi+Hamburg&hl=en”> Link

September 10—Sometime today, JARRAH writes a farewell letter to his girlfriend. “You should be very proud, because it is an honor and in the end you will see that everyone will be happy.” According to Der Spiegel, the four-page letter is dated Sept. 10. Because of a mistake in the address, the package was returned to the United States and fell into the hands of the FBI.

September 10, 2001, 6:59 PM—A message is posted to a Yahoo financial message board reads “to the deapest part called the center of the earth by this wekend north east region will be destroyed new providance soon to fall apart.” Link

September 10, 2001—ATTA and ALOMARI arrive in Maine and check in to the Comfort Inn in South Portland, about a mile from the Portland International Jetport, at about 5:45 PM. Sometime between 8:00 pm and 9:00 pm, ATTA and ALOMARI are seen at Pizza Hut, 415 Maine Mall Road, South Portland, Maine, for approximately fifteen (15) minutes. This is apparently their last meal on earth. 8:31 PM —ATTA and ALOMARI make a cash withdrawal at a Key Bank drive-up ATM, 445 Gorham Road, South Portland. 8:41 PM—they are next recorded at a Fast Green ATM, located in the parking lot of a Pizzeria Uno restaurant, 280 Maine Mall Road, South Portland. They leave the account almost empty. 9:15 PM—They buy gasoline for their car at the Jetport Gas Station on 446 Western, Avenue, South Portland. 9:22 PM—ATTA enters a Wal-Mart on 451 Payne Road in Scarborough and spends twenty minutes there. ATTAck/investigation/ausport10042001.htm http://www.webdesk.com/terrorists-in-maine/”> Link Others believe ATTA viewed the Portland flight as a final test run for the plan to carry small knives onto planes.

September 10, 2001—AL-SHEHHI, AHMED/BANIHAMMAD, Mohand ALSHEHRI, and AL-SUQAMI price prostitutes, but found their prices too high.

Two of ATTA‘s bags, bearing his name tags, don’t make the transfer. http://www.suntimes.com/terror/stories/cst-nws-hijack16s1.html According to Der Spiegel, the FBI examines the bags and finds, among other things, a videotape on how to fly a Boeing 757 and 747.and airline uniforms. The immediate speculation is that the hijackers or some of their associates used the uniforms to gain access to areas of Logan Airport that would normally be secure. The FBI also wonders whether the uniforms were connected to an April 2001 break-in at the Hotel Nazionale in central Rome, in which two American Airlines pilots said they were robbed of their uniforms, badges, and airport access badges. An unidentified third vehicle, rented from a local Dollar Rent a Car franchise, is also found at Logan. Previously, investigators had identified two cars rented from the Boston office of Alamo Rent a Car. Link

September 10, 2001—At the Pink Pony Nude Theater in Daytona Beach, FL, a man with a Middle-Eastern accent sitting with two other men says “Tomorrow America will see bloodshed.” They leave a Koran behind at the strip club. Orlando Sentinel, 9/14/01

In NawaqALZHAMI’s car at Dulles, police find a cashier’s check made out to a flight school in Phoenix., four drawings of the cockpit of a Boeing 757, a box cutter, a map of Washington, and a handwritten note with the name “Mohumed” and ABDI’s northern Virginai phone number. ABDI had entered the USA as a Somali refugee on an I-94 visa. He had formerly worked for Caterair, an airline caterer at National Airport. When ABDI is picked up a few days later, on his person was a newspaper article about Ahmed Ressam’;s 1999 attempt to smuggle explosives across the border. (Human Events, 10/15/01) There was apparently another handwritten note saying “OSAMA 5895316,” AWADALLAH’s first name and old phone number on it (CNN 2/18/02)

September 11, 2001, just after midnight—Outside Newark International Airport, three men park a red Mitsubishi Galant at the entrance to the Airport Marriott hotel while two of them check in. The third man drives the car to a nearby Days Inn. All three were later positively identified as Flight 93 hijackers. One of the men in the Marriott is JARRAH, who paid $450 in cash for two no-smoking rooms, each with a double bed. The one with him is probably his roommate AL-HAZNAWI, though this is just a guess. The rooms JARRAH chooses have a clear view of the New York skyline. Link Link AL-HAZNAWI’s final bank statement, opened after Sept. 11 by his former landlord, showed that he left behind just $14. Link

At some point on the evening of the 10th, all of the hijackers, as required, read the “Instructions for the final night,” which were found in multiple places after the attacks, including in the wreckage of Flight 93. There are 16 in all. They begin: 1. Renew your convenant with God. 2. Know all aspects of the plan well and expect reaction and resistance from the enemy. Instruction No 3 is to read the ninth sura of the Koran. This sura, usually known as al-Tawba (penitence) or al-Bara’at (immunity), is the only one among the 114 suras in the Koran which does not begin with the words: “In the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful.” Some have suggested that this is because of the stern injunctions it contains: “When the sacred months have passed away, slay the idolaters wherever you find them, and take them captive and besiege them and lie in wait for them in every ambush” Link According to Bin Laden on the captured video, the “soldiers” knew that this was a martyrdom operation, but were not told until just before they boarded the plane. Clearly the four pilots, plus Nawaq ALHAZMI and ALMIDHAR, knew all. “Be calm and resolute, young man,” says ATTA’s letter to the hijackers, “For you will soon be going to paradise.” Link

September 11, 2001—In the UAE, approximately $16,348 is depositied into AL-HAWSAWI’s Standard Chartered Bank account. Then, at 9:22 AM local time, AL-HAWSAWI moves approximately $6534 from the $8,055 in Fayez AHMED/BANIHAMMAD’s (175) Standard Chartered Bank account into his own account, using a check dated September 10, 2001 and signed by Fayez AHMED/BANIHAMMAD; AL-HAWSAWI then withdraws approximately $1361, nearly all the remaining balance in AHMED/BANIHAMMAD’s account, by ATM cash withdrawal. Later that day, AL-HAWSAWI left the UAE for Karachi, Pakistan.

5:30 AM—ATTA and ALOMARI check out of the Comfort Inn, putting the $135 charge on ATTA’s Visa card. They leave an airline timetable on their room. After driving less than a mile to the airport, they park their Nissan and enter the airport. They drive the short distance to the Portland International Jetport and leave the Nissan there. Police find the “final night” instructions, plusemaps of New England and Boston, facial tissues, a toothpick, and an empty bag of Chips Ahoy crumpled in the ashtray. Link 5:40 AM—ATTA and ALOMARI enter Portland International Jetport Airport parking lot. They park on the first floor directly across from the airport entrance. 5:43—ATTA and ALOMARI check in at the U.S. Airways counter. 5:53 AM—The final pictures of ATTA and ALOMARI are taken by the security cameras at the airport in Portland, as they pass through security before boarding a flight to Boston. Each carries a shoulder bag. ATTA and ALOMARI board separately, keep quiet and don’t draw attention to themselves. Link However, once on the plane, they are described as “joined at the hip.” The Age, 9/17/01. The witness believed that they were business travelers, as it seemed that they were going over paperwork. 6:00 AM—ATTA and ALOMARI depart on their Colgan Air flight to Boston. 6:30 AM—The Colgan Air flight arrives at Logan Airport. ATTA and ALOMARI apparently clear another security checkpoint. At Logan, the pair sit by themselves in the waiting area by Gate 11, leaning forward in their seats and talking quietly, other passengers recall. ATTA is in seat 8A, next to ALOMARI, and across the aisle from David Angell and his wife Lynn. Link AL-SUQAMI is in 10B. The AL-SHEHRI brothers are in 2A and 2B.

After checking out the Valencia, Nawaq and Salem ALHAZMI board 77 together, checking in at the coach line rather than the first-class line. One of them shows a Massachusetts drivers’ license. Link

As Flight 11 is in line for takeoff, ATTA calls AL-SHEHHI, further back on the tarmac on UA 175, on his cellphone for the last time. The conversation lasts less than a minute, and is believed to have been a final confirmation that the plot was a go. AL-SHEHHI is in seat 6C. Ahmed ALGHAMDIis in 9D. AHMED/BANIHAMMAD is in 2A. Hamza AGHAMDI is in 9C.

JARRAH calls his girlfriend from the airport hotel in Newark. ALMIDHAR’s seat on 77 is 12B. Salem ALHAZMI 5E. Nawaq ALHAZMI 5F. HANJOUR is in 1B. MOQED 12A.

