#someone said the phone it’s for me moment was like Everyman so.
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* IT’S FOR ME?
#spamton#spamton g spamton#deltarune#deltarune fanart#someone said the phone it’s for me moment was like Everyman so.#spamton angel time#my art
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Okay so hear me out, HELLO FIRST OF ALL :), I was reading your list of "normal things Hisoka does" and smiled at "hisoka sitting down with investment portfolio manager and talking about his financial goals". I was like "wow lucky lady who gets to sit in front of his fine self" but then I was also like "...what if they get NSFW at work!?":$ Sooooo if you don't mind (and want to), can I ask for an imagine of that with Hisoka (or Illumi he can get it too lol) Thank you
LET ME JUST LET YOU KNOW THAT I AM ASHAMED OF THIS. Man this is so dirty. Also it’s a tiny bit cracky on top of being NSFW. Also just assume at some point Hisoka put on a condom. Anyway here you go.
You sipped the last of your coffee, tapping your foot impatiently under the desk as you watched the clock on the bottom right corner of your office computer.
Late. Your client was late.
And as a result, you were now almost twenty minutes into your already too short lunch break, which you usually took starting 11:30am, just so that you could cover phone calls during the noon hours when everyone else would leave the office.
How could someone be late when it comes to talking about money? Didn’t they care?
Suddenly, you heard a sharp knock on your door, as if the very heavens were telling you to get over yourself. Hastily setting your mug down, and quickly closing out of Facelook, you fixed your customer service smile back onto your face and sat up straight in your chair, the picture of professionalism. You wouldn’t let whatever sloppy everyman who came in ruin your dedication to your craft.
Before you could even say ‘Come on in!’, a tall, somehow attractively disheveled-looking young man burst into the room, pausing briefly as he looked around, then giving you a half-smile that was almost inappropriately seductive. Or maybe you were just imagining it.
“Sorry that I’m late.” He said with a soft chuckle, adjusting his loose tie and smoothing out his slightly tight suit jacket as he sat down in the chair across from you, without asking your permission.
You faltered just a little bit before standing up and reaching out your hand to shake his, and introducing yourself as his new financial advisor.
“Mr. M-Morow, is it?” You said, warmth settling in your cheeks as you looked him in the eyes. It was a warm summer day, but just a few hours ago the room had been freezing. His eyes were golden, narrow and heavy-lidded which gave him the impression of studying you a little too closely, which you realized was making you a little bit uncomfortable. He nodded slowly, still smiling all the while, his legs crossed and leaning forward. He was waiting for you to speak.
While you opened up his portfolio and took a look at his rudimentary profile, all you could think of was how the clearly-borrowed, ill-fitting navy suit outlined his broad shoulders, narrow waist and obviously muscular arms. You gulped slightly focusing on the screen before you.
“I-It looks like you have never made any investments before,” you said, your voice higher than usual. You silently berated yourself in your head; this was so embarrassing. You hoped your pits weren’t sweating through your blouse with how warm it was in the room. You really needed to fix the AC the moment this meeting was done.
He didn’t respond, so you looked back at him for a nonverbal response, and he was still watching you carefully, now leaned in even further, his chin resting in his hand.
This was too much. Your heart started to pound, and you started talking loudly to distract yourself.
“Do you own a mortgage or have a car that you’re leasing currently?” You asked.
“Nope,” he said, curtly.
“Okay, uh.. Do you have any overseas investments?” You followed up now, hoping for a reasonable response you could work with.
“None at all,” he almost sang.
You turned to him again, your concern about his financial profile now outweighing your concern about how you were going to keep your panties dry during this meeting. You hated when people made your job difficult for you.
“What made you interested in investing now?” You asked, as politely as possible. While he was 28 years old based on his application, which was younger than many people who came into your office, he seemed disinterested himself in this meeting, his gaze still resting comfortably on you.
“I recently came into a large sum of money.”
“Inheritance?” You asked, preparing to give condolences to a likely deceased family member.
“Prize money,” he leaned back in his chair, relaxed and crossing his arms over his chest. A power pose. “To be fair, I’ve been winning the same amount every year, but it’s been building up.”
“What do you do for a living?” You clarified. He hadn’t written anything in the application in the occupation section, you had noticed earlier.
“Why, fight, of course,” he said, with another mischievous grin.
You’d worked with people who were boxers or other types of athletes before, but for some reason, you had the impression that what he was referring to was different. The most important question to ask in his case was what he would do when he was no longer able to fight. That was the issue that plagued a lot of these types of clients.
When you asked him this very question, he laughed as if it were the most ridiculous thing to ask in the world. You might as well have told him to prepare for when he grew a third eyeball in the middle of his head. But then he added, “You do raise a good point, which is the very reason why I’m here today, on a friend’s recommendation.”
You gave him an odd look again, and turned back to your computer, still confused at his amusement from earlier. Then you took a quick look at his stated monetary assets and paled.
200 million Jenny a year? And no investments? This man was a financial disaster.
“Would it be alright if I make a suggestion?” You started, whipping around in your chair to face him, only to find that he had moved almost imperceptibly to look over your shoulder at the computer.
You almost jumped, your heart beating out of your chest.
“... Mr. Morow?” You started, looking up at him from where you were seated.
“Oh, am I too close?” He said, now with a low, sultry voice as he rested his hand on the back of your chair.
Yes, he’s too fucking close, what the hell does he mean, ‘am I too close?’, you thought, both angry and flustered, but then he suddenly took a seat on the desk before you, hugging one knee.
“I can sense exactly how you feel about me, and I find you quite delicious myself.”
And now your heart was beating in an actual frenzy. Your mouth opened and closed, stunned. Was this really happening? At work? You glanced at the door, now concerned that at any moment, someone would walk in and find you getting a little too comfortable with your client. He saw your eyes travel frantically, and in an excessive show of confidence walked over to the door and promptly locked it.
Then he pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it aside, shaking out his well-built arms now that they were free from the restrictive fabric.
“If you aren’t too loud, no one will know.”
That was enough to convince you.
He was before you quickly and hoisted you up onto the desk before kissing you on the neck, then lips, then in a trail down your chest between your breasts once you had unfastened the buttons of your blouse as fast as you possibly could. He unhooked the clasps of your bra, which somehow conveniently were at the front instead of the back, and palmed a breast, then both as he laid you onto your back, kissing hungrily all the while. Your legs hanging off the edge of the desk, he pulled down your already soaked panties, and tested the wetness of your heat with two fingers.
Sufficiently satisfied with your arousal, he flipped you over on your back so that you were bent over the desk.
“Why aren’t you a dirty, dirty woman?” He whispered, pulling onto your hair just so, enough that your back arched. “This is just so incredibly unprofessional.”
Too embarrassed to speak and too worried to be heard outside, you stayed silent as he grabbed a handful of your ass. You decided to focus instead on the flood of sensation washing over you - the heat rising in the pit of your belly, the searing pain of his rough grip on your skin, and the clang of his belt unbuckling as he undid his pants.
And in just mere moments, he was entering you, and you bit your lip hard enough you were sure you tasted blood to prevent yourself from crying out at the painful but delightful plunge of his hard cock into you. He continued to rut inside you, his hands in your hair, then around your throat and then gripping your hips as he moved faster and faster inside you, challenging your ability to stay stoic with a firm slap of your ass every so often.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft moan several thrusts in, and he leaned over, whispering into your ear to tease you.
“It looks like you’re not too worried about losing your job.”
And to that your fire only increased, your walls tightening around him, and your eyes now stinging from the overwhelming pleasure you felt.
And then he finally became more and more erratic, holding pressure on your bruising hips as he finally came, timed just mere seconds after you had tipped over into a shaking extremis and collapsed, sprawling over the desk.
Dislodging from you, he quickly redressed, you still shaking and panting from pleasure, and sat back down in front of you, legs crossed and smiling as you struggled to reorganize yourself, a quivering mess.
“So about my assets, you were saying?” He said, at normal volume now, a sparkle in his eye.
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How u think kai will react if he raised his hand during argument&his s/o flinched thinking thst he will hit her? He didn't know but s/o was abused by her*hero*parents for being quircklss&went through inhuman experiments to activate it.They abandoned her in orphan announcing their*precious daughter*died while the truth thy didnt want her 2 bring shame 2 them.Kai discovered that latter bc those info are top hero secrets&she didnt tell him thinking kai will hate her if he found shes hero's daughter
HAHAHA, HOW WOULD KAI REACT?! KAI CHISAKI?! OVERHAUL. REACT TO THIS?!
My god; he would be enraged, completely surrounded by hatred and desire of execution of these two worms considered to be your biological parents.
Discussions between you two were normal; you are a couple, it happens; but even knowing that Kai would never lay a finger to hurt you, you couldn't help but squirm in terror and guard youself with your arms at the moment he raised his hands to only emphasize his point in the argument.
He immediately stopped talking as soon as he saw your scared look; sadly, he knew that expression way too well; and ended the argument right then and there.
Hearing your back story was enough for making his blood boil in a way it never had before but he maintained his composure for your sake.
Now, really, you only increased like, 100x more his hatred for heroes... Congrats.
"They're all sick. This hero syndrome has to be cured, look at what happens when we let those verms in the street... Absolutely disgusting."
Chisaki would become a little more affectionate after this just for ease your nerves. But when he is certain that you're at peace again...
That's when the real show begins...
The hero entered his home completely exausted due to his busy day at the agency as he took off his boots and called for his wife. When he heard no response he went in allert; knowing that she had taken a day off, she must had stayed in home.
He called once again checking every room in his big mansion. When he entered the living room he went rigid when he saw, not his wife, but a man in a green jacket holding one of his extremely expensive cups looking at the window.
Frightening and cold golden eyes; that seemed to pierce his soul; found them qs he finally spoke
"You're late." He spited the words before the hero felt something strongly hit the back of his neck, causing him to pass out immediately.
The man awakened feeling extremely sore as he heard his wife pleading for him to wake up. When he finally got back to reality, he noticed that both of them were chained tightly with their backs against each other.
"W-we were kidnapped dear...!" She whispered in fear "Use your quirk to get us out before the raptors come back, hurry!" She pleaded.
"Alright don't worry, we will be out of here in no time."
Suddenly, a bullet came out of no wear and hitted him straight on his chest, causing the woman to scream if her husband was okay.
"I wouldn't move around too much if I were in your shoes..." spoke a man covered in a plague mask and white hoodie aproaching the trembling couple, never once lowering down his gun.
The man winced in pain before trying to use his quirk to attack the shooter.
Sickes bitch
"W-what?" The man spoke in shook "W-what happened with my quirk?! What ylu did to me your fucker?!"
"Language." Spoke coldly the man before merciless shooting the woman's leg.
The female hero cried in pain letting out a few curses at the stranger.
"For two heroes, both of you are completely useless and disposable, aren't you?" A hushed voice spoke in the shadows of the cold building.
"What do you want from us, damn villain?" Struggled the man in the chains.
The young yakusa boss lifted himself from his place on the dark and slowly walked toward the frightened couple; looking at them with murderous, wide, psychotic eyes; following right after them two mans with also plague masks covering their faces.
Actually now that they notice, there was eight in total... all of them around.
"W-wait a second-!" Said the woman in realization "You're that young leader of Shie Hassaikai! That young yakusa group, his name is Overhaul!" Chisaki didn't seem to even listened the woman, opting to look down in nothing but disgust at the quivering man in front of him.
"Despicable, you and your wife are just disgusting... Not only carry in your veins the hero syndrome but also did something that I can't just let slide..."
"We didn't even once got into the yakusa young man, I swear on all of my career-!"
"Your words are simply equal to trash to me so don't even need to spend your breath." Interrupted the villain, extending his open hand at his side.
A black thing that was on the shoulder of a much taller man gave it to him what seemed like an really old newspaper. When the young leader grabbed, he immediately oppen it on one od the pages, reading out loud.
