Hey there comrade. If you're reading this, you haven't been arrested yet. At least not in this protest cycle. You're not in jail right now, is what I'm saying.
But perhaps you go to a protest and you get swept up in a mass of peaceful demonstrators doing nothing wrong, and get arrested. Perhaps you have never been arrested before. I have. I'd like to talk you through it so you know what to expect, and you can plan accordingly.
As a primer, right here I advise you go read the IRA Green Book. It's in the sidebar. It will help you at least as much as this.
My last arrest was for felony assault on a law enforcement officer, resisting arrest, failure to obey, and felony theft. I was not only not convicted, the verdict was nolle prosequi, which is the fancy way of saying charges were dropped. All of my record has since been expunged, under condition that I may not file lawsuits against any party or organization involved. I'm not special for getting this treatment, just white.
When you are arrested, it's not a game. It's not a "proud comrade in a picture, defiant Che" moment. Pavement tastes pretty bad and doesn't do your tooth enamel a whole lot of good either. And ain't no one gonna give a fuck in two days. Because you're not special. There's a million of these photos. But a busted mouth still fuckin hurts though. Right. That's out of the way.
Perhaps you are smarter than I am. You have planned better. You're an operator, is what I'm saying, bad to the fuckin bone, ready to ride or fuckin die. A) You're not. B) Okay comrade SEAL, let's run the tape. You have been arrested. You're not particularly slick, and you're kinda dazed from the whole busted mouth on the pavement thing, and if you aren't used to full force contact to your face you will be dazed. But you've got your hairpin, and you can pick cuffs in 3.4s (maybe it's faster, I get it, you're a fuckin whiz-bang, now-you-see-me wizard) blindfolded. Cool. How about single link, double lock LE grade handcuffs behind your back, while again you're on the fuckin deck with a busted fuckin mouth? Ah, you'll wait for the right moment, when mcchud's back is turned and he's focused on bigger and better things like jerking off on a Punisher Thin Blue Line sticker you planted as bait, knowing it's SOP and he has to do it. How do you know? Again, you're facedown suckin puddle water comrade. There's probably a not pleasant amount of CS hanging around down here. How are you going to spot that he's not observing you without risking making yourself a big and very much defenseless target? How about reaching your trusty hairpin, assuming it wasn't found and taken? What if it's just a big fuckin zip tie?
What I'm saying here is I promise you didn't plan this well enough to pull it off because you're not Tom Hardy playing an edgy protestor in a fucking movie. You're bleeding and sucking puddle water. There's some fuckin amped up absolute unit riot police fucking waiting to ice you. One excuse. It's all they want, to fuckin rip some hot shit into you. And they will. I advise you focus on surviving this encounter. You can't file a countersuit that goes nowhere if you're dead.
Perhaps you're not part of a group. You went left, shoulda gone right, and you're dolo getting ganked by a squad. Again, puddle water and busted mouth. You're on the ground, knee in back, maybe they tase you in the back while you're restrained just to instill how thoroughly dominated you are. Because you're a bitch. To them that's what you are. Their bitch. If you think otherwise they'll be happy to prove it.
Note that I'm talking best case scenarios here. Get marched into the squad car or meat wagon. Survive the encounter if you're restrained, for fuck's sake. You ain't all that.
Right, so you're going to jail. Jail, on the whole, is a rather unpleasant vacation from your day to day life. Let's prepare for it.
Step one. Shut the fuck up. This is a crucial fuckin step. Don't start feeling down on yourself, or bad, or angry, or what have you, and start running your mouth. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. In fact, you can start practicing now by not arguing with this free and very good advice. Shut your fuckin mouth.
You'll arrive at a precinct, station, or central booking depending on jurisdiction. I hope for your sake it's a local station and not central booking in a major city. Because you are not used to getting arrested. Central booking ain't the fuckin place to learn, of that I assure you. Because again, you're not hardcore, you're not used to this. You're a bitch. You might object to this, you might be very angry with me for calling you a bitch. But you are. And also I want you to get used to that because it's much less pleasant to be called shit like that in person by a bunch of uniforms than a comrade preparing you for it in a friendly forum on the Internet. So I'm gonna keep doing it, now that I've stopped and explained to you why so you can handle it. Bitch.
(Really, I'm doing it because I care about and love you comrade, and if you aren't used to this kind of language or prepared to hear it as a matter of course, this is going to be very hard. That's why. I'm not playing boot games or demeaning you here. You need to be ready for the people that are. This is game #1, and it's the softest part of the game that they're gonna play)
Why bitch though? Good question, bitch. That word needs to leave your exit vocabulary for the time being. It's the most serious insult I'm aware of on the inside. Seriously, do not ever call another inmate or detainee a bitch. Don't fucking do it. Generally speaking, jail isn't the sexual assault bonanza that movies and pop culture say it is. But jail is extremely homophobic. Having consensual relations with other men, if you are a man, is a mark of weakness in jail. And it makes you your partner's bitch (in their perception, obviously not reality), or just a bitch in general, for daring to be something other than heterosexual. I know that's hurtful and hateful and problematic and a lot of other things. I promise it won't matter when you call someone else a bitch and lose more teeth. So don't.
But it's also why CO's and cops will use it to refer to you. Because you're a bitch, the weakest and most dominated thing in existence, and they want you to feel that and they want other people to know it to ratchet up interpersonal conflict not directed towards them. So get used to being called a bitch, for those reasons. Make peace with it and shut your fuckin mouth. It won't be much of a game when you clap back, because you're not fully institutionalized, so you don't know the nuanced rules to do that properly yet. Your goal is to make it through processing and arraignment right now, let's survive the encounter, okay?
Now, the cops aren't lawyers, but maybe you don't know, when they decide what to charge you with, they fill a bucket of shit and throw it at a wall to see what sticks. And you're not gonna argue with the charges during processing, because you're a bitch. They'll remind you if you do. Cops, while you are being processed in a station post arrest, are not the people to argue with. As bad as they are on the street, you're in their fuckin house, and you are their bitch. Don't get cute. You will pay dearly.
They're gonna spray some water on your hands and not very gently roll your prints, all ten thumbs and all plus a hand print of each hand, on a glass screen for the scanner to pick up. Don't fight that. You're a bitch, but right now you're a bitch with zero intentionally broken wrists. I'm telling you, now is not the time for playing any amount of fuckin games.
They're going to get you ready for the cell. They'll take hats, any head coverings, any jewelry they're able to remove, belt, things of that nature. By the way, jail is really fuckin cold. You might actually be able to see your breath. If you're dressed for outside weather, this isn't going to be fun.
Edit: This is also where they will finish your search. You may end up naked below the waist and have to squat and cough. It may be more invasive. If you're lucky, this will be omitted. If you've been acting a fuckin fool, they are going to digitally anally penetrate you. It will not be gentle. Nor are they doing it for any other reason than to humiliate you.
But Ethereal, everyone says they take your shoelaces so you can't hang yourself!
LOL. As if cops would ever give enough of a shit to unlace your fuckin shoelaces. Take off your shoes, bitch. You can keep the socks and continue without injury, maybe, if you don't fight that.
Then, yes, the mugshot, forward, side, maybe some other angles. And you're gonna do it. I don't need to tell you why, do I? You've already started finishing it for me in your head. We're three minutes into the read, ish, you're not even actually arrested, and you're starting to become institutionalized through repetition and conditioning. It's that fast. They turn you into cattle. And cattle you will become if you want to walk to your arraignment. If you don't, they'll be happy to blunt force lobotomize you, which is a long and fancy way of saying beat your fuckin head until you figure it out. And you cannot do one single fucking thing about it.
Hey maybe you're tougher than the rest and you can fight your way out of central booking. It's not my life you're risking when you do, feel free to think I'm lying to you.
Right, so you got your ass kicked or you were smart and got processed like cattle. You're going to a cell. This goes one of two ways. A "drunk tank" style holding cell with other inmates/detainees, or a single cell. If you got drunk tank, you're in luck. Make some friends, do what you can to make the night less unpleasant.
If you got a single cell, your night has just started. Remember, you're a bitch, and you're really about to find out when that door closes. There's not a sound like it in the world. Don't think iron bars with block mates next to you. Concrete. Thick. Door too. One pane of safety glass about 9x4 inches or so in the door, that looks at a plain concrete hallway. No window. This is your hotel. Explore your digs.
You've got a metal bench in the back. The cell is very small, and this bench spans the whole width. You've got a toilet, so thoughtfully attached directly to a water fountain. Anything not metal is concrete, and it will be roughly 55 Fahrenheit or below in here. Again, you might be able to see your breath. There's no pillow, no sheets, no blanket, nowhere to put your head down and cry in futility. There is just what I have described, and a grated floor drain in the middle of the concrete floor. You will come to realize, this is more a torture chamber than a cell. You won't go fifteen minutes, this whole night, without getting physically fucked with by police or COs. Be ready. Shut your mouth, do not beg for it to stop or ask why. Just deal with it as best you can and talk to someone when you're free. You're in their house, watched by their cameras, and no one is going to come help you, and there's no one friendly who can shout loud enough for you to hear them. This is one night of solitary. Keep your mouth shut and there might not be any more of them.
Solitary is the worst thing that can happen to you. Other inmates have their problems, but by and large they get it, and you can say without saying what happened, and they will say without saying that they're sorry, they know what it feels like, and they love you and don't think any less of you. You don't have this camaraderie in solitary. You have concrete, a bench, and a floor drain. No distractions, no food, no magazines, no books, no idle guard or inmate chatter. Nothing but your mind in a cell. If you bleed, they will most assuredly hose it down that drain eventually. Survive the encounter. It's scary. You can do this. The more information you have or they think you have, or the more of a grudge they're nursing, the worse this will be for you. But they've got you until the morning, and they're gonna make the most of the time. Survive the encounter.
After the night, maybe sleepless in group, definitely in solitary, you'll likely be transported to hear the charges levied against you, and if you're lucky the commissioner's office has staff that makes a determination of bail so you don't have to be held for weeks to find out you're getting ROR-ed.
You will have a chain wrapped tightly around your torso towards the bottom of your ribcage, at least two go arounds. There will be a shackle bolt placed through a link with the butt pressed into your breastbone. This chain will be tight enough for breathing to hurt even if your ribs are not bruised or broken. Handcuffs with a single chain link will be placed on your wrists and padlocked to the shackle bolt.
You will be fettered. These are the equivalent of handcuffs for the ankles, and there's a chain between them too short to take a full step. They will also likely string a chain from the fetters to the chest shackle, short enough that you'll have to hunch. I'm not joking, they really do this.
You'll then be escorted to a transport vehicle. This is a polite and whitewashed way of saying you'll be marched, stumbling and shoeless, at gunpoint, through the hallways, outside, and into a van. They may, for effect, press the muzzle of that shotgun to the back of your head in the cell, increasing the pressure to indicate that it's time for you to move. I advise you ask permission before taking a step, because remember, you're cattle, and you wouldn't want your brains bolted out of the front of your face over a misunderstanding. If you have to choose between falling and stepping without verbal assent, well, you already know what pavement tastes like. Not joking. Don't fuck that up.
If your pants or shorts were baggy, you still don't have your belt. Your pants might fall down. It's fairly common. Make peace with yo ass hangin out. It is what it is. You happen to know there's possible freedom waiting, so don't fight. You'll be rearrested and re-charged, and re-fucked with for a whole new re-night in re-solitary. So let them cheeks catch a breeze. I bet yesterday if you felt hardcore you feel like a bitch now. You've played the game. The game sucks, doesn't it?
Right, so again if you're lucky and as is the case in my jurisdiction, you will now have a formal reading of charges and conditions for bail, meaning you will be relegated to remand, a later bail hearing, or ROR (released on own recognizance; no bail, released, must show up for trial). Of these, ROR is obviously the most preferable, but obviously you don't get to pick. Do your interview. Maybe you're going to jail, where the state will have you continued to be placed under duress and then extort money from you to let you go until your trial. Bail. You go to jail until the hearing. Real fuckin jail. For weeks to months. If you're remanded, you get no bail hearing; you're going to jail until trial. Six months to a year, easy. No game.
Ethereal, where's my phone call and lawyer been in all of this? You don't have one yet. You can't use the phone, you can't get a lawyer, no one is coming to help you. You're either getting released and your shit returned, or you're going to jail at minimum for weeks, right now. No lawyer, no nothing.
Oh shit.
Yep. And if you kept your mouth shut, when your lawyer files that omnibus motion or the ACLU gets involved or whatever, you might get released, but until then you need to sit tight through all the bullshit if you want to breathe real air again any time soon.
This is why I tell you to be careful, comrades. I've seen the cell. I've seen the concrete walls. I've fuckin done it. It's just a thing that happens to you if you belong to a certain class or color in certain areas. It's just what the fuck it is. I endured that more than once, and a lot of people endure it a shitload of times. You don't want this. You do not want to be arrested, I promise. It's not a joke, it's not cool, you're not some stoic motherfucker that just sits icy through this shit. You're cattle. You're a bitch. Because when you're in chains with a fuckin shotgun to your dome, everyone is.
Watch your shit. If you get arrested, shut your fuckin mouth, and have nothing the police want. No phone passcodes, no information, no affiliations. Be as uninteresting as a rock on the sidewalk. Don't make it worse for yourself, and don't think the cops are your friends. Cellmates too. They'll fuckin dime you out for a little commissary money. The only fuckin person you tell anything of interest to is a lawyer. (Edit: and not on the goddamned phone. In person interview when your lawyer says it's cool. All phones are always monitored in jail. Cells too. Hallways. Everything)
Oh, and don't play spades for anything real. Learn for fun, watch out because jail rules dictate jokers and two's are high.
Survive the encounter comrades. If you aren't prepared for what's up there, don't get arrested. Being proven right later is fuckin cute but it doesn't take the muzzle print off your scalp.
Small edit here: comrades, I want you to know I don't mean to call you weak. It's not weak to endure this. It's hard, and it's okay to hurt from it. There's no shame in being arrested, inherently. It happens to many people who don't deserve it. Most activists will have it happen to them at some point. It may be easier or significantly harder than this. I do not think you're a bitch, neither do your comrades. I maintain solidarity and support for everyone hurt by the system. And when you use bitch as an insult outside of this context, its meaning is greatly lightened and much less loaded, thanks largely to Aaron Paul. I just want you to realize, once you are restrained and detained, don't make it worse. They can and will show you it can be worse, and you do not need to prove how tough you are. It will result in nothing positive for you. Survive the encounter, comrade. Many of us know, and we'll be here when you're free.

