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bitchin-beskar · 4 years

Text

Spidey Sense

Fandom: The Old Guard

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: So the original prompt for this was something along the lines of: "hey, what if Joe and Nicky keep pictures of each other in their wallets to remind them of why they're doing this whenever they have to be apart" and this was born from that. Enjoy!

Tags: @theocatkov, @cosmicbug379, @marydjarin @perropascal

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Gazing down at the image of the love of his life, forever immortalized by his hand, never failed to bring a smile to Joe’s lips. His drawings would never be as magnificent, as breathtaking as looking at Nicky with his own two eyes, but whenever they were apart, he had to make do with images drawn by his hand.

Slipping the small slip of paper back into his wallet, Joe flipped it shut and slid it into one of his many pockets. He hated going on missions without Nicky, but this particular job had required his expertise in infiltrating one building while Nicky’s skills as a sniper were required four blocks away. It was unfortunate, but not the first time it had happened, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

When Copley had informed them of the job, he’d made sure they knew that he’d been unable to get any estimates on the number of guards they’d have to deal with. It made Joe uneasy, but they’d gone through with it anyways. Some tech company was trying to use their software to hack into the Pentagon to steal the locations of missile silos located all over the US. The government was very concerned about this threat, and so Copley had called them in.

Joe was supposed to create a distraction at the main headquarters, drawing the company’s attention and thus, allowing Nicky to eliminate guards at the warehouse that housed the company's main servers, which would then allow Nile and Booker to get in and plant explosives. Boom! No more servers, no more threat.

Nicky had been worried about Joe causing a distraction when they didn’t know the amount of guards, but Joe had tried to soothe his beloved’s fears as best he could.

“Habibi,” he’d said, hand resting on Nicky’s waist, holding him close. “I will be fine. And if anything were to go wrong, I know that you will not allow them to hold me for long.”

Nicky had leaned his forehead against Joe’s, one of his many, silent, I love you’s that he bestowed upon Joe throughout the day. “I would prefer it if nothing goes wrong.”

“As would I.”

***

Nicky had been right to worry, and Joe knew he would never hear the end of it. There had been twice as many guards as Copley’s estimate, and even with Joe’s healing, and centuries worth of experience, he’d quickly been overwhelmed. They’d knocked him out–although, perhaps they’d killed him, Joe wasn’t entirely sure–and when he woke, he was chained to a metal chair, bolted in the middle of an all white room.

His first thought had been something along the lines of how poor of a choice it was to put him in an all white room, as it undoubtedly would become quite the grotesque scene when Nicky arrived. Blood clashed so horribly on white walls, and Nicky could get quite ferocious whenever Joe was threatened.

His second thought was on the fact that even while bound, he could tell that his wallet was no longer in his pocket. That, in of itself was of no consequence, practically everything in it was fake–it was hard to have valid ID’s and such when you were an immortal warrior born nine hundred years ago–but there was one precious item in that wallet.

The drawing of Nicky was one of many, but that didn’t mean it was any less special. Joe had saved every single scrap of paper he’d ever drawn Nicky’s likeness on, and while some had aged beyond recognition, he hadn’t had the heart to let any of them go. He knew that Nicky similarly had many, many photographs and paintings of him. Nicky always professed that he wasn’t as artistically inclined as Joe, but every time Nicky sketched him, Joe could see the love and care that went into each piece of art, and he fell in love with Nicky all over again.

He was jolted out of his musings by the door opening violently, slamming against the wall. He didn’t react outwardly, instead analyzing each of the men that walked into the room. Ten men entered, the last, an older man with grey in his hair, shut the door behind him, making a show of locking it. Joe wanted to scoff. These men didn’t intimidate him in the slightest, and they would have to try a lot harder if they wanted to get a reaction out of him.

“Who sent you?”

Joe laughed. So this is how they were doing this. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man scowled, the expression twisting his features into a mask of hatred. “I don’t like your attitude, kid.”

Joe laughed even harder at that, his body shaking with mirth, although his eyes were cold as ice. “I’m not quite as young as I look,” he chuckled under his breath, watching as the other men shuffled awkwardly. They clearly feared the older man, and he could see in some of their eyes that they feared for him if he continued to antagonize their leader.

There was a sharp crack, and Joe’s head snapped to the side, the backhand delivered with an impressive amount of force. It might’ve hurt, if Joe hadn’t lived as long as he had, and had experienced far worse. Still, he kept up appearances. The longer these men were unaware of his healing and his immortality, the better.

“Who sent you?”

Joe grins, the perfect picture of innocence. “Who says anyone sent me? Perhaps I decided to come all by myself?” He probably shouldn’t be antagonizing this man, but he’s having too much fun.

The man snaps his fingers, and one of the other men rushes forward to hand him something. Joe recognizes it as his wallet, watching as the man flips through it, pulling out his driver’s license. “Joseph Jones? Is that even your name?” The man scoffs. “Why were you trying to break in?”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to break in.” The man looks confused for all of two seconds before Joe opens his mouth again. “I’d already broken in. Your men found me after I got in.” Joe can’t help but brag a little, because, well, their security was shit, but also because he was trying to stall for time, so that Nile and Booker could get in and out without any issues. “You really shouldn’t have picked white walls you know, white stains so easily–”

He gets another backhand for his efforts, and the man in front of him actually growls. He goes back to pawing through Joe’s wallet, and Joe can feel his heart stop when the man pulls out Joe’s drawing of Nicky.

The man looks at it, and it’s clear he doesn’t know what to think at first. He studies the drawing, and Joe can feel sparks of anger igniting in his chest, although he tries not to show it. The man suddenly laughs, and it’s a cruel, mocking laugh. He shoves the drawing at one of the other men before turning back to Joe, a cruel smirk on his face.

“How cute,” he sneers. “Mr. Jones keeps a picture of his boyfriend in his wallet.” The man spits on the ground at Joe’s feet. “God, that’s disgusting.”

Anger clouds Joe’s vision, bubbling up in his chest like rising magma before bursting forth from his mouth before he can stop it.

“Boyfriend? Boyfriend? Nicolo is not my boyfriend,” he spits, fire burning in his eyes. “You are a narrow-minded, childish, little man. Nicolo means more to me than all the stars in the sky. He has been my light, my heart, for over nine hundred years, and he will continue to be my light and my heart for nine hundred more. I have fought a thousand battles by his side, I have gone to war to protect him just as he has for me. There will always be those who try to separate us, those who cannot possibly understand the depth of my love for that man, and yet,” he pauses, a dark smirk on his face as some of the men step back in fear. “Those who try always end up dead. No, Nicolo is not my boyfriend. He’s all and he’s more.”

***

Nicky was in the middle of dismantling his rifle when he felt it. It didn’t even take him a moment before he recognized the feeling. It was the feeling he always got whenever Joe would make grand declarations of love, which, admittedly, happened quite often. While Nicky was more reserved when it came to lyrical speeches, Joe had no such qualms, and would gladly shout to the heavens–and had done so, multiple times–about his love for Nicky.

Just as he was reaching for his phone to call Copley–because clearly something had to be wrong if Joe was waxing poetic about Nicky when Nicky wasn’t even in the same building–the phone buzzed.

Nicky didn’t even have time to greet Copley before the man was launching into an explanation. “Nicky, I’m sorry, there were too many guards, Joe’s been captured. They’re holding him somewhere in the building, but I don’t have eyes inside.”

“I’m on my way.”

Sending a quick message to Nile and Booker, informing them of what happened, Nicky finished packing up his gear quickly, leaving his spot on the roof and descending the fire escape as fast–and safely, he’d be no good to Joe if he executed a swan dive off the fifth story–as possible.

***

Joe could feel his mouth filling with blood, so he leaned forward and spat some on the ground. Apparently the older man hadn’t been too pleased with being insulted, and he ordered his men to get answers out of Joe, while he watched.

The beating, while not one of the worst he’d experienced, had not been pleasant. Thankfully, the men hadn’t seemed to realize Joe was slowly healing from their attacks, but sooner or later they would get suspicious. He hoped one of the others would get here before that happened, he really didn’t like dying alone.

He’d just been punched repeatedly in the stomach when the man doing said punching stopped. Joe was confused, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain about a reprieve.

“What?” Barked the older man, pushing himself off the wall and stalking forward. “What is it?” The younger man shook his head, looking around.

“Did anyone else–?”

He cuts off when a loud bang sounds from outside the door. All of the men turn to look at the door, missing as a smile spreads across Joe’s bloody lips. Another bang sounds, louder than before, closer than before, and some of the men jump.

“What do you think it is?” One of them whispers, and before anyone can answer, something heavy slams into the bolted door from the outside. The whole door seems to shake in it’s frame, and it’s only made worse by the sudden scream of pain.

There’s a sudden onslaught of noise, bangs, screams, gunshots, and crashes and–was that a cat screeching? The men all back away slowly from the door, hands on their weapons, but nothing could have prepared them for the way the door was blasted off its hinges, flying into the room and taking out two of the men.

There’s a sudden burst of gunfire, taking out three more of the men before they can react. Watching their companions fall around them, the remaining four men all aim for the door, shooting wildly at a target they can’t even see. The older man, the leader, unlocks Joe’s cuffs only to pull him upright, pressing a knife against his neck, using Joe’s body as a human shield.

Joe rolls his eyes. If only this man knew how ineffective Joe would be at being a human shield. He watches with interest as the men stop firing, only for a knife to fly through the air and embed itself in one of the guard’s skulls. The others start firing again, but even though it's three against one, they’re no match for a furious Nicolo di Genova. Bursting into the room in a flurry of movement, Joe watches, fascinated–and more than a little turned on–as Nicky becomes a whirlwind, attacking violently with his longsword, cutting down the three men–with violent efficiency–who stand between him and Joe.

The older man presses his blade tighter against Joe’s neck, but Nicky doesn’t even blink. Joe stomps on the man’s foot, and Nicky puts a bullet in his brain, quick as you please. The knife cuts Joe as he moves, but it’s certainly not life-threatening, so he’s unconcerned.

Joe looked around the room, taking in the blood and guts and gore that decorate the white walls and floor and ceiling. “I told them that white was a bad choice, blood stands out far too much–” Nicky strides across the room, and kisses Joe hard, before he can get another word out. Joe grasps Nicky’s face with his blood covered hands, bringing him even closer, moaning as his beloved steals the breath from his lungs.

Nicky pulls away, but only just, his forehead resting against Joe’s. “Yusuf, amore mio, are you badly hurt?” His eyes rove over Joe’s face, checking for any and all injuries.

“No, habibi,” Joe sighs. “The marks those men left are quickly fading. I am alright.” Nicky kisses Joe again, uncaring of the fact that Joe’s lips still taste of blood.

They stand there for longer than they probably should, and when they finally part, Joe asks the question that had been pestering him since he first became aware of Nicky’s arrival. “How did you know so quickly, Nicolo? They’ve had me for less than an hour.”

The look on Nicky’s face is one of fond exasperation, one that Joe has been privy to many, many times. “You were being incurably romantic again, weren’t you?”

Joe grins, his eyes shining as he looks at his love. “They dared insult you in my presence, hayati. Besides, you love it.”

Nicky sighs. “I do.”

Joe cups his face once more and kisses him, pouring nine hundred years of love and affection and desire into the kiss. He would defend his Nicolo to the ends of the earth, against anyone and anything that dared try to come between them.

***

“I do not understand, Nile. Why do you keep referring to me as a cross between a human and an arachnid?”

“You have spidey sense Nicky, of course I’m going to call you Spiderman! Except instead of sensing danger, you sense whenever Joe’s delivering a love speech worthy of Shakespeare!”

“Hey! Do not compare me to that jumped-up English playwright–”

“Shut up, Joe!”

#The Old Guard #Joe x Nicky #Fluff #Not even really any angst #Like joe gets captured?#but he's not worried?#joe is an incurable romantic #nicky loves it #nile thinks it's fucking hilarious #writing #fics

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gravelgirty · 3 years

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Hi could you talk more about caves what you said on that post is really interesting

Sure thing!

First of all, it was an amazing cave I worked in. You never forget that. I'll pick one of my favorite topics,

the FALLOUT SHELTER AGGRAVATION TAX.

Clears throat.

Limestone caves are literally stone libraries in the geologic record of the world. Twice a year the airflow would change and then you'd smell smoke from decrepit old torches dating as far back as 1812. People made saltpeter in these caves, they were natural mines for things that went boom, and one of those 'requirements' meant airflow so you wouldn't suddenly and embarrassingly, drop dead of too much Underground. This is why the coal miners were eternally bemused and asking us questions like airflow. Sometimes you gotta canary. Sometimes you are the canary. This often led to predictable questions that was these old gents trying to be polite, but what they really wanted to know was,

'why the hell are you being paid $10 a trip plus tips to walk us 1.1 miles underground up to 3 times a day and no one has a mortgage gun aimed at your head?'

To which I would say, 'it wasn't quite that bad. If no one shows up at all we get paid $10.' ...Dear Saint Barbara, Chango, and the Gods of Deep Mystery, the things we tell ourselves. $10 a day. Crap. Thank goodness I had Granny's House, dad was paying the property tax, the water was on a well, and garbage was less that $20 a month. A shame we can't afford a TV, but hey, we can stay busy digging up that quarter-acre garden that will keep us fed plus the road kill Deer in the fall.

But the conditions that created saltpeter (I'll go into depth on that later if people are interested) also convinced some weird-ass people in Washington DC that caves were the perfect place to do a DR STRANGELOVE and people could go hide out in the caves, free of...well, nothing, really, because radiation = straight lines +caves, air, irradiated air and water, and everything goes down into the caves...

Look. It made people feel safe, ok? And it wasn't the worst decision the Pentagon ever made, considering they were telling the scientists working with HOT RADIOACTIVE MATTER to stay safe by sticking the stuff on a long pole so they wouldn't have to touch it.

Everybody knows about the bomb shelter President Kennedy was prepared to run to with his family in case of Cold War. It was in the Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs (I prefer to think of it as the HIDDEN FIGURES birthplace). FYI everybody who lived here knew where it was. There are only so many power stations one measly little resort that cries that it can't afford to pay for its own water bill can keep.

[insert sniffle boohoo sobbing of the pro-confederates who run that place and while I can't be there for you, try to imagine the joy I am stockpiling for the day when we have another traitorous uprising and this time, the resort doesn't get a GO PASS GO by dangerous romantics and is finally burned to the ground.]

Anyway, the important people like the President, his family, his Secret Service, his staff, cook, maid-in-waiting, bootblack and et al got to go bunker down in the luxurious bomb shelter at the resort, which probably wouldn't be very resort-y after a certain point of Castro going, 'fuck you, you whippersnapper Irish Dog' or Khrushchev throwing a little more than his shoe around. I'm not convinced it was that great of a place to hide, really. I mean...they have lightning rods on the trees over there, and believe it or not, cavers in that country have been hit by lightning while underground. Because. Lightning. If it can bake entire acres of potatoes in the field, two subterranean surveyors with metal measuring tape haven't got a prayer.

I want you to know that I can't at this point go into detail (space restrictions) on the importance of all these caves to Union Sympathizers, slaves on the Underground Railroad, and the Far-Righter MAGAS called Confederates. Trust me when I say, if you didn't know where these caves were, you had absolutely no right to know.

In Appalachia, limestone caves were listed on properties and handed down because of their value. Thomas Jefferson made a point of making sure there were lots of caves to provide nitre for the Gunpowder Committee. I don't know if landowners had to pay taxes for having saltpeter caves (probably), but when the Cold War came around, they definitely and cheerfully sold the access rights to the government because...it was the government. I am not in the least bit joking when I tell you there are people over there who are still pissed off over George Washington's Whiskey Rebellion.

If you really want to get into the psyche of Appalachians, go read up every scene Terry Pratchett ever wrote about Lancre in his Discworld books. Just give them more libraries and a LOT of coffee stations.

Oh, dear. I forgot all about the owling and the Prohibition.

Owling = the practice of moving your herds of cattle from one ridge to the next to avoid a higher payment when the taxman came a-calling.

Prohibition = The Second Oldest Profession.

These days, many of the Fallout Shelter caves are being used for...modern needs. Meth labs, if you're a sensationalist, but if you aren't, bear in mind that hiding out stolen cattle and horses still requires big places out in the middle of nowhere. But when Mr. Gov't Man came around and offered cash for the access rights to grand-daddy's old saltpetre cave? Goodness gracious, we know we aren't supposed to take people's money from them because that's a sin, but...taxes...you know how it is... (most of the mountain folk had no real quarrel with Kennedy despite his heathen dog Catholicism because it wasn't his fault he was brought up Catholic, but when it came to the government...well, it was the principle of the thing).

In short order papers were drawn, and shelters were built and good god, they were ugly. Clapboard shantytowns, I swear. They were stockpiles whacked together with off-brand plank and tenpenny nails for where the selected few could bunker up in the cozy, damp, dripping, chilly, dusty, sneezy, probably-warm-from-stray-radiation environs. I have no idea who the Pentagon hated enough that they would send them to these caves. They had a bottleneck opening for easy defense, yes, but there was no defense against puking yourself to death or accidentally taking off your own skin with your uniform at the end of your shift.

YOU THINK I"M KIDDING?? YOU THINK IT IS A COINCIDENCE THAT CLASSIC DR WHO SHOWS DALEK HISTORY IN AN OLD STONE QUARRY? WELCOME ABOARD!

A fallout shelter's stockpile generally consisted of

*High-quality medical equipment, even though some of that stuff had a shelf life of three minutes.

*Radio Equipment. Which was probably a real belly laugh to the folks running the NARO satellite dishes up in Green Bank, because families in the most rural portion of WV (Pocahontas County) spent their evenings parsing Latin and teaching the young lads and lasses the wonders of shortwave and how to rig up your own crystals in case you needed to jackleg your own.

*Food. God. Awful. Food. It was designed to keep you alive, but you can't say anything more charitable about it. Honestly, I'm surprised nobody tried to corner a government contract on dehydrated water.

*Water. Potable water for drinking, but, I should say, I couldn't find any means with which you could make a potable distillery. Or, how much of this potable water was going to be used to rehydrate the ghastly awfulness of the dehydrated food, or the canned goods that included stuff the military couldn't wait to forget. Go ask your grandparents how much canned horse Circa WWII they ate while they served, m'kay?

*Candy. High energy, easily digestible candy. Flavor optional, at the discretion of the same government that made the WWII Chocolate Bar.