7:59 AM—AA Flight 11, a Boeing 767, departs Logan Airport with 81 passengers and 11 crew.

8:14 AM—UA Flight 175, a Boeing 767, departs Logan Airport with 56 passengers and 9 crew.

Approximately from 8:15-8:20 AM— Using box-cutters and small knives, ATTA and his team seize control of Flight 11. According to flight attendant Madeline Amy Sweeney, four attackers had cut the throat of a passenger in business class, killing him. They also stabbed the two flight attendants in First Class, including Karen Martin (who was given oxygen by the other flight attendants) and a pilot, she said. Flight attendant Betty Ong reported that two men in the eighth row [ATTA and ALOMARI] killed a man sitting behind them.. Ong also stated that the hijackers had sprayed something in her face—mace, presumably—that made her eyes burn and made breathing difficult. Three of the hijackers had been sitting in business class themselves and one [this could only be ATTA] spoke very good English.

That Sweeney mentioned four hijackers rather than five supports the theory that they used topographical cues to decide on when to make their move. It has been theorized that Flight 11 had the easiest navigation to the target, as its original route took it straight west, across the Hudson River valley. Following the river would have given ATTA a straight line of navigation to New York City, so for this reason the plane was seized early in the flight, since the landmark of the Hudson would be impossible to miss as long as the plane continued to the west. The hijackers didn’t need to keep the original pilots around after the climbout period. The fifth hijacker, therefore, would be needed to watch for the Hudson valley during the seizure period. Almost certainly this function was performed by one of the AL-SHEHRI brothers sitting in 2A. The dry runs the terrorists took during the summer would have been necessary to allow them to familiarize themselves with the topography.

The hijackers get into the cockpit, presumably, by drawing one of the flight crew out with their attacks on the flight attendants. Possibly by accident, someone keys the microphone so that their conversations could be heard by flight control in Nashua, NH. ATTA is heard saying, “Don’t do anything foolish. You’re not going to get hurt.” ATTA is also heard to say, “We have more planes, we have other planes.” It is possible that one of the hijackers falsely mentions to one of the American pilots an intention of heading toward LaGuardia or JFK airports in New York City.

Both cell phone calls reported that most of the coach passengers had no idea that anything was wrong.

8:20 AM—AA Flight 77 departs Dulles Airport.

Around 8:25 AM—Flight 11 makes a sharp right turn over Albany, NY. Its transponder is turned off.

Approximately 8:32 AM–Flight 175 is seized. 175 traveled a more southeasterly route, passing within easy visual range of the WTC towers. By this theory, the plane would have been seized the moment the towers became visible, as the towers themselves would have been the only necessary landmark. Again, this would have required the hijackers to have taken the flight previously, and to have sat in a window seat on the left side of the plane. On September 11, AHMED/BANIHAMMAD in 2A would have been the one to give the signal. The one call from 175 that we know of mentioned that men with knives were stabbing flight attendants in an attempt to force the crew to unlock the cockpit doors.

Around this time, multiple bomb threats are called in to the Boston and Cleveland Air-Traffic Control centers, which happen to be the ones handling the three flights currently in the air.

8:36 AM—Flight 175, now piloted by AL-SHEHHI, makes its first turn toward New Jersey. Shortly after, its transponders are turned off.

8:40 AM—FAA informs NORAD that Flight 11 has been hijacked.

8:42 AM—UA Flight 93—UA Flight 93 Departs Newark Airport with 38 passengers and 7 crew..

8:43 AM—FAA informs NORAD that Flight 175 has also been hijacked.

8:45 AM—Flight 11 crashes into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It is believed that all of the hijackers congregated in the cockpit at the final stages of the flight to shout their “Allahu akbars” together.

8:55 AM—Flight 77 suddenly turns to the east. Flight 77’s transponder is turned off just after it crosses the Ohio River, so this is probably the landmark the hijackers used. Barbara Olson’s phone call indicated that the hijackers had herded the passengers to the rear of the jet.

9:02 AM—Flight 175 crashes into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

9:05 AM—Flight 77 appears as an unidentified blip on radar over West Virginia.

9:24 AM—FAA informs NORAD that Flight 77 has also been hijacked.

Approximately 9:30—Flight 93 is seized. Flight 93’s nearly 180-degree turn just before Cleveland indicates that the hijackers may have used the sighting of Lake Erie as a landmark and a signal to seize the plane. The route the hijackers took strongly suggests that its intended target was in Washington, DC. Link The Flight 93 hijackers put on red bandannas just before they take over the plane. The headbands are a signature of Egyptian Islamic Jihad, who are known for wearing them during their machine-gun massacres on Coptic Christians and tourists at Luxor and elsewhere. It is not known whether any of the other three hijacker teams did this, but it is likely. The hijacker who is entrusted with guarding the passengers at the back of the plane wears a red box strapped to his waist, and claims to the passengers that it is a bomb. At least one passenger is murdered, along with the pilots.

9:37 AM—Ground controllers in Cleveland hear someone in broken English announce to the Flight 93 passengers that there was a bomb on board and that the plane was returning to the airport. The plane makes a sharp turn to the southeast at this time. The transponder is turned off at this time.

Freeper chris in nj says that the CVR tapes from Flight 93 “are an incredible amount of evidence against the 20th hijacker.” Link

9:30 AM—The “leader” of the Flight 77 hijackers, possibly ALMIDHAR, tells the Flight 77 passengers to call home because they are all about to die.

9:38 AM—Flight 77 crashes just short of the Pentagon.

10:03 AM—After an uprising by the passengers, Flight 93 crashes in Shanksville, PA.

There was an early theory that the hijackers had obtained access to the “jump seats” in the cockpits of the planes, but there is no hint of this in any of the recent accounts of the contents of the Flight 93 CVR. Link

Bin Laden tunes in to the radio to hear American news broadcasts of the event. “They were overjoyed when the first plane hit the building,” he said on a video later obtained by American forces, talking about others listening with him that day. “So I said to them: Be patient.” He said, “At the end of the newscast, they reported that a plane just hit the World Trade Center.” “Allah be praised,” replied one of the other men in the videotape. “After a little while, they announced that another plane had hit the World Trade Center,” bin Laden recalled. “The brothers who heard the news were overjoyed by it.” Bin Laden also mentions on the same video that “one group of people did not know the other,” but this was not essentially true.

Another flight out of Newark Airport that day, American Airlines Flight 43 to Los Angeles, is forced to land in St. Louis when the FAA grounds all commerical air traffic. Two passengers on this flight, Ayub Ali KHAN and Mohammed Jaweed AZMATH, board a train for San Antonio, but they are taken off the train by the FBI. They have boxcutters, disguises, and large amounts of cash with them. Khan and Azmath had lived at 6 Tonnele Ave., Jersey City, a four-story building with rooftop views of lower Manhattan, for about 2 1/2 years. Link It has been theorized that the two were part of a hijack team that lost its nerve. Given the very significant differences in age and ethnicity, and the apparent lack of contact that the two men had with the hijackers or their immediate associates—and also given the apparently wide circle in the American Muslim community who knew about the plot—one wonders if this was not an unofficial, “unsanctioned” hijacking.

MOUSSAOUI is seen cheering as he watches television pictures of the destruction from his secure unit. Shortly afterwards the FBI connects him with the attacks via BINALSHIBH. Finally, the FBI gets around to searching MOUSSAOUI’s computer, and find that it contains information about “dispersal of chemicals” as well as about crop-duster planes. MOUSSAOUI’s former roommate AL-ATTAS is arrested

September 13, 2001—The Visa card connected to AL-HAWSAWI’s account is used to make six ATM withdrawals in Karachi, Pakistan.

September 14, 2001—The Islamic prayer room at TUHH is shut down and the computer seized by German police.

September 16, 2001– In India, Saudi diplomat Ahmed Alshehri, based in Bombay, denies he was the father of hijacker Waleed M. ALSHEHRI. Reports from a Saudi newspaper editor say that both Waleed and Wail ALSHEHRI were Ahmed’s sons.

Around September 20—ATTAR leaves Germany for Sudan, where he lives openly.