Don't pee in your dreams. It's a trap... [50,000 contest]

“GET HIM OFF ME! I screamed, desperate for breath and nearly choking on my own blood.
Another vicious shot to the ribs hit me, full force from an elbow that felt like a cinder block. Why in the hell we thought we could pull this off, I’ll never know. The man was made of fucking granite and it was all I could do to stay on him. Within seconds, what started as a rear naked choke had turned into me just holding on for dear life so he couldn’t come at me head-on. Our “simple” plan to take this asshole down and give him what he deserved had turned into that scene from Rocky III where Balboa is getting his shit ruined at the end of The Fabulous Thunder-Lips’ boot. I didn’t have much time left before my likely shattered ribs were jammed into my heart.
I was being smashed against the rough concrete wall for what felt like the hundredth time, but managed to get my legs around him and hook him at the elbows, leaving his midsection exposed. My co-conspirator Scotty picked himself up from the floor for the third time and ran at the big psychopath with everything he had left. At 215lbs or so, Scotty was no slouch, and when his boot made contact with the man’s ribs I heard a loud snapping sound. The man sagged, his arms relaxing just enough for me to regain my leg lock. Scotty grabbed an old staircase spindle and swung furiously at the man’s skull. He teetered, toppling over stiff-legged like an ancient tree in a perfectly quiet forest.
Scotty and I both collapsed, completely spent after a full five minutes of fighting. His eye was already terribly swollen and one of his teeth had somehow ended up on a nearby workbench. A large patch of Scotty’s hair was gone. I located it a moment later…in the big man’s hand.
I was positive I had at least one cracked rib and the left side of my face was completely numb. I had somehow lost my shirt, so the back side of me was nothing but pink skin scraped raw. My right wrist was most assuredly broken, as it made an agonizingly painful crunching sound when I rotated my hand.
I willed myself back to my feet and looked around for the rope we’d brought.
“This isn’t the movies. He could wake back up at any time. We gotta get him tied up ASAP and finish the job.”
Scotty found the rope beneath the man’s legs and set to work. We had him secured in just under a minute.
“I’m tying triple knots for this guy. If we have to go toe-to-toe with him again he’ll either kill us, or we’ll wish he had.”
Our plan was finally back on course, but we were beaten badly and possibly too weak to finish what we’d started.
Broken wrist and all, I helped Scotty drag that massive human, feet first, up the basement stairs and out to a van I had managed to conjure up out of thin air. His chin bounced off each step as we made our way up to the door, and in my mind I hoped it was breaking teeth every time.
I was scared. Why? Because I knew we were in over our head. Despite our injuries, we’d fought ferociously for quite a long time, yet he never made a sound—not a single peep. Not one grimace of pain or scream of rage. Just nothing. Aside from his initial greeting, the only sound that ever crossed his lips was the sharp exhale as Scotty’s spindle finished the job.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, because he’d never made a sound from the first time I saw him…silently stalking my dreams.
Until recently, I had never wet the bed.
However, the first time I recall specifically making note of not wetting the bed was about 10 years ago. I was deep into one of my usual, stupid dreams; I believe in this one I was back at my old high school, doing only God knows what kind of stupidity. I was probably being chased by a tiger—why is it always a fucking tiger?
I usually have a gun in the tiger dreams, but it never shoots. So after taking a pot shot at the thing with my useless Glock, I feel the overwhelming urge to urinate, and I’m suddenly in the boy’s bathroom.
I find a stall, go to it, and the toilet is broken.
I go to the next stall…I see shoes from underneath.
The next stall has a broken door.
And the last one has overflowed. Water is softly pouring over the side like one of those sweet Infinity pools--only this one doesn’t have a hot bikini chick on a raft. Instead it’s host to a couple turds of significant girth, drifting ever-so-close to the porcelain’s edge and threatening to come crashing down on my Ultra-Boosts.
I have to piss like a racehorse, this bathroom is out of options, and there’s a tiger outside in the hallway leaning against the lockers smoking a cigarette, patiently waiting for me to reappear.
Then I wake up, and realize I need to pee in real life*.*
This shit happens to me…often.
Part of me is driven completely crazy by this little aspect of my subconscious, but I’m actually quite thankful my brain is willing to concoct some Vanilla Sky caliber dream scenarios to stop me from creating a warm, wet spot for my wife to roll over into.
Over the years, everything you can conjure up has had an opportunity to stop me from pissing myself. Tigers, Velociraptors, sinkholes, giant crowds of people watching me, a man with a gun standing in front of the stall, and a giant clown.
I know what you’re thinking…”oh geez, another grown man scared of clowns.”
I am not scared of clowns.
What I’m scared of is a 7 foot tall grown man, willing to dress as a clown standing well within reach of my vulnerable penis.
I have had some epic piss prevention scenarios over the years, and each time it happens it feels like the first time. I do appreciate my brain very much for keeping things dry and I give props for the creativity involved, but recently things took a strange, dark turn.
I was chillin’ in one of my typical dreams. I don’t recall a tiger this time, so more than likely it was one of my staple scenarios…driving a two foot long car, or running like an ape.
At some point, my bladder transports me to the house I grew up in. I make my way to the bathroom in the back of the house, then enter and flip the light switch. Nothing happens, and of course I can’t pee in pitch blackness.
Then suddenly after 10 years, my bladder has entered the game and decides to fight back, showing me a desk lamp sitting on the toilet tank, right next to that JC Penny catalog I used to love so much.
I flip on the lamp, lift the lid and get ready to go, when it suddenly goes dark. Foiled again and frustrated, my full bladder and I turn around to leave and something happens. Someone GRABS me, wraps their arms around me, and says
“Let me try something…”
I roared like a wild animal and shot straight up out of bed, ready to do battle with whoever had just put me in a bear hug, which subsequently scared the ever-loving shit out of my wife--even more so than the time I practically shoved her out of bed because I saw a jellyfish on the wall.
This was different, though. I have never, ever felt physical contact like that in my dreams. It felt as real as anything I’d ever experienced up to that point, and even the next morning I could STILL feel the memory of it, just as any other significant human contact I had ever experienced.
The experience weighed heavily on me for a few days. I knew it was a dream, but I also knew what I felt. It felt very real, and I had to find out for sure. If it happened again it could go further and turn into something I may very well not be able to handle.
So, I concocted a plan. I would drink a metric ass ton of liquid before bed and hope like hell the walnut between my ears would take evasive action and dream something up to stop an unwanted Golden Shower. Then, I would keep my eyes peeled for whoever grabbed me last time, and confront them.
It took some experimentation to eventually achieve success. Water and soda didn’t seem to be doing it, so after a couple unsuccessful weeks I broke out the guaranteed urinary tract assault…vegetable soup. That stuff hits my bladder HARD and doesn’t let up for hours.
I whipped up granny’s recipe, had three big bowls around 7:00, and went to bed at 9:30.
The bathroom trips were relentless that night, but between the 5th and 6th visit I must have finally hit a solid spell of REM sleep and it was “go time.”
The scene was me, alone, walking toward a grassy hillside when I suddenly got that familiar urge to evacuate. There was nothing but grass as far as the eye could see in every direction and I absolutely HATE peeing outside. Then as if my mind was reading my mind, a urinal magically appeared. It was perfectly white and fresh, with a strawberry scented deodorant cake in the bottom and no chewing gum in the bowl area. I smiled at the great fortune bestowed upon me by my bladder and unzipped my imaginary trousers.
Without warning, just as sweet relief was about to hit me, I was facing a wall of dirty, haggard looking soldiers on horseback. These were the gritty, hard-nosed types you see in Braveheart or Game of Thrones. Leather armor, with big wooden shields and rusty swords stained with the blood of their enemies.
My pelvic floor muscles hit the brakes HARD. There was no way I was gonna be able to get my flow on in front of all these people. So I zipped up, with that annoying bladder pressure still tapping me on the shoulder in reminder, and backed up a bit to get a better look at the scene before I would most assuredly wake up.
But I didn’t wake up, and I stood mesmerized as the sea of men parted down the middle and a man walked through. He wasn’t a soldier, and in-fact he looked nothing at all like the men surrounding him. He looked to be mid-thirties, average height, strongly built and dressed in modern day jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with some rock band I didn’t recognize.
He walked up to me and offered his hand. I took it.
A bolt of lightning shot up my arm and that *real* feeling hit me hard. This was it. It was the same guy.
He spoke in a familiar accent.
“I’m Scotty. You’re a hard man to catch--and stronger than you look. I had a hell of a hold on you last time and you got out fast enough to make me rethink my workout regimen."
I gave the only logical reply.
“That’s because I have super strength in my dreams. Why did you grab me?”
His smile had disappeared. Looking at me with serious eyes, he slowly raised a finger and pointed off to his right.
“Because I think he wants to kill you.”
My eyes gently rolled in the direction his extended finger indicated. The soldiers were all gone, but about 50 yards out I could see a lone figure. It was a man. Exceptionally tall, perhaps 6’6”, and broad shouldered. He wore tan Carhartt work pants and a blue denim style shirt rolled up at the sleeves. A receding line of sand colored hair sat in a messy heap on his head, and even at such a distance I could see coal black eyes staring out.
Connected to some stout-looking forearms were giant hands, and in his right was several loops worth of what appeared to be cut-off extension cord. In his left hand was a large canvas bag.
If the work clothes were replaced by a suit and the cord became a briefcase, you wouldn’t look twice at the man. He was THAT ordinary. But with those black eyes, the no-nonsense outfit and chosen accessories in hand, he looked menacing…like a farmhand or mechanic who had “put up with enough of the Democrats’ bullshit” and decided to go stomp the guts out of anyone who didn’t fit his narrative.
As a monster in my dreams though, he wasn’t what I would conjure up. And really to be honest, my personal monster would probably just be someone trying to make me run my fingernails across glossy photo paper. *shudder*
“Dude…I’ve run across you half a dozen times over the past year, and every single time that creepy asshole was watchin’ you from an uncomfortably close distance. He’s out to get you, and I’m not sure what’s stopped him so far.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the sandy-haired Man continued to stare directly at me. He hadn’t even flinched, or blinked, or done anything to suggest that he wasn’t just a prop in this nightmare, and it was certainly unsettling. Then, all of a sudden, he slowly turned and walked back over the hill and out of sight.
I turned my eyes back to Scotty.
“Are you a real person? I know this is a dream, but it feels as real as my own life. And why are you seeing me?”
Scotty grinned.
“You might think I’m the weirdest son of a bitch you ever talked to, but I’ll tell ya anyways. I’m very real. I’m also a fitness fanatic, and obsessed with longevity of life. I wanna live to a hundred plus years old and I’ve developed certain methods to keep myself on track to hit that number.”
“Ok?” I said quizzically.
He continued. “One of my anti-aging techniques is makin’ sure I stay in REM sleep as long as possible. REM is essential to optimal health in every way because all the good shit happens to you while you’re at that level of sleep. I take all the steps necessary to keep myself there as much as possible. I sleep in absolute darkness with the perfect temperature and the most comfortable bed. I wear a mask, use a cocktail of natural sleep aids, and anything else I can get my hands on in order to achieve uninterrupted REM”
He shrugged.
“But, I’m 43 years old and the one thing I’m losing control of is the call of nature. A while back I started having to get out of bed to pee every night and it threw my entire plan into chaos. I believe maximal REM sleep is possibly the MOST IMPORTANT factor in longevity. I was in a panic, and in desperation I came up with an idea. Diapers. I decided to wear an adult diaper to bed and train my brain to let me pee in it without coming out of REM. I know it sounds crazy, man. I know it. But I was desperate, and necessity is the mother of invention.”
I’m a pretty open-minded guy so this really wasn’t all that ridiculous to me, but I was definitely laughing…in a polite way.
“So you now wear a diaper at night, and go ahead and wet the bed and deal with the aftermath in the morning? All to stay in REM?”
Nodding, he finished the story.
“I do. And through intensive meditation and focus, I trained my brain to take me to a toilet during my dreams so it doesn’t try to wake me up. Now, I don’t understand the dream world but apparently it exists somewhere other than just inside our own selves, but I’ve been hitting some of these bathrooms at the same time you do. In-fact, every time I see you you’re standing in front of the toilet I need and I end up waking up and ruining my REM period. So, a few weeks back when you walked into that same house and that same bathroom with that godawful rose colored wallpaper, I…
I cut him off.
“My mother chose that wallpaper, asshole.”
He backed up a step.
“Easy there fella, I was just takin’ the piss…no pun intended.”
Scotty continued.
“So as I was saying, I decided I would grab you and see if I could tell you to stop interfering in my bed wetting. But you got out of my hands so fast I didn’t get the chance. But I KNEW at that point that you were real, like me. The energy when I touched you was unbelievable.”
“Yeah, I felt it too, and that’s why I’m back here today. You scared the living shit out of me with that stunt, but I suppose my desire to explore that event was stronger than my sense of self-preservation.”
Scotty pointed over to the now unoccupied piece of land where the sandy-haired man had been standing.
“I think he’s real too, and it seems to me he’s locked in on ya for some sort of nefarious purpose. I think it’s because you stick out in the bathroom situations. Characters he’s conjured up in his own dream scenario aren’t complex enough to walk up to a stall with a broken door and panic. He figured out you’re real and he’s got something in mind for you. Why he hasn’t done anything yet, I don’t know, but I needed to warn you. That night I grabbed you, he was standing in the bedroom doorway at the end of the hallway. He doesn’t seem interested in me, though”
I kicked the dirt at my feet.
“Shit, man. That’s my old bedroom. I end up there in my dreams pretty often, which is odd because I always considered sharing that space with my brother to be a living nightmare. He farted in his sleep constantly.”
Scotty shrugged his shoulders
“I don’t know what to tell you. I know right now I’m at home in Clarksburg, fast asleep to the artificial sound of seagulls in a perfect 67 degrees Farenheit bedroom, wearing a warm, hopefully piss-filled diaper. But this moment is real as well, and I’m afraid if that man gets hold of either of us we may never wake up—or at least not in the lives we currently know. I feel like there’s a reason two strangers in the dream world keep ending up in the same place at the same time. I think I need to help you figure this out.”
I looked at him, a little relieved but still VERY unnerved.
“I sincerely appreciate the warning. I…wait…did you say Clarksburg? Clarksburg, West Virginia?”
With surprise on his face, he said “Uhh..yes. You know of it?”
“Yes. Because I live in Huntington.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
“YOU ONLY LIVE A COUPLE HOURS FROM ME?”
“It appears so, Scotty. This is really starting to NOT feel like a coincidence.”
Another half hour or so later (I finally had to wake up and pee), Scotty and I parted ways. We shared address and contact information, of which his phone number I managed to forget by the time I woke up. However, I did remember his home address.