*The containers themselves. Yep, they counted. They were heavy metal barrels and tough buckets or small drums, plus the amazingly dense metal and plastic containers for medical kits, candy, and misc. I'm not sure if they had a requirement other than impervious, waterproof, and on sale. In fact, the smaller drums/buckets were supposed to be lined with the plastic used to wrap the other goods, and convert into a toilet.

Cold War comes and goes. I'm sure what happened next is shocking:

1) medical supplies goes missing in the dead of night.

2) Electronics follows. That probably makes the electricians feel good, because...what good would they have done in the wet, dust-filled atmosphere of the caves?

3) Candy. Candy, did you say? I don't remember seeing any candy..?

4) The gradual disappearance of the food rations is mysteriously in proportion to camping trips multitasking with double-dog-dares. Who needs a frat pledge if Freckles here has never been introduced to the joys of Dehydrated Ketchup?

5) If you think the backyard blacksmiths are making forges with tire rims, do you think metal containers stand a chance?

This leaves the barrels of water, but who would want to drink that stuff? It's been sitting around for how long? Ew. And the boards for those shelters...cripes.

This inadvertently makes up a tiny little side bonus for the hard-working tour guide. Because these shelters are usually ridiculously close to the entrance of the tour caves. You have to take your tour group in stages, see, and once they finish gasping and wheezing their way through the first 300 steps, you have to take their minds off how miserable they are and pause at the shelter with your flashlight, and describe this little chapter of history. By this time the bats are hanging off the boards (your chance to remind them of the exorbitant federal fines for hurting these little mosquito-hunters), the occasional lost salamander, and the beginnings of the Dreaded Cave Cricket (ten minutes with these little monsters and you'll never think pink is an effete color ever again).

And the mold. There are patches of mold the guides have been watching for YEARS. Some of them have even bothered to look them up, because...tourists. They love to stump the guides and use it as an excuse for not tipping you because you haven't taken a Master's in The Encompassing Topic of Karst Everything and are clearly a dumbass, hah-hah I'll spend my money in the overpriced gift shop, peasant.

But no, folks. If you ask them one more damn time if they're sure all the candy and drugs are gone...we're too tired to take your bleeping bleep bleep tip anyway.

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patriotsnet · 3 years

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Why Did Republicans Vote Against The First Responders Bill

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/why-did-republicans-vote-against-the-first-responders-bill/

Why Did Republicans Vote Against The First Responders Bill

Biden Pushed For Bipartisanship What Happened

Why Did the Republican Congress Argue AGAINST the COVID Stimulus Bill?

Biden ran on wanting bipartisanship efforts on Capitol Hill, and being a;negotiator during his 36 years in the Senate.;

More:Amid calls for unity, President Biden and Republicans don’t agree what that looks like

Bipartisan efforts were made in the beginning of negotiations, with a;group of 10 Republicans meeting with Biden at the White House in early February to propose a counteroffer: a;$618 billion package.

But, those talks and communication have;since fizzled, according to Romney, who was;one of the senators who met with Biden. He told reporters;there has been very little effort on the part of the White House to find common ground with Republicans.

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Sen. Susan Collins, R-Me., who was also in the group of 10 Republicans, said;talks between the White House and her colleagues stalled.”

Biden said he hoped;”Republicans in Congress listen to their constituents,”;citing the popularity of the bill in some polls.;

Romney told reporters Thursday if some Republican amendments;got into the bill, some of his colleagues may support it.;

“But my guess is it’s not likely that many of our amendments will get any Democrat support so I think it’s very unlikely that any Republicans will support the final bill,” he said.

McConnell and other Republicans have also criticized Democrats for using;a special process called reconciliation to push forward;the legislation;without much input from the GOP.;

Gop Claims Afghan Refugees Are Arriving Unvetted That’s Not True

Thirty-five House Republican broke ranks Wednesday evening to support legislation that would establish an independent commission to investigate the January 6 insurrection at the US Capitol.

Liz Cheney of Wyoming

Tom Rice of South Carolina

Dan Newhouse of Washington

Jaime Herrera Beutler of Washington

Peter Meijer of Michigan

John Katko of New York

David Valadao of California

Tom Reed of New York

Don Bacon of Nebraska

Andrew Garbarino of New York

Tony Gonzales of Texas

Dusty Johnson of South Dakota

David Joyce of Ohio

Chris Smith of New Jersey

Van Taylor of Texas

Chris Jacobs of New York

David McKinley of West Virginia

Jeff Fortenberry of Nebraska

Why 21 House Republicans Balked At Medals For Capitol Police

There was a brief political consensus in the immediate aftermath of the insurrectionist attack on the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6. The left, right, and center could all agree on a simple truth: participating in a riotous assault against the nation’s seat of government, in the hopes of derailing our electoral system, is a serious attack against our democracy.

As we’ve discussed, however, that consensus broke down soon after. As winter turned to spring, many House Republicans decided to rewrite recent history, recasting the villains as heroes, and the police as heavy-handed abusers who interfered with “peaceful patriots” engaged in a lawful protest. There was fresh evidence of this yesterday: TPM reported, “During a House Oversight committee hearing Tuesday, several Republicans spent their speaking time expressing concern for a specific group of people involved in the January 6 attack: the insurrectionists themselves.”

Soon after the hearing, the House took up a measure to honor the law-enforcement officials who defended the Capitol on Jan. 6. The resolution passed, but not unanimously.

To be sure, a 406-to-21 vote is lopsided, but under normal circumstances, we’d expect zero members of Congress to vote against a measure honoring Capitol Police who kept them safe during an attack on their own institution. Yesterday, however, 21 lawmakers — each of them conservative Republicans — voted “no,” despite knowing that the resolution would pass anyway.

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House Republicans Voted Against Giving Medals To Officers Who Responded To Jan 6 Riot

The House passed a bill Tuesday to award the Congressional Gold Medal to all law enforcement officers who defended the Capitol during the Jan. 6 riot, with 21 Republicans opposing the bill.

Why it matters via the Washington Post:“he vote underscored the still-lingering tensions in Congress amid efforts by some GOP lawmakers to whitewash the events of that day.”

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The measure passed the House with a bipartisan vote of 406-21.

Details: The four medals awarded under the bill one of the highest civilian honors would be displayed in the Capitol Police and Metropolitan Police headquarters, Smithsonian Institution and the Capitol building.

The bill names the three law enforcement officers who died following the attack, and singles out U.S. Capitol Police officer Eugene Goodman, who lured a mob away from members of Congress.

The resolution recognizes their actions as an example of “the patriotism and the commitment of Capitol Police officers, and those of other law enforcement agencies, to risk their lives in service of our country.”

The Republicans who voted against:

Rep. Thomas Massie

Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene

Rep. Andy Harris

The Long Fight To Funding

Congress passed the James Zadroga 9/11 Health and Compensation Act in 2010, over opposition from some Republicans who balked at its original $7 billion price tag. The act was reauthorized in 2015 for 90 years. But a portion of the law the Victim Compensation Fund was only funded for five years, through the end of 2020.; The fund aimed to provide necessary financial support for the thousands who suffered serious medical issues, including a spate of cancer diagnoses, after the 2001 attacks.;

The House voted 402 to 12 to permanently reauthorize the fund through 2092 earlier in July, with the Congressional Budget Office estimating $10.2 billion in costs over the next ten years. However, Sen. Rand Paul prevented the Senate from voting to approve the bill by unanimous consent last week because of its high cost. Fellow Republican Sen. Mike Lee of Utah also placed a procedural hold on the legislation, further preventing it from passing in the Senate.;

Under Senate rules, any one senator can propose that a bill be considered for unanimous consent, but one senator can also block it. The bill was then brought to the floor for debate and a full vote this week.

Comedian and 9/11 first responder advocate Jon Stewart blasted Paul;over the issue, telling Fox News the move was “absolutely outrageous.”;

In a last-minute pitch before Tuesday’s vote, Paul offered an amendment he said would help offset the bill’s spending costs.;

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/11 Responders Bill Defeated By Senate Gop Filibuster

the CNN Wire StaffSTORY HIGHLIGHTS

Motion for cloture falls three votes short of ending GOP filibuster

Republicans oppose the $7.4 billion cost; supporters hope to revive the measure

Bill would provide medical benefits, compensation for 9/11 first responders

NYC Mayor Bloomberg calls it an “example of partisan politics trumping patriotism”

Washington — Senate Democrats failed Thursday to win a procedural vote to open debate on a bill that would provide medical benefits and compensation for emergency workers who were first on the scene of the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.

The motion for cloture, or to begin debate, needed 60 votes to pass due to a Republican filibuster, but fell short at 57-42 in favor.

While supporters said they would try to bring the bill up again, either on its own or as part of other legislation to be considered, the vote Thursday jeopardized the measure’s chances for approval in the final weeks of the current congressional session.

The House previously passed the bill on a mostly partisan 268-160 vote.

New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg reacted to Thursday’s result by calling it “a tragic example of partisan politics trumping patriotism.”

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“I urge Senate Republicans to reconsider their wrong-headed political strategy and allow the bill to come to the floor for a vote,” Bloomberg said in a statement.

Zadroga Act Opponents Including Paul Ryan Observe September 11 Anniversary

WASHINGTON — The nation’s leading Republicans marked the 11th anniversary of 9/11 with the words “never forget” on their lips — most of those using the occasion to promote legislation — but nearly all of them opposed the bill passed two years ago to help the first responders who suffered health problems in the wake of the attacks.

Prominent among them was vice presidential nominee, Rep. Paul Ryan , who voted twice against the James Zadroga 9/11 Health and Compensation Act, and opposed the final passage of the bill.

“Eleven years ago today, from Capitol Hill, I could see the smoke rising from the fires burning in the Pentagon. Like all Americans, I will never forget the moment that our homeland came under attack,” Ryan said in a statement. “For me, this is a day to remember those who perished on that day of terror, including the first responders.”

A spokesman for Ryan, Brendan Buck, insisted that Ryan supports 9/11 responders and pointed to the congressman’s votes soon after the attacks in favor of aid for those suffering. He explained Ryan’s Dec. 2010 comments on the House floor in opposition to the Zadroga bill by noting that Ryan said he didn’t like the bill because he thought it was flawed, was “rushed” onto the floor by Democrats, and created a new mandatory spending program.

“Gov. Romney supports government assistance to the victims of terrorism,” Saul said.

Recommended Reading: What Witnesses Did The Republicans Want To Call

Texas Elections Bill Was Near Party

Friday’s vote;saw only one representative;cross;party lines; Rep. Lyle Larson, R-San Antonio, who voted against SB 1.;

All 40 Democrats who were present Friday voted against the bill, with several saying efforts should focus on improving;voter access with such initiatives as online or election day voter registration.

Instead, Republicans squandered an opportunity by focusing on restrictions that will have a disproportionate impact on voters of color, said Rep. Chris Turner, D-Grand Prairie,;one of nine Democrats to speak against SB 1 to close Friday’s debate.

The bill, Turner said, was inspired by the “big lie” that President Donald Trump was denied a second term because of widespread election fraud, a conspiracy theory unleashing a toxic and dangerous threat to democracy.

“He and other Republicans whipped their base into a frenzy with crazy conspiracies about election fraud,” Turner said.

“This bill was never about election security or voter integrity.;It was always about using the big lie to justify restricting access to the ballot box,” he said.

More:From polls to ballots, here’s what a new Texas voting bill would mean for you

Rep. Senfronia Thompson, D-Houston, a Black woman who recalled having to pay a poll tax to vote when she was young, said SB 1 was a continuation of an attack on the right to vote for nonwhite citizens.

“We have 90 days to act,” he said. “The clock is ticking.”

Utah Sen Mike Lee Votes Against 9/11 First Responders Bill After Losing Bid To Limit Spending

Why Ted Cruz Voted Against 9/11 Relief Funds | MSNBC

Sen. Mike Lee, R-Utah.

Washington The Senate passed a measure Tuesday extending for decades the fund for victims of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks after defeating an amendment by Sen. Mike Lee that would have limited the payout to about $20 billion over the life of the program.

The bill, which passed overwhelmingly in the Senate 97-2 and was previously approved by the House, now heads to President Donald Trump’s desk for his signature.

Lee, a Utah Republican, had held up the bill while attempting to curtail the expansion to only what is needed in the next decade. His amendment, shot down by a 32-66 vote, would have given $10.18 billion to the fund in the next 10 years and another $10 billion after that.

After his amendment failed, Lee voted against the final bill. Sen. Mitt Romney, R-Utah, supported the overall measure.

Lee walked off the floor shortly after it was clear his amendment didnt have the 60 votes it needed to pass.

His office declined to comment on the vote and pointed to a statement from last week when the senator said that the victims fund has had an excellent record avoiding waste and abuse and has always been funded for a time-certain extension.

These two things are not coincidental, he said in that statement. They go together.

The Senate also rejected an amendment by Sen. Rand Paul, R-Ky., that would have cut other programs to pay for extending the 9/11 fund. Paul cast the only other no vote.

You May Like: Who Are The Three Republicans Running Against Trump

Republicans Vote Against Awarding Medals To Police Who Defended Capitol

The House passed legislation on Tuesday to award Congressional Gold Medals; one of the highest civilian honors; to police officers who defended the Capitol during the violent Jan. 6 insurrection.

Lawmakers handily passed the legislation. Members of both parties supported it, 406-21, with all of the votes in opposition coming from conservative Republicans.

The four medals awarded under the bill would be displayed at the Capitol Police headquarters, at the D.C. Metropolitan Police headquarters, at the Smithsonian Institution and in a “prominent location” in the Capitol.

The medal displayed in the Capitol would be accompanied with a plaque listing all of the law enforcement agencies that helped protect the building on Jan. 6 from the mob of former President TrumpJoe BidenSpotlight turns to GOP’s McCarthy in Jan. 6 probeBiden visits union hall to mark Labor DayBiden approves disaster funds for NJ, NY after Ida floodingMOREs election victory.

The resolution names three police officers; Brian Sicknick and Howard Liebengood of the Capitol Police and;Jeffrey Smith of the Metropolitan Police; who died in the days after they were on duty at the Capitol on Jan. 6.

The measure states that their actions “exemplify the patriotism and the commitment of Capitol Police officers, and those of other law enforcement agencies, to risk their lives in service of our country.”

‘we’ll See You At The Polls’

But the bill’s House sponsor, Rep. Andrew Murr, R-Junction, said SB 1 was the product of more than 35 hours of House debate between the regular session that ended in May and two special sessions.

“We all strive for improvement, and I believe that’s what we’re looking at with this legislation, is improving the Election Code of Texas,” Murr said, his voice scratchy from almost 13 hours of debate Thursday over SB 1.

Moments before the House took its final vote on SB 1, Rep. Harold Dutton, D-Houston, engaged Murr in a back-and-forth discussion on the House floor.

“Do you think there’s fraud in Texas elections?” Dutton asked.

“Generally speaking, I;think there is always a likelihood of fraud,” Murr replied. “We have;seen past examples of fraud.”

Dutton ended with an acknowledgement that the fight over SB 1 was almost over, but he said a larger fight is looming: “We’re going to;go;vote, and so we’ll see you at the polls.”

Once the House names its five members to the conference committee, they will negotiate a final version of SB 1 that will need to be approved;by both chambers.

The bill’s author, Sen. Bryan Hughes, R-Mineola, said Friday that;he will determine the next step after;studying House changes.

Also Check: How Many Republicans Are Against Trump

DOJ wades in against Texas abortion ban

Attorney General Merrick Garland said Monday that the Justice Department would protect women seeking an abortion in Texas as the agency explores ways to challenge one of the most restrictive laws in the nation. In a statement, Garland said the department would protect those seeking to obtain or provide reproductive health services pursuant to our criminal and civil enforcement of the law known as the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act.

The announcement from the Justice Department comes days after the conservative-majority Supreme Court declined to block the Texas law that bans abortion as early as six weeks into a pregnancy, with no exceptions for rape or incest. The law also allows anyone to file a lawsuit against any other person who has aided someone in obtaining an abortion, with the potential for a $10,000 payoff.

The Internet responds

Pro-choice users on TikTok and;Reddit;have launched a guerrilla effort to thwart Texass extreme new abortion law, flooding an online tip website that encourages people to report violators of the law with false reports, Shrek memes and porn.

The law makes it illegal to help women in;Texas;access abortion after the sixth week of pregnancy. To help enforce it, anti-abortion group Texas Right to Life established the digital tipline where people can send anonymous information about potential violations.

A Legislative Win But At What Cost

As the bill now heads to the president’s desk for final signature, advocates and living survivors can’t help but think the battle was won but at the expense of hundreds of their brothers in arms.

In the process of the reauthorization, over 200 firefighters and first responders died as a result of cancers and other medical ailments related to the 2001 terror attacks.;

The daughter of William Gormley, a former New York City firefighter who died after his own battle with cancer in 2017, told CBS that her family had filed a claim for benefits from the victims fund immediately after her father’s death and was assured that the money would be there.

“They went back on their promise but they had to. It was better for everyone to get a little money than no one at all,” Bridget Gormley said.

Gormley says the fund was unfortunately a “victim of its own success” after the fund quickly ran out of money because of a rise in cancer-related illnesses in the 9/11 community.;

“This is not going to be a cause for celebration,” Gormley noted importantly. “We unfortunately have to learn some lessons form our failures in this situation. It’ll be a milestone but it’ll serve as a testament to the first responders who fought.”

Recommended Reading: What Were The Reconstruction Goals Of The Radical Republicans

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dorevenge · 3 years

Text

where ignorance is bliss - chapter 15: and follow

SUMMARY: Tony is home for the holidays, and Howard has one last mission before he and Maria go on vacation. (last chapter!!) [AO3 LINK]

CHAPTERS: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 [15] ☆

December 16, 1991 – Manhattan, New York City, Stark Manor

“Wake up, dear, and say goodbye to your father,” I say to Tony, hearing Howard’s footsteps enter from behind me. Tony is passed out on the couch beside me, covered in a red blanket, snoring softly. I sit at the piano, singing to myself as I wait for Howard to get ready to leave.

“Who’s the homeless person on the couch?” Howard asks as he lifts the blanket off Tony’s head. Tony rouses himself, groaning, and adjusts the Santa hat he’s wearing.

“This is why I love coming home for Christmas,” Tony retorts, matching Howard’s tone. “Right before you leave town.” They still fight like cats and dogs, fire and ice, baking soda and vinegar. It breaks my hard, so I keep playing at the piano to avoid the conflict. We were so close to making it out the door without an emotional explosion.