November 9, 2001—A video is recorded in Afghanistan on which Osama Bin Laden names many of the hijackers, including Nawaq ALHAZMI, Salem ALHAZMI, and Wail ALSHEHRI, along with JARRAH and ATTA, and commends them to Allah. He mentions the AL-SHEHRI family name seven times, and the ALHAZMI and ALGHAMDI family names multiple times. He acknowledges that ATTA ran the operation: “Not everybody knew (…inaudible…). Mohammad (ATTA) from the Egyptian family (meaning the al-Qaida Egyptian group), was in charge of the group,” bin Laden said on the tape.The tape is found in Jalalabad a week or two later.CBS News 12/20/01

November 16, 2001—BINALSHIBH’s suicide video is discovered in the rubble of Mohammed Atef’s house in Kabul. He and four others are seen on the tape wearing red cloth knotted around their heads, as the hijackers of Flight 93 (and likely the others) did.

(the timeline continues at the link above)

Also take some time to review the History Commons project.

Just two days before 9/11, the New York Times publishes an article on their website examining the threat of an al-Qaeda attack on US interests. The article focuses on a videotape made by bin Laden which was released in June 2001 (see June 19, 2001). The article notes that “When the two-hour videotape surfaced last June, it attracted little attention, partly because much of it was spliced from previous bin Laden interviews and tapes. But since then the tape has proliferated on Islamic Web sites and in mosques and bazaars across the Muslim world.” It further notes that in the video, bin Laden “promises more attacks.” Referring to the bombing of the USS Cole in Yemen, he says, “The victory of Yemen will continue.” He promises to aid Palestinians fighting Israel, an important shift in emphasis from previous pronouncements. He also praises the Taliban, suggesting that previous reports of a split between bin Laden and the Taliban were a ruse. The article comments, “With his mockery of American power, Mr. bin Laden seems to be almost taunting the United States.” [New York Times, 9/9/2001] Curiously, shortly after 9/11, the New York Times will remove the article from their website archive and redirect all links from the article’s web address, http://www.nytimes.com/2001/09/09/international/asia/09OSAM.html, to the address of another article written by the same author shortly after 9/11, http://www.nytimes.com/2001/09/12/international/12OSAM.html. (Note the dates contained within the addresses.)

#9/11 #History #News #Politics #Islam #Jihad

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phroyd · 5 years

Link

The Proud Boys want the public to believe that they’re a “drinking club” who only resort to violence to defend themselves from anti-fascist protesters during political rallies.

But in private, these extremists have discussed injuring and even killing their adversaries, plotting tactics and optics for months in order to assert a claim of self-defense should they face charges.

According to private chat logs obtained exclusively by HuffPost, the punch-happy, pro-Trump street gang was particularly excited for its “Resist Marxism” rally, scheduled for April 6 in Providence, Rhode Island. With the right plan of attack, members said, this one could put them back on the map.

This mother f**ker needs to meet a 7mm [Magnum rifle] from about 500 yards.Proud Boy Shaun Hufton in private chats.

The group had been floundering ever since 10 of its members were arrested for assaulting protesters outside a GOP event in New York City last year. Their leader, Vice Media co-founder Gavin McInnes, reportedly arranged for his followers’ surrender.

In the chats, covering a time period between February and March of this year, members claimed they needed a conclusive “win” this time around, which they defined as a bloody battle against “antifa” in Providence. If this brawl were bigger and more violent than previous iterations, they might regain some of the street cred and followers they’d lost.

“We’ll grow this group of patriots and we’ll never back down,” wrote the event’s organizer, Proud Boys member Alan Swinney, in the private chat messages. “If we win, it will make more patriots come to the next rally. We just need to go there and we’ll beat them. We’ll have enough to crush them at some point.”

A source with direct knowledge of the exchanges confirmed to HuffPost that the logs were authentic. Swinney also responded to several screenshots. When asked about discussions of violence in the chat logs, he told HuffPost, “They’re warriors. ... Choir boys don’t go up against people like that [anti-fascists]. It takes a person with a certain type of mindset.”

The logs contained a revolving door of up to 30 Proud Boys and their allies, including militia members and other “patriots,” as Swinney called them. Those named in this story either publicly identify as members of the Proud Boys or affiliated groups, or have been identified as such in national news stories or by the groups’ leaders.

Looking forward to Providence, members in the private channel were pumped for the opportunity to cause mayhem. One Proud Boy named Anthony Mastrostefano said:

“All I want to do is smash commies too. Actually I’m lying, I’m way past just hitting them. When the time comes I will stop at nothing to fully eradicate them all!”

“We’re A Drinking Club”

The Proud Boys have a yearslong history of violence, and they’ve built an entire brand off of the fights they’ve helped organize in American streets, from spars in Los Angeles and Portland, Oregon, to attacks in Providence and New York.

McInnes created a set of rules by which his gang members could gain clout in the organization, which include forgoing masturbation, getting a Proud Boy tattoo and fighting in the name of the gang.

Their leadership has always claimed that such violence is incidental, acts of self-defense necessitated by their anti-fascist opponents, who show up to each of their purported free-speech events in protest.

They’ve gone as far as to file lawsuits to maintain that facade ― on Monday, several of their members stood at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., and announced that they were suing the Southern Poverty Law Center for labeling them as a hate group. McInnes himself filed a defamation lawsuit against the civil rights organization in February.

“We’re a drinking club that stands behind Donald Trump,” said Proud Boys chairman Enrique Tarrio at the D.C. event. “That’s enough to earn hate of the left.”

But private chat logs leaked to HuffPost fly directly in the face of that sentiment, showing Proud Boys premeditating violence they hope to commit. They spent months before the April rally meticulously planning strategies for injuring protesters.

Members discuss what weapons they might use against the “commies” they’ll meet in the street, which police officers might be sympathetic to them, how they’ll raise funding to fly out their long-distance compatriots, and how they’ll “bait” protesters into throwing the first punch so that they can claim self-defense.

HuffPost has reviewed dozens of private messages shared among a small group of Proud Boys and their allies, mostly on the social app Telegram, in the months leading up to the “Resist Marxism” rally they had planned for April. The chat logs were leaked by a source who wished to remain anonymous out of fear for their safety.

The rally ultimately didn’t happen, but the logs provide an inside look into the extremist group’s strategy as well as evidence that such planning continues to this day.

The Proud Boys Premeditate Violence

“Group, meet Kindness,” wrote Proud Boy Jason Cardona on Telegram, above a selfie in which he’s holding his pet, an ax.

“Ahhh, Kindness,” crowed Proud Boy Peter Scott in response. Scott then posted a picture of himself holding a large knife. Another member, Jake Adkins, posted a short video depicting an unknown device, asking the group, “Think I can get this thru in a checked bag?”

On Telegram, the Proud Boys privately fantasized about the weapons they might like to use against anti-fascist protesters at the rally in Providence. But they were also cautious about what weapons they told others to bring, as they didn’t want to face more arrests.

Scott noted that mace is “100 percent legal for self-defense” and directed everyone else in the chat to “armor up boys!” Makeshift armor is a common sight among Proud Boys, militia groups and other far-right extremists at these rallies. Depending on where a gathering occurs, concealed guns are also a possibility.

“If you’re in a state that can show up with your guns that’s fine. Up here in New England you can’t but some of us still show up,” wrote Proud Boy member Kenny Lizardo. HuffPost reported on Lizardo last year after he showed up on the doorstep of a comedian to intimidate him over his tweets

“I carry but it seems like to [sic] much could go wrong with that,” wrote Proud Boy Jason Lewis. “Big patriot fists and boots will do just fine.”

The gun-measuring contest was interspersed with analysis of street-level warfare. They explored how to counter “black bloc” tactics used by anti-fascists, in which protesters wear all black to make it hard to distinguish individuals, and they shared stories about previous exploits, most of which included getting a solid punch in without getting caught.

In some chats, the Proud Boys claimed to have ties to local law enforcement, though it’s unclear how legitimate those relationships were. As reported by the Portland, Oregon, alt-weekly Willamette Week, the Proud Boys and Patriot Prayer ― their close allies on the West Coast ― have had some success garnering police sympathy during their fights.

“Last year we had two different cops ‘admiring’ our work,” said John Stewart. “One told us ‘they don’t want to fight you guys again they are pussies.’ The other thanked us as we walked by him.”