***
I took the day off work and made some lame excuse to my wife, then headed for Clarksburg. On the long, boring-ass drive up there I thought about what I might do, say, etc, once I met the real Scotty. I mean…if he really WAS real. I had no guarantee the dude was actually some random guy living in my own state. For all I knew, one of my elaborate dreams was just more elaborate than usual. Plus, I had been to Clarksburg several times for one reason or another over the years so my subconscious could have just conjured up a real address I’d seen on a past visit.
I arrived to town still not quite sure if I was doing something entirely stupid, and made my way down a country road to the address Scotty provided. It was real. The number on the mailbox corresponded with a small, nondescript yellow house situated adjacent to the main road. I pulled into the gravel driveway, exceptionally nervous and definitely packing my pistol just in case it wasn’t Scotty’s house, and instead was actually inhabited by some old creeper.
The poorly maintained front yard contained several pieces of outdoor type exercise equipment and a bike rack was attached to the trailer hitch of the off-road style Tacoma in the driveway. A crooked “26.2” sticker was on the bumper, indicating the driver had run a marathon at some point…or at least knew where to buy a 26.2 sticker. It was quite the coincidence because my truck’s bumper has a sticker that reads “0.0 I don’t run.”
Well…the Scotty I’d met said he was a health nut, so the yard and vehicle fit the description. However, I didn’t see any dirty diapers strewn about. Maybe he leaves his in the Wal-Mart parking lot like everyone else.
I rang the bell, quickly patting my concealed firearm’s holster for peace of mind.
The door opened and there was Scotty “in the flesh” as they say. He had a surprised look on his face, to say the least.
“Wow. You’re real.”
“So are you.” I threw my hands up.
“Well…now what?”
Scotty gestured for me to come inside.
“I have a plan, dude. Allow me to share.”
Scanning my surroundings, I took a seat on the couch. It was a pretty typical place for a bachelor. The TV and home theater gear was too big for the wall they sat adjacent to, while old movie and concert posters adorned the other walls. The kitchen consisted of basic appliances, then what appeared to be a DIY hyperbaric chamber.
“Nice place. Where’s the diaper pail?”
He grinned. “Literally, I would never have divulged that information if your life hadn’t depended on it.”
We got right to the business at hand.
Scotty had a theory. If he and I were in such close proximity, then there must be some kind of geographic layout in our dreams. With that knowledge in hand, he believed that the sandy-haired man must also be reasonably close. We agreed that we had no idea what would happen if he carried out whatever horrors he seemed to have in mind.
Could we die in a dream? If so, would we wake up? If we woke up, would we ever dream again?
We spoke about the situation at length, and decided our first plan should be to follow the man and see if the places he went and things he did would provide some clues as to his real world location.
It took some strategic planning and well-timed liquid consumption, but Scotty and I finally managed to be in the same place at the same time in our dreams again. It was a Sears department store location near where I grew up. I made my way to the rear of the store, then down the hallway that always smells faintly of armpits.
That Sears bathroom is pretty much my go-to when I’m at that mall. It’s only slightly better than a decrepit gas station on Route 66, but it’s almost always empty so I can pee in peace.
Scotty entered a moment later.
“Dude…he’s outside in the tool area. I watched from a distance as he followed you, but you got out of his sight on the way over here. I don’t think he knows where the bathroom is yet, which tells me he’s probably not someone who lives in your local area. Where are we, anyway?
I rolled my eyes as I explained. “It’s a mall near where I grew up. In real life I always pee in this bathroom because it’s always empty. I’ve never actually ended up here in a dream, though.”
We quietly snuck back out through the hallway. Scotty took the lead and checked a few aisles before motioning for me to follow.
And there he was, in the lawn and garden section…looking at axes.
He was even bigger than I’d estimated during our first encounter. He had the look of a person you’d imagine bending steel pipe by hand, or holding up a collapsed roof to rescue his fellow miners.
As the sandy-haired man left that section of the store and began to explore, his size was in stark contrast to his movements. His pace was smooth-- almost delicate even, as he moved throughout the store, and there were no footfalls or clumsily bumping into things amidst the tightly packed aisles.
We stayed out of sight, camouflaged by the dream-manifested store patrons while keeping the man in sight. Eventually he made his way back to the tool area and located the bathrooms. He disappeared into both the men’s and women’s rooms, then reappeared just as quickly and set back out across the store.
We had officially lost him. Now it was time to do some stalking of our own.
Scotty and I watched the big man cross the Sears parking lot, heading right for the traffic loop. We followed bit by bit, keeping low along the line of cars in the crowded lot.
Making his way through a crowd of onlookers participating in what appeared to be a dog fight—more specifically, poodles…Toy Poodles….surprisingly violent little things, too. I made a mental note to be nice to my neighbor’s fluffy puppy.
Passing right through it all as if it didn’t exist, the man stepped out into traffic. He walked directly in front of a car and disappeared as it passed right through his body.
Scotty and I stood there in disbelief for a few seconds, but we knew what had to happen. I exhaled sharply as we stepped in front of a literal rocket ship on wheels. I was sure we were about to get smashed, but instead we were suddenly standing on a quiet residential street. Instantly taking a look around before setting off again, we kept our eyes peeled for the sandy-haired man. It took a few minutes of exploring, but Scotty and I finally caught sight of him standing in front of a small, immaculately maintained house. Light gray with maroon shutters, the surrounding property was comprised of beautiful, lush grass and round, perfectly manicured bushes that put my own landscaping shit-show to complete shame.
Scotty pointed off in the distance and looked over at me.
“Hey. I know this area. That water tower. It’s in Pennsylvania, just across the state line. I used to date a girl that lived over here, somewhere.”
Knowing the answer already, I asked…”So how’d that relationship turn out?”
With a smug look, he said “She was a hippy, and wasn’t fond of shaving or bathing. I couldn’t deal with that.”
I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow. He threw his hands out in front of him, gesturing.
“OK, OK…she wasn’t down with me wearing a diaper to bed. Some girls like it, though. I swear.”
So anyway…..The man climbed the short section of porch steps and put his hand on the door handle, only to make a sudden about-face as if he’d forgotten something. Scotty and I ducked below the bush line behind which we’d taken up position and watched as the man made his way to a shed several yards off the side of the house. He pulled open the sliding doors and went inside. We could hear him rummaging around and moving things.
A few minutes later he reappeared, and slung over his shoulder was a body in a burlap sack. Judging from the sound of the muffled screams, it was a woman. She was fighting furiously beneath the fabric, thrashing and jabbing at what might as well have been a brick wall. His hands were half the size of her back, and it only took one of them to keep her completely under control.
The woman screamed with all she had, but he didn’t bother to silence her. It was his dream now, and there was no one to hear those cries for help…except for me and my new friend.
As the man entered the house with the woman over his shoulder, Scotty and I began to come up with a plan to save her. We knew she was a real person like the two of us, and if he was going to do what he appeared to be preparing for, we had to stop him.
The plan was simple—and in hindsight, it was also incredibly stupid.
Sneak quietly into the house, free the girl, and beat the piss out of the sandy-haired man until he was unconscious and we could figure out what to do with him. It was perfect. You see it in the movies all the time.
But before we did that…I had a problem.
“Dude…I have to pee reaaaaaaaly bad. It’s gonna wake me up any minute!”
Scotty, of course, had loaded up his real life diaper long ago.
He looked at me with a face as serious as I’ve ever seen.
“You gotta do it. You HAVE TO wet the bed, bro. It’s the only way.”
As if on cue, ten feet in front of me my challenge appeared. It was a ballpark trough.
You know, those stupid, wide open tubs that run the length of the wall at sports stadiums. Anyone and everyone is standing out there with their wiener unguarded, just waiting for some asshole to come by and flick it with his finger while simultaneously giving an atomic wedgie.
I took a step back. “Dude, I can’t. Troughs are literally the most dangerous, vulnerable depositories for urine on the planet. I’d rather piss in front of a thirsty tiger!”
“You HAVE to do it, man. If you don’t, all of this was for nothing. You’ll wake up, and being the chivalrous guy I am, I’ll go in there to rescue the princess and that big bastard will beat me to death and run train on my corpse. I can’t do this without you! Just try!”
So, I tried. I whipped it out, took a few deep breaths, focused on my urethral sphincters, and gave it a shot. After 10 seconds or so there was a trickle…just a tiny bit.
Scotty yelled from behind.
“How’s it going! Anything coming out!”
I was frantic. “It’s not coming out enough! I know I’m about to wake up!”
And just like that he was on me. Scotty came up behind, wrapped his arms around my body right at bladder level, screamed at the top of his lungs “I’M A HETEROSEXUAL MAN!!” and pulled back hard, putting enormous pressure on my bladder.
It went off like a fire hose.
A full minute later I was shaking off the last few drops, which were likely just icing on the cake of the enormous circle of urine that was now on my bed back in the real world. I hoped to god my wife didn’t wake up, but the more likely scenario is that she was about to roll over in it. I was also asking myself if we had remembered to put the mattress liner on after the last laundry day.
I raised my arms in triumph. I never thought I would be so happy to have pissed in my PJ’s.
“Let’s fucking DO THIS!”
So, we went for it. The door wasn’t locked since no one would fuck with the man’s house in his own dream…except two real guys in their own dreams.
We crept into the house slowly and quietly. It was as immaculate as the man’s landscaping. Clean, orderly, with simple furniture and drab carpet that had fresh vacuum marks.
However…the smell. Oh my god, it was putrid. It was beyond putrid--it was a nasty, gut churning, bile rising stench that instantly made my eyes water. We covered our noses but it had absolutely no effect. Breathing through my mouth had me about 1% below the vomit threshold.
It was no matter, though. We had to get to the task at hand.
Scotty and I crept slowly around the house, then heard screams from the direction of the kitchen. Retracing our steps back across the house, we followed the sounds to a basement door. It was closed and had a number on it. That was a little odd for a door inside the house. It said “Room 733.” I gingerly turned the knob and quietly pushed it open. From beyond the basement steps I could hear the sounds of Johnny Cash playing softly, coupled with the light static of a weak radio signal.
We began our slow descent, planning to sneak up on the son-of-a-bitch and whip his ass like nobody’s business. As we reached the bottom of the steps, the stench had reached its peak. It was just too much to handle. My eyes burned furiously and my stomach began to spasm. As my feet hit the floor I looked up, and there he was. Grinning. Like, a genuine, friendly and welcoming smile.
I looked around the room as the sickness tried to overwhelm me. God, I wish I hadn’t. Hanging from the floor joists were people…probably a dozen of them, tightly packed but divided into male/female couples, hanging like the tobacco you see drying in a barn along a country road. A large clamp attached to the joists held each one off the ground by its hair, and a bucket sat underneath to collect all manner of fluids and gunk seeping out.
But something wasn’t right. They were thing…too thin…too flat.
I initially though the bones were missing, but off to the side I could see a body laying horizontally within what looked like a stream press. It was more than one body, actually. Maybe half a dozen? They were just completely, disgustingly, horrifically flattened. Clearly in a preparation stage for the hanging phase of whatever sick process this was.
Off in the opposite corner sat what appeared to be a big cauldron, like witches use in old movies. A gas flame burned beneath it, feeding heat to what I now realized was the second ingredient for the intense stench of death. Rubber.
And, finally, I saw the completed product.
Four bodies, leaned against the wall, in an unnaturally rigid manner. They were very clearly made from skin suits, just like the ones hanging above us, but were stretched absurdly tight…not a single wrinkle was visible. Everything just looked stuffed beyond possibility. Eyelids were closed and had been painted freakishly bright blue with a wide open stare. The mouths were also closed and covered by a big dazzlingly white mouth, not separated into teeth. The artwork was horrendous, like one of those shitty kid pictures your coworkers have hanging in their cubicles.
Everything from the moment we hit the floor until he spoke happened in under ten seconds. No one had moved, the grin never left the man’s face, and when Scotty and I came out of the trance he spoke to us. It was and is the only time I ever heard him speak.
Looking at us wild-eyed and with great enthusiasm, he said in an exceptionally deep and thunderous voice…
“You fellas like horror stories?
You ever read the one about Tommy Taffy?
How about The Pancake Family? I bet I've read 50,000 stories but those are my FAVORITES!”