“Be nice, dear, he’s been studying abroad,” I say, closing my eyes to focus on the keys before me.

Howard gears himself up for another response. “Really, which broad? What’s her name?” He snatches Tony’s hat from his head.

“Candice,” Tony says sheepishly.

“Do me a favor,” continues Howard, “Try not to burn the house down before Monday.”

“Okay, so it’s Monday. That’s good to know. I will plan my toga party accordingly. Where you going?” Tony asks me.

“Your father’s flying us to the Bahamas for a little getaway,” I reply.

“Weren’t you just in France?”

“That was only for a couple days for our anniversary. This will be a week.”

“We might have to make a quick stop,” Howard starts.

“At the Pentagon,” Tony interrupts, finishing for his father with a sly smile. “Right? Don’t worry, you’re gonna love the holiday with the commissary.”

“You know, they say sarcasm is a metric for potential. If that’s true, you’ll be a great man someday. I’ll get the bags,” Howard says on his way out of the room, not able to resist one more dig at Tony.

Once Howard is gone, I say “He does miss you when you’re not here. And, frankly, you’re going to miss us,” I rise from the piano and walk to Tony. “Because this is the last time we’re all going to be together. You know what’s about to happen. Say something.” I place a hand on his arm to pull him in to me, to try to make him listen. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

Howard reenters the room, carrying both of our luggage. Tony looks from me to him. They pause. Howard’s cold brown eyes hold Tony’s eye contact for longer than he’s comfortable. Tony breaks first and looks at his feet.

“Would you two leave already?” he asks, pulling away from my grasp on his arm. “I told my friends the party starts at 6. It’s 5:50, I don’t want you to ruin the vibe before it has a chance to start.”

Despite Tony pulling away from me, I grab his shoulder to kiss him on the cheek. He’s already taller than me. He has to let me kiss him goodbye because I’m his mother, and he doesn’t fight it. “Goodbye, dear. Lock the door behind us, please.” I wave to Edwin as I step out onto the front porch. Howard follows right behind me.

Before the door closes behind us, Tony shouts, “I’ll send Candice your regards!” and shuts the door with a force. Edwin helps Howard load the luggage in the trunk, wishes us a “Happy Christmas” before returning inside. Howard gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car, turning up the heater.

Outside, snow is just beginning to fall. Howard rubs his hands together to warm them up as a thin layer of white covers the lawn and dusts the lampposts.

“Are we really stopping by the Pentagon?”

Howard sighs. “It’s on the way.”

“Is it the serum you showed me last month?”

“Yes. I have a full batch finished and ready to deploy, the test subjects ready and waiting. Everything is in place. Once we deliver it, as far as I’m concerned, Project Brooklyn is done. I’ll retire once this is in the hands of General Ross. Promise.”

“Is this the kind of promise that you’ll keep?” I ask him. I know Howard, faults and all, far too well.

He smiles at me. “Yes, dear.”

It gets dark very quickly, as it does in the winter, and we haven’t seen any other cars in several miles. We’ve only been driving for an hour, it’s not even 7pm, but we can’t see more than twenty feet ahead of us. It’s a quiet drive to Washington. Howard keeps fiddling with the heat dial, and I warm myself with thoughts of the Bahamas.

A motorcycle comes up behind up. I can hear its engine, and I turn to see it tailgating us. Howard steps on the gas and the car responds.

“Let him pass,” I say to Howard.

“I am! I’m already going ten over the speed limit. He can pass if he wants to, I’m not gonna speed even more in this weather,” Howard replies. The motorcyclist behind us continues to rev the engine. He then goes around us, passing in the left lane before taking off.

“Good riddance,” I say to myself, and rest my head on the window next to me.

A moment passes, and there’s the motorcycle, standing still, in the middle of the road.

“Howard,” I say, and he’s already slamming on the brakes, a horrible screeching filling the air. “Howard!” He swerves to avoid it, and we careen to the left.

We hit a tree on the side of the road. The front of the car crunches horribly. My head throbs. Smoke pours out of the engine and into the cab, fogging my vision. I hear the motorcycle turn back around towards us, its headlight cutting through the smoke. “Howard,” I say hoarsely, reaching for him. His face is smattered with blood. His nose is probably broken, but he’s awake. I can’t open my door from the inside.

“I’ll open it from the outside,” Howard says, squeezing my hand three times. He opens his door, undoes his seatbelt, and falls to the ground outside. I undo my belt, and I gingerly touch my forehead. My fingers come back red. My heart is pounding in my throat.

From my seat, I can see the man dismount the bike. I can’t make out his face from here, but he has long dark hair, dressed in all black. I’ve heard of those motorcycle gangs, causing trouble to people passing through. I don’t know what he wants from us. Suddenly, he picks Howard up, grabbing him by the hair. Howard struggles, then he says-

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Howard!” I call out again. I start to cry. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I can’t help it. I’ve never been more scared.

The dark man strikes Howard in the face, then again, with a metallic arm, the silver glistening with Howard’s blood. I call out his name again, then cover my mouth so as not to scream. He drops Howard to the ground. He makes a dull thud.

He picks Howard up again. This time, Howard shows no resistance. The man places Howard’s body in the passenger, dead, his head on the wheel, his lifeless eyes pointed towards me. I start to hyperventilate. The front of the car is on fire. My head feels like it’s on fire. My neck hurts. My husband is dead, and I’m going to die.

The man stalks around the car. He pauses at the trunk, opening it by brute force. He throws our bags to the ground, rifling through its contents. I can barely make out the scene from the cracked rearview mirror, watching, holding my breath until he finds what he’s looking for. The metal container with Howard’s vials. He sets it next to his bike.

The man walks over to my side of the car and effortlessly rips the passenger side door off.

His hand is warm against my throat. It’s cold and snowing outside, almost freezing, but somehow his hand is warm. He chokes me. My fingertips claw at his hand. Everything hurts. I’m dying. My vision goes black. It’s over. It’s all over. Tony, I love you.

If you ever met Howard Stark, you only knew half of the man.

He was lauded as a genius, a gamechanger in every field, a philanthropist for tomorrow, the best of humankind – yet he managed to be the worst of it at the same time. He was obsessive, compulsive, arrogant, and I loved him. For he was kind, attentive, and loving. I only wish everyone got to see that side of him. I wish his son had gotten to see the good side of him.

I met him at a casino in ‘60, charmed and overpowered after losing millions for the thrill of it, and we married shortly after. It was the beginning of the last twenty years of my life, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I was never bored with Howard, lonely at times, yes, but I never felt unloved.

… Where ignorance is bliss,

Tis folly to be wise

– Thomas Gray, 1742

Notes: Part of scene taken from Civil War, here (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZFyJjx8jo4) and here (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbFbFqlg7w4). I finished the end of the conversation as they leave myself, because Tony didn’t really say “I love you” to Howard.

#where ignorance is bliss #wiib reading #the winter soldier #captain america #captain america civil war #marvel #fanfiction #canary writes a fanfiction

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stone-man-warrior · 3 years

Text

February 21, 2021: 1:09 pm:

==================================================

This WH Press Sec Psaki Tweet leads to @Jonkarl Verified Account on Twitter.

https://twitter.com/PressSec/status/1363477765211701253

This from Scalis is there, it’s an offer to take some gold for free, but @Jonkarl fails to accept the golden opportunity that Scalise handed to him.

At the 1:00 mark:

Scalise said he had been to Donald Trump’s home, and spoke with Donald Trump about his post presidency personal life, including what Mr. Trump’s plans for the future are with respect to himself and family, and @Jonkarl miserably fumbles that hand off, skirts the questions that could have been a gold mine of information that no one else has, but Scalise says he has that kind of information, the kind that you cannot get ... Karl goes the other way, runs backwards, does not take the gift he was given by Scalise.

What you need to know about that, is both Scalise and Karl set that up, it’s about the cry for help I sent to the Biden White House, and, by extension is also about the same kind of cry for help I sent to the Trump White House just over for years ago. They are using “news Anchor insider tactic” in such a way as to say that this account here at Tumblr that you are reading, contains the kind of information that is not available any where else on earth. It’s Unobtainium. Karl’s refusal to take the golden oportunity is a message sent to others, one that specifies the desired result, that is to make sure that no one can see the information presented on this [email protected] account of eye-witness terror.

The two suggest a distraction, a “look the other way” sort of command to terror operatives who are also part of the national security chain of command.

https://twitter.com/ThisWeekABC/status/1363503951782494209

https://twitter.com/ABCPolitics/status/1363491357340413957

https://twitter.com/ThisWeekABC/status/1363492941738749952

https://twitter.com/ThisWeekABC/status/1363494344234311684

Those other links above are more sinister, because those are instructions to kill & replace US School students.

It’s a double header though, because those three linked tweets also spell out a hit to be done at the DMV when I go there to renew my drivers license.

Watch the linked videos, where you see the color green, you are seeing instructions to use nitrous oxide gas as a weapon in similar places when the school student murders take place.

Where you see the color red in those videos, that is instructions that spell out where the protected killing areas are going to be in place, where the murderers will have cover from the State Police, the police fake, are from Canada, are Royal Canadian Mounted Police disguised as State Police, and they protect the murderers of the US Children, in favor of replacing all of the children with their own Canadian terror army children, the same way they did in the Oregon schools in around 1998 - 2005.

They killed the elementary students first, the middle schools later, and the high school students were killed and replaced last, when the terror attacked the Three Rivers School District, it may be done differently in other school districts.

===========

1:49 pm:

The baby is on fire, there is no one watching the baby.

The terror army simply moves from state to state, city to city, killing and replacing the state police with help from SAG shill elected state governors. Then, once all of the law enforcement has been replaced with SAG and Canadian terror operatives, they just start slaughtering the children, and the general population is also killed as a result of taking over the schools.

I strongly advise to be very suspicious of Freeway and other major infrastructure upgrade projects, road building, bridge replacement, other major city and state infrastructure projects nation-wide at this time. Those kind of projects are used as the basis of manpower and for disposal of dead victims. They serve as distraction, confusion, road-block, detour generators that make it far more difficult to detect that any mass murdering is happening. Those kinds of projects cause delay and danger for investigative persons, who are easily detoured into traps set the Department of Transportation workers.

In Oregon, there was a ten year long project that was used in parallel to the mass murder slaughter of the population between 1996 and 2006 when all of the bridges in Oregon were removed and replaced, a massive undertaking in more ways than one. After that, Beta Twitter was used as a command vehicle to role out the Corona Virus Phase of the slaughter, for eliminating the other remaining US Citizens who were not killed by other means when the schools, grocery stores, courts were hijacked, and the Oregon Bridge Project from 1996 - 2006 was used before hand as an orchestrated combination plate of terror slaughter.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g5fezBnvkiU

youtube

Baby's on Fire

Brian Eno: 1971

Baby's on fire Better throw her in the water Look at her laughing Like a heifer to the slaughter

Baby's on fire And all the laughing boys are bitching Waiting for photos Oh the plot is so bewitching

Rescuers row row Do your best to change the subject Blow the wind blow blow Lend some assistance to the object

Photographers snip snap Take your time she's only burning This kind of experience Is necessary for her learning

If you'll be my flotsam I could be half the man I used to They said you were hot stuff And that's what Baby's been reduced to...

Juanita and Juan Very clever with maraccas Making their fortunes Selling second-hand tobaccoes

Juan dances at Chico's And when the clients are evicted He empties the ashtrays And pockets all that he's collected

But Baby's on fire! And all the instruments agree that Her temperature's rising But any idiot would know that.

Songwriters: Brian Eno

For non-commercial use only.

Data from:

Musixmatch

===========

1971.

Think about it.

===========

4:24 pm:

Local Conditions:

Local conditions are made difficult to say as my computer is about six different kinds of hijacked after venturing out for a short walk to the mailbox in the wake of sending a request to the White House for help to stop terrorism and mass murders of millions of people in Oregon last week.

I took a short walk, observed that my heater compressor outside is still completely caked with ice surrounding the unit, worse than before, and it’s not really all that cold outside.

I went towards the driveway where it gets near the Offensive Monroe Surveillance Travel Trailer, and there I saw a new terror operative sitting on a bench while watching the activities of a small black & white rabbit as it was eating something from a basket in a cage out front of that Travel Trailer. The woman there has been there in the past, a few years ago with the same rabbit in the same cage with the same Easter Basket.

She is best described as a young George Castanza, from Sienfeld fame as far as a physical description goes. The woman has short brown hair cut like a boys hair cut, had glasses on, and was wearing a black sweatshirt and black sweat pants.

I could see there was some small pink flags in the roadway ahead from there, so, I went on my way to the mailbox, and saw that there are some pink ribbons lining the east side of Jackpine from the corner where the trashcans are, to the Clyde Baum terror cell at 333 Jackpine, maybe beyond that. The ribbons are low on the ground, and are accompanied with the kind of small marking flags that are used by contractors for marking out where excavation or trenching is to be done, so, there must be some Pacific Power Thompson toting Pac-Pow trucks nearby with those Trench Markers there across the street from my driveway like that.

After five days of not going to the mailbox, or going outdoors at all in fear of retribution from the Joe Biden White House for having reported terrorism and mass murder, there was no US Postal Mail inside my mailbox, there was, however, one card, the kind that a traveling salesman puts on the doorknob to say they came by the house, a “Door Hanger Card” (Ron Howard Sponsored Master Class Advertisement) from Josephine County Sheriff’s Office. The door hanger card was left in the mailbox. It says “You have important legal documents awaiting you at Josephine County Sheriff’s Office” and goes on to say in hand written lettering that the Important Documents are concerning Grand Jury participation.

I am guessing the Sheriff heard from Ron Howard at One Hour Martinizer HQ at Nancy Sinatra’s Pacific Palisades Basement where she keeps her personal kidnapped surgically altered pet people. I suspect Ron Howard & Company are upset that they have been called out as the terrorists that they truly are, responsible for the World Trade Center Terror Attack on September 11, 2001 when Screen Actor Guild arranged that the towers would be demolished as a distraction while they attacked the Pentagon with a parallel set of events there.

So, I took that from the mailbox and returned to my house.

I wanted to take a photo of that woman who looks like George Castanza, a young one, and got my phone to take a photo, and returned to where I could take a photo, but she was gone, and the rabbit was still in the cage there.

Then, I was surprised to see Jeff Monroe!

He must have healed from his wounds from the last time he attacked me at my house, or, from attacking me at the Walmart, I can’t recall which was the last time Jeff Monroe attacked me and was hurt real bad in defense.

Jeff Monroe was hosing off a Remote Control Hobby car, and orange one, was big, about 24 inches long, about 10 inches wide, and was wearing a black hoodie sweatshirt as per usual, and blue jeans. Jeff looks a lot like Frank Beard of ZZ Top for a description, shorter hair.

They are using all of that stuff I explained there to discount the reports I make here, one such thing is the real full size actual vehicles that are fitted with remote control, the ones with automatic transmissions and factory cruise control are fitted with remote control operation around here, all of the local terror cells have at least one remote control full size automobile, not a toy car like Jeff Monroe wants you to think I was referring to.

That rabbit is going to be used to cover the eye-witness of the Dog Catcher Truck I saw take Peter Sparacino away in many years ago, by men with whips who attacked him in front of my house at the mailboxes, and put him inside of the cages on the Dog Catcher Truck, which was full of other people who also had been put int the cages on that truck.

It’s also notable that the 545 Jackpine Mailbox that belongs to the Sparcino terror cell has been taken off of the plank where the mailboxes have all been since way before I moved to the nieghborhood 24 years ago. Sparacino terror cell are using the family name of Peter Sparacino, after he was killed, and they stole his house, and all of his belongings. That happened more than twenty years ago, and no one will send help despite all of these reports of terrorism.

Same is true about Clyde Baum at 333 Jackpine. He killed Red Powers who owned that property free & clear like Peter Sparacino did. Clyde killed Red, and held Dolly Powers captive in her home for about five years before he killed her. Clyde used her for a lot of things, to get county aid, for drugs by taking her to the doctors, and for a place to live while controling her with protection from imposter police, so, Dolly Powers as an elderly woman in her 80′s had to do exactly as she was told when Clyde Baum took her for the doctor appointments and to sign up for county and state handouts of various kinds.

(Clyde Baum also has connection to Monsanto Agrochemical Corporation, and has access to modified seeds, and uses those in complicated ways at a State and Federal level of International Commerce sort of agricultural terrorism)

So, the rabbit in the cage will serve as an explanation made to federal agents to cover up the men who use cages on trucks to haul Victims away. It works because the federal agents insist on being fooled all of the time, they absolutely refuse to refrain from being fools, and continue to trust the local authorities, who are not authorities, but are a terror cell that killed and replaced the local authorities a long, long, long, long, long time ago.

I also noticed that the small camera at Monroe’s Four-Three-Four, on that thin wire stand on the stump that has been pointed at my gate for about two months, is gone, and the telescope on the tripod remains there, just has been moved back slightly farther away, but is still pointed at my driveway gate.

There are many cameras there at Monroe’s that are used to wage attacks on me when they can see that I am outside, and am within range of a cross-bow, gun, or vehicle. or vehicle with gun mounted in the front grill.

So, it took some time to run scans and reset the modem, and turn the computer on and off a couple of times to say Local Conditions, but there you go, as long as the “Save Post” button is not disabled, this will post after I say:

It’s overcast, is cold, and there is absence of wind.

no help has come.

There are no signs of helpful people anywhere.

====================================

5:52 pm:

This is a good place to make a reminder to security people who may be interested in preserving USA and know how to read the details I have presented here on this account. It’s extremely dangerous for me to share this kind of information, so please use it as it was intended, as a guide to save many millions of lives, and to gain my own freedom.

When you raid Ron Howard’s personal studios and the ones at Universal, Disney, and Pixar, at MGM, and even at MTM, when you come across the Seagate FreeAgent Hard-Drives, those are very special, some are ten years older than were made publically available, are prototypes of wizbang technology from the time when SeaGate was hijacked, so, those have Encryption that makes the files on them invisible, and, the SeaGate software does the math to make it appear as the disc does not contain any hidden files. The encrypted files are absolutly invisible, and you cannot learn that Ron Howard is the terrorist who directed the WTC attack if you cannot see those invisible files on his personal collection of SeaGate FreeAgent Hard-Drives. So use specialize disc scanning on those, especially at Disney Studios and Micheal Eisner’s personal discs.