"'Today, unfortunately, we announce the loss of our beloved, quirkless yet respected only child (Y/N) ... While we were just enjoying the few but precious family moments together, a despicable villain attacked us and took her life during the combat. We, with pure grudge and thirsting for justice, have put the evil factor in behind the bars, but still it does not fill the void that our beloved deceased daughter left us ... rest and peace my sweet (Y/N), we will always have you in our hearts.'" Chisaki read all of what was written in pure rage.
"You two are quite the actors, to have to say that on a jornal." The man wearing a white hoodie spoke coldly.
"Actors?" Laughed nervously the woman "Our daughter died during a villain's fight long ago... She was quirkless, couldn't even protect herse-"
"I don't even need to use my quirk to identify your lies woman." Spoke the man on Overhaul's side "Those are beautiful words but clearly false."
"You really think we are that dUMB YOU PUNks?!" Screamed Mimic in offense.
"What will be your orders boss?" A blond with green shirt spoke in pure sadistic exciment.
Overhaul raised his hand, demanding silence with his gesture, as he messed in his jacket pocket before pulling out a small picture.
He abruptly shoved both of the old newspaper; which had the photo of the supposed deceased child; and a picture that he had took it of you.
"Don't you verms think that these two are a A BIT too similiar?!" He couldn't contain his wrath and shouted at both at them making both heroes flinch in fear.
"Abandoned by you both in a shelter just because they couldn't reach your expectations of being what you two are..." Spoke coldly Chrono aiming his gun close to the womans forehead.
Overhaul gave the paper back to Mimic and right after, saving the photo back in his pocket.
"Usually I don't like dirting my hands, but you two are a real special case..." he started to lower his gloves down.
"Wait a second, please!" Pleaded the man almost tearing up "H-How about a deal? Me and my wife can give you all of our money we earned as heroes! Think about about it!" The woman gave her husband a glare due to his offer.
Greddy woman... despicable. They didn't remind him any of you... thankfully.
"How much you're willing to gave us?" Spoke in interest Mimic.
"Anything really! Just let us go and don't mention about... her to anyone." Chisaki wanted to rip this man's head out of his body at the way your "father" mentioned you.
"Give them all of your credits cards and you passwords. Now." Demanded the quivering man at his wife who hesitantly showed where it was in her purse.
Chrono took all of them, right after giving Kai a silently sign that it was real and he got them right.
"Everyone, except Chrono and Mimic, get out of here and wait outside." Commanded Overhaul which everyman respind with an "yes sir."
Right after Nemoto closed the door, Mimic unchained the couple, but just as them got up to their feet, Kurono headlocked the woman as Chisaki punched the man with all his force, making him hit the floor.
"HON-" Chrono pressed the gun in the women's temple.
"Shut your mouth if you don't want your brain to explode it with this damn bullet."
Overhaul marched his way and grabbed the man's collar shirt staring at him what only could be described as a death glare.
"B-but our deal-!"
"Yo punk, we accepted the money but we didn't say anything about letting you go." Said Mimic checking all of the credit cards while holding a phone.
"You didn't really think I would let go that easy did you?" Groaned Chisaki "After everthing you and your project of a wife did to my angel..."
"Y-your what-" the man couldn't even complete his question when Chisaki merciless touched his forehead and overhauled him on the spot.
The woman screamed in terror. Trying to get out of her captor's hold.
"Don't worry I didn't forget about you... disgusting." Overhaul muttered as he rubbed his hand.
"MONSTER! WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!" the woman shouted not even caring about the gun glued to the side of her head anymore.
"You really are just as dumb as your husband here. I will bring him back, his punishment isn't over..." he looked at her with threatening eyes "Monster huh? Look at both of you, damn hypocrites... Listen closely." He approached the woman who trembles in fear and hate at the villain.
"For every moment of pain; physically and emotionally; for every single tear that escaped from my angel's eyes due to your actions... I will kill; torture even; you both and bring you back over and over again until I am deeply satisfied..." the woman started to sobbing in fear as she pleaded for forgiveness and beged for let them go.
"Isn't it glorius? Feeling completely vulnerable, useless and totally submissive at the power at someone else's hands? I am not the person who you should be begging for forgiveness, but I guess you let that chance slip years ago, didn't you? What a great mother..." he spoke in pure sadistic sarcasm.
In a quick move Chisaki comanded that Chrono let go of the woman, making her hit the cold ground. And just before her eyes could've had catch it, he touched her face with all of his hand and overhauled her.
"Despicable creatures..." mumbled Chisaki as he saw the mess on the ground. He made his way to your once father when Chrono called his attention holding his cellphone for Kai to see.
"It's (Y/N), she's asking how are you doing and if we will take too long to come back. What should I respond?"
"Hey Overhaul? Isn't tommorow or after the day when you meet her or something?"Asked Mimic pointed one of the many credit cards at his boss. Subconsciously giving the young villain an idea.
"Tell her is going to take a little more than we expected, my job here isn't totally complete... But tell that I have a surprise for her so just be patient." Chrono nodded as Mimic snickered.
"Getting lucky with your partner Overhaul?"
"Shut your mouth Mimic."
#overhaul x reader#overhaul scenario#fanfic overhaul#chisaki kai imagine scenario#chisaki kai x reader#bnha x reader#bnha character x reader#bnha villains x reader#bnha#bnha imagine scenario#bnha characters#bnha villains#overhaul#chisaki kai#I LOVED WRITING THIS#my writing#zuffer writings
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don't get me wrong, i love colin and think he's such a talented actor....but i hated his performance in The Rite. it just felt kind of wooden. It wasn't until the exorcism scene at the end when he finally came alive
CONGRATULATIONS, NONNY!!!
You’ve unlocked one of KW’s Pet Peeves and that means you get a free, all-expense-paid rant, courtesy of yours truly! :D
Allegedly, ~ it has been said ~ that the director wanted Colin to “tone it down” with his performance and play Michael Kovak very stoic and...
OKAY, I’M GONNA SAY IT, I’M GONNA-
Michael Kovak is dull.
HE WEARS ORTHOPEDIC SHOES, YOU CAN TELL, HE’S JUST THE KIND OF GUY WHO YOU MEET AND YOU’RE LIKE ‘ORTHOPEDIC SHOES’ AND NOT BECAUSE HE HAS TO, BUT BECAUSE HE WANTS TO
Rumor has it that Colin was more or less directed to play him more as an “everyman” - an average joe, a studious and serious sort of guy. In other words, the director wanted Colin to more or less dull his natural *sparkling* self.
For me, what makes Colin’s acting so much fun to watch is the spirit in it. Like, he goes for each role with a sort of gusto and joie de vivre that just permeates through the character and brings them to life. He injects part of himself into every role he plays, like most actors do, but Colin’s “parts” are just so damn likable and magnetic. Even Professor Harrison has a certain something that draws you in, pulls you closer - and that makes it so much more offensive when he turns out to be an ass. And that’s one of the reasons I want sosososo badly to see Colin play a serial killer at some point, because he would NAIL that genial “guy next door” charisma that so many murderers use to lure in their victims with a false sense of security AND he could nail the evil that ensues once they have a victim in their clutches, because he does “dark” like nobody’s business.
HOLLYWOOD, GIVE THAT TO ME.
(Also make him James Bond sometime before I die. Thanks.)
ANYWAY... It’s that infectious charisma that makes Colin’s characters so fun to watch, and makes Colin himself such a delight to fangirl over, and his career such a joy to follow. However, Michael Kovak feels like a character that has had that charisma surgically excised, and you can’t quite figure out WHY or what’s off about him or what it is, but you know something’s off. That performance doesn’t really fit with everything else we’ve seen from Colin overall. It feels... stilted. Crippled. Something’s missing.
And then you hear the rumors and scuttlebutt that the director actually asked Colin to tone the charm down... and ARGH. I mean, that EXPLAINS exactly what you already knew was missing, even if you couldn’t put your finger on what it was exactly, so once you hear that, you just kinda know it’s true.
I admit, Colin was still new on the acting scene, so the director probably didn’t realize what he was working with and how colossally he was misusing it - so I try not to get too mad about it. BUT I’M KINDA MAD ANYWAY. Imagine someone directing Colin to do this now: “Hey, could you play this guy a little more... average?” “Could you be a bit less charismatic?” “Could you just cripple your best asset?” “I think this would be a lot better if you just phoned it in a bit more.”
WTF.
But I’ll say this. Colin still nails the angsty aspects of the role to a T. The serious, dark, emotional moments are very well delivered. And there ARE some moments where Colin’s charisma peeks through and wins you over - like when Michael makes that failed joke to the priest or the almost-smirk when he says, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” about the frogs, and that grin at the end that just makes you want to follow him wherever he’s going just to see more of it. And the ending, like you said, ramps up the action and intensity and gives Colin the chance to let loose, as well. So there’s still plenty to like in The Rite, and plenty that Colin himself should be very proud of, but it still makes me angry to think of what we could’ve had if Colin hadn’t been (allegedly) reined in.
Also, it makes me furious because the only real complaint any critics had about his performance was that it lacked “charisma” - and we all know that Colin has that in spades. If it’s true that the director asked him to tone it down, and then that was the only thing critics faulted in his performance... GAH.
I NEED TO GO FLAIL AT NOTHING NOW
#the rite#colin criticism#kinda#even if it's not really aimed at him#because he's perfect in every conceivable way#and a few inconceivable ones#thank you#this has been a public service announcement#not whxmp#anonymous#kw ask box
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Why Jordan Peele is One of the Most Important Directors of our Generation
Intro:
Before the horror-comedy sensation Get Out was released in 2017, I’d never heard the name Jordan Peele before. Now, after seeing his most recent success, Us, I can’t see myself not perking up at reading his name in the credits.
Peele didn’t just appear magically out of thin air as a gift from the filmmaking gods, even though it seems like so. His career actually kickstarted in 2003 when he joined the cast of Mad TV in its ninth season. I’m not here to give you an entire biography of Jordan Peele’s life, but this does give some insight to just how long he’s been working in the industry.
Get Out was Peele’s first job as a solo director, but with the amount of professionalism and mastery put into it, you’d never know it was his debut. Might I also add he was the sole writer as well?
Thrilling, with a premise as outlandish as The Stepford Wives, but with so many silly and satirical moments, Get Out feels very much like real life because of this perfect mix. As a screenwriter (wannabe), I must gush a bit about how well his characters are written and how natural their behavior feels given the situation. The protagonist of Get Out, Chris (played wonderfully by Daniel Kaluuya) feels like someone you could meet at a bus stop or in line at the coffee shop, point being he’s an everyman. Not every lead character has to overtly stand out to be noticable; we just have to be able to fit in their shoes.
But what really made Get Out work is how Peele wrote it as a horror movie, without the need of all those cliche horror tropes that our generation is so accustomed to. About to go off topic for a bit, but I assure you, it’ll all make sense as to why I made this article about Jordan Peele.
What is Horror and What WAS Horror?
Horror is, perhaps, one of the most enigmatic genres there is because what can be defined as scary or unsettling is entirely subjective. There are very few things that people are universally afraid of. Things that only seem more common today but really have always been around... what makes today different from then is that everyone talks about it.
Imagine it’s the 1960s, you live in a cookie-cutter neighborhood where everyone knows everyone. Everywhere you look is a friendly face. Then suddenly, down the road, there is a break-in. The parents left the baby with a sitter and she was brutally attacked. Well, the only way you’re bound to know is through the newspaper or word-of-mouth, but after a while, is anyone going to talk about it or want to? Not a chance. You’ll always hear: These things just don’t happen around here. Not in our town. When really, they do. They happen everywhere. Then of course this is how urban legends start. The Hook Killer on Lover’s Lane, the Boogeyman that creeps at night.