I do like horror stories, and I’ve read both…and now my body could no longer contain the eruption churning within…
I threw up all over him.
The sandy-haired man’s enthusiasm was instantly gone, replacing itself with a look of pure rage as he cleared away the enormous amount of vomit I’d spewed onto his face and chest.
Scotty and I began to space ourselves out to surround the sandy-haired man, hoping to get him at the same time and get this over with quickly. Unfortunately I wasn’t finished vomiting and as Scotty tried to cross in front of me he slipped, landing hard on his back.
The man lunged at me, but I managed to sidestep, sending him careering into the stairs. He was so wide that I hadn’t even seen the woman behind him whose screams had been the very reason for our descent into this hell hole. I also hadn’t noticed that those screams had stopped.
As he flew past me I got a look at her. She was hanging upside down by her feet, bound with an extension cord, and swaying gently from the momentum of the man releasing his grip. Her back facing me and clad only in underwear, I had a full view of her bloodied body and my eyes locked in on something. It was a tattoo. A dolphin tattoo, to be exact.
I knew this because I bought her that tattoo 15 years ago during our honeymoon in Mexico.
With a gasp I lunged forward and spun her body around to face me. She looked dead. Fluids and blood trickled from fresh wounds in tributaries down her body, seeping into that beautiful auburn hair that had drawn countless compliments throughout her life.
I knelt down and screamed her name, feeling hot breath on my neck as the man grabbed me by the belt. In one fleeting second as his superhuman strength began to lift me off the floor, I saw her eyelids flicker open just a sliver. A rush of adrenaline hit me and I scrambled forward far enough to grab her face, stare into her near lifeless and eyes and scream.
“Annie..........WAKE UP!!!!”
And just like that, she disappeared.
So, if you paid any attention to the opening paragraphs of this tale, you know what happened. He spent 10 agonizingly slow minutes beating us like the bitches we were, while we fought with just enough ferociousness to not get killed, eventually resulting in us getting in a couple lucky shots that finally knocked him unconscious.
So, there we were. We had just loaded the sandy-haired man into the van. He was awake now, bound with his own extension cord and lashed to the van’s floor with ratchet straps. I was amazed he hadn’t tried to speak again.
Now, before you think this will take the turn of your favorite horror films I’ll make something very clear. He wasn’t getting out.
I’ve seen enough shitty tie jobs in those films to know what quality work entails. I hog tied the man, tying knots on top of knots and keeping them away from his hands, Furthermore, I boxed him into the upright position using odds and ends that were already in the van so there would be no rolling over and using some surrounding object to free himself.
Once the van was screaming down the road, Scotty looked over from the driver’s seat.
“What do we do with him?”
Staring straight ahead, I said “Set him on fire and push this van off a cliff. As much as I’d like to take my time slicing this motherfucker wide open, we could wake up at any second.
So, we did just that. Quick and efficient, and he was definitely dead.
Shortly after that I woke up. Reaching over to check on Annie, I found nothing but our dog, sprawled out like he owned the place. I panicked for a moment, then heard the toilet flush.
Annie stepped out of the bathroom and headed toward the door to the hallway, saying “Babe, you won’t believe the nightmare I had. It scared me so bad I’m still shaking a bit.”
“Oh also, I think Cujo peed in the bed.”
Over the next month Scotty and I stayed in contact but hadn’t met up in a dream again. In-fact, I was staying up later and had decided to seriously limit my intake of liquids after 6pm. We had vowed not to look for the sandy haired man, and instead would just lay low despite the absurdity of thinking homicide in a dream could get us arrested in the real world.
But as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, curiosity finally got the better of Scotty.
He’d managed to remember bits and pieces of the location of the man’s house in the dream, and decided to take a trip a few hours north to that small Pennsylvania town he’d recognized by that distinctive water tower. Driving around most of the day, Scotty eventually located the house. He sat in the truck for a few hours, just waiting for the man to come out…or not come out. The perfectly manicured grass was high and unread newspapers littered the sidewalk. Scotty finally decided to exit the truck and just stood in the street, halfway wishing the man would see him and come outside.
A curious neighbor hollered from the house next door and asked Scotty if he was lost, or if he could be of any assistance. Scotty made up some bullshit story about meeting the man there after answering a craigslist ad for some camping gear for sale.
“Oh, Mr. Jepson’s not home. He’s in the hospital. You may have seen it on the news, though. It’s all just so sad because he is absolutely the nicest, most kind person I’ve ever met. It’s such a shame what’s happening to him.”
Deciding it best not to ask any more questions, Scotty thanked the neighbor, got back in his truck and pulled up the local news station’s website. Five minutes later, he called me.
“Dude…he’s dying. Check the news!”
I avoid all forms of news most of the time, so I fired up my Galaxy and hit up the local Pennsylvania stations until I found what I was looking for. The man had been taken to the hospital after going over three weeks without sleep. Nothing could put him out…sleeping pills, anesthetics, and even a full-on medically induced coma. Nothing worked. He remained wide awake.
The sandy-haired man…err...Allen Jepson…was literally disintegrating. Body systems, processes, functions both internal and external…all failing, one miserable second at a time.
I updated myself constantly on the story over the coming days, and eventually saw that Jepson passed away. He died in pure misery, feeling the effects of no drug administered to provide comfort amidst the excruciating pain as his body’s systems shut down, one by one. He screamed in agony until exhaling his dying breath.
So there you have it. The answer to one of life’s great questions…what happens if you die in a dream?
A few days later I found his obituary.
Rev. Allen Edward Jepson, 62, of Montclaive, PA passed away at University Medical Center after a tragic illness.
A voracious reader of folklore and scary tales, people often said he would read through the entire internet if he lived long enough.
Beginning work as a butcher at the age of 14, Mr. Jepson was known throughout his lifetime for possessing remarkable physical power, performing feats of strength for crowds at county fairs, fundraisers, and the like.
Although leading church services was not his primary occupation, in his spare time Pastor Jepson facilitated eternal salvation for thousands of lost souls and enriched the lives of all who had the good fortune to meet and spend time with him.
In addition to countless other selfless endeavors, he was a lifelong supporter of hospice, spending a few final hours at the bedside of over 1,000 residents as they gained their Heavenly wings. Many times, he said “I feel it’s my life’s mission to be present for those who are in their final moments on Earth.”
Reverend Jepson was preceded in death by his dear wife Judith and only son, Tommy.

