You guys YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!

You won't believe what I found in a random Toy R' us clearance aisle, Which I only went in to scape from the screams of a "distressed " mother in the courtyard, her voice was so high it pierced through my noise canceling headphones (a most impressive feat), I'm not kidding, hopefully she found her kid because if if wasn't for her and my need to [leave were the drama was been happening tm] I wouldn't have found these gems, I wish her good fortune forever more.

Lost children aside, I lost it when I lay eyes on theses, straight up say out loud, "I don't care how much you cost YOU ARE COMING WITH ME!!!!"

They are paperback volumes of 光が死んだ夏, or Hikaru ga Shinda Natsu which is an amazing Japanese manga series written and illustrated by Mokumokuren, Ghosts, trauma, a bit of homophobia, codependency, twisted romance, ELDRITCH HORRORS!!!!! a side of attempted murder. It has a little bit of everything, and Mokumokuren sensei's art is Breathtakingly haunting, for example, the dialog boxes merge with the background to illustrate our titular boy ever decreasing mental health, it has SO much going for it, and it IS AMAZING.

Do yourself a favor and try this manga out, is soooo good.

Need to forcibly train myself to respond with the same greeting as the person greeting me why do we have 4+ greetings please stop

Stable work || Reader x Zevlor ||

SUMMARY: Where the reader takes care of the Hellriders horses and gentle commander Zevlor is the first one to notice her hard work. Written in the middle of the night. Just a short one. Wordcount: About a 1000 Fluff

Growing up on a farm thought her how to best care for many animals. But beyond that, a profound love for all creatures had grown. And she would not part with any of it, from the awe-inspiring ickiness of birth, to the solemnity of death. Not even now, after she had moved to the city. People couldn't quite comprehend why she still chose to work amidst the mud and manure when the urban landscape could offer her so much more. She had found the transition from her rural upbringing to city just too great to entirely leave her roots behind. Each feeding, grooming, and tending to the Hellrider's horses provided her with a grounding stability amidst the chaos of urban living. Back in her hometown, she had her family – people unafraid to dirty their hands, indifferent to titles and fancy attire. It was all love and warmth, and while she missed the comfort of home, the small town had no more opportunities to offer her. What she hadn't fully anticipated was the profound loneliness that accompanied setting out on her own. The pungent smell and the messiness of her tasks likely explained the lack of people around as she worked. Occasionally, someone would arrive to pick up the horses, but they paid her little mind, even as she assisted them in retrieving saddles and reins.

"But you are a good boy, aren't you?" She spoke out loud, stroking the stallion between his ears. "You always wish me a good morning, don't you?" The horse nickered in response, pawing at the floor, ready for more attention. She stroked its soft and warm nose and pressed a kiss on its fur. "Don't tell the others, but you are my favorite." She laughed at her own words, at the absurdity of talking to a horse.

"Don't worry; this one's not the gossiping type." A voice nearby startled her, causing her to pull away from the horse with a jump. The horse, equally startled, blew air forcefully from its nose in response. "God's, I'm sorry. I should not have approached you two like this," the man said. "It's alright," she replied, her heartbeat gradually returning to normal. "No harm done. Just caught me off guard, is all." She offered a reassuring smile to the man, appreciating his concern for both her and the horse. She didn't recognize the man's face, but the distinct armor and insignia emblazoned upon it were unmistakable. "Commander," she acknowledged with a quick bow.

"Zevlor," he replied, extending his hand.

"Commander Zevlor," she repeated, then hesitated, glancing down at her hands, coated in dirt and grease. "I'm dirty, I should not sha-"

"Nonsense," he interrupted with a warm smile, dismissing her concerns. "Nothing dirty about it, especially not from my own horse," he explained, shaking her hand with enthusiasm. His smile was quite infectious, his handshake strong and warm as she told him her name.

"You have a good horse, Commander Zevlor.'' "Yes, and you seem to know your way around him. He's usually much more standoffish," Zevlor observed, reaching out to his horse and patting its neck with care. She imagined those hands, currently gentle with the horse, gripping reins firmly, leading his mount into the chaos of battle. It was a stark contrast, the tenderness he displayed now versus the potential harshness required in the heat of conflict. "I must confess, I haven't noticed you here before. Have you joined us recently?" he asked.

"About a month now, sir," she replied, her gaze fixed on the commander as he interacted with the horse. "But don't worry. Most people don't notice me; I am often crouched behind the stable walls, and it's easy to avoid someone covered in hay and muck."

"No, the fault is mine. I should have inquired about those caring for my horse. And for doing so, I thank you," Zevlor said graciously, looking at her. His demeanor was far gentler than she had anticipated from previous encounters with other commanders. It made her smile back in return.

"Just doing my job, Commander," she responded , though in her heart, she knew it was more than just a job. Her dedication to the care of these animals mirrored the commitment others had to their weapons. Zevlor's acknowledgment made her feel seen, a rarity in her routine. "You need your horse?"

"Yes, please," the commander replied. She strode past him, toward the tack room, retrieving the saddle and bridle with practiced efficiency. Reentering the stable, she was met by the horse's gentle whinny. Zevlor followed her inside the stable and without a a word, he took the bridle from her hands, allowing her to settle the saddle onto the horse's back. Zevlor swiftly attended to the bridle before standing beside her, offering his silent assistance once more. Making room for him, she started adjusting the straps of the saddle. Their hands brushed softly as they both reached for the same strap, a fleeting physical connection that sent a warm shiver through her. The heat rose to her cheeks as she suddenly lost her composure. Zevlor, sensing the pause in her movements, glanced down at her, his eyes momentarily meeting hers. Feeling his gaze on her, her heart started to race, and she found it difficult to maintain eye contact. Mortified by her own reaction, she wished she could disappear into the stable walls, or cover herself in hay and crawl off. Summoning all her composure, she forced herself to speak, though her voice came out as a mere whisper. "Thank you, Commander, for your help." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she cursed herself for letting her nerves get the better of her in his presence. "It's my pleasure," he spoke. She double-checked if everything was adjusted accordingly before she took the reins in her hands, gently guiding the stallion out of its stable. The horse swung its neck in excitement at the newfound space to move around. She gave the reins to Zevlor, and as he led his horse away, he spoke. "I will see you soon, (y/n)." Hearing him remember her name, she couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness, worsening the already excisting blush on her cheek. As he walked away, she watched him go, already feeling nervous and excited at the thought of their next encounter.

number one Noel simp here- imagine the reader having the bigggest, most obvious crush on Noel and him having absolutely no clue about it. The other choir members have caught on to it way way before he even suspects it

“Being the only gay man in a small rural high school is kind of like having a laptop in the stone age- sure you can have one but there’s nowhere to plug it in.”

“[Supressed screaming]”

Noel Gruber x male!reader

〜♪

summary: read request

A/N: Hi anon ! apologies if this isn’t exactly what you wanted but I couldn’t find another situation I liked to go along with this, but I hope you’ll enjoy this !

—————

Every time [name] would go by Noel his heart always started to speed up. Why did he feel this way about Noel?..being completely closeted as well, was just great! not exactly great but, he didn’t have a crush on Noel. Did he?

How about joining the choir? That sounded like a wonderful plan! But..he soon found out Noel was also in the choir.

So now decides to ignore his feelings for Noel and just enjoy his time in the choir. But [name] also felt so joyful when Noel was around, a day came when after class Constance nugged your arm giggling a bit. However the message she was trying to send [name] went right over his head.

Days became months in the choir then the Fall Fair came to town and what came along with it was the fair’s most famous ride! The Cyclone! Constance kept wanting everyone to ride it so they ended up riding but they rode The Cyclone last as it seemed like the longest ride there.

The apex of the loop came, fear overwaved everyone as the cart derailed, even in his last moments [name] grabbed onto Noel before landing an impact onto the ground. Thoughts raced through his mind and..it came to [name] the reason that he felt this way towards Noel was because he had a crush on him. Why did it take an accident for [name] to realize it?!..