A documentary that goes more in depth on this idea is Joshua Zeman’s Killer Legends. He explains how the real-life stories that inspire these legends are far more scarier than the films they create... and that’s how it all started.
Let me explain: the ‘Horror’ genre was meant to showcase just what people didn’t want to talk about what was happening down the road or across town. There’s a man that lures people into his hotel to kill them? Our neighbor killed his wife in cold blood and is trying to hide it? My upstairs neighbors might be psycho Satan worshippers?! Nah. Let’s just ignore it and hope it goes away.
A lot of people think if we don’t talk about it, these issues will vanish. But Horror films reminded us that such terrors exist in the real world, and can only be stopped if we acknowledge that they’re there. That’s why such films like Psycho or Rosemary’s Baby were so revolutionary--the idea that the scariest things are not even supernatural (Peele understands this greatly, but I’m getting there).
Horror worked well as a unique genre for the creative minds of Alfred Hitchcock, Wes Craven, and Tobe Hooper. Then this happened:
The Slasher Era:
HOLD UP. I’m NOT undermining the effect that these films have. Halloween is a classic, and there are plenty of other ‘semi-modern’ thrillers that work like this, but...
They unintentionally got the ball rolling for marketing genius and filmmaking disaster. Halloween was far more effective in 1978, when it was released, than it probably would be had it been made today (No, we’re not talking about 2018′s Halloween. Now stop distracting me). With horror, timing is everything... as in, ‘what’s going on in the world’ timing. Babysitting late nights was far more common then than it was now, and teenagers didn’t have modern conveniences they do now should anything happen. Back then, they actually had to WATCH the children, ensure their safety as well as their own, not give them an iPad and watch TV for an hour or two.
On top of this, as much as we take it for granted, 911 wasn’t always around. Until 1968, US citizens had no way of getting in immediate contact with the police until they got the operator on the phone to connect you to them. So Halloween recreates that idea of what if the babysitter got into a terrible situation with no way of getting immediate help? But they also decided to make things a little edgier... better said, bloodier. Cue Friday the 13th.
Teenagers go to sleepaway camp all the time (No, we’re not talking about that movie either, so hush), so what would parents be like seeing this film about kids going to a sleepaway camp where there’s a murderer hanging around? A brilliant idea that sold tickets back in 1980 to young adults and grown-ups alike. That’s because these ideas were new and horrifyingly relevant and real. They’re reminded of the threats that are out there.
But here’s the catch that ruined everything: it sold tickets. Sure, it scared some people for a good while, but they didn’t always leave with the idea lingering in their heads. But the producers and writers don’t always care about the latter, once they realized how easily money can be made by movie-goers wanting a good scare and a ‘fun time,’ the Slasher genre skyrocketed, and the brilliance of horror got dumbed down... and down... and down over the years with few exceptions. Let’s not mention, marketing blew up with Slasher films. Did anyone ask for four Halloween sequels or seventeen more Jason films? Nope. Did it make money anyway? Yup. It’s all in the name, not in the art...
Come On In, Get Out!
(See what I did there?)
Repeating myself at the intro, for those who forgot that this is really about Jordan Peele, I’d never heard of him before I saw Get Out. Even then, I only really knew about the movie through everyone talking about its 100% Rotten Tomatoes score. I went into the movie blind, a little confused to what made it considered a ‘horror’ when it looked like perhaps a Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner? type film.
When I saw it for the first time, I was sinking back into my seat whenever I felt Chris’ (the lead’s) discomfort. Again, it’s because we all fit into his situation seamlessly, being somewhere you’re not sure you’re welcome (hence the clever title). The audience was cheering by the end, eager that our in-movie buddy had made it out safe (Spoilers, I guess, but c’mon. If you haven’t seen it yet, get out :D).
But what made Get Out stand out from other modern-day thriller films is that when I went back, I caught things I’d missed my first time through; small hints and cues that clue you into what’s really going on. Did they have to be there to make it more enjoyable, probably not... but Jordan Peele wrote them in anyway, combining it with his perfect set-ups and shots so that the more cerebral movie-goers can have those ‘ah-ha’ moments! It’s a horror film where, for once, you feel like a genius for getting those little hints and figuring out what’s going to happen next (We are all Rod, who pretty much kept a running commentary of the movie-watcher’s thoughts).
Again, all not required, but very necessary if your film is going to be effective. While Peele deservedly won Best Original Screenplay, I say he was next up for Best Director from the perfect pauses in dialogue, to the little awkward looks in the camera by the hypnotized victims.
Why was it so successful among audiences everywhere, of all nationalities and ages?
Intelligent Horror:
Jordan Peele himself stated that Get Out was from ‘an effort to master fear.’ Us, I think, is an extension of that idea. What made these two films so effective wasn’t that they were filled with scary moments now and then and called itself ‘horror.’
They were smart films.
Get Out has very real fears we as people have; being out of place, uncomfortably watched by people, being abducted and never heard from again which horrifyingly happens far too often here in the States.
Us offers similar real-life horrors. A home invasion, being separated from your kids (and in return, kids being separated from their parents, their source of protection since day one). There always seems to be something supernatural or paranormal at play here, but there’s nothing of such going on. In Peele’s writing, it’s all real-life. After all, is the real world not a scary place?
The only difference I noticed in Us is that Peele maintains his effective dialogue with subtle clues of what’s going on, while visually he kept some of his trademarks (the wide shot of a figure walking towards the camera, looking right into it with wide, terrified eyes) but with a lot less visual hints than Get Out (to me, at least, but I’ve only seen Us once and will definitely be watching again).
While Get Out’s message leaned more towards the race issues in the US (and the world by proxy), Us is more muddled in what the audience is meant to take from it... and that’s perfectly fine. Jordan Peele’s horror is that you might not necessarily leave the theater scared to turn your light off at night, but you’re up late thinking about it and what it all means. And those are the kinds of films that stay on Hollywood’s radar for generations to come and not just as Halloween-time fun. Heck, Get Out came out in February, 2017. Us came out in March, 2019. Normally we expect cheesy rom-coms this time of year; so when a movie claiming to be a thriller shows up on the ‘coming soon’ list, you bet people are going to raise their brows and see what’s going on.
Peele understands how to entice people, to make them feel comfortable with his characters and then worry for their safety, while at the same time being far too fascinated by what’s going to happen to even think about taking their eyes off the screen to check their phones while waiting for the next jump scare.
He knows how to bring out the actors’ most unsettling parts of themselves, actors we may be familiar with and are used to seeing them as friendly faces (Lupita Nyong’o managed to creep me out while being an amazing spectacle on camera)! Daniel Kaluuya became an Oscar Nominee from his performance as a man being held captive going into full survival mode.
Don’t we all worry about what we’d do if we were in the situations those people were in? Wouldn’t we hope to have the smarts or guts to fight our way out just as they did? That’s the idea of what horror really is meant to be. Not be that one idiot character that goes into the scary house that’s known to be haunted while your friends tell you no (or film you for snapchat, I dunno).
No, in Peele’s movie, you’re going somewhere that’s supposed to be safe, where something unexpected that you were unprepared for happens... and that’s scarier than any ghost story I’ve seen.
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We Won't Lose Anyone Tonight-William Murdoch
Request: can u do another war au with reader being a soldier and mirdoch going into battle
A/N: Trying a new layout because for some reason it's the only some things appear when they are typed (I don't know how to explain it), let me know if it's for better or worse. I wanted this out earlier in the week but time was not on my side. Regardless here it is and I hope you all enjoy.
Setting: WWI AU
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Part 1
"Yes sir, understood." Lieutenant Price hung up the phone.
From his chair in the dugout Murdoch could tell his superior was nervous. As he fidgeted in his own chair, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the table in front of the two men.
"Orders sir?" Murdoch cautiously asked hoping for a negative answer.
"Command is ordering trench raids all along the trench line, 01:00 hours." Price answered, beads of sweet forming along his hairline accompanied with a vice deprived of any emotion. A cold feeling comes over William, he tells himself it's just the atmosphere of the dugout but he's only lying to himself.
Fighting in this war was never pleasant but trench raids were a task almost everyone hated. Close, claustrophobic, hand to hand combat, the only objective to capture enemy equipment and soldiers, or simply kill them. Never gaining ground and just hoping it wasn't you who ended up dead on the muddy ground of a trench.
All of this was irrelevant to Murdoch however. If he had orders he would carry them out, regardless of personal opinion. Taking his helmet from the table and standing Murdoch asked a follow up question.
"How many this time?"
"Twelve, you and I included, tell them to grab weapons and meet back here for midnight, no rifles." Price didn't look up to his the Sargent, instead starring into the distance as if he could see through the mud wall and into no mans land. Nodding Murdoch excited the dugout, dreading the assignment of recruiting men for their possible death.
Part 2
You sat on a wooden create, weathered by the mud and rain but still a passable seat to whoever wanted it. In your hand was a photo of your unit all dressed in clean uniforms with serious looks on each face. It was taken back during training before you were sent into the horror that was the trenches.
You made a habit of looking and naming each man in uniform in your head. At the same time compiling a list of those who had past on, who would never have another photo taken of them. You did this so you would not forget anyone who fought along side you, so the names on your list were not forgotten, that same list always getting progressively longer.
Your name being called brought you out of your day dream. Tilting your head up you see Sargent Murdoch approaching, a stern look on his dirty face. Standing to formally address the Sargent he waves a hand in front.
"At ease y/n." He was never a fan of the formalities, less so when it was from someone he considered a friend. Reclaiming your seat Murdoch takes a box beside you.
"Got the old photograph out I see."
"Something to do in between shifts." You calmly answer, placing the photo back into your coat pocket and pulling out a tin of cigarette You offer one to William but as suspected he declines. Placing a fag in your mouth you struggle to light a match while asking a question.
"How did your meeting with the Lieutenant go?"
"Alright, the stress is showing wether he'll admit it or not."
"Hard to blame him."
You strike the match again, this time a small flame appears giving warmth to your freezing hands. Lighting the cigaret you inhale the much needed tobacco. Sighing in relief you continue your line of questions.
"Any new orders from command Will?"
"I dare to say yes, trench raid tonight." You get a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, taking a drag from the cigaret you respond with the exhale of smoke.
"So when will the briefing be?" Already knowing what Murdoch's next sentence would be.
"Midnight, Prices dugout, bring melee weapons only we don't want a repeat of last time."
You flinch at the memory of Peters charging a German in the last trench raid. How his bayonet was easily dodged in the tight space and he was rewarded with a knife in his chest, another name to add to your list.
"That won't happen again Will, we won't lose anyone tonight." Your voice grizzled ah the thought. Murdoch pats your shoulder before rising to his feet, no doubt in his way to recruit more soldiers for tonight's mission.
"I hope hope your right y/n." William says before walking off.
You lean against the dirt walk if the trench, pondering the possibility of tonight. It was never certain what would happen in battle. An unlucky grenade could result in the end for all men present, but that was not acceptable for you. Inhaling again on the cigarette you repeat that statement to yourself, hoping the more it's said the more accurate it will be.
"We won't lose anyone tonight."
Part 3
Price checks his pocket watch for what must be the third time in the last minute. According to the briefing all raiding party's were to leave at exactly at one. Simultaneously attacking kilometres of German trenches to cause mass confusion. The path was already you would silently take was already mapped out, weapons sharpened and everyone loaded with grenades handed out at the dugout. All there was left to do was wait. Price closed the lid of the watch and in a loud whisper speaks to the eleven men standing on both sides of him.
"Thirty seconds, check your kit."
Silently everyman follows the order. The Lieutenant and Sargent triple checking their service revolvers, assigned to the higher ranks while you go over your own kit for the fourth time that night. An empty rough sack on your back for supplies to steal, grenades in place of your ammo pouches, combat knife and sharpened spade is all you'll bring with you, that and the clothes on your back. This only takes a moment, leaving more silence among all of you, no one brace enough to break it.