=========================================================

6:12 pm:

nsa better hurry.

You failed to take Twitter offline, and that is going to cost the USA it’s existence.

You need to take Twitter offline permanently in order just to get started with US national security work.

This says to erase hard drives.

They reported source is “Red Canary”.

That is a bird in a mine field where nitrous gas is the weapon.

Red Canary, in Hollywood, translates to “Redken Hair Products”.

It’s shampoo. Cnn is commanding their connected terror assassins in the music industry (”Cross-Hairs”; Vatican Choir HQ Special Assassins are “Cross-Hairs”) to erase their hard-drives just because of what I said about the SeaGate encryption.

Don‘t believe that Twitter time stamp they put there for fools to believe in. The tweet is in response to what I said about SeaGate.

Also, don’t forget the connection Cnn has with the music industry up close and personal. Remember the other day when Brooke Baldwin showed up to kill me along with Sammy Hager. Do you think I was joking you fucking idiots?

Take Twitter offline right now, you need to just to save your own lives, even if Joe Biden says not to, you must take Twitter down, there is no Joe Biden, it’s all done with movie magic on Twitter, while Ann Wilson is running the White House from Kauai Ranch with Roger Waters.

When they do shit like that, they also kill the disposable US Citizen kidnapped terror soldier children, and, they kill the “Partners” surgically altered pet people that SAG keeps in their attics, dog houses, and basements in Hollywood, Pacific Palisades, Brentwood, and the Wilsher District.

Fools did not do as they should have done. They did not read the details.

https://twitter.com/CNN/status/1363647234571726848

========

6:33 pm:

“Chuck Todd” trending on Twitter:

“Hamburger the Children”

That is command generated by Google, sent to Twitter, to say a command to SDA and SAG to kill the kidnapped child soldiers they keep.

https://twitter.com/search?q=%22Chuck%20Todd%22&src=trend_click&vertical=trends

I’ll do the math for you:

Surely you can figure out that Chuck is both “80/20“ ground beef, and is also “Chuckie” the child with the knife under the bed.

Then:

“Todd” is short, like little kids are, they are short people ... remember? Kids?

Todd is short for “Toddler”.

Toddler = Todd + L + ER

Also, Toddler = Todd + Ell + ER

Also, Toddler = Todd + LE + R

That means Todd + Law Enforcement + Aarrgghh (pirates say “Aarrgghh when they swing the sword)

A “15″ = One adult imposter police w/one child terror soldier. (in plain clothes, disguised a father & son while on attack, the child has no choices, has to do as the RCMP terror adult soldier says to do. They are attack teams that are extremely difficult to defend against)

“Todd” means “Kill the child terror soldiers four different ways”

“Hamburger the Children“ was just commanded on Twitter by Google, to reach millions of terror soldiers in the field in the Twitter viewing audience.

===================================================

7:36 pm:

More notable conditions observed at the Four-Three-Four (Monroe terror cell) from my driveway while on a walk to the mailbox earlier today:

First, I need to express with great emphasis that Monroe (434 Jackpine Drive) terror cell at Four-Three-Four Jackpine (Drive, Grants Pass, Oregon 97526) clearly has access to the same people that I need to reach for help. I can see by their daily activities that the things they do, items they use in the yard on display, and visitors to that Offensive Trailer there are all used to help them use what I write to fool the federal agents I need to reach, but am unable to having been outnumbered 50,000 to 1 in Josephine County. I am the last remaining US Citizen that has not been killed or taken into more confining captivity. I am held captive in my home by the Monroe terror cell, and all of the other residences in the surrounding area, which are also terror cells of various origin throughout the county. My phone is made to only reach phone numbers that the terror army wants me to reach, ones that will aid them in killing me, or, to further fool the federal agents. The Centurylink Internet Service I use is hijacked at their base of operations, and the phone lines themselves don’t go to the addresses mapped at Centurylink ISP, all of that is explained in great detail here on this account in many places. So, I can’t reach where I need to reach, and the phone only rings when the terror army wants it to ring.

So, those other observations:

As I looked at the heater compressor in the backyard, I heard the sound of the small wheeled motorcycles that belong to a large terror cell composed of many disposable kidnapped US Children that was at the Chapman terror cell at 3701 Russell Road and rode away as I looked at the heating unit.

Then as I got close to where that Offensive Trailer is at along my driveway, that is when another, bigger motorcycle started up, revved and drove away from the Strong terror cell at 3747 Russell Road. That is the time that I observed the woman on the picnic bench out by the Offensive Travel Trailer.

I noticed some new additional items strewn about at Monroe’s backyard. There was some chicken wire fencing that had been torn off of one of the chicken coups there, was all bent up, and in a heap along with the supports the (that) held the wire in place. That one is the smaller of the two chicken coups at Monroe’s, the one that contains so many electronic devices hidden inside.

I noticed that there was a newly installed fencing arrangement at the other, bigger chicken coup that is over there, the one where so many electric lights of all kinds of different bulbs are used to fuck with me when I take a walk, some of them are very bright, all of them are within a chicken coup. The newly installed fence extends the usefulness of that particular chicken coup, the way it looks from 200 feet away as I took that walk, and a green tarp was hung over that new fencing like a drape, makes yet another hiding place for a cross-bow assassin to hide for shooting at me.

(Two separate chicken coups. The kind of thing where egg laying domesticated foul are kept, some say they are “farm animals”, others say “roosters & hens”, where one of the two chicken coups is larger than the other one is. The larger one looks like a puppet show stage modified into a chicken coup, and has many different kinds of electric lighting used at different times inside and nearby the chicken coup. The other chicken coup, the smaller one, also contains some ducks, so, “chicken & duck coup”, it used to be a firewood shed long ago, and that one (the small chicken coup at Monroe terror cell) has audio & video recording equipment operating inside of the “chicken & duck old firewood shed coup”. Is that clear enough?).

As I reached the place where I could see there was someone seated at the picnic bench (at Monroe terror cell, 434 Jackpine Drive), there was a scream, or yell from the main house at 434 in the front part of the Monroe driveway.

When I returned from the mailbox, that woman in the black sweat shirt that looks like George Castanza, was doing what I would call a “Jeff Monroe Routine”. Jeff was often seen in the past using a shovel to “stab” at some dirt near a hole, or, stab at some dirt in a large bucket repeatedly and violently for no apparent reason while adding a variety of other ingredients into the dirt he is stabbing at, as I walk by there. So, today, that woman that looks like George Castanza was doing the “Stab at the dirt in the hole with the shovel” routine. Then, she put the shovel down, went and picked up a bag of some very orange looking potting soil, and dumped all of it out, shaking the bag violently. The odor of fresh manure filled the whole area immediately.

The thing that made me want to do this additional comment is that the woman was doing exactly as Jeff Monroe usually does often with that activity with the shovel, the dirt, the additive into the soil. But not the rabbit in the cage. Jeff Monroe uses goats in a bigger pen, not rabbits, where the goats get their heads stuck in the six inch mesh fencing and can’t get their heads out because of the goat’s horns get stuck like barbs in the fencing, and the goats get all bloody and torn up around their necks after being stuck in the fence for many hours and trying to get their heads out of the fence. Goats scream. They sound like small babies when they scream, it’s horrible to be exposed to this kind of thing everyday, but by comparison to other kidnapped US Citizens around here, I am fortunate that I am able to walk away, from things the others are not able to walk away from. (national security in USA fails to protect by the hour, by the day, by the minute)

It was a “Role Reversal”. I don’t remember where I have seen that woman before outside of that trailer area, but I have seen her somewhere around Grants Pass before.

That remote control car is important to find who owns it. I don’t think it belongs to Monroe’s, I think it belongs to Juseph Myers at 560 Jackpine, who makes a lot of different things that are remote control, including a bird that hops around on the ground, looks injured, has two cameras mounted in it, and can bounce away if you try to pick up the remote controlled injured small bird.

That gal who looked like George Castanza could have been Rena Myers wearing a “Fat Suit”, a whole body suit that is made with real human skin, and a skinny person can put on the Fat Suit and become a fat person as a disguise made at the Juseph Myers terror cell. If so, there is a good chance that the suit is made from the skin of Donald Trump, who exploded in a bus on January 6, 2021 out front of the Grants Pass DMV across from the Fred Meyer store where Kyle Myers works as a grocery checker, and is a Lieutenant of the SDA Terror army. The Myers at 560 Jackpine have been making wearable costumes from the skin and body parts of the victims they kill for more than twenty years just two doors down the street from my house. I used to be able to see as they tossed the little girls into the shed in the backyard over there, usually by someone on horseback who literally tossed the little girls kidnapped from the Grants Pass Community Church just a half mile or so down the road on Russell Road. The people at 520 Built a big fence in the way, and I no longer have a view of where that shed is at where the little girls are processed by the Myers terror cell.

=======

9:07 pm:

There is a lot of continued reports on Twitter about that airplane that lost it’s engine cowl, I feel someone is trying to reach me with that.

I once was on commercial flight when the motor caught fire. I took some photos, maybe I still have them somewhere.

So, yeah, shit happens and then no one cares enough to talk about it.

I was another flight when the pilot called me into the cockpit. I still don‘t know why he did that, but out the drivers side window was a US Air-Force fighter jet escorting our flight along on the route. There is a whole bunch more to say about what happened in that cockpit, I’ll just say that the co-pilot flew the airplane the rest of the way after I entered the cockpit.

There was another flight when the pilot was headed straight into some mountains ahead of us, everyone on the airplane began to sort of whisper: “pull up... pull up” .... then louder some of the passengers where saying: “PULL UP!” and I shouted too: “PULL-UP!”. We missed the mountains by a little bit, and kept on going.

There was a different flight when the flight attendants pulled a man from his seat and put him down into a access panel in the floor of the airplane, one between the wings on a L1011 size airplane as we were on approach to Portland airport. On the drive home, there was a big road block near Hillsboro on the I-5, lots of emergency crews there, as I passed by I asked one of them who they had scraped off of the pavement, and told them about the man that was into floor of the airplane: “Did someone happen to fall out of the sky and land on the freeway?”. There was no particular response that I can recall right now, but I think it was like “How did you know that?” kind of response from the emergency worker there.

There was another time when I stopped a shooter from shooting on airplane destined for Portland. Everyone on the plane was rounded up at the airport. I don’t think any of them are alive anymore, I had to run away from that, me and one woman and one ten year old were the only people who got away. It was not a safety thing, it was a forced round up by people other than airport security at Portland International.

Another time all of the oxygen masks came down from the overhead area. There was nothing wrong with the airplane, some young men were in the back of the plane seated farthest back, they all began to get out of their seats after the passengers were instructed to put the masks on. I could see they had weapons so I shouted real loud: “It’s nitrous oxide, any one with a lighter, lite the lighter!” and kept shouting to “look behind you” as those men were in the aisle. Me and at least two others had lighters, and lit them. Those guys all sat back down. There was a “Pop” noise from the luggage compartment area below the passenger area, and the pilot advised to put the masks back up into the overhead place where they came from, and we continued on our way.

no one on the airplane complained about any of that, as if they had all forgotten that anything happened.

The Baby is on fire, there is no one watching the baby.

TSA, Air Traffic Control, the concession restaurants and vendors at the airports are all occupied and controlled by terror cells. The rental car agencies are also all terror cells. In Las Vegas at McLaren airport, the rental car kiosk area is built intentionally as a killing field. Salt Lake City Utah international airport is built intentionally as a killing field with a system of food vendors combined with “Sky Caps” who do the kill and then cart the bodies away.

There are some secret words that will keep you alive when you order a smoothie in Utah at the airport. I don’t recall what worked though, i guess you had to have been there to know what to say.

==========================

10:30 pm:

This below is exactly the way a typical SDA attack on US Citizen residential home is done.

That guy would be accompanied by about three to six other people who remain out of sight. If there is a smart meter on the electric panel at the residence, the power company terror cell would have already done enough analysis on electric usage at the home to know basically where in the house the victim is at, such as in a laundry room, when the washing machine begins to run, they know that much information in real time as the smart meter is broadcasting all day, all the time as electricity is consumed. So, this guy shows up with some bad weather on an Ivanka Trump Oportunity Zone style attack scenario. The home owner may not like having some asshole out front like that, but watches for a minute, it looks innocent, like a doo gooder is just happens to be in the neighborhood and wants so badly to intrude on other people un-announced, just shows up to randomly go ahead and start to shovel someone else’s snow away because, well heck, that guy just does not have anything else he needs to do at his own house, he’s so good that he already removed all of the snow at his house, racked the front yard, took out the trash, fed the cat, cleared the rain gutters, mowed the grass, made his bed, and made lunch in advance for the whole week, after he went to the grocery store this morning, and had all of that done before ten am, so, he has all kinds of extra time to go do random snow shoveling at other peoples houses, right?

The home owner thinks about all of that, and all seems legit.

So the home owner can relax now, it’s feeling very comfortable all of a sudden, as the nitrous gas is being forced into the back slider, and the bathroom window, while the scent of fresh laundry soap, also inserted into the gas mix in the house, reminds the homeowner to go ahead and do some laundry, as long as there are people helping out around the house and everything. So the laundry or other thing gets started while the owner is enjoying that warm fuzzy, sense safety and neighborly kindness that the nitrous gas provides. When the power company gets the reading that the home owner is in a desired place in the house, that is when the bastards come into the house. They will have already gained the house key through observation over time about where the home owner keeps that outdoor hidden house key, borrowed that long enough to make a copy at the key making machine that is in the garage next to where that guy hangs up his snow shovel every night after a hard day of raping, murdering, torturing, and killing. Then, on Saturday, he goes to confession, to say what loot he and the crew was able to take, and to drop off any small children to the church that may have lived at the home where the nice church goer went to shovel some snow.

They are all connected with blu-tooth communication, and have lots of electronic equipment available for knowing exactly when is the best time to use that hijacked house key to go in right through the front door to make everything appear is if there is no problems in the neighborhood.

In the spring they send a teenager with a lawnmower. In the summer they send someone in a bikini, in the fall they bring rakes, and offer to clear the rain gutters if you don’t mind getting the ladder out of the garage for them first.

https://twitter.com/ABC/status/1363729986214060038

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womenofcolor15 · 4 years

Text

Trump FIRES Secretary of Defense Mark Esper + Trump’s Former Lawyer Says He’ll Likely Flee To Mar-a-Lago & Will Never Return To White House

Trump is having a post-election FIT! He just fired Secretary of Defense Mark Esper amid ongoing tensions. And he has been recklessly tweeting on Twitter, per usual. Get those deets, plus what Trump’s former lawyer think he’ll do next inside…

The post-election shakeup!

Trump is mad y’all! He can’t take the fact he lost the 2020 presidential election, so he’s causing drama before his exit. Of course.

Days after it was projected that Joe Biden & Kamala Harris will be the next President and Vice President of the United States, Trump went into overdrive on social media. He hopped on Twitter to announce he “won” the election “by a lot” even though the ballots and electoral votes said otherwise.

View this post on Instagram

This is the Big Clown Energy we are leaving behind. Also, if you thought Dems simply pander and don’t actually care about their constituents, your king hit the golf course as the election was being called for Biden, as multiple people tested positive (again) for coronavirus in HIS White House last night and this morning, and as over 100K additional cases of Coronavirus took over the US in solely the last 24 hours. He cares none. Act accordingly.

A post shared by TheYBF (@theybf_daily) on Nov 7, 2020 at 9:21am PST

As the ballots were being counted, Trump hit the hit the golf course as the election as multiple people tested positive (again) for Coronavirus in HIS White House over the weekend. There was over 100K additional cases that popped up in the US in 24 hours. No sweat off Trump’s back. He was busy golfing.

Today, he threw a fit and fired the Secretary of Defense Mark Esper. He announced Christopher Miller - who serves as director of the National Counterterrorism Center - will become acting secretary "effective immediately."

I am pleased to announce that Christopher C. Miller, the highly respected Director of the National Counterterrorism Center (unanimously confirmed by the Senate), will be Acting Secretary of Defense, effective immediately..

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) November 9, 2020

Apparently, there was tension brewing between Trump & Esper before the firing. CNN reports:

Esper's increasingly tense relationship with Trump led him to prepare a letter of resignation weeks ago, an attempt to fashion a graceful exit in the widely expected event that the President decided to fire him, several defense sources, including one senior defense official, told CNN.

Esper had been on shaky ground with the White House for months, a rift that deepened after he said in June that he did not support using active-duty troops to quell the large-scale protests across the United States triggered by the death of George Floyd at the hands of police. Esper also said military forces should be used in a law enforcement role only as a last resort.

His remarks from the Pentagon briefing room were seen by many as an effort to distance himself from Trump's threats to deploy the military to enforce order on American city streets and went over poorly at the White House, multiple people familiar with the matter said.

According to multiple administration officials, White House sentiment about Esper had been souring for some time, with both Trump and national security adviser Robert O'Brien viewing him as not entirely committed to the President's vision for the military.

For months, Trump and O'Brien had been frustrated by Esper's tendency to avoid offering a full-throated defense of the President or his policies, the administration officials said. One administration source told CNN that Trump had no respect for Esper, leaving the defense secretary with little influence and little choice but to take his lead from Secretary of State Mike Pompeo.

No surprise here Trump is using his power during his post-election meltdown. Trump’s defense team has been hard at work trying to find a loophole that would get him to serve out a second term. Trump’s legal team has already suffered losses in Michigan and Georgia courts this week, but Trump has pledged to keep moving forward with a legal strategy that he hopes will overturn state results that gave Democrat Joe Biden the win in Tuesday’s vote.

Reuters reports:

The Trump campaign is fighting Philadelphia election officials over vote counting in the city, which continued on Saturday. A state court on Thursday granted the campaign closer access to the proceedings, a ruling that officials have appealed.

The City of Philadelphia Board of Elections has said its observation rules were needed for security reasons and to maintain social distancing protocols.

Trump’s campaign on Wednesday filed a motion to intervene in a case pending before the U.S. Supreme Court challenging a decision from the state’s highest court that allowed election officials to count mail-in ballots postmarked by Tuesday’s Election Day that were delivered through Friday.

Trump’s son, Donald Trump Jr., seemingly took a shot at the Black Lives Matter movement with a tweet about how Trump supporters aren’t rioting:

70 million pissed off republicans and not one city burned to the ground.