His train of thoughts came to an end as the choir made an impact with the ground. Darkness was next, complete and utter darkness. All alone he was, until someone’s hand slapped his face which caused [name] to wake up. [name] snapped out of the darkness “A warehouse?..” he said to himself, brushing himself off he got up. Mischa was the one who slapped [name] to get up, but the person [name] looked for was Noel, he seemed to calm down.

Should he tell Noel now? Maybe?.. no absolutely not! Uranium wasn’t the friendliest when it came to those that are different and anyways Noel probably isn’t even gay. However, how wrong [name] was, “Meet Noel Gruber,” the fortune telling machine said it goes on to say, “Catchphrase!”

So with that Noel starts, “Being the only gay man in a small rural high school..-“ [name] has a slight blush form on his face, was there going to be a chance between him and Noel..? “..-laptop in the stone age- sure you can have one but there’s nowhere to plug it in.” Noel finishes, though [name] hadn’t heard the whole thing the pink dust on his face got brighter and brighter. It catches the eyes of Noel, as he ran off from the embarrassment of having to say that out loud in front of the choir, but how come he’s never noticed it from [name] before?

Everyone said their cataphases, then Ocean started and finished a solo..In the nonsense of Ocean’s non stop talking Noel takes the chance and goes over to [name].

Nervousness filled [name], he barely talked to Noel in the first place because of how nervous he got around Noel. “it’s probably too late..anyways..” [name] unconsciously said out loud, Noel wasn’t dumb, he knew the other had something for him, but was the the time to confess to him? It’s better to keep a longing ideal of someone to yourself instead of facing the truth..but should the two take their shots?.

On Personal Identity: It's Complex And Personal

Once gay marriage was upheld by SCOTUS, the right needed a new, under-represented group to attack in order to placate their base’s lust to make themselves feel superior and punish those they deem inferior.

It took a few years for conservatives to really hone in on who to attack. Finally, their broken moral compass led them right to the transgender community. To the right, transgender individuals have the ick factor of gay people on steroids, and since there are a lot fewer of them, the pushback would be minimal. Many people know someone in their family, someone they love, a close friend, or who is gay. This isn’t true of the trans community. If you are a morally vacuous bully, the farther down you can punch, the better.

Think about this strategy for a moment. The right tried desperately to make gay people their scapegoats for all that was wrong with America, and they lost. They lost big. They got bitch-slapped by Will and Grace, Ellen, and thousands of other examples that gay Americans are as normal, if not more so, than their Bible-thumping neighbors. Instead of learning even the most basic lesson from their loss, the right decided the best thing to do was punch down even farther on the social and cultural ladder. This right here should tell you everything you need to know about modern-day conservatism. As Adam Sewer poignantly stated in The Atlantic about the right, “cruelty is the point.” When it comes to people who identify as transgender, the only question that really matters is, “So fucking what?” Here is where I want to acknowledge that I am not completely aware of the terminology when it comes to people who identify as transgender. I’m trying to learn. If I misidentify or make a mistake in verbiage, I apologize in advance.

What difference does it make to Aunt Freedom and Uncle Tight Ass if anyone, especially people they don’t know and will never encounter, identify as transgender? The answer is, “Not a God damn thing!” There are side arguments about how respecting which pronouns someone wants to be referred to by is an affront to God, the Founding Fathers, and Strunk & White, but they are 100% bullshit. The argument, “Boys/men competing against girls/women is unfair" is specious and nonsensical as “it goes against nature." Especially since almost all of these arguments come from people who haven’t given a damn about women’s sports and/or who have spent years speaking about them derisively. The only time they’ve given a single thought to women’s sports is when they can use them to prop up their bullshit worldview and punch down.

Personal identity isn’t black-and-white. It isn’t something that is defined by others. If it was, then it wouldn’t be called “personal identity."

I have no idea what it is like to identify as part of the LBBTQIA community. I do have an understanding of what it is like to not feel comfortable in your own skin and not be accepted, and this understanding alone makes my heart break for the way the LGBTQIA community is viewed and treated for either being comfortable with who they are or for trying to be. I grew up in a very small town in a very sparsely populated county in rural Idaho. Anyone on the outside looking in would assume I fit in perfectly. I was a white, Christian, straight male in a society that was 99.999% run and dominated by white, Christian, straight males. Hell, I came from an upper-middle-class family, and my father held a prominent position in the community and the local church. You couldn’t script a more perfect character to play the lead part in “Fits Right The Fuck In.” However, never, not once, did I ever feel like I fit in. Who I am, how I feel about myself, and who I know I was (not wanted to be but was) never fit the role I was “born to" and “written for me.” I wanted to fit in. I tried to fit in. I did everything I possibly could to fit in. All of this led to anger and frustration. When I was growing up, this anger and frustration were mostly directed at the community in which I lived because I blamed them for not fitting in. While they were a big part of the problem, I was just as culpable. I was trying to be someone I wasn’t.

It took a number of years for me to truly realize not only that I was part of the problem of trying to fit into something or somewhere to which I didn’t belong, but also that I needed to begin to discover who I was or am. While I was going to college at Utah State University, I got glimpses of this, but that was even closer to being realized because Logan, Utah, was only an hour away from my hometown and only slightly less regressive and repressive.

It wasn’t until I attended graduate school at Michigan State University that I really started to be me. I’m pretty sure this is why I feel such a strong bond to East Lansing, where I still live, going on year thirty-eight of a five-year plan. Even through all of this, I still don’t really feel comfortable in my own skin. I never really feel like I belong in just about any social situation. I’m not sure if these feelings are remnants of past experiences and conditioning; there are still parts of me that haven’t been realized, or something else. What I do know is that these sixty-plus years of feeling lost, not fitting in, and not being myself have not been kind to my psyche. I cannot even begin to imagine how someone in the LGBTQIA community must feel because they have all the things I’ve felt at much higher levels and so many more pressures, abuses, and ridicule to the nth degree. Whenever I’m in a group situation where they ask everybody to identify themselves and say a little bit about themselves when it is my turn, I give the boilerplate answer but finish with, “Something most people don’t know about me is that on the weekends, I dance under the name “Raven.”” I say this as a joke, but there is an underlying, not true, but possible truth to it. I’ve always leaned more toward the cultural definition of “feminine.” Almost all of my friends throughout my life have been women. I feel at home around women. I’ve always preferred to have longer hair. In a group of men, I have absolutely never felt I fit in. There is a rooster inside of me. It took me a while to understand this, but it is absolutely true.

Not being who you truly feel you are and are supposed to be is a horrible feeling. Why on earth would anyone deny this to someone else? Why would anyone go out of their way to punish and/or ridicule people, either trying to discover this for themselves or for fully realizing it? All the answers I’ve seen given to justify these behaviors are specious at best and batshit crazy at worst. Don’t give me some bullshit argument and try and substitute it for an argument against the transgender community - What if someone identifies as a serial killer or child molester? Are we supposed to be okay with that?” Sell crazy somewhere else.  The transgender community harms society. No one is being harmed by someone from the LGBTQIA community being true to how they feel about themselves. No one is being harmed by honoring which pronouns someone wants to be referred to by. NO ONE. Every single argument or example you can make that tries to say otherwise is 100% rectally extracted. The vast majority of pedophiles who are grooming children are Christian youth pastors, the clergy, and members of your local police force, not the LGBTQIA community.