Again Price checks his clock, in the same motion he steps into the bottom ring of the trench climbing ladder. The other soldiers moving close to a ladder soon after. Beside you Murdoch made the sign of the cross, causing you to break the silence. Your voice, barley a whisper but still too loud for the environment.
"Do you think God will help us sir?" He turns back to you, fear not found on his stern expression but instead his eyes, almost as if you would jump out of his head.
"I hope so." Like yourself, his voice is only loud enough for you two to hear it.
Not a second later Price addressed the men in whisper yell before crawling into no mans land.
"It's time, let's get to work."
#mudoch mysteries#ww1#imagine#william murdoch imagine#william murdoch x reader#william murdoch#fanfiction#murdoch mysteries fanfiction#reader insert
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What’s you name again?
Seven and a half weeks into living together, my cousin Josh his (forced) roommate, who's name escapes me – though i never knew it to begin with – lived together in blissful ignorance. His name was universal, an everyman and no-man’s-man all at once. We call him by his defining features; and that is to say, he had very little. He’s a man, so we’d say ‘hey man’, he's a dude, so we’d say ‘what’s going on dude’.
The dude and Josh have been living together for seven and a half weeks. They’re in the Navy, so they were just kinda thrown together. Each of them work pretty off the chops hours, so they don’t see each other all that often, and when they are both home, one’ll have a girl over or be cooking or on the phone or in the shower or their room – so not too much time for chin waggin’, if you dig me. The point of all this is; have you ever been in the situation where you’ve been hanging around someone for a while, and you suddenly realise, as if you’ve dropped your toast face down, that you can’t remember the their name! and you've been hanging out far too long to ask again – he would be insulted, fuck, I’d be insulted. So you do what all great men do, not much at all. And as not much at all goes by, it gets worse, time waves as it passes and you still can’t remember his name, you just sit, hoping for someone else to say it or for him to get a phone call or to find a piece of his mail laying about. But you never do. So, you call him ‘man’ or ‘dude’ and try not to be awkward as shit doing it.
But alas, we know all good things, or mediocre experiences, come to an end.
So our story unfolds as Josh’s girlfriend comes over, and low and behold, the dude is watching Surviviour, eating baked beans like an eight-year-old on the couch. And like a fool Josh says ‘Hey man. This is Ester’. Fuck. In that still moment, Josh knows he’s done a bad. Now they’re all standing awkward as shit, waiting for him to finish this fine introduction that he’s started. Which he does the only one rational thing there is to do, (and no, it’s not admit defeat and admit you’ve forgotten his name, like a pussy), it’s to make up a nickname. Now unluckily for Josh, this is where his imagination failed him and he said, ‘Ester, this is. Bean. Face.” “Bean face?” she asks, and Josh just nods and lifts his hand to point at the half empty bowl of baked beans on the dudes lap. But this is where Josh made a diamond out of dirt. Instead of the silence taking over, the dude laughed, and said ‘Bean Face is fine, but my name’s Brian.’ BRIAN. Brian, his name was Brian – no wonder Josh forgot it.
So, I think the moral of the story is that when in doubt, never admit your mistake and commit to your story no matter how far it gets taken; and if you’ve been in this situation before, you’ll agree whole heartedly.
The funny thing is, that on the twelfth week of being roomies, when being introduced to Brian’s mum, Brian whispered to Josh, ‘Sorry dude, I’ve totally blanked, what’s your name again?’ So, having been in the same situation only weeks before himself, Josh did what any sane person would do. And that is to get extremely insulted and shout, ‘Fuck you Bean Face!’, and storm out of the apartment.
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Men's makeup brands are discreet — and all over Instagram
Nestled on my Instagram feed between a picture of a high school friend living their adult life and one of the Kardashians (they’re starting to blur together), was a sponsored post for “makeup for men” entitled War Paint. As I sat there watching the ad jump to life— a tattooed man covering his well-lit skin with a black beauty blender— I couldn’t get over the fact that it’s literally called “War Paint.”
Over time, I scrolled into more of these sponsored ads, like a weasel wandering into well-laid traps. Granted, I’m a gay guy who’s been wearing makeup since high school; some tinted moisturizer here, some blush there, but makeup nonetheless. So while I’m aware that these ads might not be enticing to me, per se, I wonder if they’d be enticing to someone who isn’t ready to step foot in a Sephora at any given moment.
If their ads are any indication, the brands I’m seeing on Instagram are attempting to change the narrative around men's makeup and open up that corner of untapped market that men represent.
First, it’s important to note that queer men have been wearing makeup openly for a while. And thanks to male beauty gurus on YouTube, like James Charles and Jeffree Star, it’s commonplace to scroll by a boy with a “full beat” on Instagram. “The boys in beauty aren't blurring gender—they're expanding it,” writes Koa Beck in Marie Claire.
SEE ALSO: 7 of the best light masks for acne, according to reviews
While mainstream media is no stranger to putting makeup on men (David Beckham was recently on the cover of Love magazine wearing green eyeshadow), it’s still a tough sell to the average straight guy. According to surveys, men are still quite hesitant to wear makeup.
The "Beauty Boys" are forcing brands to pay attention, making it clear that there’s an untapped market out there in the way of men’s beauty. Most recently, Chanel dropped a small line of makeup for men in late 2018. Forbes called it "revolutionary" and after GQ's style and grooming director tried it, he urged readers to "Wear more make-up." Charlotte Tilbury and Fenty have both put out official videos demonstrating their products on men in an attempt to grab male customers and sell them on the fact that they, too, could benefit from some beauty hacks.
High-end brands aren't a realistic option for men who are just beginning to dabble in makeup— $65 for a Chanel foundation is a leap, even if it is made for men. Charlotte Tilbury and Fenty, on the other hand, package their products in typical makeup fashion: shiny, colorful, and branded—characteristics that might make them weary candidates in a straight guy's toiletry lineup. And at the end of the day, it's all still makeup, a genre of grooming that doesn't open its door that widely to men, particularly straight men...yet.
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Our Concealer Swatches, what shade are you?
A post shared by War Paint (@warpaintformen) on Nov 15, 2018 at 3:07am PST
Altr conducted a men’s makeup survey with UK adults (1000 men and 1000 women) aged 18 to 35. When asked if they had ever worn makeup or concealer, 19 percent of men admitted they had, 20 percent admitted they'd thought about it, and an overwhelming 61 percent said they haven't worn any and haven't thought about it either. And 56 percent of men said they wouldn’t be comfortable approaching a makeup counter— a number that rises as the age bracket reaches 35.
Perhaps the most interesting tidbit from the survey is this: 10 percent of men said they knew “a lot” of guys who wore some sort of makeup, compared with 5 percent of women. This might point to the fact that men who do wear makeup only discuss it with other men.
I realized, though, that that’s the point of these discreet, direct-to-consumer operations selling makeup for men. Nobody has to know. Unlike the new male-focused beauty lines from cosmetic powerhouses like Tom Ford and Chanel, these Instagram-savvy brands are making it a point to steer clear of traditional beauty jargon when advertising their “tools.”
Stryx, a company that sells just concealer and tinted moisturizer, markets them as just that: “tools.” The packaging goes a step further to ensure that anybody who lays their eyes on it won’t really know what it is. The concealer stick looks like a pen or a stylus, sleek and black. The tinted moisturizer looks like it could be a number of things, also sleek and black. Perhaps a portable charger? A fancy deodorant, maybe?
On a desk, these "tools" blend in to their surroundings
Image: stryx
Stryx was founded by three men: Devir Kahan, Joe Lieberman, and Isaac Rami. In a phone interview with Mashable, they spoke about their approach to "cosmetics" and why their products have the potential to spearhead a new frontier in which men wearing makeup is the norm.
Instagram plays a huge part in their business plan, says Rami. "We’re able to directly speak to our consumers and change and develop things in the direction they wanna see it...it’s in our DNA."
According to Forbes, Instagram influencer marketing could be worth more than $2 billion in 2019. That’s a lot of money to be spent on people hawking products on a photo sharing app.
Altr is another brand selling makeup for men on Instagram and it’s more straightforward. Alex Doyle, the company's founder, puts more of an emphasis on marketing "makeup" straight up. "We tend not to shy away from the cosmetic angle, or promote discretion, like some other brands do," Doyle told Mashable over email.
The UK-based brand touts a fuller range of products, similar to Stryx’s, like Face Fix, a concealer-ish formula made for men using specific ingredients like China clay. The blemish fighting tool comes in a blue tin and upon first glance, it's easy to mistake it for a lip balm.
While packaging seems to be of utmost important to these brands, it’s hard to tell if it's really making a difference.
Barret Wertz, the style and grooming editor of AskMen claims that while shirking the stigma around these products may take time, it is doable. "Incorporating hyper-masculine copy or imagery is one very easy way of doing that, allowing men to buy something that inherently looks masculine, while still receiving the benefits of makeup," he says.
Altr's answer to concealer: "Skin Fix"
Image: altr
Altr's moisturizer, containing a "subtle whiskey extract," is a winking example of a product made by men, for men. "I’ve always really enjoyed whiskey personally which was a big reason behind it," Doyle admits. But it's not just for marketing purposes. "The whiskey infusion helps our key soothing ingredients such as Chamomile and Aloe Vera 200x properly absorb into the skin," Doyle claims.
While that may sound like marketing hoo-ha, it’s actually not. Mintel, a leading market intelligence agency, conducted a survey in 2017 that found that men do pay attention to ingredients. “Natural” is the “top attribute” that men look for on packaging of personal care products. Whiskey, it seems, might actually persuade customers to follow through with a purchase.
Stryx’s nod to hard liquor comes in a different form: the shade selection. While their range is weak (they’re planning to expand it soon), it’s the way users choose their color that stands out. To select a shade, users can pick between three different tumblers filled with ice. "We see our whiskey glasses as interesting and different, but many of our customers don't even realize that it's different or unique, per se, as it's their first time thinking about cosmetics and shades," says Kahan.
Light Cognac, Medium Mahogany, and Dark Eclipse make up the shade range.
Image: Stryx
With men's cosmetics is potentially a massive emerging market, it's hard to tell whether these particular brands will thrive. Wertz doesn’t think makeup will ever be a staple in the average straight man’s routine. "I don’t think you’re ever gonna see a guy with a fully beat face who’s going to work at a bank," he laughs, "that’s probably not gonna happen."
Yet, with only a couple products to their names, these companies have managed to get their feet in a door that didn’t exist, say, five years ago.“While California is our biggest market, demand is actually surprisingly widespread across the country, with a lot of orders coming from southern states like Texas,” says Doyle about Altr’s reach.
"We have not found that a specific age buys our products more than others, and our customers range in age from 18 all the way to 50,” notes Kahan. “We have delivered Stryx orders to customers everywhere from Apple headquarters and the tech sector, to actors and directors, to "strait-laced" professionals on Wall Street or in law."
Somewhere between Bear Grylls and James Charles is the everyman. The one who just wants to wake up, go to work, and fit in with society. If having a clear face comes naturally to them, great. But what if it doesn’t? What if they suffer from acne scars? What if they’re just naturally a little ruddy?
Those questions might not be easily answered, but some should find solace in the fact that the solution could be just a click away.
Editor's note: Mashable and AskMen are both owned by Ziff Media Group.
#_uuid:d73455b7-56e0-323c-866f-91e4058ef82c#_category:yct:001000002#_lmsid:a0Vd000000DTrEpEAL#_author:Harry Hill#_revsp:news.mashable
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A doubleheader love/hate review for Watch_Dogs, Watch_Dogs 2, and Bad Blood DLC. As always this is a subjective article based on my opinion of the game. If you liked it? Great. If you hated the game? That's fine too. Let me know what your thoughts on these two fine games.