— Donald Trump Jr. (@DonaldJTrumpJr) November 7, 2020

An innocent man was brutally murdered on camera either, but go OFF. Let's not compare apples to oranges.

So, what can American’s expect from Trump during his final weeks as president?

According to Trump’s former lawyer, Michael Cohen, the former reality star will likely flee to his headquarters at Mar-a-Lago, spend Christmas there and likely will NOT return to the White House for the transfer of power to Biden. He said Trump will likely fight the election results until January from his Florida property.

“I would not be shocked if there is no concession speech at all. My theory is that at Christmas time he goes to Mar-a-Lago. I think he will stay there through the inauguration. I would not be shocked if he will not show up to the inauguration either,” Mr Cohen said on MSNBC.

“He cannot let the camera look at him and basically pull down the curtain and see the wizard standing beside. He is just a loser and it is killing him and, right now, what is going on in the White House is nothing but finger-pointing.”

WOMP!

As of the time of this post, Trump isn’t giving any signs of conceding.

After it was projected Biden would WIN the presidential election, people ALL over the nation - including Chrissy Teigen & John Legend - stepped outside to celebrate. And it was the perfect day to do so as temperatures were high in many parts of the country. Look at GOD.

Peep the celebrations in Brookyln, L.A., Philly, Washington D.C. and more below:

@JoyAnnReid I just wanted to share these pictures from Saturday’s celebration of Joe Biden’s and Kamala Harris Celebration in Brooklyn pic.twitter.com/uZwdCzFvAF

— Jahlion (@Jahprince25) November 9, 2020

Brooklyn:

Postal workers getting the love they deserve.

Ok, this is awesome... pic.twitter.com/3mElStKMcb

— Rex Chapman(@RexChapman) November 7, 2020

WATCH LIVE: Crowds have gathered across SoCal, including in West Hollywood and DTLA, to celebrate Joe Biden being projected to win the presidential election. Here's video of a celebration in Venice. https://t.co/FdZ4isCUhq pic.twitter.com/xltK9LzQ0a

— NBC Los Angeles (@NBCLA) November 7, 2020

WATCH LIVE: Celebrations continue across SoCal after Joe Biden is projected to be the next president of the United States. This video captures celebrations in West Hollywood. https://t.co/IBG7rIWAow pic.twitter.com/rFOULufxhw

— NBC Los Angeles (@NBCLA) November 7, 2020

West Philly reacts to Biden’s lead in Pennsylvania by dancing in the street, of course pic.twitter.com/WBuipfLydN

— Ellie Rushing (@EllieRushing) November 6, 2020

The Biden/Harris Philly dance party is on. Even Gritty is there.

Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough, Pennsylvania...pic.twitter.com/R4L1jWUo4x

— Rex Chapman (@RexChapman) November 7, 2020

lots of cheering and car horn beeps outside Philly city hall right now after news of Biden’s win pic.twitter.com/vVqT8ZV6aJ

— Amber Jamieson (@ambiej) November 7, 2020

hundreds gathered at Philly gay bar Woody’s lost it when Joe Biden referred to gay and trans Americans pic.twitter.com/gamnAWa68s

— Amber Jamieson (@ambiej) November 8, 2020

LIVE FROM BLACK LIVES MATTER PLAZA, WASHINGTON D.C. FOR BIDEN HARRIS pic.twitter.com/dd2cCYAzjW

— soft boi nat (@nat_meier) November 7, 2020

Washington, D.C. in front of White House as President-Elect Joe Biden set to take stage in Delaware: pic.twitter.com/8DwhxroW9a

— Molly O'Toole (@mollymotoole) November 8, 2020

Washington D.C. reacts to the news of Joe Biden being named President-Elect. Nonstop honking in downtown. @fox5dc pic.twitter.com/FymQkWeiLy

— Ama Arthur-Asmah (@Ama_A_Asmah) November 7, 2020

Dear Trump Supporters: He Rather Y’all Believe His Lie(Voter Fraud) & Continue To Divide This Country For His Own Self Ego. Before He Tell Y’all To Do The Right Thing & Support This New President & Administration. If He Was Smart He Would Know God Doesn’t Like Ugly(Behavior)!

— Plies (@plies) November 9, 2020

This World Is Witnessing The Truth & Unveiling Of A “Fake Strong” (Trump) Man. He Was Never As Tough As He Wanted His Supporters To Believe. He Couldn’t Handle Tough Questions(60min Interview), Nor Could He Handle Tough People (Kamala). He’s A Insecure Child In A Mans Body!!

— Plies (@plies) November 8, 2020

Change is coming!

And let us find out Biden is letting his inner petty out now that he's our next president:

How it started How it’s going pic.twitter.com/TiOluozUYk

— Dena Grayson, MD, PhD (@DrDenaGrayson) November 8, 2020

Photos: Stratos Brilakis/Drew William Anderson/Shutterstock.com/Amanda Edwards/Getty Images

[Read More ...] source http://theybf.com/2020/11/09/trump-fires-secretary-of-defense-mark-esper-trump%E2%80%99s-former-lawyer-says-he%E2%80%99ll-likely-flee-

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 7 years

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Resource Management, pt18

Word Count: 2524 Tags: @supermoonpanda @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @samaxraph99 @anotherotter @outside-the-government @kingarthurscat @coyote-in-space @originalpottervengerlock @dolamrothianlady @curiositywillbethedeathofme @superheroesofbothuniverses @mtriestowrite @wanderingkat77

The events in Philadelphia had shaken me enough that I was careful to lock my desk, log off my computer and lock my office door before I left for the gym to meet Natasha. I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and headed out into the warm afternoon sun, stopping for a coffee along the way. When I left the coffee shop, I noticed a creepy black surveillance van outside the shop. I made a mental note to let Fury know I didn’t need to be followed.

I walked through the gym doors and in to pandemonium. Natasha was screaming in Russian at Clint. She had him completely backed into a corner, and while he looked pretty calm on the surface, the muscle in his jaw was ticking and there was a bead of sweat forming at his temple. I did not envy his position at all. I looked around for Phil, and couldn’t see him anywhere. I stepped away from the door, but kept my distance from the two senior agents. I didn’t want to get in between whatever was going to happen there. I bumped into someone coming out of a changeroom and when I glanced over to apologize, I had to bite my cheek to prevent myself from laughing. Phil was holding an ice pack to his jaw, and looked kind of dazed.

“So it went well?” I couldn’t help it. I grinned.

“I was anticipating this one being bad,” he admitted. I pulled the ice pack off and cringed. It was already bruising.

“Do you want some ibuprofen?” I offered. He shook his head.

“I took some before I got here,” he flinched instead of smiling. “I knew it was going to be bad.”

“And you!” Natasha was suddenly in my face. “You knew all along that he hadn’t died?”

“I wasn’t aware that he had actually died until he told me,” I admitted.

“But all this time, you knew?”

“Of course,” I nodded. She was so angry that she didn’t realize that she was being sloppy, but as soon as she threw the punch, I was able to block it, and toss her to the ground. I bit back the feeling of triumph. She was going to come back at me. My last clear thought was that I wished I’d changed on the way to the gym, but I was grateful that women’s jeans had lycra in them. After that, everything I did was instinctive.

Natasha was determined to put me on the ground, and I was blocking a furious attack, losing ground quickly. If nothing else, it was a more realistic training atmosphere. The reality was, I wasn’t ever going to be attacked in a gym, in comfortable clothing. I slipped on the edge of a mat and turned my ankle, letting out a curse. I was done. Natasha took me to the ground and pressed my face into the floor. Clint and Phil pulled her off me before she could actually hurt me. I rolled onto my back, panting. She was glaring at me from a few feet away, Clint standing just to one side of her with his hand on her arm.

“Tasha, she has higher clearance than you do. You can be mad at me, and mad at Phil. Be mad at Tony, he’s known for a while too. Hell, if you want to knee Fury in the balls, I’ll hold him for you. But you can’t be angry with her for doing her fucking job.” Clint’s voice was stern. She pulled away from him and stalked back toward me. I took a defensive stance, waiting for a renewed attack.

“That was easily a level 7 defense, Ellis. You respond better under pressure.” She clapped me on the shoulder and stepped toward Phil. She stared at him, wordlessly, arms crossed.

“I didn’t want to keep it from you, Tasha. Not after what had happened with Clint,” he offered.

“Does Steve know?” She asked. Phil shook his head. “Thor?”

“Unless Sif told him, no. But I asked her not to say anything,” he explained.

“Who is Sif?”

“Another Asgardian. Long story.”

In a heartbeat, Natasha’s demeanour softened, and I saw her eyes fill with tears. She reached out and ran her hand along Phil’s jaw, down his shoulder. And then she stepped closer and drew him into a hug that mirrored the one Clint had given him. It wasn’t nearly as awkward. She stepped away, and the softness was gone from her features as quickly as it had come. She turned back to me.

“There’s nothing I can teach you in a gym, Anna,” she acknowledged, “but we should still be sparring regularly.”

“Whatever you think will help,” I agreed.

“Right now, I think drinks will help.” She managed a laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Another time, Tasha. Annie and I have a meeting to get to,” Phil excused. Natasha raised an eyebrow and huffed out a deep sigh. She took a few steps toward Clint and began muttering in Russian. His eyes narrowed in question, and then he smiled and responded quietly. She spun to face us, and there was a knowing gleam to her eyes.

“Phil, vstrechi ili nagrablennogo vyzov?” She asked. Phil flushed and refused to respond. I decided it was probably a good thing I didn’t speak Russian.

Stark had us meet him at his office near the Pentagon. It was ostentatious, and harkened back to when Stark Industries was the premier arms dealer in the nation. My understanding was that Pepper Potts used the office mostly for green energy lobbying nowadays. At any rate, it was the most secure location we could think of. There was no way Tony Stark was going to allow his company to be infiltrated a second time. He was still burning with embarrassment from when Romanoff had been slipped in as his PA.

There was surprisingly little art on the walls of the office, which emphasized to me exactly how curious Stark had been about the attack on SHIELD. My guess was that every painting in the HR office that he’d ‘loaned’ us had some sort of listening or tracking device embedded in it. I hope he hadn’t ruined that beautiful Van Gogh in my office to do it.

Stark met us in the reception area and ushered us back to a huge office overlooking the city. It was one hell of a view. In the immediate foreground was the Pentagon, and the Potomac River, which was impressive enough, but it was a clear afternoon and dark cerulean sky accented the brilliant white of the Monument on the far side of the river. Mid-river and to the west, the Triskelion rose from Roosevelt Island. From Stark’s office, the damage was unnoticeable. I lingered at the window, staring at tower. It felt menacing and not for the first time in the past weeks, I was uneasy with my position.

“So what have you discovered?” Stark got right to the heart of things.

“A little old lady died to warn us about flying pests,” I snapped. I immediately regretted my tone.

“What Anna is trying to say is that we were investigating and our main lead was murdered,” Phil elaborated on my behalf. I turned away from the window and stalked across the room.

“And we have nothing. Except an empty wasp killer can, and some paperwork from when she was an agent.” I could feel the frustration beginning to build. Phil placed a small canvas bag on Stark’s desk and pulled out the items we’d confiscated from Cecelia Banks’ house. Stark immediately grabbed the aerosol can and shook it. It rattled, just as it had when we were in the kitchen at Mrs. Banks’ house. He fiddled with the can the same way Phil had and had no luck. He flipped it over and looked it over again and put it back on the table. I picked it up and looked at the spray top. It was one of those large cone style spray tops. I think it was supposed to allow for a larger spraying area. I looked at the nozzle and saw a bunch of little hash marks on it. Curious, I ran my fingernail across them, and the nozzle spun and clicked. Like a combination lock. I flipped open Mrs. Banks’ badge and looked for the ID number, and feeling completely like I belonged in some Cold War espionage novel, clicked the nozzle around to each of the numbers on her badge. Nothing happened. I shoved both items away, dejected. Phil picked the can back up and inspected the nozzle. He started twisting the sprayer, like I had, but in a different way than I had. The bottom dropped out of the can, and a thumb drive and small notebook fell onto Stark’s desk.

“Hornet. It was an alphanumeric cypher.” Phil picked up the thumb drive. I reached for the notebook and flipped it open to the first page. It was filled with numbers and letter, but none of it made sense. And even though Phil had figured out the cypher for the lock on the can, he wasn’t a codes guy. I flipped a few more pages, and there was a list of names.

“Do these mean anything to either of you?” I held the book out. Phil glanced at the list and then rubbed his temples.

“Those are the people she exposed. From the HYDRA cell she discovered,” he explained. I flipped a couple pages further, past more random numbers and letters and came to the end of the notes.

“Without a codebreaker, we’re screwed,” I complained. Phil took the book and looked at it.

“Cecelia Banks wasn’t an expert in encryption. This will be an easy cypher. We can probably figure it out,” he wasn’t talking to Tony or me, really. He was thinking aloud. He tucked the notebook into his jacket and then thought better of that, and handed it to me.

“Why –“

“I have the thumb drive. We should keep those things separate,” he dropped the stick into the pocket instead. Stark flipped through the hodge-podge of detritus we’d taken from the drawer. I think we all knew each item had meaning of some sort, but it was hard to understand the relevance of partial grocery list and stick of gum. Particularly because I wasn’t sure whether the dementia diagnosis in her file was real, or a ploy to get her enemies to drop their guard. Stark’s phone buzzed and he checked his messages. He threw himself into his chair and responded to whatever the message was. The phone buzzed again and he made a strangled sound of disgust.

“Let me assure you, I’d rather be here playing super sleuths with you. However, I am needed back in California. Let me know if anything is going on. I can be back here in a matter of hours,” Tony announced. There was concern in his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. He nodded, squaring his jaw.

“Nothing I can’t resolve after five minutes in person,” he admitted.

The black van was outside Stark’s building when we left, and I mentioned it to Phil. He glanced across the street and took in the details before nodding at me to get into Lola. It was going to be hard to be unobtrusive in the car, but I was going try to accept that if Fury had a SHIELD detail watching me, it was for a good enough reason that I didn’t want to blend in anyhow. But the van was creepy. It hung back about six or seven car lengths and pulled in to a conspicuously vacant parking spot at the end of my block that had a clear view of my front door. I wondered if they had someone on the back door of the building too. Phil pulled into the underground parking and maneuvered Lola into my spot. It was the nicest vehicle that had ever parked there, and I couldn’t help but think about my poor squished car.

“You look exhausted Annie,” he observed. I closed my eyes. I was exhausted. I could easily fall asleep standing, I felt so tired.

“I slept so much last night,” I protested.

“The adrenaline of the last few days is draining. Particularly if you aren’t used to it.” He held out a hand to assist me from the car.

“You seem fine,” I complained. He directed me to the stairs and herded me toward my apartment.

“I’ve been doing this for close to thirty years.”

My apartment was just as I left it, dirty dishes in the sink and all. It was instant comfort. I flopped onto the couch and propped my feet on the coffee table. I could hear Phil rummaging in the kitchen, and the water turned on. He let it run for a while, and then there was splashing.

“You don’t need to wash my dishes, babe,” I called from the couch. He peered around the corner at me.

“I’m not. I’m setting your clothes to soak so the blood comes out,” he explained. I rose and walked into the kitchen to observe. He had tracked down a bottle of peroxide from the bathroom and was dripping it onto the bloodstains in my blouse, letting it foam a little and then dunking it under the water. Then he would repeat the whole process until the stain was mostly lifted and move on to another one. He added a capful of peroxide to the water and swished everything around. I slid a hand along his arm as it came out of the water, and stepped closer. He turned away from the sink and brought his free arm around me. I traced my fingers along his jaw, and saying nothing, leaned into him.

“Not sure what I did to deserve someone as unreservedly good as you are, Phil,” I murmured. He squeezed me and kissed the side of my head.

“Maybe like attracts like.” His voice was softer and rougher than usual. There was a tightness in my chest that felt foreign. Not wrong, just very different. Again, I found myself wanting to tell him I loved him. But it was too soon, I thought, uncertainly. I leaned back in his arms to look at him. He always looked on me with a softness that made his strong features somehow warmer.

“I really like you,” I blurted awkwardly. He smiled and shook his head.

“You’ve said that before,�� he reminded me.

“I like you more now,” I clarified. He tipped his head and kissed me.

“I have to check in with my team. It might be a couple days before I can see you,” he ran a hand through my hair. I nodded.

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured him.

“Just promise you’ll let me know if you aren’t,” he pressed. I nodded. He let go of me reluctantly, and headed toward the door. As he pulled the door open he turned back to face me again.

“Annie?” He paused, “I like you more now too.”

#avengers fanfic #avengers fanfic with OFC #Phil Coulson x OFC

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swedna · 4 years

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Complaints about American decline have been commonplace since at least the Vietnam War era.

In the late 1980s, declinism experienced an upsurge with the publication of The Rise and Fall of Great Powers, by Paul Kennedy, which warned of the dangers of imperial overstretch. Even America’s putative victory over the Soviet Union in the Cold War represented only a minor lull in the chatter about the erosion of US status relative to other countries, particularly a rising China.

Closer to home, meanwhile, the grumbling over America’s crumbling usually spikes around the release of the American Society of Civil Engineers’ quadrennial infrastructure report card.

In 2017, the ASCE awarded America a D+ for the state of its roads, bridges, schools, parks, and public transportation. The grade was no surprise to many Americans. “This is an advanced economy?” people ask themselves as they wait for a broken-down bus, hit a pothole on the highway, turn away from the undrinkable water coming out of their taps, or drop their child at a school that’s just a few steps away from being condemned.

In US schools, D is unsatisfactory but still officially passing. In terms of infrastructure, the United States teeters perilously on the edge of failure.

In the last few months, however, America has gone over the edge. The country has quickly, recklessly, impulsively entered the failure zone.

First, there’s the failure of leadership. The country has been ruled for the last three years by a corrupt, incompetent, would-be dictator who, when faced with a spate of crises, has proven spectacularly unfit for the job.

Second, there’s the failure to protect American lives. More than 100,000 people have died from the coronavirus, a level of death generally seen only in wartime.

Third, there’s the failure of the American dream. The economy has collapsed due to the coronavirus, and the unemployment rate has surged to nearly 20 percent.

Finally, there’s the chronic failure of American racism. In the last week, people have taken to the streets to protest the death of yet another African American at the hands of the police. On May 25, a police officer in Minneapolis handcuffed George Floyd on suspicion of forgery, pinned him to the ground, put a knee on his neck, and killed him. Floyd was one of over 7,500 people killed by the police since 2013.