Pronouns: We're having a hissy-fit over pronouns? How dumb is that? A lot of people I know don’t use their given names. My maternal grandfather went by his middle name his whole life. One of my brothers has gone by three different names over the years. How did this affect my life? I’m sure I probably referred to my brother by an outdated name once or twice, only to be corrected, and then I moved the fuck along. In other words, it didn’t affect my life one scintilla. If it did, then the only reason would have been that I was the problem. Pronouns: Part II: This isn’t about proper names. This is about “men” wanting to be referred to as “she/her/they.” This is social and linguistic chaos.” Is it? Is it, really? Do you need the world to be so black and white and so perfectly defined that any ambiguity or things that go against your preconceived norms are automatically labeled “bad” or "dangerous"? The world is a very, very, very complex place. I understand the desire to have it make sense on every single level, every time, all the time. However, that isn’t reality. That is, you want to force reality to fit your worldview. The world is always going to win that battle. You're not accepting its complexity doesn’t impact it at all. The only one who suffers in this situation is you. The world doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings, your beliefs, your preconceptions, what your mom and dad taught you, or what your preacher said last Sunday.

Attire: Does it matter what someone else wears? How does Bob, who now goes by Sarah, wearing makeup, a dress, and pumps impact your life? I'm pretty sure it doesn't, and if it does, you are the problem. Does this make you feel uncomfortable? So? I have a deep, visceral reaction to people eating cheesecake, cauliflower, and dozens of other foods. As repulsive as these things are to me, I’m not advocating for any laws against them. Their personal preference doesn’t really affect me in any meaningful way. Also, why is it so damn important to be able to perfectly identify someone by how they dress? Are men’s egos so fragile they can’t stand the thought of someone thinking they are a woman or being wrong when they hit on or catcall someone? (This is a rhetorical question because we all know the answer is a resounding "yes.") However, this isn’t the fault of the person wearing the clothes, no more than it is when a woman in a “skimpy” dress is raped. They aren’t the problem. They aren’t the cause of or responsible for the actions of others. Bathrooms: Since when do you see someone’s genitals in a bathroom unless you intentionally look at them? If a transgender woman walks into a women’s bathroom, there aren’t any urinals (because there are none). You aren’t seeing their plumbing unless you bust down a door and start poking around. If this happens, who is the “weirdo” here? I’m pretty sure it is you. I’m really not sure I understand the fear here. The Children—the go-to when all your other arguments have epically failed. “I don’t want some guy in a public restroom when my daughter is in there.” The question has to be asked again: “How do you know it is a “guy””? Do you feel up to everyone who goes into a women’s restroom whenever your daughter is in there? If you do, you should be arrested because you are a pervert. Transgender women aren’t using the ladies' room to hit on your daughters. They are using the ladies' room because, wait for it, they need to use the ladies' room. Why is it that there are no bathroom sexual assaults in countries where same-sex bathrooms are normal? I find it very odd that the people who worry the most about their daughters being molested in bathrooms by the LGBTQIA community have no worries in the world about them being around church leaders, the police, male family members, or neighbors—the people who are absolutely most likely to assault them. I’d happily have my daughter babysat by anyone I know in the LGBTQIA community over a youth pastor, scoutmaster, or self-professed Christian. The Children: Part II: How am I supposed to explain to my children about transgenders?” Easily. Be honest. Be straightforward. Answer whatever questions you can, and whenever you can’t, be honest about them too. Kids have an amazing ability to grasp complexity and be okay with ambiguity. What they can always sniff out are bullshit and hypocrisy.

Cultural conditioning is a big part of how/why we identify the way we do, but other things are at play. Genetics, experiences, and sometimes just an innate sense—you don’t belong to the group others have placed you in. I often ask myself, “What would my life be like if I felt more like Raven if that was the dominant side of who I am?” I honestly don’t know what the answer to this question will be. What I do know is the very existence of this question gives me a small understanding of the LGBTQIA community. It is quite possible that I will never really know who I am or feel comfortable in my own skin. If that is the outcome, so be it. No matter what happens, I never want someone else to feel this way, to any degree, and I will never know why anyone would not only not understand this but go out of their way to make the situation worse.

Being comfortable in your own skin isn't something an outsider can really understand or judge. Why is someone else's happiness anyone else's concern if it doesn't directly affect them? It doesn’t unless you stretch and bend the definition of 'directly' in ways that defy linguistics, logic, and ethics.

Jess Piper at The View from Rural Missouri:

This is a story of what happened in Arnold, Missouri on Saturday, April 20, 2024. Arnold is a bedroom community in Jefferson County less than 20 miles from St Louis. A town of about 20,000 people with a small town feel and mostly regressive politics. But, like I will always remind you — that’s not the story. The story is the folks standing up for their neighbors and their rights in a state whose lawmakers are using techniques found in fascist countries. This is a story of abortion rights in a state that has banned abortion. But, first… what happened to Missouri?

My state was known as the bellwether state. It looks like a microcosm of the country's political makeup; Missouri has its two big cities, reliably voting for the liberal consensus, located on the outermost boundaries of the state — much like the American coasts. St. Louis and Kansas City look like they are trying to flee the state, though, barely in our state border, where the GOP-dominates the north, middle, and southern spaces. The Missouri bellwether was a political phenomenon that meant that the state of Missouri voted for the winner in all but one U.S. presidential election from 1904 to 2008…I bet you can figure out what happened in 2008. Obama. A Black man won the Presidency and he did not carry Missouri.

But, even more than Obama, the Missouri GOP had won a supermajority in the House in 2002 and they haven’t lost that supermajority in 22 years. In fact. they hold a trifecta with a GOP-dominated House, Senate, and a Republican Governor. We have been slipping for two decades with our state outcomes for everything from schools to roads to healthcare falling and our rate of gun violence climbing. In a recent study that Gov Mike Parson happily quoted, “Missouri is ranked 4th for potential.” I guess when you’ve hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up. It’s all “potential” at this point. But, back to Arnold. One of the “architects” of the Missouri abortion ban is State Senator Mary Elizabeth Coleman. She is notorious in the state for her anti-woman stances and bills. She even filed a bill to restrict the travel of pregnant women in our state with a bounty for Missourians to turn in their neighbors — it was never given a hearing. She did author the abortion ban, though, and below you can see her tweet bragging about passing a draconian bill that did not even include exemptions for rape or incest.

[...] Coleman has implied on several occasions that “out of state” interests want to gather signatures and that by signing, folks are at risk of identity theft. There is absolutely no proof of this happening, and all of the volunteers I’ve met gathering signatures were Missourians. I am one myself. Coleman isn’t being truthful, but more than that, the intimidation that follows her needs to be addressed. [...]

The abortion ballot signing event in Arnold was staffed by four volunteers and was set to run from 10-2 at the public library. All four volunteers were constituents of Senator Coleman and one told me the Senator showed up at the event right around 10am. The volunteers were set-up in the parking lot and had signs up directing voters to their location. Sen Coleman was having a hard time manning all four volunteers and became frustrated when she couldn’t try to talk her own community members out of signing the petition. Coleman was reported to have raised her voice over at least one of the volunteers and directed signers that the petition is “not like Roe” and that there was “no alternative if a doctor commits malpractice.” She also reminded signers that she was a “constitutional lawyer” as she flagged down cars in the parking lot.

A volunteer said that Sen Coleman would flat out tell her constituents, “Do not sign the petition” ordering them not to sign. Quickly after Sen Coleman arrived, a library staffer came out and told the signature gatherers that they must remove their signs and could only stand on the sidewalk. The volunteers did as instructed. Later, during the signing event, a volunteer did get off the sidewalk to approach a voter who wanted to sign the petition and Sen Coleman followed her into the parking lot. The police were called for the incident and three cruisers eventually responded. A library employee told a volunteer that she needed to leave because she didn’t follow the rules and the volunteer responded by saying that Sen Coleman should be forced to leave as well. By the time police arrived, both the volunteer and Coleman were back on the sidewalk. Neither were forced to leave the event.

The Arnold event did garner 143 signatures for the petition. It also shed light on the brazen attempt to intimidate volunteers and signers in Missouri — I am writing this post so that I can get the word out. This is the story of just one event. From the beginning of the process, volunteers have been threatened. The “Missouri Right to Life” organization set up a snitch line in the very first days of the petition trying to find signing events to send out their own folks to harass and intimidate volunteers.