But they would never learn if their apparent clout with police would help them stage their April 6 rally in Providence ― it fell apart before it began. The national Proud Boys “elders” announced at the time that the gathering was postponed while they focused on the trials of those 10 Proud Boys arrested and charged over last year’s attacks in New York City.

They Know What They’re Doing

The Proud Boys repeatedly acknowledged that their plans could get them in trouble.

“I advise all of you to only speak in terms of self-defense and never speak of premeditated violence,” wrote a man who identified himself as Kyle “Based Stickman” Chapman, an extremist who has previously been convicted of violent felonies and is known for his attacks at rallies and repeated parole violations, among other crimes.

He added: “I could be liable for what happens in Providence. So please stop making it easy for these people to prosecute us by putting threats of violence in writing that can be used against us later.”

Few seemed to listen, and leaders like Swinney had to attempt damage control on a regular basis.

For example, Proud Boy Shaun Hufton at one point made a direct threat to kill an anti-fascist activist who goes by the pseudonym Antifash Gordon on Twitter:

“This mother fucker needs to meet a 7mm [Magnum rifle] from about 500 yards,” he said, to which Scott responded, “Do not post any threats on here, the feds will use it against [us] in court.”

For his part, Swinney often repeated the “defense-only” deflection, demanding that other Proud Boys characterize their “rallies against communists” as acts of preservation and their presence as a security detail for rallygoers.

In an interview, Swinney corroborated the authenticity of chat screenshots HuffPost showed him and said he personally agreed with statements about “smashing commies” like Mastrostefano’s.

“He specifically said ‘when the time comes,’” Swinney told HuffPost, adding later: “When the time comes, and the order is given, I’ll do whatever it takes to stop these people. The constitution is the greatest document of freedom ever written. I’ll give my life to defend it if nessicary [sic].”

Phroyd

#extremism #violence #proud boys #gavin mcinnes #alan swinney

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newstfionline · 5 years

Text

Headlines

US judge blocks Trump’s health insurance rule for immigrants (AP) A federal judge in Portland, Oregon, on Saturday put on hold a Trump administration rule requiring immigrants prove they will have health insurance or can pay for medical care before they can get visas. U.S. District Judge Michael Simon granted a temporary restraining order that prevents the rule from going into effect Sunday. It’s not clear when he will rule on the merits of the case.

Venezuela expels El Salvador’s diplomats in ‘reciprocal’ move (Reuters) Venezuela’s foreign ministry said on Sunday it was expelling El Salvador’s diplomats from the country, in response to the Central American country’s decision to expel diplomats representing Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro. El Salvador President Nayib Bukele’s government does not recognize Maduro as legitimate and said on Saturday it would receive a new diplomatic corps representing opposition leader Juan Guaido.

Bolivian president urges country to wait for election audit (Washington Post) Bolivian President Evo Morales is rejecting opposition calls for him to resign and says the country should wait for an international audit of Bolivia’s disputed election.

Britain set for 1970s public spending levels as parties woo voters (Reuters) The size of the British state is heading back to levels not seen since the 1970s, and taxes will have to rise, a think-tank said on Monday, as the two main political parties promise higher public spending ahead of a Dec. 12 election.

Thousands of Romanians protest against illegal logging, attacks on forest workers (Reuters) Thousands of Romanians marched in the capital Bucharest and other cities on Sunday in protest against widespread illegal logging, which is believed to be behind the deaths of two forest workers in the past two months.

Turkey Says It Will Send Back Islamic State Prisoners Even if Citizenships Revoked (Reuters) Turkey will send captured Islamic State members back to their countries even if their citizenships have been revoked, Interior Minister Suleyman Soylu said on Monday, criticising the approach of European countries on the issue.

One Dead, 34 Injured in Grenade Attack in Kashmir’s Srinagar: Sources (Reuters) One person died and at least 34 were injured on Monday in a grenade attack in Indian-administered Kashmir’s main city of Srinagar, Indian officials said, in the bloodiest incident since New Delhi stripped the region of special status on Aug. 5.

India’s Capital Restricts Cars as People Choke in Dirty Air (AP) New Delhi restricted many private vehicles from the roads Monday to try to lessen pollution as people gasped and their eyes burned in toxic smog that exacerbated a public health crisis.

Iran Marks 1979 Takeover of US Embassy, Hostage Crisis (AP) Reviving decades-old cries of “Death to America,” Iran on Monday marked the 40th anniversary of the 1979 student takeover of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and the 444-day hostage crisis that followed as tensions remain high over the country’s collapsing nuclear deal with world powers.

Protesters Block Roads in Beirut, Other Parts of Lebanon (Reuters) Protesters blocked roads in Beirut and other parts of Lebanon on Monday, pressing a wave of demonstrations against the ruling elite that have plunged the country into political turmoil at a time of acute economic crisis.

Riot police storm Hong Kong malls to thwart more protests (AP) Riot police stormed several malls in Hong Kong on Sunday to thwart pro-democracy protests, though violence did break out when a knife-wielding man slashed several people and bit off part of the ear of a local pro-democracy politician. At least five people were injured, including two in critical condition, local media reported.

Most ASEAN Leaders Don’t Show to Meet Trump’s Proxy (AP) Seven Southeast Asian leaders skipped an important meeting with the United States on Monday after President Donald Trump decided not to attend their regional summit in Thailand.

Fire Causes Damage at Another World Heritage Site in Japan (Reuters) A fire damaged at least one building at a World Heritage site in Japan on Monday, a fire department official said, just days after a blaze destroyed much of another Japanese World Heritage site, on its southern island of Okinawa.

Australia Rains: Dancing in the Street, Not So Much Down on the Farm (Reuters) The heaviest rains in years have fallen across parts of Australia’s east coast, bringing relief to some struggling livestock farmers, although the showers are not likely to break a drought that has crippled the country’s grains sector.

Ethiopia PM Abiy says death toll from recent protests rises to 86 (Reuters) Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed said on Sunday the death toll from protests last month had risen to 86 and urged citizens to resist forces threatening to impede the country’s progress.

#headlines #news

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yespoetry · 5 years

Text

Caitlin Scarano: There Is No Ending

I know we’re all sick of poems with deer but let me explain

Last night: a forest of hospital beds

I want to ask all these strangers: do you ever think every day you’re getting closer to your death or do you wake in the morning with hope crusted in the corner of your eyes, your teeth already grinning at the air?

Grief is a very complex machine, it told me so itself, a matrix

that takes years

A. to navigate

B. from you like teeth

Dear J, I have a few acres all to myself now, you should see them

I’m sorry you had to turn so many stones

while I looked on at a careful distance

The male human heart at age 36

Who knew, I guess

It’s true that I didn’t mind the horses starving outside my window, as long as they

came when called, as long as they were gentle with their teeth

I mean, I had many apples going to rot, what else could I have done

I read about how the water in Lake Superior is replaced every 191 years

Remember the spot where I dove under and was rolled by a wave and for a moment I did not know what was up or down, what was past or present, you or⁠—

That winter, the lake froze, trace lines of cracks in the ice colliding, the fractures in my body all met

In another dream, you’re in front of me⁠—solid, tangible, with a dark beard and corduroy pants

I ask you about dying and he you say, Let’s go to this city I know

Then you disappear into a tangled forest and I follow, stumbling, ripped by thorns

You’re always just out of reach, always just turning the next corner

Remember those children we watched while we ate ice cream on that green bench in Sault Saint Marie? Silly

that isn’t my favorite memory of you, not by far but it’s the one I keep

coming back to

I took it so I should have wanted it

But the sugar made my teeth ache

Every memory is two-sided, like that day we lay in the grass watching ships pass through the lochs

Distance is deceptive

It was sunny, the photos you took prove it

But the wind⁠—

Or the wind and the rain that day we met at the lighthouse, you wore a black sweater, I hadn’t seen you

in years, you looked younger, time doing its mirror trick

The scene draws us

We weren’t ghosts but we were

both adrift, though only one of us knew it

When I reach the city you spoke of, it’s been abandoned for decades

Every memory is two-sided, like the time you were driving and the Jeep hit

black ice and spun out

Like the time I was driving and my car died as we coasted down hill

In a human dream, electric blue hydrozoan creatures blossom in the Superior’s deepest water

Every memory is two-sided, and nothing is mine to claim

I run these dirt trails near my house, I think of you, I touch my chest, count my breaths

One day I came upon this mother dear and two fawns, they were tiny, spotted, legs so ready to give out but they did not give out

J, you should have seen them

Generational, Domestic

I drink from the cup that made me

before blood congeals across the top.