Protestors are fed up with police profiling, targeting, and killing. But they are also outraged at the disproportionate impact of the pandemic and the economic collapse on people of color. The anger is entirely understandable. “I can’t breathe” applies to victims of police violence and the coronavirus both.

The protests themselves are a sign of hope, notwithstanding the over 60,000 National Guard that have poured onto the streets in 24 states.

Also hopeful are the expressions of solidarity during these protests. Cops in a number of cities have gotten down on one knee with protestors. Several mayors, like Atlanta’s Keisha Lance Bottoms, have spoken truth to the power of the president. Here in Washington, the owner of a restaurant burned by looters said, “Any kind of issue like this seems pretty minor. We have been through three months of being closed; we have seen 100,000 people die. I think the protests are great, and I think they are warranted.”

And yet, if you add up the economic, political, social, and medical deficits, it’s hard to imagine calling America an advanced industrialized nation at the moment. It is extraordinary to see such a rapid loss of status in real time, as opposed to a time-lapse animation of the rise and fall of some ancient civilization. “I’ve seen this kind of violence,” a former CIA analyst responsible for tracking developments in China and Southeast Asia told The Washington Post. “This is what autocrats do. This is what happens in countries before a collapse.”

The middle and upper classes may well be caught by surprise. But the current protests are a potent reminder that for a sizable portion of the American population, the country has never been advanced because they live in what Michael Harrington, nearly 60 years ago, called “the other America.”

Trump’s Racist Response

Donald Trump has always positioned himself as a law-and-order politician, even as his words and actions create disorder and violate laws.

He never possessed much if any empathy for victims of police violence. In response to George Floyd’s death, after a cursory expression of condolence, Trump quickly pivoted to deriding protesters, Democratic governors, “THUGS,” and the like. He promised that anyone who breached the White House fence would be met by “the most vicious dogs, and most ominous weapons.” He announced that he would declare the antifa movement a terrorist organization. He sounded like a minor-league dictator with his tweet that “when the looting starts, the shooting starts.”

Later, on a call with governors, he suggested that “if you don’t dominate, you’re wasting your time — they’re going to run over you, you’re going to look like a bunch of jerks.” He added, “You have to arrest people, and you have to try people, and they have to go jail for long periods of time.” Afterwards, in the Rose Garden, Trump said, “If a city or state refuses to take the actions necessary to defend the life and property of their residents, then I will deploy the United States military and quickly solve the problem for them.”

Despite Trump’s calls for law and order, the far right is actually cheering on the occasional violence of the protests because it feeds into their attempts to push the country into a race riot. Militia members, white extremists, and “boogaloo bois” want to take advantage of the coronavirus crisis to “accelerate” the demise of liberal, multicultural America. They’ve even showed up at the protests against police violence and promoted their own violent actions online.

Militant disruptions of otherwise peaceful demonstrations ultimately advance this far-right agenda. Such violence also advances Trump’s agenda.

Following his own version of accelerationism, the president has done everything within his power to destroy the country from within, using hateful language, implementing polarizing policies, and seeming to revel in the chaos that his administration has fostered. Declaring some version of martial law to contain the chaos he has helped to create — but in reality to promote more chaos and himself as the only person to address it — may be the only hope he has at this point of gaining a second term in office.

As Edward Luce writes in the Financial Times, “Trump makes little disguise of conjuring a pre-civil rights America where white males held uncontested sway.” Ultimately, though, it’s Trump himself who wants uncontested sway, and he thinks he can crowd-surf the unrest toward that goal.

America’s Racism Is a Foreign Policy Problem

There’s always been an element of racism to Donald Trump’s foreign policy.

From day one, for instance, Trump favored predominantly white countries in his immigration policy, instituting a Muslim travel ban and denigrating “shithole countries” when “we should have more people from places like Norway.” He told four US congresswomen — three of them born in the United States — to “go back and help fix the totally broken and crime infested places from which they came.” He relishes blaming the coronavirus outbreak on “the Chinese,” knowing full well that his conspiracy theories feed into anti-Asian sentiment.

Of course, either money or nuclear weapons can turn a “shithole” country into a friend, with Trump cozying up to Kim Jong Il of North Korea and Mohammed bin Salman of Saudi Arabia. That’s always been Trump’s modus operandi: he is truly race-blind when it comes to the powerful.

Donald Trump didn’t suddenly introduce racism into US foreign policy. As I wrote back in January 2018, “Trump was only putting into words an underlying principle of US foreign policy. For decades, the United States has treated countries like ‘shitholes’ even if policymakers haven’t called them such, at least not in public.” Racism is reflected in US budget priorities, in the minuscule size of foreign aid programs, in the pattern of US interventions, in the racial composition of the US Army’s “essential workers” (otherwise known as grunts), and even in the Pentagon’s militarization of domestic policing. Trump certainly didn’t create any of these dynamics, though he has often aggravated them.

Still, the current president’s elevation of racism is not simply rhetorical. There is method to his mania.

Trump is using racism as a tool to destroy whatever lingering commitment the United States has to liberal internationalism. The latter philosophy inspired Americans to help create the United Nations, launch the Peace Corps, administer foreign aid programs, and collaborate with other countries to fight global warming. This liberal internationalism has always had its defects, from paternalism to naivete. But it’s a damn sight better than the illiberal nationalism that Trump offers as an alternative.

Trump’s deployment of racism at home and abroad cuts the legs out from under liberal internationalism. No other country can take America’s human rights rhetoric seriously. No other country can accept America’s claim to impartiality as a broker of peace deals, climate deals, any deals. First put your own house in order, they will say.

Putting our own house in order has long been the motivation of US social movements. Think of the civil rights movement, the LGBT rights movement, the Black Lives Matter movement. They have also inspired human rights movements devoted to home improvement in countries around the world. Even today, the US protests against police violence have inspired nearly 15,000 people to demonstrate in Paris, 10,000 demonstrators in Amsterdam, tens of thousands in Auckland, thousands in London and Berlin and throughout Australia.

US support of human rights abroad can and should be an extension of these social movements. That’s something that Trump’s racism at home and attacks on liberal internationalism abroad threaten as well.

“Let’s hope the demonstrations all over the world will help remind Washington that US soft power is a unique asset, setting America apart from other great powers — from China, Russia, and even from Europe,” observes Wolfgang Ischinger, former German ambassador to the United States. “It would be tragic if the Trump administration turned a huge opportunity for the US into a moral abdication.”

Unfortunately, Trump has his own ideas of how to put the American house in order up to and including burning the house down. The antidote to Trump’s racist nationalism is not less internationalism but more: rejoining the international bodies that Trump pulled out of, reentering the accords that Trump unsigned, patiently rebuilding US engagement in the world on an equal basis.

Such a re-engagement has to go hand in hand with a difficult reckoning with America’s own racism, for the inequality perpetuated domestically mirrors the inequality maintained on a global scale.

Only in this way can America stop its descent and climb back into the community of nations.

John Feffer is the director of Foreign Policy In Focus.

This article was first published on Foreign Policy In Focus. Read the original article here

#Vietnam

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chaiaurchaandni · 7 months

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so white house officials are just rabid bloodthirsty dogs personified

#just openly saying that the zionist entity gets to violate as many inernational laws of war as it wishes to #ill say it again: i want to see the white house and the pentagon burn to the fucking ground #free palestine #palestine #gaza #israel #israeli war crimes #death to israel #long live palestine #glory to the martyrs #from the river to the sea palestine will be free

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ladystylestores · 4 years

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George Floyd death: Clashes across US as protesters demand justice

Media playback is unsupported on your device

Media captionProsecutor details charges of murder and manslaughter

Protesters have clashed with police in cities across the US over the killing of an unarmed African-American man at the hands of officers in Minneapolis.

Hundreds of people rallied outside the White House, which was briefly put under lockdown on Friday, demanding justice over the death of George Floyd.

Minnesota, New York, Atlanta and other regions have seen violent unrest.

A former Minneapolis police officer has been arrested and charged with murder over Mr Floyd’s death in custody.

Derek Chauvin, who is white, was shown in footage kneeling on 46-year-old Mr Floyd’s neck on Monday. He and three other officers have since been sacked.

Mr Chauvin, 44, is due to appear in court in Minneapolis for the first time on Monday.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Protesters run after riot police launch tear gas canisters in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on Friday

President Donald Trump has described the incident as “a terrible, terrible thing” and said he had spoken with Mr Floyd’s family, whom he described as “terrific people”.

What’s the latest on the protests?

Minnesota remains the most volatile region, with curfews ordered for the Twin Cities of Minneapolis-Saint Paul from 20:00 to 06:00 on Friday and Saturday evening.

Protesters defied the curfew on Friday. Fires, many from burning cars, were visible in a number of areas with fire officials unable to reach some sites.

Television pictures also showed looting in Minneapolis, with police officers thin on the ground.

Media playback is unsupported on your device

Media captionA police station is set on fire as unrest continues in Minneapolis

Only at about midnight (05:00 GMT) did police and National Guard troops move in in any numbers, the Minneapolis Star Tribune reports.

The Pentagon has put the military on alert for possible deployment in Minneapolis.

On Friday evening, crowds gathered near the White House in Washington waving photographs of Mr Floyd and chanting “I can’t breathe” – invoking his last words and those of Eric Garner, a black man who died after being held in a police chokehold in New York in 2014.

The White House was then temporarily placed on lockdown, with the US Secret Service closing entrances and exits.

In Atlanta, a state of emergency was declared for some areas to protect people and property. Buildings were vandalised and a police vehicle was set alight as protesters gathered near the offices of news broadcaster CNN.

Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms issued a passionate plea, saying: “This is not a protest. This is not in the spirit of Martin Luther King Jr. You are disgracing our city. You are disgracing the life of George Floyd.”

Image copyright Reuters

Image caption A police car burns as protesters gather near the CNN offices in Atlanta, Georgia

In New York’s Brooklyn district, protesters clashed with police, throwing projectiles, starting fires and destroying police vehicles. A number of officers were injured and many arrests made.

Mayor Bill de Blasio tweeted: “We don’t ever want to see another night like this.”

Image copyright Laura Fuchs

Image caption Protesters use milk to treat the sting of tear gas in New York City

In Dallas, officers launched tear gas canisters after they were pelted with stones.

Protesters blocked roads in Los Angeles and also in Oakland, where windows were smashed and “Kill Cops” graffiti sprayed.

What are the legal moves so far?

Mr Chauvin has been charged with third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter over his role in Mr Floyd’s death.

Mr Floyd’s family and their lawyer, Benjamin Crump, said that this was “welcome but overdue”.

The family said they wanted a more serious, first-degree murder charge as well as the arrest of the three other officers involved.

Hennepin County Prosecutor Mike Freeman said he “anticipates charges” for the other officers but would not offer more details.

Mr Freeman said his office “charged this case as quickly as evidence has been presented to us”.

“This is by far the fastest that we’ve ever charged a police officer,” he noted.

According to the criminal complaint, Mr Chauvin acted with “a depraved mind, without regard for human life”.

How did George Floyd die?

The full report by the county medical examiner has not been released, but the complaint states that the post-mortem examination did not find evidence of “traumatic asphyxia or strangulation”.

The medical examiner noted Mr Floyd had underlying heart conditions and the combination of these, “potential intoxicants in his system” and being restrained by the officers “likely contributed to his death”.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Demonstrations and protests have continued since Mr Floyd’s death in police custody on Monday

The report says Mr Chauvin had his knee on Mr Floyd’s neck for eight minutes and 46 seconds – almost three minutes of which was after Mr Floyd became non-responsive.

Nearly two minutes before he removed his knee the other officers checked Mr Floyd’s right wrist for a pulse and were unable to find one. He was taken to the Hennepin County Medical Center in an ambulance and pronounced dead around an hour later.

The Minnesota police handbook states that officers trained on how to compress a detainee’s neck without applying direct pressure to the airway can use a knee under its use-of-force policy. This is regarded as a non-deadly-force option.

What has the president said?

At the White House on Friday, Mr Trump said he had asked the justice department to expedite an investigation it announced on Friday into whether any civil rights laws were violated in Mr Floyd’s death.

The president also said “looters should not be allowed to drown out the voices of so many peaceful protesters”.

Image copyright EPA

Image caption People gather outside the White House chanting “I can’t breathe” and “Stop killing us”

Earlier, he described the rioters as “thugs” who were dishonouring Mr Floyd’s memory.

Social media network Twitter accused Mr Trump of glorifying violence in a post that said: “When the looting starts, the shooting starts.”

What happened in the arrest?

Officers suspected Mr Floyd had used a counterfeit $20 note and were attempting to put him in a police vehicle when he dropped to the ground, telling them he was claustrophobic.

According to police, he physically resisted officers and was handcuffed.

Media playback is unsupported on your device

Media captionMinnesota governor on George Floyd death: ‘Thank God a young person had a camera to video it’

Video of the incident does not show how the confrontation started, but a white officer can be seen with his knee on Mr Floyd’s neck, pinning him down.

Mr Floyd can be heard saying “please, I can’t breathe” and “don’t kill me”.

A former local nightclub owner has said Mr Chauvin and Mr Floyd both worked as bouncers at her venue in south Minneapolis up until last year, though it is unclear if they knew one another.

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easkyrah · 7 years

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Aeonian AU Series Part 2

Part One >>> Here <<<

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,

and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt — Sun Tzu

Aeonian 2

A deal with a God.

Between mortal and immortal. A need to survive, and a need for sensation. Instinct and desire.

There was a line threatened to be crossed.

Nesta wanted no part of it, and moved to shoulder her belongings, cold determination written across frozen features. The Archerons had long familiarized themselves with prison layouts, and another night in a cell would not be another shackle to their future.

It seemed Elain no longer wanted a part of that cycle, as it was she who surprisingly stood up—shocking both belligerents—and placed frail hands on small hips—bone that had weakened over the years, blemishing and bruising over the slightest touch.

“Nesta,” the middle Archeron sister said simply and firmly. “It’s either we keep running forever…or settle.”

A pause.

“I’m not settling with him.” Or any self-entitled male. Nesta jerked her head towards the God of War, who merely raised a dark brow.

“Him has a name, you know,” the God crossed his arms, golden plates of gleaming armor glinting, and Elain blinked. “Must I point out I could revoke the deal so you would not have a choice in the first place?”

Nesta seethed in her spot. “You must really want us if you’re resorting to threats.”

The God smiled, sheer strength radiating from him. “You, Nesta,” he said without a pause. “I only want you.”

Elain turned red.

Nesta hissed. “You males think you can get whatever you want, control whatever you want, receive what you please.”

The eldest Archeron sister would have expected the immortal creature to claim her then and there—to simply show he could—would have expected a snarl to rip her to shreds in front of her sister—would have expected the soldiers to come bursting in, pointing swords to their necks—

—but the God didn’t.

Hazel eyes stared at her, levelling her an easy gaze—unblinking at her unflinching, equally matched stare.

“If other men got what they wanted, controlled whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted,” he said slowly, “Then your tongue would be pleasuring, your body covering another’s, and your mind forced into willingness. That is the way of both the mortal man and male god.”

But not mine, the words lingered in the air.

“And yours?” she bit out.

The God’s eyes crinkled. “I would allow your tongue to snap otherwise, bones ready to attack me, and mind ready to extinguish my existence.” A pause. “I like your sniping.”

Nesta certainly did not like his sniping. “Perhaps you like the fight. And the gruelling victory afterwards.”

“Not everyone is a sadist.”

“Then you do not know of mortality.”

“And you have lived for an eternity? And seen that not every intent is to mar?”

“I believe the word for that is called naive.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be immortal, would you, Nesta?” The God tutted. “To have the luxury of time to simply ponder your decisions?”

Nesta snarled. “Get out of my house.”

“That’s not very nice, sweetheart.”

“Neither are threats, prick.”

“You have options.”

“Limited options for an unwanted solution.”

Elain slipped into the room, slightly panting. Nesta surveyed her sister’s slightly red cheeks and beginnings of perspiration dotting her forehead. She’d been so invested at launching barbed words she hadn’t noticed Elain had left. Distractions.

A faint curse left her lips. The God tracked every movement.

“The town’s soldiers approach the gardens.” Elain heaved, a hand pressed against her chest. “They’re carrying torches.”

Nesta stilled. Bit her tongue.

The pyre had been rebuilt as she’d raced back, Ianthe claiming human sacrifices for an enigmatic festival.

It seemed she had set her sights on who’d participate, unwilling or willing.

Time wasn’t a luxury she had, and each heartbeat pounded into her ears.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our lovely banter, I’ve got a schedule to keep. What will it be, Nes? You and soldiers who haven’t been laid in years—with a sister in her prime—or a God infatuated with you?”

Nesta swallowed, and stared at Elain, who wrung her hands nervously. The answer was clear on her face, of what she needed and wanted.

“Take my sister,” Nesta said lowly. “To safety. And then we have a deal.”

A tsk. “I want you, Nesta Archeron.” Calculating eyes turned towards Elain with an easy shrug. “No offense.”

Elain shuffled in her spot nervously, an animal trapped with no escape route. But Nesta could give her a way out.

“Take my sister first,” Nesta reiterated. “Then you can have me.”

She swore the God rolled his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. But if that is your term, then I will accept.”

Elain’s eyes widened, and Nesta lunged forward, her mouth twisted—but the God had already wrapped his arms, armor and all, around her sister’s waist—and vanished. Nesta cursed lowly, and spun around as the window glass shattered, fire and flames licking the walls of the house, the shouts of soldiers breaking the suffocated silence. The front door tossed open, and Ianthe stood in the doorway, hood covering her face, save for the sick smile etched across her face.

“Nesta Archeron,” she crooned, the glowing, blue gem on her forehead flaring, “It’s time to make amends.”

Nesta Archeron could only burn in her own ashes, simmering as the orange and red hues licked the house, smoke filling her nostrils and consuming her vision in a gray, gaunt inferno of gas. The wood crumbled around her, splintering on the ground below, snapping at the flames in great waves.

The guards leeched onto her skin, crawling around and over her pores, sucking her away from the collapsing refugee she’d once call home, and stole her out into the night, the tang of cold metal wrapped around her air, vacuuming her into a cold abyss.

It was a futile to struggle with chains clinking around her. It was beyond her to scream with a wet rag shoved down her throat. It was pointless to think as Ianthe, robe and all, swished from the burning house, hood lowered, eye perfectly healed.