Jess Piper wrote in her Substack about a story of how anti-abortion extremists such as State Sen. Mary Elizabeth Coleman (R) and the “decline to sign” movement headed by Missouri Right To Life attempted to intimidate potential abortion access ballot measure signers out of signing it at a signature gathering event in Arnold, Missouri this past Saturday.

Apparently china wants to build a factory out west side of the state and it's supposed to invigorate an entire rural community and like, actually bring jobs and development to poor folks out there and their local bourgeois are up in arms and threatening to send our weird fucking little fascist militia to stop construction. The mayor of town facilitating this is a former policeman and republican and he was happy for the opportunity apparently. I guess I'd be excited to have a job that made enough money to get me out of my small town tbh doesn't matter where its from.

It makes me think of the constant historical failures of pig America to provide for its people but when some foreign company we're manufacturing consent to invade comes around to come make money over here its less about the actual reasons to oppose development projects and more about just racism and cold War nonsense.

Antitrust is - and always has been - about fairness

It’s easy to take the Supreme Court’s flurry of judicial atrocities as a contemporary phenomenon, but all the way back in 1993, SCOTUS engaged in a historical fantasy that has taken a terrible toll on the American people and American political legitimacy. Long before Citizens United, there was Brooke Group Ltd. v. Brown & Williamson Tobacco Corp:

https://supreme.justia.com/cases/federal/us/509/209/

It was an antitrust case, and in 1993, decades of antitrust precedent that sought to prevent the accumulation of power into a few companies’ hands was being upended by a radical, far-right doctrine called “consumer welfare” — a doctrine that spread to “liberal” justices as well, as 40% of the federal bench took part in the Manne Seminars, lavishly funded “education” junkets:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/03/powell-memo/

In Brooke Group the Supremes moved an outlier — 1962’s Brown Shoe Inc — into the center of antitrust law, with Kennedy quoting Brown Shoe for the majority: “It is axiomatic that the antitrust laws were passed for ‘the protection of competition, not competitors.’”

What Kennedy meant was that antitrust laws don’t exist to protect small businesses per se — rather, they exist to promote “efficiency,” which is best understood as “prices going down.” So long as prices are going down, antitrust is working as intended — irrespective of the ruined lives and places that are sacrificed to low prices and the corruption begat by concentrated power.

The question of what antitrust should do is certainly up for fair debate. I understand the “efficiency” argument, even though I thoroughly disagree with it. What isn’t (or shouldn’t be) up for debate is what purpose antitrust was created to serve. That is a historical fact, easily verified by looking at contemporaneous primary source documents from the recent past.

But for 40 years, we’ve accepted an alternate history of antitrust law, an unhinged conspiratorial account that pretended that the lawmakers who drafted and fought for antitrust law and who told us over and over why they did so were speaking in code — that we can’t rely on their plain language and must instead fall back on gnostic interpretations where every word can mean its opposite.

Finally, that age of mystic nonsense is coming to a close. The new antitrust enforcers not only reject the ahistorical gibberish that pretends to explain antitrust’s origins, they embrace the intent of antitrust’s framers: to prevent the accumulation of commercial — and thus political — power into the hands of “autocrats of trade,” be they Rockefellers and Carnegies, or Kochs and Seids.

In the US, three powerful Biden appointees are leading the charge: Tim Wu in the White House, Jonathan Kanter in the DoJ Antitrust Division, and FTC chair Lina Khan. But while these three may be the face of US trustbusting, they are by no means alone — rather, they are supported by stalwart lieutenants and an army of supporters.

One of these lieutenants is FTC Commissioner Alvaro Bedoya. Last month, Bedoya gave a barn-burning speech to the Midwest Forum on Fair Markets, explaining the once and future history of antitrust; the transcript of his speech was just published in The American Prospect:

https://prospect.org/economy/returning-to-fairness-rural-america-open-markets/

Bedoya starts with the unequivocal history of antitrust. In 1888, when Congress was debating the Sherman Act, its first antitrust law, it “did not talk about efficiency.” Instead witnesses complained about the meatpacking cartel, which was cheating ranchers out of a fair price for their cattle.

This theme — cartels and monopolies abusing small producers — is the recurring motif of all antitrust law debates thereafter. In 1936, Congress debated protection for small-town grocers “being driven out of business by powerful chain stores who got secret payoffs from their suppliers.”

In those debates, Congress made clear its purpose: “What we are trying to take away from them is secret discounts, secret rebates, and secret advertising allowances. We are trying to take away from them those practices that are unfair.” Antitrust is, and always has been, about fairness, not efficiency.

When Sen John Sherman took his landmark antitrust bill to the Senate floor in 1890, he thundered: “If we will not endure a King as a political power we should not endure a King over…the necessaries of life. If we would not submit to an emperor we should not submit to an autocrat of trade with power to prevent competition and to fix the price of any commodity.”

https://marker.medium.com/we-should-not-endure-a-king-dfef34628153

Congress passed five more antitrust bills over the next 60 years, each of them designed to protect small firms from large ones. There is no reasonable world in which the judges enforcing these laws could say that it was “axiomatic” that they didn’t exist to protect the small from the large:

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/254130964_The_Robinson-Patman_Act_and_competition_Unfinished_business

Today, small firms — and the communities they serve — face existential threats from large, consolidated ones. Bedoya describes the annihilation of independent pharmacies in West Virginia, where, 20 years ago, the sector was composed of 39 companies — pharmacies, benefit managers and insurers. Today, those 39 companies have merged into three monoliths:

https://content.govdelivery.com/attachments/ARAG/2022/05/11/file_attachments/2156162/2022-05-11-%20Insulin%20Complaint%20FINAL%20DRAFT.pdf#page=77

Perhaps that’s efficient? Not hardly. When a WV family goes to their local pharmacy to fill a prescription for their child who has cancer, they are turned away, told instead that they must fill this order with their Pharmacy Benefit Manager’s proprietary mail-order pharmacy, and their child must wait two weeks for their medicine:

https://www.wvinsurance.gov/Portals/0/pdf/pressrelease/Drug%20Complaint%20Press%20Release%20Draft%208.8.2021-FINAL%20(1).pdf

A tsunami of mergers — waved through by Bedoya’s predecessors at the FTC — produced nationwide pharmacy and insurance consolidation, to the detriment of patients. It was also an extinction-level event for rural pharmacies: “In Minnesota, from 2003 to 2018, 30 rural zip codes lost their only pharmacy.” It’s a nationwide epidemic:

https://rupri.public-health.uiowa.edu/publications/policybriefs/2018/2018%20Pharmacy%20Closures.pdf

Agribusiness is extraordinarily concentrated. At a listening session in Des Moines, Bedoya heard from cattlemen and corn growers, who were all in crisis. No wonder: 40% of your grocery store dollar once went to the farmer who grew your food. Today, it’s 16%:

https://www.ers.usda.gov/data-products/food-dollar-series/documentation

Once, dozens of firms provided agricultural inputs and services (“fertilizer, seeds, grain buying, meatpacking”). Today, all of these functions are undertaken by just four companies, but they don’t compete with each other — rather, they have divided up the nation so that farmers have only one supplier for key inputs:

https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/blog/2021/09/08/addressing-concentration-in-the-meat-processing-industry-to-lower-food-prices-for-american-families/

This isn’t just unfair — it’s also inefficient. When one company owns all the meatpacking facilities and shuts down — as some did during the covid lockdown — there’s no alternative. Bedoya: “One of the cattlemen described through tears how he had to gas a warehouse full of cattle when the one processing plant accessible to him was shut down because of COVID.”

Monopoly isn’t just unfair to humans, it’s also unfair to livestock: “Another described animal abuse on the lot that he said was unheard of in competitive markets. A cow that he raised was bolted in the head, killed, dragged out of a trailer with a log chain, and dumped in the garbage because she had slipped in the trailer on the drive to the processing plant.”