Touch the muscles of your back

while you sleep. What does cruelty express?

A fear so deep it creates its own

gravity, the world pours in around

the rim. Despite how light clawed, it could not

get out⁠—not after, not from within. I live by a river

and dream of living by another river. Throw my baby

teeth into it like coins in a well. Wish and watch

water pass, think of how it bows and braids,

think of the circulatory system, nervous

birds on loop. My niece appears in a dirt-stained

dress holding yellow zinnias as they blossom

and rot, blossom and⁠—Does movement remind you

of death or escape? When you bite the inside

of my thigh, what memory of violence

unfurls like a seed? Generational, domestic. Your mother

tells you she prays for us and I swallow

it whole like a duck egg. A blue mud wasp

taps against my window, where its always

been. While we sleep, bindweed inches up

the walls and ceiling. Coils around the lamps.

Tomorrow, we’ll eat the heads of morning.

A Litany of Dreams You May Borrow

The one where I pick sunlight off my skin like scales or sequins

Or I have a boy’s torso and a jaw

that doesn’t lock when I start to laugh

Any of the dreams with snakes or my mother trapped in a radiator vent

because they spring from the same well

My little sister and I are teenagers again, still speaking to each other, and she climbs a sugar maple and never comes back

The ones where rain comes through the roof but not the ones where it is snowing in my room

S. and I still live together but a gray horse circles the house, starving

No one names it

My father is in a hospice bed, holding up his rot-dappled organs one by one

as offerings to me

The cow pasture

where I’m in a wedding dress carrying a pitcher of his blood

B. and I are back on the beach at night and she kisses me except this time ocean is made of milk and sweet

No one invents sin so we sun ourselves on the rooftop

Any dream of my grandfather⁠—that skull for a face, the parrot watching on, the white sheet and long fingernails

In fact, you may keep them, convince yourself there is a lesson

The dream where the brakes gave out

His head is in my lap and the window is open even though it is January outside

A war between nations of men takes place in my mother’s dining room

My sisters and I watch from beneath a table

Those you can leave: any dream where he says my name

aloud or his mouth is against my hair, any dream

where the dead forgive

The first girl I loved asking Are you sure you don’t know me? until she disappears

The whole room slants and I fall from the bed to the wall as if the house is trying to shake me from itself like a parasite

The dream I had after S. found the knife I hid beneath the nightstand

The one where I saw our sons using sticks as swords, their mouths yellow

and chose not to have them

The first gentle boy from my childhood is back and we are in love

When the church burns down and my sisters and I are blamed

The one where what I love is not unwell, not in need at all, so I shrink to the size of a kitchen ant and crawl away

My mother is my daughter and when she speaks, hummingbirds fill her mouth like arrows

The one where I actually forgive him and he leans back then, rests his eyes, says

There is no ending

Alessandra sends me two pictures of her son eating his first strawberry

while I’m home alone reading about central sleep apnea because this morning Calvin woke me up at 5AM by rubbing my back because (he said) I kept holding my breath and he is afraid (but doesn’t say) that I might stop breathing all together. On our jog today Cara told me that she’s going to try dating again and there isn’t much out there so she’s meeting a corporate lawyer all the way in Seattle for lunch on Thursday. Part of me is jealous—to get to meet strangers that you might have sex with or raise a puppy with is to feel very specifically alive right? The internet says I cannot suffocate in my sleep. I have this one memory of when I’m four or five and my father is sitting in the tub and I just let myself in to the bathroom and ask him how often he clipped his toenails and he laughs like kids are so fucking werid and says and said Maybe once a week? When we can’t stop worrying about each others deaths this is how I know we need each other. I can’t remember Alessandra’s baby’s name even though I met him once when we were in Portland. I don’t want children but one time on a long drive I imagined a three or four year old kid in the backseat of my Subaru asking me smart and weird kid questions and me giving honest answers and developing this whole lifelong relationship with a human like there is a way to never be lonely. I was startled by a sound but it wasn’t really a sound just a door closing in my body. I didn’t tell Calvin about it. Instead we talked about our little sisters and how we’re scared for them. The internet says my brain will panic and wake me up. I tell him I want him to confide in me but what do you say to I have a very real fear that the next time I hear about her it could be that she’s dead. I get it at least somewhat—what it means to see a boat drifting away from you. The last time I saw M she was more angry than any person I can remember it was like being beside a live wire I wasn’t sure if I could speak if I could even ask her if she was okay without making her not okay like the whole world is made of string and it can unravel if you say or even think the wrong thing. I don’t think there is a way to never be lonely. In the pictures the baby’s fingers are red and his laughing and sitting on a checkered picnic blanket and it looks like real summer in Wisconsin. I don’t really want to date strangers again. Everyone good I’ve found I still don’t know how I kept them. Some days I don’t want him to leave the house for fear of what might happen next. I remember when M and I were little she was hardly ever mad just withdrawn and we were there like two islands beside each other never really able to say what we meant or needed and now my mother calls me and she’s just painted the trim in the living room mountain air white and she starts to cry thinking about thirty years in the house where she raised us that she wants to sell and I say You haven't left yet and she says I’m already gone. Calvin just texts his sister now even though he knows he won’t get a response and I imagine those messages floating in a black void with stars because it all goes somewhere. I write back Don't you wish you could remember your first strawberry? The interest promises me I’ll take another breath.

The mountain has no childhood to speak of

and no child to soothe. Thought it might tell you something

of its formation, even though it does not remember.

Or that there is no universally agreed upon definition

of a mountain. It would speak less about light

and ascension and more about its insides. I have veins,

the mountain would say, a circulatory system of sorts

but no organs. The mountain would predict your disappointment.

It would refuse your offer for a brain and a heart. Knowledge

and loneliness, the mountain would explain, pass from sky

to water to stone. Mountain embodies strangeness, thus has no notion

of strangeness. Mountain understands destination.

It has been desired. It knows you

think it’s trapped; that it has never left and will never leave.

But, if we let it speak, it would tell you: I have touched

every corner and crevice of this carved valley. Has seen so much

come and go⁠—loon, kingfisher, lynx. The people that

tried to erase people. Mountain has hounded

wander. But will have nothing to say about hunger.

If you sit with it long enough, mountain might admit, I am afraid

of dying. Of the slow wearing, the slow away. Wind and water.

Mountain will teach you a word that means both companion

and destroyer. Though it does not sleep, mountain dreams,

of being ripped out by the roots. Mountain wonders

if mountains bleed.

Caitlin Scarano is a poet based in northwest Washington. She holds a PhD in English (creative writing) from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and an MFA in Poetry from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. She was selected as a participant in the National Science Foundation’s Antarctic Artists & Writers Program. Her debut collection of poems, Do Not Bring Him Water, was released in Fall 2017. Her work has appeared in Granta, Best New Poets, Best Small Fictions, Carve, and Colorado Review. You can find her at caitlinscarano.com

#Caitlin Scarano #poetry #special feature

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orangeoctopi7 · 5 years

Text

A Familiar Hero

Part 1

Part 2

Seeing the Spider Man in action, Ford’s previous theory that this was a visiting extraterrestrial seemed ludicrous. His every movement, his posture, even his voice exuded familiarity. How could he be anything but human?

But at the same time, how could any human do these things? The Spider Man disarmed two gunners before either of them could fire, pulling the guns out of their hands without even closing his fingers around them. Their male attacker swore, and in one swift motion tried to stab the Spider Man. No one could have seen that coming, and yet the Spider Man pulled away and to the side, easily dodging it as though the assailant had clearly telegraphed the move. He retaliated with a powerful left-hook, knocking the man to the ground like a sack of potatoes. When he turned his attention to the woman, she was already running back out the alley-way. The Spider Man shrugged, obviously deciding chasing her was not worth it. He picked up the man like he was nothing more than an awkwardly shaped sack of flour, and not a sack of flesh and bones coming close to thee hundred pounds.

“What were you idiots thinkin’?!” The Spider Man demanded. “Are you trying to get yourselves killed!? I’m lucky– I mean you’re- you’re lucky I was nearby. What would I have– uh, what would you have done if I wasn’t here?”

The two researchers were too stunned to say anything. They just stared at him with slack jaws.