There was only one thing Nesta was certain of:

Ianthe had to be claimed by a God.

And there was another thing she knew:

She was screwed.

A dead, mortal woman couldn’t keep Elain alive, but a God of War with an infatuation would suffice. But—she would be damned if she allowed her younger sister to toil in the hands of any male. First Tomas’s attack, second Feyre’s absence—Nesta would not allow Elain to be a third.

Ianthe seemed to read her mind, and she swirled to face the remaining guards. “Search the outskirts for her sister. She can’t be far from here.”

Then she stalked towards Nesta, a frozen smile tainting her lush, pale lips. Her hair on her skin prickled along with her nerves, heating her body in the cold of the night. The faint fragment of a whisper in the wind blew past her, dragging her along with the hard touch of metal’s hand.

Armor and arrogance dragged her along the dirt, thin twigs and grimy grins pricking at her exposed legs. Red shame and surrender no longer flushed her cheeks as they did three years ago. Instead, white-hot anger seared at her skin, enveloping her lungs in a casket of chills, head clouded with a haze of hatred.

“Dump her in the pit,” Ianthe ordered, and the guards flung Nesta’s body into a hollowed hole.

She flinched as she hit the bottom, hands scrambling for purchase, only to find grains of hand slipping easily past her fingers. The stench of the rotten and forgotten forced itself into her nostrils. Her feet crunched on feeble figments and connected with something hardened, dried, and yellowed. A closer inspection revealed scarlet spots of red strung with lines of moss and mold.

Nesta toed the figure, and bile rose in her mouth as a skull stared back her.

“Sleep tight, Nesta Archeron,” a sickly, sweet voice swept from the top. “I expect great things from you tomorrow.”

And with that, the slight tanging and shuffle of metal and the pulsing aura of something horribly twisted yet irrevocably powerful receded.

And so did her will.

II.

She tried to claw her way up, but the sand continued to pour around her. When she thought she could breathe, the sand washed down her, claiming her in a current of curses. She tried to dive to the sides, but her fingers met with hardness that cracked her nails. When she thought she had found an opening, her shoulder rammed into solid steel. She tried to rest, catch her breath, but the ground held the horror of the deceased, bone and marrow beyond definition.

The sand stuck everywhere, and she drowned in it. The grains rolled over her and crammed into every crevice. Her feet bled from chipped points, eyes half-closed in a state of overdue terror. If she looked closely enough, she could see Elain growing a garden of smoke and bone, Feyre emerging from stream of sand with the skin from her face shrunken to reveal the structure of the skull, and the phantom of Tomas rising from the mound and her body sinking below with him.

Hallucinations and the helldoomed, the hideousity and heartless. Was that her destiny? Reigning upon a throne of her own sorrows, drowning in a sea of her own spite, and flying only in her soundless melancholy, she supposed she only rose when spurred upon another’s hand.

But one day, she promised herself, Nesta would seize integrity and initiative.

Fate disagreed, and the charred lines forming the pentagon glowed faintly, faint whispers creeping over the hair of her skins. The ground rumbled, and she clawed desperately at the air, holding her breath. Slowly and with a shudder, the dirt lifted, the sand pouring down toward the abyss below. With a start, Nesta realized that she’d been tossed in a cage, filled with the bones of the fallen, weighed down by the sand.

The creaking sound from the cage’s ascent clocked in her ears. Each jolt sent shocks that emptied into her ribs, a secondary cage that rattled whenever the bars on bones crashed against the brown of earth. The slow momentum had her dirt-caked nails digging into her palms, wobbly knees knelt on the patches of cracked and culled.

When the first sliver of light flickered to a spot on the floor, she winced. Perhaps three years ago Nesta would have scrambled on her shins towards the ray. But time saw her fold, broken beautifully and wretchedly warped, molded into the pillar of ice and steel the fates saw her as today.

Her sight vanished into darkness when the layer of sand and dirt broke through the depths of the morning horizon. Her forehead throbbed to the swaying of the cage, vertigo and vices swirling through her head in a cacophony.

And when she did regain her vision, the cage thundering against the floor, jarring her adrenaline, Nesta wished she’d never opened her eyes.

Ianthe stood above her, resting upon a smooth stone, hood drawn and draped dramatically down, eyes glinting with malicious fever, filled with the fervor to forebear fear and fury in the flesh. The Head Priestess cocked her head, blond curls cascading down to the curve of her breasts.

“Cheating death only works for so long,” Ianthe hummed. “You’ve played with fate and fire, Nesta Archeron. And for that—you shall burn for that.”

Nesta surveyed her surroundings. Guards shouldered the perimeter, the cage encircled by a hexagon of red, marred lines, the hole behind her barren. In front of her laid a huge pyre of wooden crosses, Ianthe at the apex. Nesta’s eyes traced slowly back to the dark blue gemstone adorning the other woman’s headband, glimmering ghoulish gloom in daybreak’s dew.

The pyre—a purgatory for the punished, in which providence perpetuated pernicious practices, plotted by the premeditated powers to plague the pitted. The abyss—an excavated, empty hole encircled by earth and filled by enmity. Both offered no sanctitude or sanctuary, no savior to save her except herself.

Except—unless—

I can help you, sweetheart.

The pure, predatory look, oozing hypermasculinity typical of all males—especially those belonging to those warrior-bred bodies—that had given her a choice. An option. A facet to her future she hadn’t had in years.

I claim you. As mine.

Ianthe stalked down the wooden stairs, each step equal predator, full of feminine fatale. A current of cold wind tousled her hair, revenge and retaliation cocooning her robed figure. Her fingers locked around each other, silence reigning around her in utmost fashion.

Three guards broke from the outer circle, torches in their hands. The red and orange hues caught in the sunlight, a gesture with all the gleaming, golden glory to grant grudge’s gratification. Two strode to the sides of the pyre, lighting the cages stacked with wood, littering with scratches and claw marks sinking deep within the hardened strips.

Flame flickered, licking and leaping in the air, greedily inhaling the innocence of the surroundings, vacuuming all the vices, veering clear of all virtues and valerians. Each flare of fire exuded emanations of heat, dousing her in sweat and stench.

Nesta had long strayed from the fire, a type of luxury in the wilderness that drew together unwanted attention. She had tamed herself in the shades of stillness, cherishing the coldness that culled all confrontations. For when the fire burst into a conflagration, the flames created a conquest that no child could conquer, and when flames wrought upon a wildfire, no warnings or wards could save the wills from the wreckage.

The wood charred, and her skin prickled. She seethed in anticipation as the third guard approached Ianthe, bowing lowly and offering the last torch. The High Priestess delicately snatched the metal hilt, and dismissed her bodies of armor with a glance.

The two guards lurched forward, and approached the fringes of the cage. Gray covered their faces, only beady eyes boring into her. Hands yanked apart the chains, inserting keys, and pulling the bars apart. With a grunt, the third guard reached it—and before Nesta can protest—a collar chokes her neck.

Shell shock slid off quickly like the sand., Rage, unbridled ire, and raw anger flowed through her veins, a palpable poison. The state she’d been reduced to—the power Ianthe held—the enigmatic state Elain laid in—the option that lingered in the air—

Her lungs clouded, and heaving a cough twisted her insides, pain flashing through her like lightening. The guards hooked hard hands under her shoulders, and dragged her forward, her toes dragging in the dirt. Ianthe’s eyes watched her curved back, the sign of submission, dark malice glittering in her eyes.

“You do not escape me,” the woman hissed. “You do not decide my decisions. You do not comprehend my plans. You do not understand—which is why this path has been laid for you.”

The guards hefted her up the bottom steps, her shins knocking against each edge. Pain throbbed away into a numbing sensation, her skin slick with sweat. The heat danced over her, and she couldn’t see how the guards hadn’t already melted.

The guards tossed her at Ianthe’s feet, and the third one bent down, attaching a chain to the collar. He offered the end of the link to the other woman, who took it with a slow smile—for the viper had sunk in her bite, vicious in all things vile.

“Look up,” Ianthe crooned.

Nesta jerked back, ignoring the flash of pain ripping the flesh across her neck, and watched with grim satisfaction as the High Priestess toppled forward, skirts flaring around her frame.

The ephemeral euphoria ended quickly, as the two guards caught the blond haired woman at her elbows, the third one yanking her forward with a blow to her haid. Blackness swept across Nesta’s vision, and her wounds stung in the heat, ashes seeming to accumulate at the bottom of her throat.

The chain jerked up, and her head followed.

Nesta paused.

Beyond Ianthe was another pile of wood—fashioned together to form a coffin.

“I offer mortal and unclaimed Nesta Archeron,” Ianthe murmured, twirling the the chain around her wrist.

The guards pulled her forward.

“As a tribute to my Goddess,” she continued.

The collar tightened, and saliva stuck at her throat.

“Mortal to be maimed,” she hummed.

The guards tossed her into the pit, the wood chipping at her skin, tearing open old scars, and blemishing old bruises.

“Soul to be claimed,” she murmured.

Nesta’s body screeched in agony, blistering with bitterness.

“For revenge’s respite,” her voice steadily grew louder.

Nesta’s head enveloped her in a consuming inferno that drove her heartbeat into a matching crescendo.

“For the callous crimes committed,” the voice hissed.

Her sides cocooned in darkness.

“To halt and heighten humanity’s horrors,”

Nesta refused this to be her hate, dealt by Ianthe’s hand.

Ianthe dropped the chain into the coffin, fingers now wrapped around the flaring torch.

The flames grew closer around Nesta and the wood bit at her back. Her vision blurred, but her mind did now waver: she would not let this be her end.

Nesta made the decision that would forever change her fate.

Staring into the flames, she embraced the heat, and croaked out, “I, Nesta Archeron, accept Ares, and his claim.”

III.

The fire vanished.

A different type of heat filled her body, a small noise of content unwillingly escaping her throat.

Only slivers of smoke curled in the air, winding into whirlwinds of loops that leaped into the skies above, casting the horizon into a gray canvas. The knobs of her wooden barriers collapsed around her, the floor of the casket rising forward, her body following until her two feet landed solidly against the dry, scorched Earth.

She tilted forward—

—and into the arms of solid warmth.

“Nesta, sweetheart, my booty calls take me to the battlefields, not sacrificial statements. But if you wanted to offer yourself, all you had to do was ask.”

That voice.

Another one cut in, jarring her.

“Seize the girl!” Ianthe screeched, and when a heartbeat of silence met her command, she hollered another order.

An arrow bounced of the God’s armor just as Ares pressed her flat against his chest, wrapping his body around her—as a shield, Nesta realized.

Her chin tilted up, and she watched the God of War’s eyes connect with the High Priestess’s.

The brute cursed—or as much as Nesta could believe with his furrowed eyebrows—in a language long forgotten and buried from the human tongue.

Ianthe stopped screaming, and breathed out the God’s title in near shock.

Nesta supposed her God’s sheer size could leave any human in shambles, but both her and Ianthe were not those weeded out, wallowing in weeping weariness. Two sides cut from the rusted coin, both females remained unwavering forces, true to their own twisted truths.

The God sighed deeply, and hefted Nesta into his arms, running the pads of his fingers over her exposed skin. “Change of plans,” he grumbled, then pointedly look at her. “You really know how to choose your enemies.”

Great black wings exploded from the God’s back, tearing at the hinges of the bronze armor glinting in the hazed surroundings. In one beat, they shot from the ground, and a second later, a volley of arrows followed them.

The God angled her body so that she laid cradled to the open skies above, the tips of arrows barely grazing her sides. Nesta watched in inaudible awe as the arrows that did connect with Ares’s armor bent, and fell limply down the ground below.

Moments later, the assault halted, the wings carrying them lands away. The smoke cleared, clouds whipping by in blinks. The wind whistled in her ear, and the skin of her face felt sucked off to reveal the bones of her skull.

They rose higher, and her sight blurred. Sand ripped off her body, her clothes tearing. Years of stealing and hoarding her money’s worth dropped to the ground below, and she felt bile rising from her throat—not from the lack of money—though that would conjure later problems—but from the lack of strength.

She felt tired. Nearly defeated. Past emptiness.

She could sense this near abyss of a thing her kind called a breaking point.

“Get your paws off me,” Nesta seethed, her spine rigid ice, locked into frozen misery and formidable madness. The gushing currents slashed at her face, hair whipping around her, the god’s wings beating with mighty strokes as black canvas stretched across the palette of a horizon.

“These paws,” the God simpered, delicately raising a brow. “Are currently making sure you don’t plummet to your desirable death.”

He squeezed her waist to emphasize his point.

She instinctively gripped his shoulders tighter, ignoring the groan escaping from the god’s throat, and locked her fingers around the nape of his neck. A feeling akin to curiosity struck her, and her pinky stroked the outline of the large membrane curving around the edge of his wing.

His reaction was instinct: Ares, the God of War, tilted, and plummeted to the green grounds below, the air rushing around them in an inferno-like vacuum. If she could pinpoint an exact sound, she would have believed that this immortal being had whimpered.

And if that God had made that pathetic noise, then Nesta could only silently scream, her mind too-tormented, too overwhelmed and oppressed. She cursed the emerging sun above—that should have shed glory and good—should have protected all maidens in its’ blazing brashness—should have stopped her fears from three years ago that now crept alongside her in every inch—as she blacked out.

Forgive me, Elain, she thought silently to herself, and sent a brief breath of a prayer for Feyre’s wellbeing, for the first time, she willingly gave herself to the darkness.

And as her heartbeat slowed, she could sense another’s steadily alongside hers.

Claimed.

Did you see how I used Roman numerals as transitions because that’s the closest I could get to something related in Greek mythology? I crack myself up sometimes. Does that even make sense? Oh well ^.^. Anyways, HUGE thanks to everyone who patiently waited. I’m a horrible updater. That’s a fact I can’t find the lie.

Time for me to tackle all the submitted prompts (my inbox is never closed, so feel free to shoot me anything, though it may take me awhile to answer) and reply to all the tags! S/o to the @the-little-dragon-faery for always keeping me own my toes. I love you so much Cresta I don’t know what I would do without you.

Tags: @katgirl05, @latinafangurl, @nicoletapink, @katgirl05@llyrian-rhys, @maachan-is-hungry, @illyrianwings-nightcourt, @literarynonsense, @aqueenpromised, @16ozamericano, @hierophantangel, @miss-phengophobia, @samaykay912, @bluephoenix222, @yellow-spiraledbook, @hashtolanashoba, @aleex5253, @jjellybean, @daeniran

#aeonian #greek mythology #nessian #nesta archeron #ares/cassian #cassian #greek mythology based #acotar #acomaf #acowar #au

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icecubelotr44 · 7 years

Text

Storybrooke Has Fallen (2/?)

Summary: Based entirely too closely on the movie Olympus Has Fallen. Secret Service agent Killian Jones has always taken his job seriously - perhaps a little too seriously if his supervisor were to have her say. But when terrorists attack the White House with Emma and her son inside, Jones will stop at nothing to find them and get them to safety.

Rated: T, for violence, kidnapping, some dark themes

This is for the elusive @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable on the occasion of her birth. Which occasion, I won’t tell you, but suffice to say, she’s a few days younger than me. Also, tagging @killian-whump, @xhookswenchx, and @cocohook38. Adding in @eala-captian, @snowbellewells, @jsilva0117, and anyone else who’d like to be tagged.

Word count: ~ 4,600

From the beginning: ao3 / ffn

Current Chapter: AO3 / FFN

Emma’s morning started off at a rush. She needed to meet with the Korean delegation and answer a thousand protocol questions, needed to organize a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and figure out what the hell was going on under their noses in the South China Sea.

She needed to spend more than thirty seconds with her growing son.

Emma’s heart clenched when she thought again about how difficult the last year and a half had been on the both of them. The Fourth of July had come and gone and she’d barely seen Henry, let alone spent any time with him. It was usually Neal who took their son to see the parade and the fireworks, Emma living vicariously through their stories long into the evening - long past Henry’s normal bedtime.

Henry had been asleep in his room before the first explosion had even gone off.

Now she was being briefed on yet another crisis that needed her immediate decision, and all Emma wanted to do was take Henry, wrap her arms around him, and squirrel him away someplace where they’d both have time to stop and heal.

Their upcoming vacation would hopefully give them both time to reset and to just talk.

She zoned back in on the briefing as the Admiral continued to outline movements designed to test the resolve of ‘his’ Navy.

Emma was only just able to bite back the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue - technically it was ‘her’ Navy before it was his.

But with discretion being the better part of valor, Emma kept silent until he had finished.

“Threatening the North Koreans with military action in order to force them to stand down seems like a game of chicken that I’d rather not play.” Emma said as she leveled a hard look at her Speaker of the House.

Regina Mills was tough as nails, sometimes too cold in a world that required a delicate touch. Emma often had to remind the woman that a little bit of diplomacy now was better than a decisive action later that would force their hand and the future of the country.

“David?” Emma looked for his opinion as well, knowing that sometimes her own relationship with Regina colored her opinions.

Thankfully, her Secretary of Defense seemed to agree with her. “You’re assuming that the North Koreans would be rational and not call our bluff - which can be a dicey gamble on the best of days.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a bluff,” Regina snarked back.

Emma shook her head. “Graham?”

The Vice President looked up from the tablet he’d been studying. “I agree with David. This isn’t a risk we want to take.”

“All right. Thank you for sitting in, Madam Speaker,” Emma spoke formally, dismissing the woman without much offense. “I won’t hold you up any longer.”

Regina rose gracefully and inclined her head. “Good luck with your summit.” She turned to the door.

Emma waited until she’d left, the door closing with a bit more bang than she was sure Regina intended.

She just wanted to go hang out with Henry for an hour.

When Emma was finally free, she had less than half an hour before the delegation was scheduled to arrive. Leaving her protection detail behind, she took off at a brisk walk towards the residence, hoping to find Henry waiting for her.

He was curled up in one of the easy chairs, a book in hand and a smile on his face when he saw her.

Emma stripped off her blazer jacket, moving towards the walk-in closet to get changed while she listened to Henry explain the plot of the Harry Potter book she’d gifted him for his last birthday.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding up two different scarves.

Henry pointed to the one in her left hand before giggling when she draped the other around his neck. It had been too long since she’d heard her son’s laughter.

“Do we have to go to Camp David?” he whined, and Emma was inclined to agree with him. “I hate it there.”

She looked over her shoulder to see the way Henry’s face had fallen.