The unfairness goes deeper than we know or can know. Bedoya says that the people who came to his meeting were terrified to speak, frightened of retaliation by the monopolists. I encountered this myself: when Rebecca Giblin and I were working on Chokepoint Capitalism, our book about monopolies and creative labor markets, everyone we spoke to about the Ticketmaster/Livenation monopoly requested anonymity for fear of reprisals.

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

The unfairness goes all the way up the supply chain, from producers to retailers. Rural communities and low-income neighborhoods rely on independent grocers, and independent grocers are also facing looming extinction. That’s because the large grocers and large manufacturers have secret arrangements that make it possible for grocery monopolists to sell at prices that independents can’t match.

Take RF Buche, who owns 21 independent grocers in South Dakota Indian Country, a business that his family has been in for 117 years; Buche’s stores are “the only place where locals can easily get fresh milk and produce.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACQp7q0refA&t=2220s

Many times, manufacturers literally won’t sell Buche the same packages that they market to the big-box stores. When those goods are on offer, they’re sold at much higher prices than the big box stores enjoy, even when Buche offers to buy in the same quantity.

During the lockdown, Buche was not able to buy items like baby formula, as the supply was preferentially diverted to big box stores (this was long before the nationwide shortage). To get these items for his customers, he had to drive 1,000 miles/week to move items from his low-volume stores to his busier ones. His competitors, the big box stores, all had overflowing shelves.

Bedoya asks how it is that judges expect him to protect “efficiency” when the laws themselves — to say nothing of human decency — demand that he protects “fairness”? “Fairness,” Bedoya says, isn’t squishy and “impressonistic.” Rather, “Congress and the courts have told us, directly and repeatedly, how to implement protections against unfairness.”

Bedoya pledges his support for Chair Khan’s promise to enforce the antitrust laws as they are written, not as the “autocrats of trade” who control our economy and thus our political system wish they were written.

This is one of the most important changes to American politics in a generation. The FTC is blocking mergers, the White House is undertaking 72 specific antitrust actions, the DoJ is chasing anticompetitive conduct. That may sound commonsense — and it is — but it’s the first time it’s been a part of American politics in ten presidential administrations:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/09/rest-in-piss-robert-bork/#harmful-dominance

[Image ID: A collage. In the top right corner is a sadistic, bewigged judge pointing an accusatory finger towards the opposite corner. In that corner is a cutout of the classic Rockwell WPA portrait of a farmer speaking up at a town meeting. Between them in a thought-bubble, two figures do battle. Nearest the judge is a drawing of a dancing 'Rich Uncle Pennybags' from Monopoly; he has removed his face to reveal a grinning skull. Nearest the farmer is a trustbuster editorial cartoon of Roosevelt swinging his 'big stick'; his face has been replaced with that of FTC chair Lina M Khan, a monocle over her left eye. Behind them, a faded image of industrial symbols (e.g. railroads, oil wells, etc) surmounted by a gilded dollar sign.]

CHARACTER INFORMATION

face claim: Alycia Debnam-Carey

full name: Sybil Danvers

nickname(s) / goes by: Billie

pronouns & gender: She/her & Cis woman

sexuality: Bisexual

birth date: April 29, 1991

birth place: Port Mansfield, Texas

arrival to merrock: January 2023

housing: Rural Country Side

occupation: Horse Ranch Owner & Part-Time Boat Mechanic

work place: Danvers Farm 

family: Father & Brother - Estranged

relationship status: Single

PERSONALITY

Billie prefers the company of her horses to people. They bring to her a peace and tranquility that shatters the moment she is surrounded by other human beings. With their soft snorts and kind eyes they can see her beneath the scars that she bears. She has the typical no-nonsense ranch attitude. Her hands can be soft and tempered or fists ready to fight. Sometimes on days where the PTSD is worse or the frustrations of life get to her she will seek out a fight. Sometimes in clubs getting paid for her efforts and sometimes with a random loud-mouth asshole from the bar. She refuses to talk about her past to just anyone and most don’t know how she got the burn scars that adorn the left side of her body. The worst of them are hidden by t-shirts and jeans. That’s her typical style. An outfit easy to ride in and cowboy boots. Her days are spent doing ranch work and she doesn’t much care what she looks like for that. Getting dressed up consists of showering and putting on a clean outfit. Gatherings with large crowds are difficult for her and she won’t attend unless forced or cajoled. The only type of crowds that are comfortable are ones coming to watch a fight or those at rodeos and ranching events. None of those people care about her past or what she looks like, just the quality of the work that she does. 

WRITTEN BY: Bird (she/her), cst.

BACKGROUND / BIO

triggering / sensitive content: assault mention, injury, mental health/ptsd, torture mention, military, manslaughter/death

ADMIN NOTE: heavily describes time in the military, mentions of torture, psychological health, and death/manslaughter; please use caution if these things are upsetting to you.

Sybil was born a miracle, her parents having given up hope of ever conceiving; options were limited in the small town and money was always tight. That’s just how it was for a cattle farmer in the middle of nowhere Texas. Though the Danvers' struggled to make ends meet, Billie, as she came to be called, had a rich childhood. What she lacked in material possessions she made up for in adventure. She started to learn to ride before she could walk and at the age of five was given her first mount; a pony named Chick-A-Dee. The two were inseparable, galivanting off with one of the family’s farm dogs in tow to check out every nook and cranny of her daddy’s huge property. With hardly any other kids around she learned to rely on her own company. Occasionally there would be an incident, a broken arm from climbing up a tree or a deep cut to the forehead that left a scar across one eyebrow. Once when she was ten the new horse she’d been tasked with breaking had bucked her off a ways from home. Knocked out cold, she was awoken by the shouts of her daddy and his ranch hands. Scared of what could have happened, her daddy put her to work on the farm, the time for adventures was over. That was how she learned to work. 

Other kids in their small high school would complain of having to do their evening chores or because their parents wouldn’t extend curfew. Billie however was typically up before the sun feeding and watering the horses and making sure their stalls were clean. After school and homework she was taken out on the range by her daddy to learn how to doctor cattle and manage a herd. There were a lot of kids who would have complained, but she loved it. Much more than her little brother who had come along when she was four. He’d been born right on the couch, the labor having gone too fast to make it to the hospital. Billie doted on her brother and despite the age gap the two were inseparable. Everything changed when their mama died. 

It was a freak car accident. A deep hole on a dirt road caused the truck to flip. Not one of them got to say goodbye. After that her daddy changed. He became more gruff and stern. Where once there had been time for fun now all he did was work and make his kids work. Billie loved her father, but when the for-sale signs went up she knew it was time to get out before the town swallowed her. Her grades in highschool had been less than stellar, more focus always having been put on the work at the ranch and so at eighteen she did the only thing she could think to do and enrolled in the United States Armed Forces. 

Wiry with muscle from her work on the ranch, basic training was a breeze. Billie was used to the early morning wakeups and late nights and was already familiar with the weight of a rifle. Her work ethic got her noticed by the right people and as she moved through the ranks she was given the opportunity to join Special Forces. Her brother was furious when he learned of her decision. He already hated that she risked her life overseas fighting in a war he’d grown up not believing in, that she had left her father and him in their grief. He resented her. Warned her that nothing good would come of staying so long away from family. She had simply scoffed. He should have been proud of her, like their daddy was. Whenever she was home on leave he would boast to the people in their new town about the work that she was doing and how important it was. How amazed and proud he was that he had raised a daughter who decided to serve her country. 

For her part Billie fell in love with the army. The structure in the rank and the camaraderie developed with the other soldiers made her feel at home even when they were thousands of miles away and on enemy territory. That feeling became even stronger when she was finally assigned to her Special Forces unit. One of only a few women, she had to work twice as hard to prove herself as capable as the men but once she had they showed her the respect she deserved. That hadn’t always been the case in some of her other units; some had sought to keep her down the only way those men seemed to know how: by force. After the first assault went unprosecuted by the military she learned to fight. To land blows and kicks that let her attackers know she meant business. Nothing was ever reported by the men; to do so would have meant they would have had to admit what they were trying to do in the first place. Eventually, they learned she wasn’t one of the ones who could be messed with.