“I-I gotta dump this guy someplace the cops’ll find him.” He made to leave.

“It’s really you!” Ford blurted out, finally finding his voice. He thought they’d be lucky if they just got to see the Spider Man, and not only had he saved their lives, he was talking to them now!

“You… you know who I am?” The Spider Man tugged nervously at his mask.

“Of course I do! I’ve been following you since the beginning!” Ford grinned. There was something nagging at the back of his head, something about that familiarity, but he was too excited to stop and really think about it right now.

“Wait, seriously!?”

“Ah, well, not literally following you!” The researcher backpedaled, realizing that may have come off as stalkery. “But ever since that first article I found in Peculiar Pennsylvania, I’ve been following every publication and story about you I could find! I can’t believe we were lucky enough to find you!”

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“Well, just since you were sighted here in Portland, it’s the first time there’s been a sighting near enough for conducting a search to be feasible.”

“But… why? Why would you bother lookin’ for me?”

“Are you kidding? You’re amazing! All those people you’ve saved, all those criminals you’ve apprehended, you’re a hero!”

The Spider Man made a sound half-way between a laugh and a sob. “Ford, you really do still care!”

The second Ford heard the Spider Man say his name, that nagging familiarity in the back of his head clicked into place, and he realized who he was talking to just a split second before his brother pulled off the mask.

“Stanley!?”

Stan’s expression of euphoric joy quickly dropped to annoyance. “You said you knew who I was!”

“I was talking about the Spider Man! I know all about the Spider Man!”

“Well obviously not, if you didn’t know he was me!”

“What are you even doing here?”

“What am I doin’ here? What are you doin’ here!?”

“I already told you, you knucklehead!”

“What in the name of Charles Babbage is going on here!?” Fiddleford finally shouted, interrupting the brothers’ argument. “Why does the Spider Man look like you? How do you know him!? This ain’t some, I dunno, shape-shiftin’ sorta thing-a-ma-bob, is it?”

“…Oh. Right. Sorry.” Ford apologized.

“Yeah, that’s another question, who the heck’s this yahoo?” Stan demanded.

Ford gestured towards McGucket, “Stan, this is my research assistant, Fiddleford McGucket.” he then pointed to Stan, “Fiddleford, this is my twin brother, Stanley.”

The two of them just stood there, looking the other over.

“I thought you said you hadn’t talked to yer brother since you was a teenager.” McGucket eventually said.

“I hadn’t, until just now.”

“Well, ain’t that just the craziest coinky-dink you ever heard of.” Fiddleford gave a low whistle.

“Research assistant, huh?” Stan scratched the back of his head with his free hand. “What, uh, what’re you studying?”

“You”

“The Spider Man”

McGucket and Ford said simultaneously.

“Huh. Well, uh, you want me to, I dunno, pose for a photo or somethin’?”

“Yes!” Ford said quickly. “Mask on, of course.”

“An’ then I can dump this guy someplace the cops’ll find him.”

“And we’ll go our separate ways.” Ford nodded.

“Really!?” Fiddleford exclaimed, “We jus’ randomly ran into yer brother who ya haven’t seen in over a decade, he saves our lives and turns out to be the very cryptid we came here to study, an’ yer jus’ gonna go yer separate ways? Jus like that?”

“There’s a reason we haven’t spoken in so long, Fiddleford.” The young researcher said stiffly. “Besides, I’m sure Stanley has his own life to get back to

Stan harrumphed, folded his arms and looked away. “Yeah. Yeah, sure I do.”

They walked a few blocks until Stan found a dock he said the Coast Guard frequented. McGucket asked him to pull his mask back on and Ford took a few pictures, one of the Spider Man carrying the unconscious man like he was nothing, and a few of him climbing up the warehouse walls. Unfortunately, Ford didn’t get the thrill out of it he’d been expecting. Maybe it was because all the pictures were posed. Maybe it was because, now that he knew who the Spider Man was, there was no longer the thrill of the mystery.

“…Thanks…” Ford said awkwardly when they were done.

“Don’t mention it.” Stan grunted in reply.

McGucket glanced between them, his expression stuck somewhere between perplexion and annoyance. “Well, I guess we’d better head back to the hotel.” He finally sighed.

The two groups had walked maybe ten feet away from each other when Stan turned around and shouted. “Wait! Uh… how far’s your hotel?”

“Downtown, just off the interstate.” Ford replied. “Why?”

“You yahoo’s aren’t gonna walk that whole way yourselves, are ya?”

“We’re taking the bus.”

“That’s still far enough you two could get mugged. What’s the point of me savin’ your lives if you just go an’ get in trouble again?”

“I-is that likely?” Fiddleford stammered nervously.

Stanford sighed in irritation. It didn’t matter how likely it was, because now that the idea was in Fiddleford’s head, the inventor’s anxiety would latch onto the possibility and send him spiralling until he would jump at any little sound or movement.

“My car’s parked not too far from here. Lemme just give you guys a lift back to your hotel.”

Ford sighed. “Fine.” For Fiddleford’s sake, he told himself.

***

“I thought you said your car was close!” Stanford complained ten minutes later.

“It is close, if you can climb straight up an’ over buildings.” Stan defended.

“Well how much further is it?”

“Uh, I think another block.”

“You think?”

“Hey, I don’t usually take the street!”

Ford huffed. “It would have been faster to head for the bus stop.”

“Yeah, and you would’ve wandered through the roughest part of town at 11pm.”

Fiddleford shivered and took a step closer to Stanley. “Let’s talk about somethin’ else! Say, this gives us a chance to ask ya some questions, Stanley! Like, uh… how d’you stick to walls?”

“Uh… I don’t really know. I just sorta think about it, I guess.”

“Well, how’d you know that thug was gonna pull a knife on ya?”

“I dunno, sometimes I just sense danger.”

“How would you describe this sense?”

“I don’t know, ok? It’s like tryin’ to describe colors to someone who was born blind. Look, I don’t really get how my powers work, ok? I just know that they do.”

“Ok, that’s fine.” Fiddleford assured him. “I can ask some different questions. Like, hmm, where’d ya come up with that nifty outfit?”

Stan laughed awkwardly. “Heh, what, this? Just some stuff I’ve slapped together from thrift stores, honestly. Like, these pants’re just workout sweats. They got pockets an’ fleece linin’ and everything. I got another pair that’re lighter for the summer. An’ the mask? Got it at a yard sale in Mazatlan. Just cut some eyes out of an old black basketball jersey I picked up at the same time. Don’t really remember where I picked the gloves up at, probably some bargain bin at like, Walmart or something. And they gave me the coat at this homeless shelter I stopped at in Denver.”

“What?!” Ford exclaimed, turning to face his brother suddenly.

“What?” Stan repeated innocently.

“You said something about a homeless shelter!?”

“Oh! Ha!” Stan forced a laugh. “Did I say homeless shelter? I don’t… I don’t know why I said that. What I meant was– Look, there’s my car!”

Sure enough, across the street behind a gated chain-link fence was the familiar red El Diablo Stanford remembered from his teenage years. It even had the old STNLYMBL license plate. They reached a gate that was closed not with a chain and padlock, but a stout copper pipe bent around the end of the chain-link fence and the side of the gate. Stan grabbed the pipe and unbent it as easily as a normal person would unbend a paperclip. He pulled the gate open wide enough to allow the car to drive out and motioned for the two friends to enter.

Stanford struggled with a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts as he got in the car. Stanley had been in a homeless shelter!? No, no, Stan said that wasn’t what he meant! But he was obviously lying, wasn’t he? Or maybe not. Maybe Stan was helping someone else get to the homeless shelter? Stan was the Spider Man, and the Spider Man helped people, after all. And even if Stan had spent some time in a homeless shelter, it was his own fault, right?

“Hey, uh, sorry it’s such a mess.” Stan apologized, quickly grabbing as much junk as he could out of the front passenger seat and shoving it into the trunk. “I don’t normally give rides.” He moved to the back seat and shoved everything to one side, trying to make room for someone to sit back there.

“You go ahead and sit shotgun McGucket.” Ford insisted. “I’ve at least lived in Stan’s mess before.”

“Hey, I don’t remember you bein’ any cleaner!” Stan protested.

McGucket chuckled. “Yer cabin was a disaster area when I showed up, even fer a bachelor pad.”