The cliff notes review of these two games is that I enjoyed myself playing both of them greatly. Which is nice to say because I gut punched Ubisoft a few times already annoyed with Farcry and the Division for both coming up very very short in quality/storytelling/gameplay. WD1 was an ambitious game but plagued with issues which I will get into below. WD1: Bad Blood certainly bridged some of the problems from the primary game and comes with its own storyline thus worth the extra money. WD2 is nothing short of an exceptional game that fixed most of the issues of the first game with a few minor flaws which don’t subtract from its well earned 5-star rating.
Game Concept (Love)
Ubisoft does a pretty good job launching memorable brands into the gaming world be it Splinter Cell, The Division, Ghost Recon, Assassins Creed, and so on. This game is no different allowing players to slip into the shoes of Aiden Pearce, a one-dimensional everyman playing out his revenge storyline after his nephew was killed after a job gone wrong. Raymond Kenney, a former code who has adopted the grunge look and is by far the most complex characters in the series (if only because he had two games to develop). Lastly, Marcus Holloway, a San Francisco hacker who has great depth and personality almost to the point it is way too much and they overdo the geek culture almost ALMOST reducing to caricature which thank god they didn't.
The Watch Dogs world basically reduces hacking into an instant exercise of tapping a phone and accessing digital systems to make the environment work for you; change the street lights to hit a police car chasing you, turn a junction box into a proximity mine, or use the cameras to scout out the enemy movements. While this is far from any reality it makes for fun gameplay that uses the action of GTA and puts that old Splinter Cell twist which makes exciting to play.
Hacking (Love)
As I said above they oversimplified hacking for the sake of making it more fun/exciting to watch much like you would see in the movie Hackers or Swordfish which the game drew inspiration from. I am not sure how I feel about the hacking system as a whole as someone knowingly (or unknowingly) took the ‘Series of Tubes’ quote by Ted Stevens and ran with it for their gameplay. This basically turned the invasion of systems into a minigame of unlocking nodes by directing the blue lines in the right direction. It was clever and simple enough that anyone could do it.
Watch Dogs 2 clearly took some notes and abandoned the whole diving into the system and laid the nodes out on the real world forcing the player to use a drone to get a birdseye view and play the same mini-game directing the blue lines to unlock other nodes. This made the mini-game far less mundane and should get a gold star for being clever and engaging.
Characters (Love/Hate)
Watch Dogs 1 had a big problem off the bat with its characters. Every single one including the main character was bland. There was no depth, banter, or personality for most of them save the introduction of Clara, who only had so much personality herself and Ray, who seemed to have a lot more depth than most of the characters in the story combined. Where the game DID do well was its villains with the former partner pissed of at Aiden or the Chicago crime lord named Quinn who you eventually must deal with at the end of the game.
Watch Dogs 2 resolved this giving the lead and the secondary characters depth while keeping the villains interesting. You care about the characters more then you think you would starting to see them as real people, which is sometimes hard to pull off in a video game. The game doesn't let down in its character development but if I had one critique of the characters its the fact they were sometimes trying TOO hard to be edgy/geeky. At some points it's charming and at other points, it's kinda annoying. That said its a small critique and not one that subtracts from the experience.
Missions + Side Missions (Love/Hate)
Watch Dogs 1 had a pretty solid main storyline with a couple of notable side missions. The feeling of being vigilant worked well for the game as I stopped crimes, broke a sex trafficking ring and killed some very bad people. Where the game really failed (save the Bad Blood DLC) was the side missions where I drive three cars across the city or do some other meaningless task that felt a lot like filler. I sit here now having played it only two weeks ago and I can't even remember most of the side missions save the virtual trips which were only fun with the Spider Tank.
The Bad Blood DLC aimed to fix some of those issues making Ray the lead and having him work with Chicago PD Detective having him execute missions like he was her own personal Batman. The objective-based missions would carry over into the next game but this is the action people signed up for to either go in an pick off guards one by one or go loud like an action movie and kick ass.
Watch Dogs 2 expanded on the Bad Blood DLC making every mission (save the skill point hunting jobs) have a relevant feel to them. From the online coop missions to the Uber/Lyft style missions, Ubisoft put a fine coat of story to most of their missions making them fun to indulge in and making the completionist in me ok with doing side jobs. One caveat though FUCK SAILING in the bay.
Multiplayer/PVP Hacking (Fucking Hate)
No surprise where both games fail is multiplayer. Perhaps I am either getting old or I have some personal bias against the PVP systems that now seem to be interlaced into every game but Watch Dogs (1 and 2) both aim to appeal to the worst among us. This is much the same issue with The Divisions “Dark Zone” where other agents kill one another for gear and in the case of Watch Dogs other players jump into your world, steal your data, earn XP and disappear without a chance to punish them for being a little cunt.
These moments of ‘poof’ suddenly another player is hacking you while you are between missions KILLS emersion in the game and as I said appeals to a certain group of players who enjoy shooting people on the street or seek out African Americans to hack/steal the money from their wallets in order to live out their racist fantasies. (Link)
Ubisoft continues to struggle with multiplayer with unimaginative and hyper-competitive player vs player game that systematically ruins their games one by one. Luckily Watch Dogs 2 comes with a disable hacker invasions button in the menu now but honestly, they should have that set to off all the time and let people turn it on.
Conclusion
WD 2 is clearly far better than WD 1 which is why you SHOULD play these games in order for both the storyline and incremental increase in quality from the first game to the DLC to the second game. While the game has its glaring issues like running all over the place to collect items or doing storyless missions. Both Chicago and San Francisco have character and the games are very enjoyable to play. I look forward to seeing how they expand on the series and where they decide to play out the next chapter; Los Angeles, New York, Seoul, Singapore, Tokyo, London? Lots of options to consider but it will be hard to one-up the tech capital of the world for a literal hacking video game but I am interested to see them try.
Happy Hacking,
Michael California
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A Palestinian’s daily commute through an Israeli checkpoint
By William Booth and Sufian Taha, Washington Post, May 24, 2017
BETHLEHEM, West Bank--Under starry skies, a young Palestinian Everyman wakes before dawn to begin his daily commute to work in Israel.
There are thousands like him. They are building Israel. Five or six mornings a week, long before the Muslim morning prayers, before the cocks crow, when packs of dogs still own the dumpsters, his alarm beeps. Today it is 3:30 a.m.
His name is Tarek Al Taweel. He is a Palestinian construction worker, not without skills. He builds modern high-rise apartments in a Jewish settlement in East Jerusalem, where a five-bedroom penthouse sells for $600,000.
The job is okay, he said. He makes 250 shekels, about $68 a day, twice what he would make in the West Bank. He works beside his father, uncles and brothers. They’re proud of their craftsmanship. They keep photographs on their mobile phones of their aluminum work, fine carpentry, elaborate tiling.
It’s not the work. It’s the Israeli checkpoint. “I hate it,” Taweel told us. The daily crossing drains him. It makes him feel that life is desperate and ugly.
“Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I don’t want to go to the checkpoint. Sometimes I put my head back on the pillow,” Taweel said. “My wife will say to me, ‘You have to feed our child. Get up. Get up!’ And I get up and go.”
The Israeli occupation of the Palestinian territories of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip began 50 years ago in June.
Taweel turned 30 last year.
Like Taweel, four of every five Palestinians have never known anything but the occupation--an evolving system by which the Israeli military and intelligence services exert control over 2.6 million Arabs in the West Bank, with one system for Palestinians, another for Israelis.
This summer, the Israelis will celebrate their near-miraculous victory in the 1967 war, when in just six days, they took all of Jerusalem and their armed forces crushed the Arab armies thrown against them.
On the other side, the Palestinians will mark a military occupation going on for so long that many Israelis barely seem to notice anymore, except the young soldiers sent to enforce it.
Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu refers to it, when he speaks of it at all, as “the so-called occupation.” Some of his fellow citizens say there is really no occupation, because all the Land of Israel was awarded to the Jews by God. Other Israelis argue that Gaza is no longer occupied, because Israel unilaterally withdrew from the coastal strip a decade ago.
Whatever it is called, it appears to be never-ending. Shelves of books have been written about who is to blame for not making peace. Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush and Barack Obama failed to find a “two-state solution.” President Trump says he wants to make “the deal of the century” between Israelis and Palestinians, and just spent two days here.
But what does it feel like? To be “occupied” in 2017, by a country that boasts to be the only democracy in the Middle East?
The first time we saw Taweel he wore dusty jeans and carried a plastic bag with a can of oily tuna fish and a short stack of pita bread. On the spur of the moment he agreed to be a guide of sorts, not only through the chaotic Israeli checkpoint he dreads, but the emotions felt, but not always expressed, at the crossing between his worlds.
His father cautioned him that speaking to two journalists, even for an American newspaper, could jeopardize his permission to enter Israel.
“The permit is life,” the father told us.
The Israeli domestic security service, Shin Bet, keeps voluminous files on Palestinians, and it denies and revokes work, travel and medical permits every day, and need give no more reason than “security.”
“I don’t care,” Taweel said. “It’s okay.”
It is dark outside his family’s three-story home in Hebron when we arrive to follow Taweel on his daily commute.
Although it might take him three or four hours to get to his construction site in East Jerusalem, the entire trip is only 20 miles as the crow flies.
His uncles, brothers and their families live in the kind of extended family compound many Palestinians prefer. A little after 4 a.m., the first lamps appear in the windows, just for a minute, switched on, then off, as if someone is looking for a lost boot and doesn’t want to wake everyone inside.
One of his uncles comes out to offer a cup of coffee. “We leave in the dark and return in the dark,” he said. “It’s unnatural.”
Taweel has a high school diploma and a handsome face that is hard to read. He’s got hazel eyes, square shoulders and an athletic build.
He is recently married, and when we see him away from the checkpoint, with his family, he doesn’t look anxious, but alive with pleasure. Nine months ago, his wife gave birth to a chubby-cheeked boy they dress in cute little track suits.
Taweel is skilled at stonework, drywall and plaster. His competence got him a job.
But it was his baby that got him his permit.
Israel is closed to Palestinians without travel or work permits, except for residents of East Jerusalem, who have a special status. Palestinian women over 50 and men over 55 may enter for a day without a permit from the West Bank, if the checkpoints are open. All Palestinians living in Gaza need special permission.
Construction workers from the West Bank who seek permits must generally be at least 23 years old, married, and have a child, so Taweel could not get an Israeli work permit until his son was born.
Today there are more than a hundred kinds of permits issued by the Israeli military authority for movement.
A permit to travel or study abroad, pray at the Jerusalem holy sites, visit relatives, attend a wedding or funeral, get medical treatment and work on the other side of the separation barrier.
To get out of Gaza--which is under the control of the Islamist militant movement Hamas, a terrorist organization--is even harder. Israel pulled out of the Gaza Strip in 2005 but still maintains a land, sea and air blockade with restrictions on travel and trade. No Palestinians from Gaza commute to work in Israel.
Taweel’s work permit allows him to enter Israel in the early morning, but he must leave by the end of the day.
The Israeli intelligence officers assume that family men like Taweel are not only less likely to carry out terrorist attacks, but less likely to commit any crimes--such as smuggling or spending the night in Israel--for fear of losing their permit.
Around 4:20 a.m., Taweel and six co-workers walk to the end of their street and pile into a van for the ride to Bethlehem. Everyone but the driver immediately nods off.
Taweel said, “More sleep is a blessing.”
Heading north on two-lane Highway 60, they pass the Palestinian town of Saer, home to many construction workers and also a dozen of the young stabbers and car-rammers in last year’s wave of violence, which left 35 Israelis dead.
Across the highway is Kiryat Arba, the Jewish settlement infamous as the home to the American-born physician Baruch Goldstein, who massacred 29 Muslim worshipers with a machine gun at the Cave of the Patriarchs in 1994.
Taweel’s van speeds toward a crossing called Checkpoint 300, or Checkpoint Rachel, because it abuts the Tomb of Rachel, the biblical matriarch, a shrine sacred to Muslims and Christians and considered one of the holiest for Jews.