With her time in special ops her body count grew. She stopped seeing people as people. They were a mission to complete or an obstacle that kept her unit from reaching its intended goal. Billie wasn’t heartless but it was the way she coped with the violence of her career. It wasn’t until her unit was attacked that a new emotion came into play: hate. A deeprooted rage that scortched her very being. The day had started calmly enough, everything seemed ordinary, the lookouts were unalarmed and a game of soccer was happening out back behind one of the tents. That’s when the bomb hit. All Billie remembers of that event itself is waking up to the sound of screams as men whose faces she couldn’t make out through the pain went through and ended most of her unit. She, along with three others, were taken. They were the least gravely injured though still hurt. Billie herself suffered from second degree burns along the left side of her body and her arm was broken in three places. The enemy doctors bandaged them up. Then began the torture. At first it was subtle; withholding food and water, pain medicine and antibiotics. When they still refused to cooperate it increased. To protect itself her mind went blank. There are no clear memories of that time which she can recall; only after laying in a safe hospital bed. It was there she learned that the others had died. The failure to save them, though misplaced, weighed heavily on her. Survivors’ guilt. Her dad and brother came to visit but she couldn’t bear to see them. She had failed. Let her friends be killed, tortured. She should have done something, anything. That shame weighed her down like Dorothy’s house atop the wicked witch. A feeling that became even stronger when the PTSD episodes began. When finally she was discharged, her side permanently scarred, hearing partially damaged, and arm healed, Billie fled as from the life she knew as possible. That was how she ended up in New York City. 

Unable to hold down a job she turned to what she knew; fighting. It was the only way to take in money as she refused the benefits offered to veterans. She didn’t deserve them. Just as she was beginning to feel secure, as the effects of the PTSD began to lessen, an accident happened. She had been walking home from a fight when a man bumped into her. Something in the way he walked, the sound of his voice, triggered her. Even now she cannot think of what it was. Billie exploded. All of the suppressed rage and terror and anguish that she held bottled up within her evaporated. It is all clear now. Now she can remember every detail either from what she was told or the evidence presented to her by her lawyer while she was locked in a psych ward. Three officers had been needed to pull her off of the man while she yelled and screamed and begged to know why he had done this to her. To her friends. Why did they all have to die? It took almost a week and a strong regiment of meds to bring her back to herself. Her shame deepened. This man hadn’t been a threat to herself. Wasn’t a target of the gang. He’d been an innocent man on his way home from work. The rest of her life flashed before her eyes. Manslaughter. Murder. Serious charges that had been leveled against her. If the district attorney hadn’t declined to prosecutem, she would be in jail. Realizing a city full to the brim with people wasn’t the place for her, she moved on.

Billie came to settle in Merrock, main. Her savings from fights and her time in the military allowed her to purchase a small farm on significant acreage. It took a few months and quite a bit of money but eventually Danvers Farm was up and running. A working horse ranch, it provides well-trained ranch horses to other farmers and ranchers as well as horses fit for competition in roping, reining, and barrels. The farm is her happy place and while it hasn’t yet turned a profit, she could never imagine giving it up. To supplement her income she’s been working as a boat mechanic. Her days consist of trailering a horse down to the docks and riding along them assisting those who can afford to pay. For more significant work the vessel can be hauled to an outbuilding on her land where she can spend some extra time tinkering with it. She’s now lived in Merrock for six months and the peace of the farm and tranquility of the water have been healing. Billie hasn’t had any more episodes. Still, she remains private and is finding it hard to make connections with how guarded her heart is. As time continues to pass, she secretly hopes to make this community her family.

A History of Milhona (Eva and Mari’s Fantasy Verse)

ooc: I’m still forming this verse and the google doc based around this universe. I used a Fantasy Name Generator for most things here because I had writers block and liked what I wrote honestly. So it’s staying. I’m no fantasy expert, this is me winging it. Trigger warnings for a brief mention of past wars I haven’t exactly fleshed out yet. 

Places

Milhona 

is a vacation town in Aquareon. It is surrounded by hot springs/warm sands and a mountain range. The hot springs along with the taverns are the towns main income. It’s a hub for travelers heading in and out of Aqueareron.The town was used as a transport and a fort for soldiers during war. Most of it’s battle scars are long gone. The surrounding forest is a hub for some alchemists.

Lavender Oak Tavern and Inn

Aquareon

The tavern that Kymil Olomenorl owns. The Elf purchased and refurbished it after the last big war occurred and helped revive Milhoma, which was in shambles. Lavender Oak was associated with the hospital Kymil used to work at being a healer. The taven itself is rather rustic, old timey, with a small garden lining the cobbelstone walkways. There is seating outback enclosed by a brick fence lined with fairy lights. All of the bedrooms are located on the second floor, ranging from cheap to price. There’s a small kitchen and bar staff, a long with a steady flow of live music.

The country that Milhona is set in. It ranges from rural countryside to busy cities, to beach towns and sea ports. It has four seasons {frostwane, icecall, greenbirth, and warmcrest) followed by festivals marking the start of each new season. The country saw bloody battles in the past due to it’s resources, but they’ve since moved on from all that. The northern part of the country is cold, ranging from light spring temperatures to all year-round frozen tundras. The middle of the country is average to warm temperatures. The south is warm and  tropical with a rainy season. 

Tobedonite Village

A Village supported by the mine not far from Milhoma. Kymil’s friend and a famed blacksmith reside here. The mine is run by Dorian Southstone one of the Mining Company Families.

Pearlhorn Port

A major sea port in the south. 

Mining Companies

Titan Hill - Northwest Tundra

Kalelian - Northeastern Tundra

Southstone - Midwest and southern territories

Boulderfield - Western Coastal Territories

People

Kymil Olomenorl - (they/them) Owner of Lavender Oak Tavern and Inn formerly a healer in the Royal Army, served his time, retired, and lived a quiet life. Kymil is haunted by what they saw on the battlefield and dislikes talking about it. The former healer heavily relies on potions to keep the memories away. Despite this, they are usually cheerful, constantly making others laugh, even taking part in the occasional prank. Kymil (and the few associates still alive) are Eva’s guide to Milmhona and most of Aqueareron. Kymil and the Olomernol clan were heavily sought after during the wars. Their healing abilities include raising moral and essentially putting a bandage over the horrific realities of war for a period of time. Leaving those feelings invincible and rejuvenated.

Rolim Olorie - (Yhri) Elder Elf that runs the Apocatheory/Potion shop and teaches lessons for intermediate and advanced levels. Yhir is willing to teach beginners but does not have patience. Yhir is quick to judge and deem who is worthy and who isn’t. Yhri helped start the Mages College, survived the wars of Milhona’s past, and like Kymil, Rolim wishes to live out a quiet life. 

Lysanthir Wynfir - (they/them, She/her)  A femme presenting Elf, takes no nonsense but enjoys casual banter with Kymil. Frequents Lavender Oak for this purpose and the food. They help keep the peace in Aqueareon after surviving the blood feuds and wars. Lysanthir met Kymil when they were wounded and brought to Milmhona during battle. 

Seasons

Frostwane:

Akin to human winter. Temperatures drop in the normally warm and average climates. Snowfall can be experienced around certain areas. The normally tropical climates see more rain and sometimes ice storms.

Icecall:

Occurs right before winter something of a mixture of fall and summer temperatures almost all over the country. More of a cloudy time. It signals the end of farming season. Desert/Dry areas see moderate temperatures. Forest areas experience certain foliage that change colors. Mountain ranges see light snowfall. Tropical areas drop in temperatures.  This is the end of severe storm season as well.

Greenbirth:

No snow or ice during this time. Thunderstorms are more frequent along with other severe storms. It's the rainy season in the desert areas. Festivals and other events fall during this time. Usually a time for weddings. Tourism booms as well. Eva visits Lavender Oak Tavern during this time.