Ford rolled his eyes and got into the back of the car without further comment. Sure, he often got so caught up in his research that he forgot to clean, but at least he didn’t leave his clothes laying around in the back seat of his car! Or towels or toothbrushes or… was that a pillow? Then it dawned on him: Stan had been living out of his car. He really was homeless!

The young researcher immediately tried to rationalize things. It made sense, really, with what he knew about the Spider Man. The Spider Man had been traveling all over North and South America, moving from one city to the next, with little rhyme or reason, never staying in one place for too long. It made sense that the Spider Man would live out of his car if he was traveling around so much! …Or was he traveling around so much because he had to live out of his car?

Ford was about to ask his brother if he was homeless, but McGucket beat him to the punch with another question.

“So how’d ya come to be the Spider Man?”

“Well, I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to become a superhero, I can tell ya that much.” Stan replied. “It kinda just happened. I got spotted by a few obsessive nerds like my brother here, sent a few jerks to jail, saved some innocent people, and the next thing I know I’m hearin’ AM radio shows and readin’ obscure articles about my exploits, callin’ me ‘The Spider Man’. And, y’know, I decided to just run with it.”

“Ah. Suppose that makes sense.” McGucket nodded. “But I mean, how’d ya come to have these powers? Obviously ya weren’t born with ‘em, or else Stanford woulda known about ‘em.”

Ford perked up, listening intently. He’d been wondering that himself, but hadn’t quite had the courage to ask. He had an uneasy feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

Stan stared Ford down through the rear-view mirror for a long moment, almost as though he expected his brother to say something, before finally answering. “What, y’mean the almighty genius Stanford Pines hasn’t figured it out yet?”

“Enlighten us, Stanley.”

“It’s drivin’ you crazy that I know something you don’t, isn’t it? Y’know, I might just revel in this moment a little longer, really let it sink in.”

“Stanley!”

“Alright, alright, fine, but only ‘cuz your friend here’s on the edge of his seat.”

Fiddleford was indeed giving Stan his full attention, a notebook and pen already in hand. “Golly, I wish I had my portable computer with me. Ah well, go on!”

Stan took a deep breath and fixed his brother with another hard look through the rearview mirror. “My brother ever tell you about his senior science fair project?”

“Uh, only that it was an unqualified disaster.” Fiddleford murmured awkwardly. He knew it was a touchy subject for his friend.

“What on earth does that have to do with your powers?” Ford growled.

“Just lemme finish! Anyway, Ford had genetically mutated a bunch of spiders using radiation.” Stan explained. “An’ it was winnin’ all the awards! Best in the school, best in the district, the works. Once it got to state, it got the attention of some big wigs from this fancy school called West Coast Tech. They wanted to offer Ford a full-ride scholarship if his project lived up to the hype when they came to see it. And I… I was scared ‘cuz my bro was movin’ on without me an’ I was statin’ to feel like I was gonna be stuck in Glass Shard Beach forever. I needed someone to blame, so I blamed the spiders.”

“Ahah!” Ford exclaimed, “So you admit it! You sabotaged my project!”

“That’s not what I said!” Stan defended.

“You blamed the spiders, so you smashed their containment unit and killed them all!”

“That’s not what happened! It was an accident!” Stan pleaded.

“How do you accidentally smash a containment unit?”

“Just hear me out!” Stan shouted, slamming on the breaks as they came to a red light. Ford glared at him, and McGucket just watched them both like they were a particularly volatile mixture of chemicals just waiting for the right activation energy to explode.

“Like I said, I was mad.” Stan continued. “And I blamed the spiders. I went into the gymnasium and ranted about everything I was feeling to them. I shoulda talked to you instead, but I didn’t. Once I was done gettin’ all that off my chest, I slammed my fists down on the table to let off some steam. But I hit it too hard. The containment unit tipped off the table and cracked open when it hit the floor. I picked it up right away and tried to cover the crack with my hand to stop them from escaping, but one of the spiders bit me. It startled me, so I dropped it again. And I guess the shock of gettin’ dropped twice in such a short amount of time must’ve killed ‘em or something.

“I shoulda found you and told you right away, but I panicked, and I was already startin’ to feel weird. My vision was swimmin’ and I had a killer migraine, the kind where you feel like all your senses have been turned up too high. So I ran home. After that… well, you remember.”

“I don’t.” Fiddleford reminded them.

“When the representatives from West Coast Tech arrived, all I had to show them was a broken glass globe full of dead spiders.” Ford growled. “I looked like a fool in front of the people I was supposed to get a scholarship from! And what’s worse, when I returned home, Stan tried to shrug it off like it wasn’t a big deal! Like it was a good thing I missed out on the scholarship because now we could go treasure hunting like we’d dreamed of when we were kids! And he had the gall to fake sick so Dad wouldn’t kick him out! Not that it worked.”

“I wasn’t faking it!” Stan insisted indignantly.

“And I still don’t understand how this has anything to do with your powers!” Ford glared at Stan through the rear-view mirror.

“You seriously still haven’t figured it out!?” Stan huffed exasperatedly. “What kind of idiot genius are you?”

“I’m not seein’ the connection either.” Fiddleford admitted.

Stan rolled his eyes. “I get bit by one of those radioactive spiders. Right after that, my vision starts swimmin’ an’ I get a headache like my senses got turned up.” He repeated. Still all he got were blank stares. “The next morning I realized I didn’t grab my glasses when Dad kicked me out. But I didn’t need ‘em.”

“Because you never wore them anyway?” Ford asked flatly.

“I didn’t need ‘em 'cuz I didn’t have eyesight problems anymore!” Stan corrected. “An’ less than a week after that, I started stickin’ to stuff! All my powers developed within a year of that day I got bit by one of your spiders.”

“Sweet sarsaparilla! Stanford, this is unprecedented!” Fiddleford exclaimed, “Do ya still got the notes on them spiders? Imagine if’n we could replicate these results!”

The inventor continued to prattle on excitedly, but Ford was barely listening. He’d just been presented with evidence that completely changed his world-view. Whether or not Stan had been lying about the 'accident’ at the science fair, this was proof that Stan hadn’t been making up his sudden illness. It hadn’t been an unsuccessful attempt to garner sympathy, it had been the early stages of a major postnatal genetic mutation. And that meant Stan had gone through all these probably horrifying changes alone, with no idea what was happening to him. And probably homeless.

Ford was struck with a sudden sense of guilt. All these years he’d held a grudge against his brother, but now he realized Stan had just as much a reason to hold a grudge against him! But… could he really have made any difference? He imagined what would have happened if he’d known his brother was really sick; if he’d tried to stand up to their dad. At best he would have been sent to his room, and at worst he would have been invited to join his brother on the street. No, he couldn’t have changed things then… but maybe if he hadn’t held a grudge for so long, if he’d tried to reach out to his brother as soon as he left home himself, maybe he could have helped his brother then.

“Alright, we’re downtown near the interstate.” Stan said as he stopped at another stop light. “You two see your hotel from here, or is it further down the road?”

“It’s that one with the big green sign.” Fiddleford pointed to a building to their left.

Stan pulled into the drop-off zone and parked in front of the door. “Glad I could help you two get back here safe. I know it’s hard for you, but try not to get into any more trouble for a while.”

He was rolling up the window and putting the car back into drive when Ford made a split second decision.

“Stan, wait!” He raced forward and grabbed the closing window.

Stan stopped cranking the window up and shifted back to park. “What?” he asked apprehensively.

“I-I think we could have a mutually beneficial situation here.”

“English, Sixer!”

“W-we could help each other! You’ve gained remarkable control over your powers on your own, but you don’t really understand how they work, correct?”

“Yyyyeah….” Stan said slowly, not quite catching on to where his brother was going with this.

“Think how much more you could do if you learned the ins and outs of what your body can do now! There might be things you’re not even aware you’re capable of yet! And even beyond your powers, we could help you become a better crime-fighter! Fiddleford’s a real whiz with gadgets, and just a while ago I was working on a device I couldn’t quite get to work, but I think it’d be perfect for you.”

“You… you want me to come back with you guys? So you can do experiments on me?” Stan asked warily.

“Not like that!” Ford assured him. “We’d just like to study you and run some tests…. Ugh, there really isn’t any way to make that sound better. What I’m trying to say is, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you wouldn’t feel comfortable with.”

Stan still looked skeptical.