Checkpoint 300 passes through Israel’s high concrete walls, tagged with Palestinian graffiti and Banksy murals, erected during the second intifada, or uprising, in the early 2000s, when Palestinian suicide bombers were targeting Israeli civilians.
The crossing today is the scene of frequent clashes between young Palestinians throwing rocks and burning tires, and young Israeli soldiers who fire tear gas, rubber-coated bullets and live ammunition.
It’s now almost 5 a.m. Bethlehem is asleep, only the bakeries are bright. But as the convoys of taxis, vans and buses reach the checkpoint, men stir and rush toward Israel’s separation barrier, here a 26-foot-tall cement wall with watch towers.
There are already swelling crowds. It’s a Sunday, busiest day of the week, with thousands of men shoving forward, squirming under fluorescent bulbs.
Taweel was not ready to risk the crush. He is perched above the entrance to the checkpoint on the Bethlehem side, squatting on his heels, elevated on the rubble of an old stone wall, watching the shoving match below.
“It’s too crazy,” he said. “Let’s wait.”
Taweel saw his impatient uncles and brothers shoulder first into the scrum, followed by his father. They pushed on the back of the man in front. His father smiled weakly up at his eldest son through the bars. Father and son looked sad.
Later, Taweel explained that they were ashamed that a foreigner had come to watch such a spectacle.
A few years earlier, Taweel’s father suffered cracked ribs, when he was crushed at the checkpoint. An uncle with high blood pressure once fainted and had to be rescued. During our visit to the checkpoint, one man had a heart attack and another with asthma collapsed.
“You never, ever want to fall down,” Taweel warned.
There are now 70,000 Palestinians working legally in Israel, most of them in construction, plus an additional 30,000 to 50,000 working without permits, who scramble through drainage pipes and scale walls with grappling hooks and handmade ladders, to enter Israel.
There’s no panic this morning. Real panic is rare. But you could see easily how it could happen, like a stampede at a rock concert or a soccer stadium.
It looks a little scary, we said.
“It is scary,” Taweel said.
There are 13 major crossings that allow Palestinians with work permits like Taweel’s to enter Israel. Palestinians will argue which checkpoint is the slowest, fastest, the most crowded, the easiest, with the rudest or most professional soldiers or private security, and the most vile toilets.
Some crossings have vastly improved. But Palestinians say Checkpoint 300 is still one of the worst.
Thousands of workers from all over the southern West Bank must squeeze through each morning. There are no real alternatives. If you’re from Hebron and work in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, it is the straightest line.
As we watched the crush, the Palestinians we asked conjured fantastical words in Arabic to describe the experience to come.
First the workers say they’re funneled into “cages,” the long barred passageways, then jammed into “chicken pluckers,” the clicking turnstiles. Then they pass through the “aquariums,” where the bored Israeli soldiers sit behind thick bulletproof glass, matching green IDs to faces.
It doesn’t take a psychologist to see the meanings behind the metaphors. The Palestinians say the words all describe animals in a zoo.
The crowds were thinning a bit. The line was moving.
After about 30 minutes, Taweel said, “Let’s go.”
The men are wearing work clothes still dirty from the day before. The older ones in coats and the young in hoodies. They are rugged-looking, a lot of them skinny, with hacking coughs. They are carrying table saws and joint knives.
The men move as a kind of wave, back and forth, two steps forward, a step back.
On this side of the separation barrier, there are no Israeli soldiers or security. No Palestinian police either. The movement forward is by remote control of the Israelis watching closed-circuit TV screens. Once into the chute, we stand three shoulders abreast, every part of your body touching someone or something.
The men smoke cigarettes to the filter, even in the lines. Vendors sell paper cups of coffee, which are passed through the bars. The men joke, flash anger, and check their phones.
The later it gets, the more the workers begin to push.
As Taweel gets closer to the turnstiles, Palestinians are climbing over the bars and almost stepping on our heads.
The workers call them “wall crawlers” and “snakes,” the young who jump over and slither under the bars to cut the line. Those who did not cut in lines said the crawlers demeaned themselves--and that this was intentional, that the Israelis wanted this to happen. Why else would they let these conditions persist year after year, they asked.
When ordinary Palestinian workers at Checkpoint 300 are asked what it feels like to be “occupied,” they use three words, consistently. Frustration. Humiliation. Pressure.
With the word “pressure” they sometimes grabbed their chests, mimicking a heart attack, or held their hands together and squeezed, like it felt in the cages.
“I think they do it deliberately, to put us in our place,” said Abu Rafat, 51, a stout barrel of a man with gray hair, a tile worker.
Before we enter the crossing, Abu Rafat points at a scrawny man hovering at the edge of our conversation. The man is growing anxious, keeps looking at his mobile phone, because if he doesn’t make it through the crossing by 7 a.m., his ride to Tel Aviv will leave without him and his boss will dock a day’s wages.
“Look at his eyes,” Abu Rafat said. “Does he want to kill himself? Or somebody else? You can’t tell.”
We reach the turnstile. Three men crowd into a space for one. It is locked, then opened, then locked. You can’t see by whom--a distant security officer or young soldier.
“Watch your hands,” someone shouted.
Taweel and others rush toward the aquariums. They rip off their belts. Their things are scanned. They passed through metal detectors. They press their thumbs on fingerprint readers.
If the workers don’t make it to their job site, they also lose money because most pay a Palestinian broker (who likely pays a cut to an Israeli contractor) 2,000 shekels, or $550, a month in excess “commissions,” charges that both the workers and Israeli government consider a bribe.
The work permit system has been condemned by Israeli human rights groups, as well as the Bank of Israel, as riven by corruption. The Palestinian workers are as likely to blame their own people as the Israelis.
“Permit millionaires,” one laborer described the middlemen.
“Scammers,” said another. “Thieves.”
A worker with a bristly beard and hands like sandpaper, named Abu Omar, 42, said: “We’ve lost our leaders. Our government doesn’t care.”
He waves toward the checkpoint. “Look at us,” he said. “We’re sheep without a shepherd.”
On the Israeli side, Taweel runs toward his ride.
He is late for work.
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Interview with Rob Crow, circa 2012
Crow says you need to be “a real music nerd” to appreciate Devfits: Devo in the style of the Misfits and vice-versa. When I hear he's playing a benefit for UCSD's Ché Café, I jump at the chance to witness this spectacle.
After scuttling about like any good roadie, setting up his equipment, Crow steps into a corner and wrestles on a suit constructed of duct tape, a creepy skin-toned mask, and thick geeky glasses while a film clip of his five-year-old son instructs the audience to buy lots of merch and tell everyone how well the show went, "even when it sucks."
He bursts out onto stage and takes hold of the mic, which is hopelessly tangled around its stand. After belting out his first lines, he brandished the offending machinery and commands, “Please undo this thing from here.” I grab it and unravel it awkwardly, nearly spearing him in the process. He nevertheless tells me, “Thank you very much,” and forges on.
I'm charmed by his manners, but moments later my opinion shifts when he charges his way through the audience, trailing the mic wire behind him heedlessly. Me and two other spectators barely squirm our way out of a firm trussing-up, and I twist my shoulder in the process.
Yet his performance is hauntingly beautiful, especially his rendition of the Misfits song “Hatebreeders.” (Devfits (Rob Crow) @ The Che Cafe on 01.07.12) The herd of UCSD students seems mostly bemused. Near the end of the set Crow tells us that he’s “been coming to the Ché since way before you were all born, and that's not hyperbole."
Crow steps back into the corner and removes the duct tape suit. I watch him chat with a few fans, and after they help him pack up and he's at liberty, I approach. He greets me with a handshake and another thank-you for detangling his mic. His sweet demeanor makes it easy to screw up the courage to ask if he'd consider an interview.
"Sure!" he agrees. "You know I do 'em all the time, for my podcast. Can it wait a few minutes, though?"
I assure him I'm not going to interrogate him tonight, that I meant to schedule for another time. He looks relieved, pulls some rolled-up t-shirts out of his bag and spreads them out on the merch table, scribbling in Sharpie that they’re available for at least a $10 donation to the Ché. Again I am impressed by his gentility.
I email to ask if I might pick his brain at his "Super Amazing Happy Funtime Night" at Bar Eleven. The poster for the event intrigues me; someone pasted his torso onto a horse's body. He looks natural as a centaur. "Sure!" comes the scarily succinct reply again. I hope the whole interview won't go this way of brevity.
I sip a Monkey Paw Sweet Georgia Brown Ale while he painstakingly plots the trajectory of his projector. Then he upends a bag of 99-cent store toys: 20-piece puzzles, bubble wands, foam airplanes, barrels o' monkeys, and paint-by-numbers on all the bartops and booths. I grab bubbles. Then, again, he retreats to the corner and pulls on... a gorilla suit. Only then does he visibly relax, stationing himself in between the turntable and the bar. The smirking bartender, Justin Bess, hands Crow a beer. I start with what I hope is an innocuous question: why the gorilla suit?
“’cause I hate thinking about what to wear,” he states matter-of-factly. I blink, at a loss. He adds that often he wears it around the house and forgets to remove it between home and the recording studio.
He downs a draught, then pauses and looks at his cell phone. “My Words are piling up,” he laughs, showing the screen with a long list of Words With Friends requests.
He busies himself in switching vinyl – so far I've heard King Crimson, Metamatics, Nomeansno, The Locust, Dead Ghosts, Electric Light Orchestra, and Neil Young. Does he remember the first album he bought?
"The soundtrack to Over the Edge, a phenomenal movie," he answers immediately. "It's the truest movie about the seventies I've ever seen. Cameron Crowe called it the greatest soundtrack ever. And I spent a lot of money on The Ramones and Cheap Trick."
A glance at the stream of videos on one screen informs me that "Your Masonic friend thinks very highly of you! You should be proud!"
"Where do you find this shit?" slips out of my mouth before I think about it. He chuckles: "I delve."
I inquire as to when he realized his voice is such a beautiful instrument.
“When I was a kid, I always thought I was gonna be a guitar player. The first band I was in [Heavy Vegetable], we didn’t know who would sing, so we’d take turns. I remember we’d go into the bathroom, which we thought would have an awesome reverb effect – which it didn’t -- and sing into this machine, and there was this giant boa constrictor living in the bathtub –"
I can’t help but interrupt. A boa constrictor?
“Yup," he affirms without elaboration, and rattles on: "And I’m standing over the toilet, all wrapped in this snake, with a drink in one hand and a mike in the other, trying to sing this dumb song – everyone liked it. And I thought, ‘Oh, okay.’”
He notes, in fact, that he likes his singing voice but despises his speaking voice as “super-annoying.” I respond that his speaking voice is very pleasing and radio-friendly on his podcast.
“That’s super-edited,” he replies. I shoot him a doubtful look. “Well, I’m being hyperbolic,” he admits.
A Western saloon-fight with dogs as cowboys starts up on the screen, and I remember that Crow said in an interview with popmatters.com (Contrary Opinions) that he does not like dogs.
In the same interview he says he dislikes the Beatles, confessing that “It’s also just really fun to tell people that you hate the Beatles and watch them flip out.” I wonder, therefore, if he’s merely being "hyperbolic" to be provocative. I mean, who doesn’t like dogs unless mauled when young? Does he really hate dogs?
“Ummm, nah," he says vaguely, distracted by a stubborn wrapper on a velvet paint-by-numbers set. "Well, it just depends,” he hems.
He seems disinclined to explain what makes a dog odious or not, so I switch gears. On the cover of his newest solo album, He Thinks He’s People, one of his signature illustrations shows a stick-figure in the doghouse under a starry sky with two feeding bowls labeled “calzones” and “Speedway Stout.” Is Speedway Stout his favorite local brew? “Pretty much. But it’s not something I could drink twenty of in a night.”
I ask, does he get his calzones from Etna’s?