Warmcrest:

The warmest time of the year. Desert areas are at hottest temperatures with little rain or cloud coverage. Tropical areas range from hot and humid to hot and arid. The forest areas are humid and rainy to sunny and muggy.

Is Alex Jones still funny these days?

You don't have to like him, but I highly recommend watching his documentary "Endgame":

It's not like Alex Jones is the only one claiming that. The quest for a totalitarian world government is old, as is the desire to limit mankind in numbers. Many of the developments described in "Endgame" have long since taken place. In Europe, for instance, it is easy to see how small towns are increasingly losing population due to the decline in births and exodus of youth to larger cities. During my childhood I had to change schools several times simply because there weren't enough children left. It is therefore very likely that in the near future almost all the remaining people will only live in large metropolitan areas that are easy to monitor, cramped into a very small space. Village and little towns already no longer offer the necessary infrastructure for modern life and there is no political interest in modernizing rural areas.

In the course of the corona measures, the WHO was raised to something like a world office. In addition, almost all governments in the world were brought into line. Any doubts about the proclaimed "pandemic" were combated in a politically correct manner and in some cases even prosecuted. People only "temporarily" regained their civil rights by having something strangely novel injected into their bodies. To me it seemed like Alex Jones Dystopia was getting a boost in the truest sense of the word.

Fortunately, the world is far too complex, so that the elites ultimately failed with their Corona nonsense, since a large part did not get vaccinated and fake vaccination cards became the standard. In addition, after two years, people no longer felt like subjecting themselves to any corona measures any longer. Economically, the madness could no longer be sustained, as the pressure increased. China, as the experimental laboratory of the NWO, proved perfectly how pointless and harmful the whole zero-Covid strategy is.

But we can assume that the elites – call them Bilderbergers if you like – will not give up and continue to work towards their goals. So there will be a lot more shit in the future, especially under the guise of the "climate crisis" to increasingly abolish state powers and transfer them to international organizations, since "only together can the impending climate collapse be prevented". They have also long been working on a unification of all world religions to address the conservative religious clientele of mankind too, as a supplement to their other "thought offer" such as climate and corona fear as ideologies for atheists. There is something for every taste in their New World Order.

I may or may not be attacking you via ArtFight, but can I get more info on Mad Dog and Atlas Lodestar? Or is there anywhere you put more info about them? Cuz I have this piece in mind but I honestly have no clue how they interact with one another apart from that one piece with Atlas on Mad Dog’s shoulders….

Ohhh that’s what I was forgetting to do >< whoops!

Anyway, in Sun Stitch universe, Mad Dog is the King’s best assassin sent to a small rural town to hunt and kill a rumored lineage of powerful mages there. (Un)fortunately Mad Dog gets cursed before he can find them, causing a blank unbreakable mask to get stuck to his face. The curse afflicts a new person every time the last one dies: the masks are considered valuable, worth enough money to last a lifetime if sold to someone named the Collector.

Newly blinded and suddenly on the receiving side of the hunt, Mad Dog (who hates children) stumbles across the youngest, home-bound son of the mages, who promises to help Mad Dog find a way to get rid of the curse—as long as Mad Dog promises to bring him along. The boy, Atlas, is an incredible navigator who only wants to leave the safety of his manor for adventure. Cue both of them protecting one another, becoming unwilling brotherly figures, and a bunch of other found family nonsense

Major Monogram's Job was Not Terrible

On the rare occasions people found out what Major Monogram did for a living, they often assumed his job was difficult because it must be “like herding cats.” He originally thought this comparison was inadequate, as many of his agents were both more dangerous and more difficult than he imagined cats to be; also, the consequences of failure when herding cats were considerably less. The addition of cat agents began to change his mind, perhaps the simile was more apt than he originally assumed. 

Other people flat out belittled both him and his line of work. Why did no one trust him with human agents? That was a common question his doubters asked. Do they clean out their own litter boxes? An equally common question. Some called him Noah or Doctor Dolittle to his face. However, over time, the Major came to realize his “completely unglamorous job working with those stupid animal agents of yours” was both important and surprisingly fun. Perhaps not as fun as being a gymnast, but decidedly fulfilling and enjoyable.

Although he would not readily admit it, Major Monogram knew the turning point in his opinion of the O.W.C.A. was the unexpected result of his attempt to requisition some muscle to work security in the building. Instead of a bodybuilder, a gunslinger, or a martial artist, he found himself working with Carl Karl, the unpaid intern who knew everything about computers and nothing about fighting. Apparently, some of the agents had been complaining about the poor quality of their mission briefings, while others thought their computer system was capable of more than games of Minesweeper and collecting spam e-mails, which resulted in Carl being assigned.

On his first day, Carl cleared the paperjam out of all five of their “broken” printers, changed the ink cartridges in all three of their “worthless” printers, and set up the remaining “working” printer to communicate with all of their computers via Wi-Fi instead of a messy batch of cables. Afterwards, he demonstrated how a camera could be attached to a tripod without the use of duct tape. Within days, he had upgraded the security systems on their computers and read the user’s manual for every piece of equipment they had. Although Monogram thought the kid had no future as any kind of agent, he did recognise the boy had some small skill with technical things. And the Major enjoyed having someone to talk to.

Today, for example, Monogram was drinking coffee, pretending to read repetitive memos, and discussing the difference between a street and a road with Carl.

“Technically, Sir, I think streets are in cities, with buildings on both sides of them, whereas roads are more rural, with businesses or houses on only one side, or the other, or neither.” Karl was sitting nearby at his computer, looking over Dr. Doofenshmirtz’s daily purchases as they talked. 

“Nonsense, streets are a specific type of road. All roads are roads. All streets are roads. But not all roads are streets.” The Major tossed his pile of used multicolored sticky notes into the wire trash can beside his desk.

“So you’re willing to admit that streets are only in cities?” Carl opened a new tab on his computer.

“Of course not Carl. Towns and villages also have streets. But all of them are also roads. When they’re being repaired, we call it roadwork, not streetwork.” Sighing, the green clad officer pulled the agency's accounting ledger from his lower left desk drawer. 

“Does this ‘all streets are roads’ idea also apply to avenues and boulevards?”

“Uh… Get back to work, Carl.”

“Yes Sir.”

I took a drive out to Cooperstown today and did a little bit of thinking.

For those of you who don't know, Cooperstown, NY is famous for one thing: the Baseball Hall of Fame. It is also in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. Like, I am not kidding when I say that there's no direct route into the town-- it's not off directly off of any highway, interstate, or US route. So, if like me, you're heading there from the east, you've got about an hour of driving on rural roads, through small unincorporated towns and a LOT of fucking farm land. About half the drive has no cellphone reception. The people are blindingly white and much of it is stunningly, desperately poor.

And it is also deep red Trump country.

Since I am the rural voter whisperer to my urban/suburban friends and family, they always want to know why? Why do these poor rural folks in upstate NY vote against "their self interest"?

And for the longest time I didn't know how to answer them in a way that makes sense-- rural voters aren't actually voting against their interests because no one is out here helping them.

What does it matter if abortion is made illegal to someone that has no access to abortion services in the first place? What does it matter to them if Social Security is cut when they have no hope of retirement in the first place? SNAP, food stamps, whatever? Doesn't stretch the entire month. Never has, never will.

Instead of taking this anger at being failed by the entire apparatus and working towards something better, these voters want to spread their pain as far and wide as possible. There is no point hoping for the best, so they're going to make sure that there's a class suffering worse than they are-- people of color, queer people, immigrants don't deserve help, but they very truly believe that the government coddles them while throwing Good, White, Christian folks to the wolves.

It's deeply nihilistic and completely devoid of empathy and, whoops!, ripe for fascism.

To be perfectly clear: I am ABsOLUTELY NOT asking that we have any sympathy for these people. What I want liberals (and plenty of leftists) to understand is that the motivations that poor Republicans have in supporting Trump (or DeSantis or whatever fascist pops up next) aren't nonsensical or irrational. They're not voting that way because they're dumb, they're going to vote that way because their life sucks and they're bullies.