“And you’d have some place to stay! I might even be able to pay you if the grant committee accepts my proposal for another research assistant.”

Stan sighed forlornly, and for a terrible moment Ford was afraid his brother would turn him down, but instead he asked. “What time are you leaving?”

“Around 11am tomorrow morning.”

“And where is it we’re going back to?”

“Gravity Falls, Oregon.

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, most people haven’t. It’s a small logging town in the backwoods.”

“Alright. I’ll meetcha back here at 11 tomorrow an’ follow you back to Gravy Falls.”

“Gravity Falls.”

“That too.”

Ford tried to stop himself from grinning. “Thank you, Stanley.”

“Yeah, well, I’m only goin’ so I can keep an eye on you an’ your scrawny friend. Last thing I need is a postcard from Ma sayin’ you’ve been eaten by bigfoot.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stanley, the largest prey a Sasquatch will bother with are beavers.”

Stan quirked a small smile. “See you tomorrow, nerd.”

#Gravity Falls #Fanfiction #Spiderstan AU #Stanford Pines #Stanley Pines #Fiddleford Mcgucket #spider Stan au #My writing

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doomedandstoned · 6 years

Text

As “France’s Most Hated Band” CULT OF OCCULT Visits U.S., We Review ‘Anti-Life’

~By Clem Helvete~

Live Photographs Courtesy of ByMetal

Photo by Allison Gandar Photographie

There’s just no way around it, CULT OF OCCULT is one of a kind among the French scene. To be honest, I think the band is one of a kind, period. But that’s like, my opinion, man. Rare are the interviews with the quartet from Lyon and let’s just say that their reputation usually precedes them. Truth be told, Cult of Occult couldn’t care less about scene gossip and is only here to deliver earth-shattering, bleak music which leaves the listener wondering what the hell just happened. Leaning more towards the musical entity than the traditional band, Cult of Occult focuses on making its sound evolve with each album and lets the music speak for itself.

In order to fully understand where Cult of Occult’s new album stands, it is essential to put it in context by talking a bit about the band’s previous effort first. The devastating Five Degrees of Insanity was released in 2015 and is a no-hold-barred statement in brutality and heaviness. The fascinating artwork perfectly illustrates the music and lyrics and the album is filled with anxiety-inducing, slow-pace, downtuned riffs coming together to create jarring soundscapes.

Although this may sound over the top, it is exactly what Cult of Occult is: over the top. The music is extreme, difficult to get into, and may feel actually physically taxing to non-initiated listeners. It is pretty clear that the band has no intention to do the work for you and will not compromise in order to appeal to a wider audience. Absolutely no effort is made to alleviate the tension or ease you into the music.

To say that Cult of Occult’s next release was anticipated is an understatement, but how would it top the savage energy and ruthlessness of Five Degrees of Insanity?

For the next three years following the release of the album, the four headed beast toured extensively through Europe, sharpening its teeth and digging its claws into the European scene. In 2017, it was announced that Cult of Occult’s next album would be released on Music Fear Satan, home of French heavy hitters Hangman’s Chair. The album, titled 'ANTI LIFE' (2018), would be composed of one “song” divided into four tracks. The title made complete sense, the band is rather well-known for its misanthropic attitude, but the one song thing felt a bit gimmicky at the time as Bell Witch’s Mirror Reaper had basically just came out and crushed everything in its way. Was this format about to become the next attention-grabbing trick in the doom scene? As soon as the pre orders were open, I purchased my copy of Anti Life and waited impatiently. Fast-forward a month or two later, this is when I realized what a foolish mistake it was to doubt Cult of Occult’s ability to subvert expectations.

There is a lot to unpack here, and it may take quite a while to form a fully-fleshed out opinion on the album. Yes, it’s an overwhelming piece of music. Yes, you have to push through the thick layers of sound and fuzz to make your way through the album. Yes, you will feel like you just got punched in the gut. But, what a rewarding experience it is!

Anti Life clocks in at 53 minutes and 30 seconds. Yet, it will make you lose track of time and you won’t realize that almost an hour has passed by the time the last feedback fades away. Each part is seamlessly connected to the next one and every single element has a precise role to play in the creation of this airtight, four-act, monster of a song. The record feels like one intricate piece of music and the structure is far from being gimmicky. It is actually difficult, if not impossible, to think of Anti Life as anything but one monolithic composition.

Just like Five Degrees of Insanity, the artwork of Anti Life is a visual manifestation of the album’s overall themes and atmosphere. It is dark, hard to grasp, it feels like moving through a haze surrounded by strange silhouettes, and it becomes increasingly mesmerizing the more you come back to it.

So how was Cult of Occult able to top the heaviness and brutality of Five Degrees of Insanity without becoming a goofy parody of itself? Well, the band managed to pull it off by adding depth and dynamics to the music. When it comes to creating contrast, Anti Life is an outstanding accomplishment. Cult of Occult plays with rhythms and atmospheres to make heavy even heavier. Of course, the production is what you would expect from such an album. It sounds aggressive and every single note hits you right in the chest.

ANTI LIFE by Cult Of Occult

The album starts with a slow build-up of feedback culminating in the first strike of the album. A gut wrenching roar forms the words “I want to get out! Stop it now!” as the instruments are menacingly and slowly hammering in the background. The agonizing riff is played at a crawling speed, the guitar and bass sound abrasive and the mood is incredibly heavy. The slow pounding drums drenched in reverb and combined with long dragging chords give the impression of being imprisoned in an endless void where a dull buzzing noise keeps echoing. This impression is reinforced by corrosive vocals shouting “I’ve lost my mind, mentally and physically ill.” Every single element plays a part in establishing that there is no escape possible.

“Every night, full of drugs and liquor, I see, floating above my bed, the Devil. This woman in white dress, Satan herself.”

ANTI LIFE by Cult Of Occult

With the second act comes the feeling that all hell is about to break loose. The tempo slowly intensifies then suddenly comes to a halt while eerie sounds take over. A razor-sharp guitar lead reels you in through the thick fog created by the bass and drums as the vocalist shouts his way to insanity.

ANTI LIFE by Cult Of Occult

The third part begins with “Those Walls! Asylum! Asylum!” as the guitar, bass, and drums are once again pounding together. The track slows down and languidly creeps to what is, without a doubt, my favorite moment in the album. As the rhythm section hammers a funeral dirge, the guitar launches in a forlorn sounding lead comprised of multiple layers, which builds up to the climax of the track.

ANTI LIFE by Cult Of Occult

This is where the last “movement” of Anti Life, and the final step towards irreversible madness, starts. Cult of Occult is back doing what it does best, pounding flesh and bones to a pulp. The faint guitar in the background is joined by a spellbinding and disturbing melody as the album comes to a close.

I’d rather not spoil the experience by revealing too much about the final notes of Anti Life. All I’ll say is that Cult of Occult closes this impressive piece of work masterfully.

There is no questioning it, the band has managed an impressive feat on many levels and clearly has a better grasp on its sound and craft than ever before. The members of Cult of Occult are known for their enthusiasm for cheap, strong, canned beer and one could say this album feels somewhat similar. Anti Life is intoxicating. It doesn’t look pretty and polished but it will hit you hard, make your head spin, rattle your bones, and leave you lifeless on the curb. If heavy and dark means anything to you, you will come back to it over and over, only to hear new layers and details with each listening.

Cult of Occult launch their West Coast tour alongside Cloven and Dark Castle this week, beginning tonight at Black Lodge in Seattle. Do not miss out on this one! If listening to one of the band’s album is quite something, it is nothing compared to experiencing it live. The amps are deafeningly loud, the atmosphere is so thick you can cut it with a knife, every beat feels like being hit by an unseen force, every note adds to the oppressive atmosphere, and the vocals will shred your ears and heart. Leave all hope at the door and let the thick wall of distortion and heavy pounding take over. Trust me, it’s worth it.

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Cult of Occult Stage West Coast Invasion!

️11/13 - Seattle, WA at the Black Lodge

11/14 - Portland, OR at High Water Mark

11/15 - Eugene, OR at Old Nick's Pub

11/16 - Oakland, CA at Eli's Mile High

11/17 - Los Angeles, CA at Los Globos

#D&S Reviews #Cult of Occult #Lyon #France #Doom #Sludge #Mketal #Doom Metal #Clem Helvete #HeavyBest18 #Doomed & Stoned

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