The real killer

The NCAA basketball season would've ended yesterday. I made a spreadsheet tracking one of /r/sportsbook's most controversial pickers, Chasing Payments

The Featherlight Transmission, Ch. 10

I could describe every single step I take through the cramped, greasy, crumbling and wire-strung back streets toward it, but that would probably be boring. You can imagine what these warrens look like. People leaning from sheet metal balconies to yell at one another about laundry or who gets to use the water pump next. Hawkers trying to drum up business for their clapboard knick knack stands. Groups of brave unattended urchins buzzing around me asking if they can ride on my shoulders like a domesticated elephant (which I oblige, because why not). Street toughs with knives and shock batons lurking in shadowy alleys, turning away once they see that 1) I’m giving shoulder rides to six children at a time and 2) my wallet belongs to a guy that weighs almost half a ton.
I disentangle myself from the intestinal side streets, cross the mostly-empty parking lot, and reach one of the rear utility entrances to the arena, which is now blocking out the sun eight stories above my head. There’s a security booth near the door, and I stride up to the guard inside while smiling as sunny as you please. I’m hard to miss, and the guard follows my approach with a raised eyebrow.
“Hi! Testing consult, here to see Tennima Earthboon.”
The security guard behind the glass, who has the sideburns of a spider monkey and the bored, apathetic facial expression of a security guard, looks up at me with the requisite amount of mild disdain. He looks down at his little desk, punches through a few screens on his computer, then looks back up at me.
“Ms. Earthboon doesn’t have a consult scheduled for today.”
Uh oh. We’ve got an overachiever on our hands. This guy wants to earn his paycheck. I don’t believe this man ever went through the Security Guard Academy - I’m pretty sure actually doing your job is frowned upon by the regulatory commission.
I can’t remember if I’ve seen this guard before. If I don’t recognize him, he doesn’t recognize me from all other times I’ve been through here. I run a short comparative facial scan through my internal database. And… nope, it returns only a 0.09% probability of a match in recent memory. That makes sense. I probably would have remembered those ridiculous mutton chops anyway. Time to improvise.
“Well, she only called me a couple hours ago. I might not be in there. You know how it is with these engineers - if it’s not circuit cards or lugnuts, they’ll probably forget about it.”
This is a lie. I’m the scatterbrain here. In my frazzled spur-of-the-moment mental state I completely forgot to call Tennima ahead of time. That would have made this a lot easier.
He squints at me, apparently not appreciating my attempt at good-natured solidarity. “ID?”
Crap.
“Yeah, sure.” I fish it out of my wallet and hand it to him under the glass. This is about to get a lot harder.
He doesn’t even have to look at the text on the card. The entire thing is bright purple, with “ARCANIST” in yellow block letters at the top. He beetles his brows at me in a combination of indignation and disbelief. It’s a shame that false IDs of any quality cost more than I make in six months.
He hands my ID back like it’s a hungry steam worm and grunts, “Get out of here before I call the Watch, freak.”
Admittedly, I probably could have thought this through a little more.
I plead, “C’mon, you can look me up in your logs, I was here on a call last month. Or call Tennima’s garage, she’ll vouch for me.”
“Fat chance. You’re not even the seventh weirdo this week to try and pull that one on me. I’m not gonna be the guy that let a deranged throwback like you walk in here to do who knows what. Go cast a spell somewhere else, or I’m calling for backup.”
While he’s saying this, I bring up Tennima’s tablet in my database and compose a quick message.

I’m outside at the gate. Wanted to surprise you, but the guy won’t let me in. Can you call the booth?

I send it, suppressing a shiver as my internal antenna hums the data out of my skull and into the air. Now I just have to stall for time. Hopefully she has her screen on her and isn’t busy with something.
I reply, “I don’t know any spells. They’re illegal. And I’m not deranged! Do I seem deranged? Look, I can even make complete sentences! See?”
The guard scowls. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look plenty deranged. Non-deranged people are smaller, and have way less scars and, uh… technology, on their faces. If deranged took out advertisements, it’d be your mug on the billboards, creep.”
It’s my turn to frown. “That’s not very funny.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, I quit the comedy circuit to be a security guard. ‘Cause I like the uniforms, see? And these boxes are nice and sweaty, just how I like it.”
I fix my lenses on him. “Okay, did you really quit comedy to be a rent-a-cop? Because I’ll admit, you’re actually unusually witty.”
Two words flash at the corner of my vision.