“Noooo, no Etna’s,” he intones firmly. “Luigi’s. Not Pizzeria Luigi’s, who does have the best pizza in San Diego, but Luigi’s At the Beach, in Mission Beach… I’m from New Jersey; I know my calzones. Every year my family and Pushead’s meet to go there.” My eyebrows shoot up, and he pauses to gauge my reaction. “You know who that is?”
I nod. Pushead is a fixture in the heavy metal and punk scene. I best know him for his grotesquely gorgeous Metallica album art which features skulls, twisted body parts, and lots of fire and ooze and gore, beautifully rendered, a stark contract to Crow’s signature stick-figure art.
I mention off-hand that the San Diego Reader called his cover art 'crass.' His eyes flash and his heretofore soft voice increases an octave. “You know, I’ve never NOT been misquoted in those two magazines [the Reader and the San Diego City Beat]."
The white stick figure upon a black background is Pinback’s little unassuming avatar. After a show at the Belly Up I had watched Crow dutifully draw dozens of the unique pictures on tickets, stolen set-lists, and whatever else fans brought up to him. I ask him now, why a stick figure?
“Early in Pinback’s career, we wanted to do everything ourselves,” including album art. He pauses, meditatively, then surges on: “I feel the stick figure represents the Everyman, with all its foibles or alienation or loneliness… it means a lot to me in its sameness. It’s zeroing in on the darkest parts of mortality."
I in no way expected such a profound, introspective reply, and before I feel I’ve grasped it, he continues: “I think art’s pure escapism. It shouldn’t be the purpose of art to really express joy. I mean, through art one should know what true happiness is; but once you know the real states – this whole life-deathy thing we’re in – it becomes this mobius strip…” He trails off and laughs shortly.
“I’ve been in a mid-life crisis since I was 18… manaically depressed. I don’t want to call it a perpetual e-motion-al machine, because that’s just horrible –“ I stop him to demur, because I love wordplay. He shakes his head and continues:
“But to not be able to enjoy the best parts of life because it’s all worthless… worthless!... there’s no hindsight in death – even wasting your time feeling shitty about it is just a waste of the time you have left but you STILL don’t feel great – it’s endless feedback.”
I think of the song “Scalped” from his album. Crow’s plaintive, prophetic voice cants, “I suggest you don’t waste your time... /Don’t kneel to the alter.” When I first read this line, I thought “alter” as opposed to “altar” was merely a [sic] in his handwritten lyrics, but now I think he punned on purpose, implying one shouldn’t live in a constant off/on, binary state. When happy, be happy: don’t dwell upon sadness, or impending mortality. And conversely, if sad, then address it and embrace it, as Crow does with his music.
Then again, maybe he’s just a weak speller. But given his penchant for Words With Friends, that’s improbable.
Does he mind that his solo album wrapper boasts a sticker declaring it "The new album by one-half of Pinback!"? He blinks; it's news to him.
"Does it?... No, I don't mind. What I DO mind is when they call me the Pinback 'Frontman.' It's 100% a collaboration." [with Zach Smith] I ask if he attended Torrey Pines with Smith.
"Errrrr, I got kicked out of all the schools in Oceanside," he states somberly.
Crow's buddy Tony Gidlund, who has listened to my questions with half-lidded and somewhat suspicious eyes, mutters something to Crow, who notes they might not make it. I look at him quizzically. “In-N-Out," Crow explains. "We always try to hit it before they close.” I ask him what he gets, because every late-night fast-food aficionado I know ritualizes what they order, especially after a solid drinking bout of the sort he put in tonight. “Grilled cheese with onions” is the reply.
“Are you vegetarian?” I venture. “Yup! I used to be vegan, but I couldn’t keep it up – It’s awesome, though. I recommend it.”
“But I love eggs,” I frown, “and besides, the chickens GIVE us the eggs, don’t they?"
He looks thoughtfully at his beer and says, “You’re very close to a Woody Allen monologue right now.”
He seems wont to self-effacing mannerisms. His 2007 solo album Living Well features a song called “I Hate You, Rob Crow." He flips off his own reflection in a recent video, “Sophistructure” (a perfect slice of his hypnotic mesh of visual and sonic). And he introduces his podcast, "Rob Crow's Incongruous Show," by styling himself "San Diego's Foremost Overrated Indie-rock Manchild!"
Meaning to explore this theme of self-flagellation, I instead blurt that I think he’s brilliant. Incredulous, he leans over asks me to repeat myself, then utters a short ironic bark of disbelief. “What?! Look at me! I’m in a monkey suit playing with dinosaurs!”
When I mention this to my pub-mate on the right, she nods sagely and says, “He doesn’t revel in himself. He’s an artist but not... pretentious. He’s a creative genius. I mean—“ she breaks off and gestures at one of the screens, currently occupied by a band of skeletal warriors from Jason and the Argonauts who, eerily, are shimmying to the death metal music in perfect time.
As he's packing up, he mentions that today was technically his one day off. "I should've spent it with my mother," he says, mostly to himself. I ask him how his wife feels about his late-night solo projects, and he says that as long as her vampire shows have recorded correctly, she is content.
I ask him if he liked having the last name ‘Crow’ growing up. “No, I didn’t enjoy it especially.” I tell him I really like crows, and instead of giving me the odd look most normal folks do, he says, “The other day there were 43 crows in my yard.” He counted them? “Yup. But when I went to get the camera and they flew away.” Typical Crow behavior.
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track track romanticism, ch. 1
Title: Track Track Romanticism
Pairing: Nyx/Noctis
Rating: M
Warnings: Character deaths mentioned
Summary: (Silent Hill/Modern XV crossover) Noctis Lucis Caelum is a wealthy, high-life grad student who wants to see America as it really is.
Nyx Ulric is a recently divorced man who lost everything and has little left to lose.
This isn't your everyday tale of two guys with a bad case of wanderlust.
READ ON AO3
There was something surreal about being awake in the early morning. When he was younger, he’d sometimes see his parents sitting in the swing chair hung from the sturdy branches of an old oak tree, speaking to each other and cuddled close on cool summer mornings. He wondered what they spoke of; both were first generation immigrants—his mother, Aulea, from Vietnam and his father, Regis, a Armenian man, never seemed to exhaust of things to speak of. Whether serious or idle, Noctis had learned that waking up bright before the dawn with serious topics was easier done then. When they were mellow and calm, the best moment to broach shyly with tardy slips and late homework passes that needed signing that no child wanted to present to a parent when in an irate or distracted mood. Especially not firm but gentle disciplinarians his parents often were.
Over a week ago, his proposition was simple, but needed a long spiel to deliver it. It was the summer before entry into graduate school, his final exam had just finished a day before, and the consideration had nagged him. Maybe it had been because of how he’d read Chris McCandless’ biography as a kid that suddenly struck him with realization. On this road to becoming a doctor, Noctis hadn’t really lived yet. There was a wide, enormous world ahead of him and he’d barely been outside of Long Island, let alone to a wider world that he yearned to explore.
Somehow, he’d convinced them. With his own savings, the clothes on his back and everything he could need stuffed into a camping backpack—the kind soldiers wore—he’d set off. Not to cloister himself from humanity, but to really live in it. To hope aboard freighter trains, spend time in a small town or enormous city, and then leave a few days later. With four months ahead of him, there was a lot of time to burn.
His ambitions had been laid a week ago, and the reality was living up to be good. It was within the smoky confines of a retro diner that Noctis occupied a booth to himself, a large map of the state laid out before him that spanned bigger than even his backpack seated next to him. His phone was charging in an outlet next to him, he clad in jeans, a t-shirt, and baseball cap.
“Hon, you want some more coffee? Just brewed a fresh pot,” Martha, a waitress clad in pink, called over the bar counter. Noctis perked at the mention, sapphire blue eyes trained with a receptive smile on his features.
“Yeah, I’d love some. Thanks,” Noctis said gratefully with a small smile, tipping to observe he’d already drunk through his mug. Lowering the map, he gazed out the window that fed into a road that was the sole thoroughfare through the truck stop town, fields encompassing for miles in a dusky light as the sun was just blearily cresting the horizon. The gas station before it obscured the view, road trippers and bow-legged truck drivers seeming the only other occupants of the bar. It was still fairly dark, and that’s how he liked it.
Just as he’d been putting the finishing touches on a page of a notepad detailing his itinerary, there was a commotion at the entrance.
“You got some real gall showin’ your damn mug ‘round here, Ulric!” barked one of the truck drivers, rising from his slouched perch on a bar stool and hauling up his britches. Through the door, Noctis craned to see a tall, fair-skinned man with an undercut regard his addressee warily.
The man, who Noctis only could identify as Ulric, waved a hand dismissively but looked utterly exhausted. “Look, just...can it wait? Kinda had a bad night,” the man said with an exhaustive sigh, Noctis swearing he could see dark circles under his eyes.
The truck driver gruffly scoffed, spitting a loogie at Ulric’s feet. “Still owe me big from all that fuckin’ money I lent ya to gamble away. Ace gambler my ass,” the man groused, resuming his seat at the bar and no longer obstructing the narrow aisle.
Still curious by the domestic drama, Noctis watched as the man—who appeared handsomer up close—strode warily towards the back but paused before taking a seat. Noctis realized he’d been staring, his contemplative look faltering to abject embarrassment at the realization. Though, it didn’t seem to perturb the stranger any. “New to small town drama?” Ulric quipped with a smirk, Noctis praying he wasn’t blushing.
“Uh, oh—yeah. I’m from out of town. From the Big Apple, actually,” he replied with a smile, straightening.
“Name’s Nyx,” he introduced, sliding into the seat across from him without reservation. Noctis hurriedly attempted to fold his map, it having nearly taken up the whole table. “Huh, you got some big trip planned?”
“Yup. I’m gonna be more or less backpacking across the States,” Noctis rejoined as he finished, stuffing it into his backpack. “For the whole summer, I mean. You know, just taking freight trains and roughing it.” Noctis leaned back, wondering if he looked foolish instead of chilled out, which he was trying to aim for. “Oh—Noctis, that’s my name. Or just Noct.”
God, Nyx must think I look like an idiot.
Nyx couldn’t help but grin at the admission, almost laughing. “Wait, a pretty boy from the big city is gonna rough it for, like, three months? On your own?”
Noctis felt his enthusiasm crumble. He’d calculated everything, had gone over it all with his parents, double-checked what he needed, what could be purchased and how he could do it within the large budget he had for himself, easy. But...was that not enough? He’d gone camping with his three best friends before for days at a time, sometimes up to a few weeks. “Um...yeah, basically. Why? Bad idea?”
The older man managed a wan smile, his teasing faltering. “’s not you, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just… Must be nice, to get away from it all.”
They were interrupted by Martha craning over the table with the coffee pot and another mug, Nyx slightly taking aback when he was poured a cup, too. “Feeling generous, Martha?” Ulric quipped with a grin.
“You look like you’ve gone through the ringer, Nyx. Just shut up and drink it before I change my mind about it being free, alright?” she responded in a fond drawl, though the jab seemed friendly. Quietly thanking her as his was refilled, Noctis quirked a smile.
“Popular guy around here, huh?” Noctis remarked with a slight scoff, though he still smiled as hands gratefully clasped the steaming mug.
Nyx’s expression seemed to falter, taking a swig of his coffee without adding anything, a sharp contrast to Noct’s that practically looked like milk. “Yeah, it’s something like that. Sorry to get all personal here, but it’s more pity than anything. Wife walked out on me a few months ago with the kids, and I’ve been running myself ragged with all this court bullshit and a custody battle, even though I can’t raise them on my own. Doesn’t help that my job as a mall security cop let me go a few days ago. Guess my boss didn’t like hearing about me being a reckless gambler or some crazy shit like that.”