Anyway, look at this cute mug I bought at the Cooperstown Diner. I wish more diners would sell mugs; I would buy them all.

!! !! !!

YOU GET A TWO FOR ONE SPECIAL!! completely separate universe from my other works so far

sadaf ali, early 20s, a vampire hunter (or "wrangler" as she prefers) who recently moved to a small rural town to keep an eye on things. trying to live a life as normal as possible for a college-aged girl when creatures of the night are lurking and goth clothes are really expensive. a good kid cursed with a permanently dour expression, she's dedicated and no-nonsense but compassionate. weapon of choice is Big Fucking Scythe

2. friday, a vampire turned in the 80s who's holed up in an abandoned house on the edge of said rural town. due to only feeding on rats & never drinking human blood, he lacks several of the abilities associated with vampirism and is a little bit pathetic but it's. fine. snarky but gullible and friendlier than he looks, he is currently having the time of his life with music apps and youtube videos of concerts. sadaf initially only agrees to let him stay because he's lucid and non-aggressive, and she doesn't want a more dangerous vampire moving into an empty territory, but they end up striking up a friendship! friday, on his end, is very glad to have someone new to talk to.

The Director

A message beamed from the Director’s computer. Reading the scrawl, a massive litany of coded language and general obscurantist nonsense constructed out of legal jargon, had become a routine task for the Director. Naturally, he didn’t read all of it—he had long learned how to sift through the tome of pseudo-information in order to get to the important bits. So he did just that. Scrolling through the report, he began to grow more frustrated, as this report had more than the usual amount of legal codes printed out on it. “Damn,” he thought to himself this time, “This is usually a quiet sector of the galaxy. I guess someone must be in town, to cause this much disruption.” He furrowed his brow and went to go make himself a cup of coffee.

The Director was a human, as were most of his compatriots, though there was the odd Telfangi or Murzbek at the police district’s office. He passed by several people on their computers, arranging data made from police reports, all of them sifting through information which they thought warranted enough attention from him, the Director. In section 32-B of the Milky Way, although a rural backwater in most respects (as it primarily held quarantined planets, with only a handful of star systems which served as intra-galactic ports), there was still enough activity that warranted full attention. The district employed five small fleets, 596,000 ground troops, 3,203 investigators, 48 office staff and one director—the Director, although in one of the smallest districts in the galaxy, still insisted he be called that. Most of the office staff assumed it had to do with some sort of weird Napoleon complex.

The police district’s headquarters was inconspicuously located on the moon Rhea, a large moon of Saturn. In the core of this moon, a small construct had been deployed perhaps 500 years ago, and had spent the next 50 or so carving out the moon so that it could be used as a station. A cloaking device had been used to keep quarantined Earth astronomers from detecting any activity on the moon, and for the most part, it worked. Aside from the small, quarantined Earth, whose quarantine had been established ever since the dinosaurs had died off, there was no activity of note in this star system. About 60 million years ago, archaeologists and other assorted academics had set up a mammalian breeding experiment on Earth to see if they could emulate the conditions which humans evolved under. The experiment proved a success, but many noted the assorted intellectual difficulties the pseudo-humans on Earth suffered from. They appeared to be dragged along by the forces of nature, rather than subjecting nature to their own machinations. Some speculated that with time, the Earthlings would overcome this difficulty, and that the Earthlings were still in an intermediary stage of development. Others believed that there was something wrong with the experiment fundamentally, and that the Earthlings would soon kill themselves off—especially given that they proved to be more barbaric in nature than their space-faring counterparts.

In any case, this was all common knowledge in section 32-B of the Milky Way, and oftentimes scientists would visit the space station on Rhea in order to collect weather, population, and political data from Earth. As the Director went to get his coffee, one of these scientists, a geo-physicist from section 22-A, was talking with a political scientist from 11-C by the coffee machine. The Director didn’t remember names terribly well, but he remembered their personal details. He thought of names as simulated stamps drawn up from the ether of nebulous creativity—he didn’t pay them much mind. And to begin with, he didn’t even bother to learn the names of scientists who visited Rhea, as they usually only stayed for a few weeks before visiting other quarantined planet experiments, or back to the academies from which they matriculated.

“I think that the ‘nature first’ hypothesis is playing out quite well on Earth,” the geologist quipped. “We’re starting to see the ramifications of carbon-based manufacture on their political systems, and their technologies. I’m starting to see projections of cybernetic enhancements to their flesh in the future, and it seems to me that they’re probably going to make use of these in order to alleviate the effects of this pollution on an individual scale.”

“I would concur,” said the political scientist. “It seems as if they’re still at a lower level of development, that is assuming they’ll ever grow out of it at all. They appear to take on a more individualistic, rites-based approach to structural issues rather than addressing the structural issue itself. They have all the technologies available to switch over to full-scale fusion energy, yet they’re still too scared of the individual ramifications of nuclear to even consider the fission stage. Not to mention the population growth, which follows an exponential curve—all on a carbon-based energy output.”

“It’s truly outstanding how they don’t realize exponential growth based curves predicated on carbon energy are unsustainable,” the geologist continued. “Don’t they realize that this growth curve is bound to end with a sudden crash?” “I don’t think they do, and if they do, only a handful of them do. The latest election results from the Hegemonic Benchmark Standard are being set on the American continent right now, and it seems that a good few of them still believe in young-Earth creationism.” “That’s unfortunate. Is there any indication that the HGS is shifting in any capacity?” “Yes, but sadly its locus seems to be shifting to the Eastern Asian sector of the globe, rather than being distributed among the population.” “Well that makes sense, seeing as many of them in the economic capital still believe in nebulous concepts such as creationism.” “I fear they’ll never make it past the infinite growth ideological paradigm, until they self-destruct.” “Well, although we haven’t been able to perfectly emulate humanity on a mass scale, we’re still getting a lot of useful data from this planet, more than the other ones. Have you heard what happened on Jehraldi?” “Oh, no. Can’t say I have. Let me guess—AI takeover?” “No, they didn’t make it even that far. They got access to nuclear, and they glassed the whole place.” “Damn.” “Yeah, well let’s hope this one holds out a little longer.”

The Director approached, and he scowled as he shifted between the two as he made his coffee. He couldn’t stand the way scientists tended to talk, as if they were monologuing past each other until they reached consensus. To him, their conversation seemed to be too abstract—not because it was beyond his comprehension, but because it was too fine-tuned and particular. It was like splitting hairs. Why should he care whether the ideology of Earth was still at a sub-optimal level? Why should he care what humanity’s origin point looked like in the first place? To him, the modus operandi was simple—look out for the degenerates which plagued the galaxy, and ensure they were subjugated to the point they could no longer cause other people any harm. He lurched back to his office once the coffee was done, and began to read the abstract of the report.

He suspected that the report was bad based on its length, and had already resigned himself to a few days’ worth of insomnia. What he didn’t expect were the details—and the location. The Director nearly spit out his coffee when he saw the word “Earthling.” Apparently three of them had managed to steal a police vessel, and blow up a cargo ship in the process. Two police officers were killed… one of them even an investigator! He scrolled down more, and saw that it was Tim Rogers. He could’ve sworn that the name seemed familiar. The Director then pulled up a biographical report on him. Looked like he was quite the hothead. Well, figures as much.

However, all of it wasn’t adding up in the Director’s head. How could Earthlings have the capability to steal a ship? He continued reading. Apparently two of the Earthlings had been identified, so it seems Tim was good for something. The thing that shocked him most, however, was Genevieve’s profile. How was a mere Earthling able to do so much? The Director perused her biographical report. Apparently an intellectual prodigy, and quite a few crimes she was convicted of. Still, the report was small—not much was known of her lifestyle, nor of her lineage, other than that she somehow was “Archbishop of Earth.” Whatever that meant.