hang on

Mr. Dedication replies, “Everyone wants to be talented and famous when they’re young, pal. Except you, apparently. Looking at you, I’m guessing you wanted to be a cargo train. Or a human petri dish. Now fuck off outta here before I get in-”
The phone in his little security box rings. He rolls his eyes very dramatically, then jabs his finger toward the parking lot at me while putting the receiver up to his ear.
“Gate 2C, this is Springberry.”
His eyes lock onto mine from behind the glass, and his face congeals into an expression somewhere between exasperation, disbelief, and resignation. I smile at him.
“Oh. Hello, Ms. Earthboon. Yes, there is. Uh… two stories tall, black hair, green clanker eyes. Oh yeah. Yeah, like if- yes, at least three gorillas’ worth. Yes. It’s alright, no problem, just… warn a guy next time. Okay. Have a nice day, Ms. Earthboon.”
He hangs up the phone, eyes not leaving mine for even a second. He leans forward.
“I like Ms. Earthboon. She’s a nice girl. And if I find out about anything freaky happening to her, I’ll make sure something happens to you about it, get me?”
I shrug. “You’d have to fight a lot of other people just to reach my corpse afterward, buddy. And I’ve been friends with her longer than you have, anyway.”
The guard puts his attention on his computer and gets ready to type. “What’s your name?”
“Baulric Featherlight.”
He gives me a look. “What, like from the story?”
Okay, this guy is definitely a faker. I’ve never met a security guard that didn’t collapse into myoclonic seizures every time their eyes contacted print.
“Yep.”
A sarcastic chuckle. “And that last name is just poetry on a creep like you. Your parents must be so happy that they got their wish.”
“Nah, they’re dead.”
“Yeah? Join the club, pal.”
“Okay. Where do I sign up?”
He squints. “Where what now?”
“Where do I sign up? For the Dead Parents Club. That sounds like one of those ones with free coffee.”
He slides a clipboard and pen under the glass. “Bottom line right here, smartass.”
I pick up the form and look at it. “What’s this?”
Still typing, he says, “Never learned how to read, huh? Clearance badge form. If you’re a consult you shoulda got one the first time you came through, but every other guard here is a lazy piece of shit. Pretend to read all of it very thoroughly for the cameras, then sign so we don’t have to do this song and dance ever again.”
I glance at the paper, then run my text comparator program to get the gist in about a third of a second. Don’t lose the badge, don’t eat the badge, et cetera et cetera, just bureaucratic boilerplate. I sign and give it back to him. How’s that for reading, huh? Bet you wish you had one of these. Or… well, maybe not, because modern intracranial processors still have only about a 60% compatibility with normal human brain tissue and the list of post-implantation side effects is about as long as your spinal cord. Which uh, has a good chance of exovertebral herniation after getting one of these, incidentally. Look, basically what I’m saying is, don’t get a computer slotted in your head unless you want to use hallucinations as a replacement for the viewscreen you won’t be able to afford anymore, or you’re itching to add some real humdingers to your tumor collection.
The clipboard completes its pilgrimage back under the glass with my signature in tow, then Mr. Vigilance holds up an ancient-looking camera.
“Say ‘regret’!”
The flashbulb goes off before I even realize what’s happening. The badge comes out of the laminator and he hands it to me. In the picture I look like an overexposed, electronically-enhanced moron. I squint my shutters at him.
“That’s hysterical. No wonder they pay you the big bucks, you absolute winner, you.”
He smiles pleasantly and pushes a button. A buzzer sounds, and the door opens, showing me a passage leading into the arena.
“Have a great day, Mr. Featherlight. Do anything stupid in there and there’ll be so many shock batons up your ass you’ll try to take the next power transformer you see out on a date.”
Walking down the steps into the arena, I wave a hand and say without turning back, “Revisit that old dream of yours, Mr. Springberry. You’re in the wrong line of work.”
The door crashes shut behind me, leaving me surrounded by quiet, fluorescent-lit concrete.
I send Tennima another message.

Thanks. Where are you?

After a minute, she replies:

major league garage bay 89

Major league? Wow. That’s new. I guess there’s some congratulations in order.
I slither my way through the utility tunnels toward the arena grounds. There’s no paint and no decorations - the fans aren’t allowed back here. Just anonymous gray-green concrete and the occasional door marked “MAINTENANCE” or “BOILER”, stuff like that. Not very exciting. On my right are some high half-windows, where I can see the fight turf. This place on its own is bigger than most neighborhoods, so it’s going to take me a bit to work my way over to the garages.
I realize I have no idea where she actually is. This place is a labyrinth. I give up and find the nearest door to the pitch. The garage numbers are painted below the stands so the fans can identify their favorite engineers, so it shouldn’t be too hard.
Back out in the sun, I scan the place for a bit. It’s not a fight day today, so it’s quiet, and the stands are mostly empty. Only some scouts, coaches, and diehard fans for whom even automech maintenance is something to cheer about. The pitch is just bare brown-orange desert earth, smoothed and compacted down by rolling machines at the end of every event. There are some automechs and engineers out here, sparring against one another, troubleshooting, practicing maneuvers, or just talking amongst themselves.
Tucked under the stands all the way around the perimeter of the pitch are the shadowy dugouts, where the engineers’ garages are kept. Alcoves numbered “1” through “200” for the minor leaguers on the east side, and one-hundred larger nooks for the majors on the west. I find the one with a big yellow “89” painted above it and just cut directly across the pitch, keeping a respectful distance from the gearheads and their fighting machines as I walk.
I pass by two contenders with minor league emblems on their jackets. One’s a shrimpy-looking mousey guy wearing welder’s goggles, with the number “174” on his back. He’s sweating a bit, and grimacing like he’s got a weasel in his work coveralls. His vitae is blue-red and wispy, like seaweed. The other’s a… distinctive-looking hefty lady with sky-blue lip paint, two-inch rainbow-colored artificial eyelashes, glittery eyeshadow, and not a single hair on her meaty head. She looks like a huge vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkles came to life and decided to start a career as a heavyweight wrestler. Her vitae is a big, blocky red-purple fortress around her body, with clouds of something like multicolored flower petals drifting around its ramparts. I’ve never seen someone so imposing in my entire life.
They’re standing across from one another on opposite ends of a white circle painted on the ground. Their mechs are in the ring, sparring.
Mouse’s machine is a sleek, headless, fast-looking thing with four arms and reverse-jointed legs. It’s painted red and orange, with two or three sponsorship decals on the shoulders. Two of its arms have hands, and the longer upper pair are equipped with a guttering flamethrower and a circular saw with glinting teeth. No engine - probably running entirely on an electrite reactor to cut down on weight.
Rainbow Suplex’s mech looks basically exactly like her - hulking, heavily-armored, and slow, with massive hydraulic pistons in the arms, a roaring engine in its chest, twin chrome exhaust pipes jutting from either side of its clavicle, and the most terrifying candy-coat of eye-bruising neon rainbow paint I’ve ever seen on anything ever. I don’t see any obvious weapons on it, or even cameras in its heavy head. Aside from its utterly blinding paint job, of course, which in the sunlight is forcing me to turn down my eyes’ goddamn brightness setting.
Mouse punches a few keys on his wrist-mounted data relay, and Spider-Arms trains its flamethrower on the Oglitzerator. An angry jet of liquid fire sprays all over the giant’s body - I can feel the heat from where I’m standing. The massive mech just walks forward, which is honestly the most menacing thing it probably ever needs to do. Each one of its footsteps brings a pneumatic tsss and an earth-rattling rumble. No matter how heavy its armor is, it can’t just stay in the fire - it’ll overheat.
The multicolored monster stomps forward, but Spider-Arms launches ahead and right on what looks like jet-powered rollerskates. In an impressive display of agility, it reaches the titan’s flank and swipes an arm left. Its buzzsaw screeches against its opponent’s armor plates - probably looking to sever a hydraulic line. A shower of sparks flies in all directions.
The much larger Oglitzerator turns and waves its own arm, like a bear trying to swat a bee. Spider-Arms ducks under the swing, then shoots another jet of fire right in the hulk’s back.
Rainbow Suplex, her face in a determined scowl, closes her sparkle-coated eyes and punches a button on her own wrist rig.
Then it becomes apparent why Mouse is wearing welding goggles.
A horrible blinding flash explodes from hidden photoplates on the Oglitzerator’s armor. I’m lucky I already turned my brightness down - the rainbow flare only lasts for a split second, but was bright enough to outdo the sun and cast shadows all the way up in the nosebleeds.
There must’ve been an extra little electromagnetic something in the flare. My implants are pretty well-shielded, but there’s a little static in my vision, and Spider-Arms suddenly looks a lot more confused. It tries to get out of range, but flounders, like it’s not sure which direction to go in. The Oglitzerator takes advantage of the momentary confusion, to gruesome effect. It lunges forward and grabs its opponent’s left two arms at the shoulder, plants its other hand around Spider-Arm’s middle, then pulls. The smaller mech’s left arms shriek briefly and then separate from their sockets. Oil and hydraulic fluid splatter the dry earth. The giant tosses the leaking limbs to one side, lifts up the rest of Spider-Arms, then throws the poor, defeated mech overhead about twenty yards through the air. It lands outside the ring with a metallic crunch, in a pitiful-looking heap of tangled scrap metal.
Mouse falls to his knees, hands on his head and mouth agape in despair.
Rainbow Suplex, arms crossed over her… regal bosom, yells to him, “You shoulda kept yer distance! The fire woulda worked if you’d just dodged around more, but you had to get cocky.”
Mouse doesn’t reply, eyes down, apparently still reeling from his 45-second defeat.
The Oglitzerator picks up the dismembered arms, then stomps over to gather up the whirring corpse of Spider-Arms. Rainbow Suplex, still scowling like a bull, crosses the ring to cast Mouse in her domineering shadow. She leans down, picks up her shell-shocked opponent, and slings the kid over her shoulder like a dejected sack of potatoes. She strides off with purpose, the Oglitzerator following behind.
“C’mon, Silverbell, it ain’t the end of the world. Let’s look at some pulse shielding, then I’ll buy ya a milkshake and one a’ them nice sausage sandwiches you like. Y’all gotta eat more. You’ll feel better in two shakes of a rattler’s tail.”
From somewhere between Rainbow Suplex’s shoulder blades with his butt in the air, Mouse sniffs and mumbles hopefully, “... Alright.”
The strange duo saunter off toward the garages. I can’t tell if what I just witnessed was a friendly training session or a kidnapping.
A lilting female voice somewhere around my left elbow says, “Kind of reminds you of the old days, huh?”
I turn and look down.
Coming up to just above my waist is a diminutive young woman with silvery blond hair bound in a messy bun. She’s wearing a tan tanktop with goggles on her forehead, and the sleeves of her gunmetal green mechanic’s coveralls are tied around her waist. She’s pretty enough, in a miniature kind of way, with a tiny button nose and big green eyes that seem to scan everything around them. Kind of like mine, but without the need for any circuitry. She’s got a narrow frame and probably doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, but her arms still show some muscle from working with power tools and metal all day.
Her vitae is very geometrical. Regular angular shapes, like a bunch of ghostly armor plates. They’re varying shades of gray, and they orbit around her body interlocking and separating at random, forming new shapes or breaking up into smaller ones. The metallic assembly smells pretty much like you think it would - hot metal, grease, and exhaust.
I smile at her and say, “Yeah, a little. How are ya, shrimp?”
She gives my hip a hug (that’s all she can really reach), and I give her a careful pat on the back. My hand is wider than her shoulder blades. We separate. She crosses her arms and looks up at me.
“Probably better than you, fatty.”
“Yeah, probably.” I thumb at the sparring partners receding into the distance. “Who’s the cute couple?”
Tennima snorts. “Panlon Silverbell and Charla Longmarch. They’re very much not a couple. Pan’s too shy to get a girlfriend and Charla’s… well, you can probably put two and two together on that one.”