“Can’t we go somewhere else? The beach maybe?” he pleaded.

God, the beach sounded grand. A few days of sun and salt and tranquility. Maybe she could convince Kil-

No, not Killian. He wasn’t in charge. Not any more.

“That does sound nice,” Emma answered non-committally. “Look, I have three minutes before they come and get me. What say we run down to the kitchen and get some ice cream? What kind do you want?”

Henry grinned, thoughts of Camp David forgotten. “I’m gonna get the Rocky Road before you eat it all like last time.”

“I didn’t-”

“Madam President? It’s time,” her agent called from the doorway.

Henry buried his nose back in his book.

“I’m sorry, kid,” she whispered on her way out.

Emma’s mind was still on Henry through most of the introductions. She recognized Robert Gold - one of her former agents who had retired from government work to move to the private sector after Neal’s death. His smile was icy, clinical with years of field work, and usually Emma wouldn’t have paid it any mind.

But then the explosions rocked the very ground under her feet and Emma had no more time to think.

Henry.

Emma was being rushed to the safety of the bunker, her agents ignoring every shouted plea for someone to find her son. She was half-aware of tugging along the Korean diplomat, Gold and another man tight to his side as they ran. Gunfire echoed through the grounds and in the hallways and Emma’s heart was in her throat.

Henry was alone in the residence.

Her eleven-year old son was all alone and there were bullets and bombs and men who intended to do them all harm flying around the White House.

“Find Henry!” she shouted again and again. “Find my son!”

Someone spoke into a wrist-mic, “I need location on Believer, ASAP.”

Emma’s head whipped around at her son’s codename.

The agent shook his head. “As soon as I know, ma’am, you’ll know.”

Emma’s heart ran cold as the bunker doors locked down with a final ‘CLANG’.

Henry was out there somewhere.

And Killian wasn’t around to save him.

Emma waited impatiently as protocols were set in motion and the Pentagon was contacted. A feed had just been established when gunfire erupted again.

Inside the bunker.

Emma’s head whipped around just in time to see the last of her agents fall to the ground, the smell of gunpowder assaulting her and the sight of Gold’s weapon pointed between her eyes.

The muffled sounds of a Korean dialect filtered through Killian’s consciousness, but he didn’t move. They were close by and he was vulnerable, still pinned down and out in the open where he’d fallen. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, his years learning the language only helpful when his ears weren’t ringing and the adrenaline wasn’t playing chicken with his level of consciousness. The only movement he made was to tighten his finger over the trigger. Against protocol, sure, but he wasn’t taking a chance.

The voices faded down the hallway and Killian relaxed a fraction. Another moment to gather his strength and he finally managed to slide out from under the body pinning him.

He was covered in blood, hurt all over, and couldn’t pay it any mind.

He had to get to the Oval Office.

Killian limped down the hall, shaking his head to clear the fog as he went. Up the stairs and down another hallway and so many twists and turns that if he wasn’t moving completely on instinct, he likely would have gotten lost.

The door to the office was closed, whole, and untouched.

He cleared the room, relieved to see it empty and safe.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as he locked the door behind him. There was a moment to rest and regroup before he took stock of his surroundings. There was an old dress shirt of Neal’s hanging in the closet where the President’s safe was housed. The blood that saturated his own shirt was beginning to dry and stiffen the material so that it was impractical to move in. He stripped off the vest and ruined clothing, balling up the fabric and wiping away as much of the blood from his chest as possible.

There was a litany of bruises and lacerations crossing his skin, but nothing that would disable him and nothing that he could fix currently. So he shrugged on the new shirt and put them out of his mind.

A few twists to the combination lock and the safe opened under his touch. One more gun - and far more importantly a satellite phone - were dragged out and Killian all but collapsed into Emma’s desk chair a moment later.

He dialed the phone number from memory, breathing out a guarded sigh of relief when the signal went through.

It rang once, twice, three times before someone picked up.

“Mr. President?” the voice on the line was familiar, but distorted over the signal.

Killian shook his head before he could help himself. “Negative,” he answered.

“Identify yourself.”

“Echelon four.”

A pause. “Designator?”

Thank God. That voice he knew. Mary Margaret.

“Jolly Roger.”

Mary Margaret’s sharp gasp. “Hook?! Where are you?”

“I’m in the Oval Office.” He bit back a groan as he shifted and the tactical vest rubbed against his back. There was definitely a burn there looking for attention that he wasn’t going to give it. “Is the President in the bunker?”

God, he thought, please let one thing have gone right today.

“She-”

The line cut off and Killian’s heart leapt into his throat. Had he been discovered? Had the phone died? Had the terrorists found some way to scramble the secure line?

“Yes,” Mary Margaret’s voice settled him when she returned minutes later. “The President is secure in the bunker. But Killian, she’s being held hostage.”

A shudder ripped through him. “Who’s in charge out there?”

“Mills,” another clipped voice answered him.

Great, he thought idly. His last meeting with Regina Mills had ended when he’d told her to do something that shouldn’t be repeated in polite company.

He continued to report the situation to the Pentagon, trying to remain detached and get the information to the proper authorities as concisely as possible.

“Henry? What about Henry?” He couldn’t hold out any longer. He couldn’t help Emma at the moment, but if her son was still in the building, Killian would move mountains to find him and save him.

Or he’d die trying.

“We don’t have a status on him, but he’s presumed to be inside.”

Killian looked down at the school photo he’d found in the tactical vest moments before. “Well, they’re looking for him. God only knows what they want, but it’s a good bet it’s to try and force Emma’s… the President’s hand.”

There was a commotion over the phone and Killian did his best to wait for orders. He was itching to move, to find Henry, to get him out.

“All right, Jones. Stay put.”

“Sir,” he pleaded with her. “I’m boots on the ground. Use me.”

“We’ll get back to you, Hook. Stay with the line.”

The signal cut out and Killian fumed. Bloody useless politicians and their red tape. Got to cross all the ‘t’s’ and-

The door burst open and a men followed. Killian dove for cover behind the desk, on his hands and knees watching the feet move carefully into the room. The sound of gunfire would no doubt draw more men to the room, and Killian needed the element of surprise on his side for as long as possible.

Emma glared defiantly at the man who’d once been on her husband’s security detail. He smirked, then grabbed her by the scarf and tried to yank her off her feet. When she stumbled but didn’t fall, Gold punched her in the sternum and then grabbed her by the throat. He pulled her slowly towards him, squeezing until Emma’s legs began to buckle underneath her. He only let go when she finally hit the floor, leaving her gasping for air and struggling to sit up.

People around her were screaming.

David was sitting next to her, trying to help her regain her balance.

Where was Henry?

Was he safe?

And then, a thought she had no business thinking - Would Killian come for them?

The other man who’d been in charge of the Korean diplomat’s security detail stepped forward, a cold smile on his face that shot a bolt of pure, unadulterated fear through her. This man was the most dangerous one in the room.

“Who are you?” she sneered. He wasn’t Korean, that much she knew.

The man smirked, but didn’t say a word to her. He only nodded to one of his subordinates, watching as the man grabbed her and put a gun to her head.

Oh God, please don’t let them record this. Please don’t let Henry see it.

Emma shut her eyes, determined not to let any of the other members of her staff see the fear that was gripping her heart. If she were going to die here, she wanted to keep her dignity.

It might be all she had left.

There was a bit of a commotion to her left, and Emma cracked open an eye to see Gold manhandling Minister Lee in front of the camera that connected them to the Pentagon.

Then she was dragged behind him.

“Minister Lee? Sir, are you safe?” Emma couldn’t picture the man who was speaking, but she recognized the voice as one of the Chiefs of Staff - maybe Army? She didn’t really have time to think about it.

“Are you with the President?” he asked. “Sir? Can you hear-”

Gold put a bullet through the minister’s head.

Emma wanted to scream, but she didn’t have time before she, too, was marched in front of the camera.

Please, God, don’t let Henry ever see this.

“Don’t negotia-” she was cut off and dragged out of sight.

The dangerous terrorist - she heard one of his men call him Hades - stepped in front of the screen. “I have your Commander-in-Chief. Now stand down.”

“Who are you?”

“The man in control of your White House. Now stand your men down.”

Don’t do it, she muttered angrily in her head. Take these bastards out.

“Stand down!” she heard the general shout.

Emma was tossed against David, her back connecting painfully with the step behind her. She glared at the Korean, but then Gold squatted down in front of her, his gun pointed between her eyes again.

“How could you do this?” she wondered out loud, not really expecting an answer. Her entire body was shaking, adrenaline and fear and relief that she hadn’t been killed already warring for dominance within her.

God, please let Henry be safe. Please let Killian come and find him.

Emma swore that if she made it out of this, her first order of business was going to be to find him, apologize, and reinstate him to the head of her and Henry’s security details.

She needed him here for this.

“Put your hands up,” Gold ordered, waving the gun at the railing above her head.

Emma sneered back at him. “Screw you.”

Gold didn’t get angry, he didn’t hit her or shoot her or any of the things Emma expected him to do.

He simply nodded to his side and the same man who had manhandled her in front of the camera moved towards the group of staff members huddled in another corner of the room. Emma watched, terrified now, as he grabbed the staff nurse - Ghorm? - and yanked her forward.

The nurse was crying.

Emma, David, and Graham were all shouting.

Admiral Grump was swearing.

“No!” Emma screamed when Gold turned his head and nodded.

It was over in an instant, the nurse sprawled across the floor with a bullet in her head and her blood on the floor.

If Emma wasn’t sure that her entire body had turned into a quivering puddle of furious goo, she’d have gotten to her feet and pummeled Gold.

But she was simply too angry and too terrified to react.

“There’s a reason I never voted for you,” Gold stated, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated the murder of an innocent woman. Then he pointed the gun at David and cocked it.

Emma’s hands rose immediately, docile and waiting to be shackled to the railing.

She couldn’t lose David, too.

Everyone around them was still screaming, but Emma had gone numb to it all. She watched, detached, as the rest of her senior staff were all shackled to the same railing. She trained her eyes on the other hostages who were herded into a corner and zip tied together. She prayed to a god she wasn’t sure was watching to save them.

To save her son.

To save her if he had the time left over.

The Koreans spoke their native language to each other, conversing about whatever nefarious deeds they were planning, Emma was sure. It didn’t matter. None of it did at the moment because she was helpless. Useless. Not even able to protect her son, never mind the entire country and the free world.

“Bring Miss Swan here,” their leader demanded a short time later.

Emma felt her hands untied and was hoisted to her feet and up the steps to stand in front of him.

Next to one of her men, the computer nicknamed ‘the football’ - the one that housed the country’s nuclear codes - lay abandoned.

Emma’s blanched.

“I have no interest in your nuclear codes,” he told her conversationally. “Your Pentagon will have already changed them. No?”

She’d forgotten. Yes. The codes were already changed and safe.

Then she was forced into an office chair in front of one of the computers. What did they expect her to do there? Emma could just about handle word processing - she had staff that made the computers work.

Or Henry, if it came down to it.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked again. “You’re not Korean, and you’re certainly not representing South Korea if you are.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he told her. And then spouted North Korean propaganda at her that explained nothing.

“It’s a whole new world, dearie,” Gold sneered from behind her.

Gold. How the hell was he caught up in all of this? How could he betray their country like this?

“What’s the going rate for a soul these days?” she threw over her shoulder at him. “I never would have taken you for a traitor.”

That had pissed him off. “I’m no less a traitor than you are, dearie,” he yelled.

He’s delusional.

Emma’s level of fear ratcheted up another notch. If he thought she was a traitor for helping globalize their economy, then he couldn’t be reasoned with.

They were all going to die.

“What’s it cost to buy a presidency nowadays, anyway?” he mused.

They were all going to die.

Gold had leaned in, telling her how he was a rookie at treason compared to her when Emma struck.

She butted her head forward, slamming her forehead into hers and taking sweet satisfaction in watching him stumble and fall.

“Gotta keep your gloves up, Gold,” she taunted, ignoring the ringing in her ears from the blow she’d landed.

Gold recovered quickly, grabbing her and pulling his weapon.

“Enough!” the other man yelled. “We need her. For now.”

That scared Emma far more than Gold’s wrath ever would.

And then her blood froze in her veins as Hades turned away and spoke in Korean. She picked out one word.

“Henry.”

Henry?

“What the hell do you want with my son?” she hissed, livid.

He didn’t answer her, of course. Only smirked.

Emma listened dispassionately as he spoke with Regina, listing out his demands and spewing more political nonsense and vague threats on her life and the lives of her staff before cutting the feed once more.

“The United States of America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” she spat at him.

Then. Oh, then. Then Emma started to really fear for the future if his plans came to fruition.

“Who said anything about negotiating?” he asked, waving a switchblade knife about before moving down the line of her senior staff.

They were screaming. Everyone from Graham to David to Ruby.

He finally pointed to Leroy, watching disinterestedly as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was maneuvered to kneel in front of him, Leroy’s head forced against a chair.

Oh God, they were going to kill him in front of her. Had it really only been that morning that she’d wanted to tear into him for calling it his Navy? She’d let him get away with the misogyny for the foreseeable future if only he wasn’t murdered.

The knife rested at Leroy’s throat, the man holding him down by the hair. “Admiral Grump, your Cerberus code, please.”

The number and severity of the curses that ran through Emma’s head would have made her parents blush - if she’d ever had any.

No one was supposed to know about Cerberus. No one except those with the highest classification statuses.

Definitely not Gold.

And not this man, either. So how did he know?

Leroy just stared at her, and Emma knew he’d die before betraying her.

“You kill him, you won’t get the code.” she assured.

He nodded at her, but he wasn’t agreeing.

“I won’t ask again.” He dug the knife deeply into Leroy’s neck, finally pulling a gasp from the man, but nothing more.

Emma glared.

Leroy stared at her.

The knife bit in deeper, and Leroy groaned.

Emma could see the blood beginning to trickle down onto the seat of the chair.

Cerberus couldn’t be activated without all three codes, so it wouldn’t matter if they couldn’t get hers.

Leroy wouldn’t break. Emma knew that as surely as she knew that the bastards doing this would never get her code.

And then Leroy cried out, the knife starting to do real damage.

He’d never give up, but that didn’t mean she had to watch Leroy die in front of her. Not when there was something she could do.

“Give it to him, Leroy,” she ordered.

“Yes, sir.” Leroy didn’t hesitate after that. He glared, but he dutifully spit out his code, with a voice so hoarse that Emma worried his vocal chords had been damaged.

Anatomy wasn’t her strong suit in school, but it didn’t make a difference.

Leroy never took his eyes off of Emma.

Killian waited until the opportune moment, leaping out from his hiding spot and cutting the man off at the knees. Both weapons clattered across the floor as the men hit the ground, Killian only just managing to stay on top of his assailant.

The man rolled and thrashed, managing to get some purchase underneath him when Killian locked an arm around his throat. He held on tight when the man rose, struggling to get a grip on the hair atop the man’s head for leverage.

His back collided with the wall, knocking the wind from him and lighting up the burn on his back, but Killian still held on.

Teeth sunk into his forearm, fingers scrabbled to get hold of his wrist or his own fingers, an elbow drove back into his sternum.

Killian gasped his way through the pain, holding on for dear life for as long as he could.

But then the man ducked and rolled and Killian found himself tossed against the desk, body scrambling to stand before he’d even registered the movement.

A knife sliced his thigh, and he used the pain to his advantage.

Focus.

Draw in the enemy.

Use his momentum against him.

A minute later and it was all over. Killian’s own knife buried to the hilt in the man’s neck, a look of shock still on the Korean face, even in the last throes of death.

Killian slumped to the ground.

There was a tattoo that he didn’t recognize behind the man’s ear, and he snapped a picture of it with the satellite phone.

“Blanchard?” he spoke into the phone as soon as the ringing stopped. I’ve got a commando here with something that might identify the group.”

“Is he alive?”

Killian shook his head in disbelief, even though he knew she couldn’t see it. “Ask me a serious question.”

There was a murmur in the background and Killian tried to wait patiently.

“No one recognizes it.”

“Bloody hell,” he swore. “Well, whoever they are, they’re good. They’re well trained and bloody well organized. But I guess you know that already. What do they want?”

Secretary Mills spoke up. “They want us to recall the fleet and pull our troops out of the DMZ.”

“Well isn’t that fan-bloody-tastic.”

Mary Margaret didn’t respond to that. “There’s more though, Killian. NORAD just reported that a Cerberus code has been entered. There’s only two more and they’ll have gotten what they want.”

Cerberus? What on Earth was that?

He asked.

And was summarily told that it was classified.

Killian almost burst out laughing. Classified? He was sitting in the Oval Office with more guns than he wanted to think about strapped to him, and an army of commandos between him and the President.

“I think I have the proverbial need to bloody know. Sir.”

It was a missile failsafe system, apparently. One that would render the entire country useless if someone, say North Korea, launched their own nuclear weapons at them. With this group in charge of Cerberus, they could detonate any of the ICBM’s that were fired back without consequence.

And the codes could only be changed through the self-contained system.

That was in the bunker with Emma.

“Bloody hell!” he swore again. “Who has the codes?”

He wasn’t surprised at the answer. “The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Defense, and President Swan.”

His head dropped back against the desk where he was still slumped. “Well, now we know why they want Henry.”

Emma was as stubborn as they came. And she was far more loyal to the country than she was to her own life. Even if they got the other two codes - and Emma would order the men to give them up to save their lives - the terrorists would never get hers.

Not unless they put a gun to Henry’s head.

Secretary Mills was explaining just that to him. “President Swan will hold out to the end, but if they get Henry. If they can threaten him in front of her…”

“No one hold up under those circumstances,” Mary Margaret muttered. Killian’s memory flashed to Blanchard’s own son, and he didn’t have to try to hard to think about what she was imagining at the moment.

“Jones,” Mills barked. “Find Henry. He’s your first priority. Get him out of there. Then we’ll see where we’re at.”

Thank the bloody gods, he thought idly, his heart unclenching a little at the explicit permission to do what he’d ached to accomplish since finding out Emma was unreachable.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, cutting off the line.

Find Henry.

Save Henry.

Move.

#cs ff #ouat ff #whump #captain swan #cs au #my fic #storybrooke has fallen #nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable #more whump #minor character torture #action/adventure #and all that jazz

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patriotsnet · 3 years

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Why Did Republicans Vote Against The First Responders Bill

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Why Did Republicans Vote Against The First Responders Bill