Noctis listened at the sudden admission with rapt attention, sipping slowly from his coffee throughout. Though he hadn’t expected the man to get so interpersonal all of a sudden, maybe it was something about an early morning sunrise and warm brew of coffee that made people want to confess themselves to a perfect stranger. It reminded him of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks that he saw on display at the Gagosian Gallery a few years back. Wrong time of day, but the feeling was the same.
“I’m sorry to hear about that,” Noctis said sympathetically, lips tinged with a small smile. A crazy idea niggled at the back of his mind, one that sounded embarrassing to entertain, let alone carry on with. “Any idea what you’re gonna do from there?”
Nyx shrugged, sagging back in his seat. “Dunno, actually. Find an apartment, and a job—because those child support bills are gonna be a bitch to pay off. I don’t really have grand plans beyond that.”
Sometimes, living how Noctis had made him starkly aware of the disconnect between him and ordinary people. Since childhood, he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father came from a prolific backstory of a multi-generational corporation that had seen him move to America to expand to the west and Americanize their production base, and twenty years had seen Lucis Industries expand across the States and had made him a billionaire, jokingly called a king by his cohorts. His mother, on the other hand, was an Ivy League professor who had taught at Havard and met Regis there when they’d still been young and ambitious, even if that was still true. Noctis’ life had been a stellar one where he’d received the best education, had friends who also came from affluent families, and saw weekends filled with star-studded charity functions, parties, and all sorts of high-lining social events. Hell, even his Instagram was followed by several A-list stars who considered themselves friends with the aspiring doctor.
That’s why he’d wanted to throw it all away for a few months. Get to know the everyman instead of living life with his head in the clouds. Still, he saw something prospective in Nyx. A friend, a potential bodyguard—as Noctis held no illusions that his travels could become dangerous and would be better conducted with someone by his side.
“I won’t lie, I know this isn’t gonna be some RPG romp across the States. And you look like a tough guy, so… I was kinda thinking if you’d wanna tag along, all expense paid, maybe it’d...be a nice change of pace, I guess. You seem like a decent guy,” Noctis broached, hoping he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt.
Nyx folded his arms across his broad chest and chuckled, holding Noctis’ gaze with lidded eyes as his tongue poked from between his teeth, the look rather coy and made Noctis wonder how the hell he wasn’t a blushing mess. “Man, you drive a hard bargain. And here I thought I’d be spending my summer sorting through this legal mess.”
Noctis perked hopefully, maybe a little too brightly. “Wait, you mean it? I mean, I’m not pulling your leg or anything. I can pay for it. I mean, I could find an ATM and show you—“ the younger prattled, perhaps a little too excited than the image he’d been going for.
“It’s alright, I believe you. Kinda are rocking gear a little too swanky for me to believe otherwise. ‘sides, you know… I won’t lie. I’ve been spending a lot of nights over a bottle wondering how the hell I could get out of this hell hole. Like, I need the change, you know? My brother-in-law, Libertus, is still on good terms with me. He’ll be able to sort things out. Think he’d want something like this for me.” Nyx wistfully gazed outside the window, reflection barely cast upon it when the sun was rising and chasing away the early morning pall. “Maybe this could be a real life-changer.”
“That’s kinda what I was aiming for,” Noctis said with a smile, setting his finished coffee aside. “So, uh, wanna stop at your place and then we can head out?”
“Man with the plan, I like it. But yeah, I just have to get some shit together then we can go.”
Noctis didn’t even bother hiding his smiles anymore. Nyx would probably get used to it, right?
“Hey, sleepyhead. Listen, I think we need to talk.”
The repetitive clattering of train tracks had lulled Noctis into a deep sleep, slouching over in the luggage car they’d hopped aboard a state or so back by Noctis’ meticulous planning. Within the cool dark, the stale air swirled motes of dust in the lowing twilight, creating a rather beautiful picture when one was awake for it. Noctis sleepily rubbed his eyes and stretched, cracking his neck in several places and rolling his shoulders while Nyx quirked a brow at his dramatic show of awakening that was becoming routine. And through the night, they’d passed through Connecticut and were in Maine proper, just as Noctis had intended. “Yeah? Shoot.”
“Look, I’m not saying I’m not really the superstitious type, but any reason why we’re going to fucking Silent Hill of all places?” Nyx asked, smartphone in hand with what was only Noctis’ guess as to what he’d been researching.
Noctis’ face deadpanned, shrugging a shoulder. “Why, is it that unsafe? It’s a famous old-timey resort town. Thought Toluca Lake would be a nice place to stop by,” Noctis explained, though Nyx could see he was blatantly lying through his teeth.
“No, see, I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story here. Nobody goes to Silent Hill anymore. Been in real decline for years, and with good reason. And if you do go, well—I think you need to be honest with me, Noct,” Nyx said, holding the younger man’s gaze unflinchingly.
Exhaling deeply through his nostrils, he propped up a leg—the one that had been lame in childhood. From the accident. The one he’d never fully recovered from, even today. The memory of what happened still caused it to ache. “When I was kid, when I was 12 years old, I went on a class trip to Silent Hill. Before the whole...accidents. We hit really bad weather on the way there, and the bus swerved too hard and… It was bad. We were rolling down this...cliff side. Battering through trees, glass was everywhere. It was like nothing I’ll experience again,” he spoke with a lowered tone, brows furrowing. “Pretty much everyone it died, except me and a few others. My best friend at the time, Lunafreya—I held her as she did. My leg had been broken in a few places, I couldn’t walk for awhile after and just… We were alone in there for hours.”
Noctis had to stop. Blinking back tears, he shuddered out a sigh. It was easier now. It didn’t hurt as much as it used to. Nyx fell completely silent, expression openly sympathetic. “That was nine years ago. The city limits we were outside of was Silent Hill’s. I remember...seeing it from the bus’ shattered windows. Could see...that enormous tower of the Centennial Building just...haunting me. Almost like it was staring at me.” His jaw grit, swallowing down the thick lump in his throat. From there, he’d never forgotten. Steadily, he’d learned of legends through blog posts, of it and Shepherd’s Glen. The recent string of familicides had compelled him to go back. Even through a successful time through school, that end-of-the-year trip never left him.
He’d never forget the classmates he lost, either.
When his story was finished, Nyx put his hand on Noctis’ shoulder, managing a smile. “Hey, I signed on to here as your bodyguard, right? You need to say good-bye, I get that. We’ll make it through, alright?”
Noctis worked up a smile of his own, wiping away his tears. “Yeah. Thanks, Nyx.”
#nyx ulric#noctis lucis caelum#nyxnoct#silent hill#ffxv fanfic#my writing#this fic's p hecking old but#considering i'm finishing up the next chapter--feel consistent to post 8B
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Jay Z’s Tidal-Spotify Verse and the Power of Performance
So shortly after Jay launched Tidal he put on a special performance (mainly b-sides), and at that audience, during a gap between songs, he debuted an acapella freestyle which was anti- other streaming sites and in which he tried to justify his position and respond to criticism.
If you remember, Jay Z was in a fairly tough spot after the launch of Tidal. He was under fire for all sides for creating a system where you had to pay more than any other streaming site for a not-particularly-noticeable difference in sound quality, all in the name of giving celebrities more money. Well, it was supposed to be in the name of giving musicians their fair due- but that’s not what it looked like when he packed the Tidal launch stage with a huge number of big names who didn’t really need an larger slice of the pie.
Of course, since then Jay has been proven right, as pressure mounts on streaming services to give more money to the artists featured on them. But back then, this just looked like Jay’s first failure, a kind of corporate move that seemed like a way to make more money for him and his company. This wasn’t helped by Tidal’s less than spectacular numbers early on.
And everyone in the crowd knew this. “Laughing Stock” is a strong phrase, but Jay Z and Tidal were at least the butt of everyone’s jokes back then. But when he did the freestyle, everyone started yelling and punctuating his lines with cheers and being excited that they were hearing something new. Watching it back on youtube it seems pretty awesome, even like a lightning in the bottle moment: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L84VEVDmzwo. There’s a definite energy, like Jay is finally responding, or like he’s got powerful points to make and knows the audience wants to hear them.
Here’s the thing though: as successful as the freestyle is when performed, if you translated it into points to be made in an argument about Tidal you’d get laughed out of town. Let’s break it down bit by bit and I’ll try to explain what I mean by how powerful rap performances can be:
“So I’m the bad guy now I hear, because I don’t go with the flow”
This is the first bit of reframing Jay does. If you were to justify Tidal by saying that Jay Z was “just being unorthodox”, then you’d be flat out wrong. It’s true that Tidal is doing things a little different, but it’s still just a streaming service, and the difference in “flow” here is just how much money Jay is getting. Still, when stated live to an audience listening to you, with the play on “stream/flow/flow meaning a rap” in the lyric, something interesting has happened with how Jay is being received.
Then he ups the ante further by comparing his particular kerfuffle over streaming fees with a wider situation of racial politics:
“You know niggas die for equal pay right? / You know I work I ain’t your slave right? / You know I ain’t shucking and jiving and high fiving / You know this ain’t back in the days right?”
It appears that Jay is deliberately ignoring the fact that this just isn’t really a race thing- it bears similarities to serious issues in racial economics, but the “prejudice” against Tidal is really just based on its bad business model. This then goes further:
“You know this ain’t back in the days right? / But I can’t tell, how the way they killed Freddie Gray right / Shot down Mike Brown how they did Tray right?”
At this point though the audience start to sense that although this is a direct response to the streaming controversy, it’s also its own kind of musing on current affairs, and by scoping up the situation in the freestyle there’s a certain level of literary coherency which is reached by the rap which isn’t reachable in a statement or argument. So the audience keep cheering, not because they’re convinced by the comparison or argument, but because the rap itself is strong.
“You know I came in this game independent right? / Tidal, my own label, same difference / Oh niggas is sceptical when it’s their own shit”
Everyone knows Jay Z himself can’t actually believe what he’s saying if he was to think about it rationally, but this is the instance of performance, where you can just construct your own reality, for free, in words. There’s no situation on earth, no public speech or boardroom meeting or essay, that’s quite like a performance, because none of those things can go quite so far in positing what is basically an alternate reality where the Tidal argument is exactly as Jay perceives it. This comes to a head in the ending lines, which receive by far the biggest reaction from the audience:
“Spotify is nine billion they ain’t say shit / Lucy, you got some ‘splaining to do / The only one they hating on look the same as you”
The explicit call out of the implied largest rival, Spotify, is as cool as the call out of youtube earlier: “I feel like Youtube is the biggest culprit / Them niggas pay you a tenth of what you supposed to get”. One of the comments on the video rightly points out that he’s dissing youtube on youtube. In the fiction of the rap, the audience is entirely on his side. This is what “The only one they hating on look the same as you” means- he’s saying that he isn’t someone who’s different from the audience, he’s an everyman like the people he’s performing to, and Spotify’s contempt for it’s customers has been revealed by Jay, who is posited as a kind of People’s Champion looking to secure his people a bigger cut.
The idea is that, for one moment, or in this case for about two minutes, you can do it ALL, just if you’re strong enough at rapping, if you’ve got the skill to command and hold an audience. For an instant, whatever you say revises the truth. I recall what Pitchfork said about Young Thug’s verse on Pick up the Phone:
“For (Young Thug), “Pick Up the Phone” is a tour de force, a reminder that no matter how scattered or inscrutable his solo output becomes, he can cut through the din with a perfect piece of pop.”
It doesn’t matter what sort of difficulties you face, even if everyone is against you, even if you’re on your own and have no sustainable argument, even if your new streaming service is failing, because you can always unleash the full power of your talents in order to produce a verse which cuts through anything else that’s meant to be going on. That’s one of the coolest things in rap for me, and it’s a big part of why Pick up the Phone is a kind of mythological song to me, because it acts as the recording of a full psyche of an artist in one incendiary burst. But that’s a little more difficult to discuss. Maybe another time.
Love,
Alex
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