“You know them?”
She shrugs. “He’s new, just entered the league a few months ago. I don’t know much about him. He seems quiet, but he’s pretty talented for his age. Charla’s been here almost as long as the arena has. She looks… daunting, but she’s actually very nice once you get past the… intensity. Basically the minor league den mother. She shows all the new fighters the ropes.”
“I didn’t see her rank.”
“Number one, in the minors. She’s been there for the last ten years or so - her and Painbow are the last obstacle to the big leagues.”
I frown. “She’s been rank one in the minors for ten years?”
Ten nods. “She’s refused every major-league contract they’ve tried to give her. Honestly, she’s good enough that she could move up whenever she wanted, but I think she keeps her rank to force all her adopted children to exceed her if they want to move on. Cares more about being a coach and surrogate mom than personal glory. That’s one reason why she has so few sponsorships. The other reason is that she refuses to ruin Painbow’s paint job with corporate decals.”
“Huh. What a character.”
“She’s a little weird, and loud, and pushy, but her heart’s even bigger than her biceps. I owe her a lot. I’m thirsty. You want a drink?”
“Hell yes I do, walking here was murder.”
“Follow me.” Tennima starts off to the left, toward the major league garages.
I slow my pace as we cross the expanse of hot dirt. Every one of my steps is worth about three of hers. We pass by some training equipment, and more mechs and engineers deep in their training.
“So you’re in the majors now, huh? When did that happen?”
“About a month ago. You’d know if you came out to see my damn matches.”
“I’m broke! Why don’t you use your dang prestige and get me some free tickets, huh?”
“Minors aren’t allowed to do that. But now I’m a bigshot, I’ll see about floating you some freebies in the nosebleeds. Hope you’re not prone to altitude sickness.”
“I guess we’ll find out. You and Crunchy must be on fire lately.”
“Yeah, we’ve been leaving a pretty terrifying wake of scrap behind us. I got picked up by Halfmoon, you know.”
I whistle. “No kidding? That’s gotta be the big bucks, right?”
She nods. “They treat their fighters pretty well. I’ve got a fancy new apartment in Sector Nine and everything.”
“You really are a bigshot. You should let me come over and stay for a few years.”
“I think you violate about seven different clauses in my lease. But sure, you should come visit sometime.”
All these garages are basically the same. Some have their doors open, some don’t, there are some subtle decorations depending on the engineer currently inhabiting it, but they all have standardized equipment. The fighters are always moving up and down depending on their rank, moving closer and closer to the coveted Champion’s Workshop, so if they’re performing well, they never get the chance to stay in their designated spot for long. Tennima’s garage is always identifiable, though, no matter what her rank is. From a distance.
Because none of the other fighters have Mr. Crunch.
Tennima crosses the threshold of her nook, under the awning and out of the sun. I stay a short distance away, for just a moment. That’s the thing about being around something bigger than you. No matter how big and strong you are, you’ll meet something bigger and stronger. And when you do, that little primeval part of your brain will activate and remind you that you could be prey. There’s that small instant where your instincts have to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t the big fish anymore. That’s the feeling that I wind up planting in most people’s heads when I’m around them, whether I want to or not. And Mr. Crunch does it to me.
I rest my hands on my hips and call to the thing in the garage’s loading bay, “Long time no see, Crunchy!”
The iron beast in the shadows raises its colossal left arm with a riot of clanks, ratchets, and hisses. It holds up its hand, opens it, and waggles it left and right on its wrist joint, making metallic tink tink tink sounds as it waves at me. A happy electric warble comes from somewhere in its chest, like a synthesizer crossed with a purring cat and a songbird. But loud enough to shudder my sternum.
I might have given you the wrong impression when I told you that Painbow, the colorful mech from earlier, was big. Now, that’s not technically incorrect. By my estimation, Painbow is probably a square ton and a half of metal, capable of tearing a man in half at the waist without so much as a rev of its engine. Mr. Crunch makes Painbow look like a plastic windup toy. Next to Mr. Crunch, everyone and everything is small.
It’s not a complex mech. Far from it - Tennima’s magnum opus is an exercise in proving the elegant simplicity of uncompromising brute force. Two legs, relatively small, only really there to absorb shock and carry the beast from one place to another. A small head, more of a decoration than anything else, with two steel eyes and a permanent metal frown, resting in a high collar of armor plates. But the arms. The arms are what’s carried Tennima into the major leagues. These things are so massive that each of its shoulders has its own dedicated exhaust manifold and hydraulic booster engine just so they can move faster than a heavily concussed snail. They reach nearly down to the ground even when Mr. Crunch is standing fully upright, but it usually isn’t - it often moves on its knuckles for balance, like a brushed-steel gorilla. Either arm weighs more than my entire body, and Tennima can’t remove them without a hydraulic lift.
Strung across the creature’s back and shoulders are reels of high-test loading cable, which end at harpoon projectors in the wrists. These are the reason Mr. Crunch is able to dismantle the competition so efficiently. It’s too gigantic and slow to catch anyone, so it impales them with pneumatic spikes like a fisherman, and just reels them in before literally tearing them apart with its titanic hands.
Nine feet tall. Over eight thousand pounds of pure heavy metal might. And it’s waving and chirping at me like a small child.
I approach his loading rack and pat the humming colossus on the elbow. “And a hearty beep boop to you too, buddy.”
His other arm crosses his chest, and he mimics my gesture, patting me on my elbow with two fingers. Very gently. He makes a sound similar in tone to my “beep boop”, but distorted and electronic. He’s such a copycat.
Mr. Crunch isn’t a person, but it’s hard not to think of him as a “he”. That’s what Tennima calls him, and it’s always felt somehow disrespectful to call him “it”.
And that’s kind of a problem. For both of them.
Crunchy makes a staticy “scoot over” noise and gives me a nudge with a finger. I get out of his way, and he disengages from his charging rack, apparently full. He takes a few booming steps on his boot-shaped feet, out into the sun. He shakes himself, kind of like a dog, rolling his huge shoulders and stamping the ground with his fists. Then he ducks back into the garage and starts rummaging through a pile of what looks like trash.
Tennima comes back over to me with two cans and two cigarettes. I take one of each.
We light our smokes and sip our fizz (Ten doesn’t like alcohol much), and Mr. Crunch pounds his way over to us on his undersized legs. He’s got his hands clasped together, like a kid that’s caught a cool bug.
He stops in front of us, blocking out the sun, and opens his palms. Inside is a partially-crushed bright red oil can. I look down at it, then to Ten.
She rolls her eyes. “He wants to play Hide the Can. I did it one time a couple weeks ago to calibrate his targeting system and he’s completely obsessed now. It’s his new favorite game. No, Crunchy, we’re not playing right now.”
Mr. Crunch holds the can out a little further and pleads, “Bwoowoop?”
Tennima sighs. “Alright, but only one. Give it to Uncle Baulric.”
Crunchy exclaims, “Fweebeep!” and offers me the can. I take it, and the four-ton steel toddler immediately covers his head with his hands.
Tennima shrugs in resignation. “Go ahead and hide it. It’s never taken him longer than five seconds to find it, but it’ll make him happy anyway.”
I scratch my chin contemplatively. “Hmmmmm. Where oh where should I hide the can, I wonder?” Mr. Crunch waggles a little at the waist and makes a few sing-songy notes in anticipation.
I walk into the garage, and pace around a bit, like I’m looking for a good place to hide it. But while I’m doing so, I slip the empty can into the back pocket of my trousers. I make some noise and rifle through a few containers to complete the illusion, give Ten a wink, then go back over to her.
“Okay Crunchy, find it!”
Mr. Crunch takes his hands off his rudimentary, always-frowning face and gives a few contemplative bleeps. His eyes, simple steel ball cameras in sockets, light up yellow, then pan around his immediate environment. They stop on me. He takes two steps forward, leans over my shoulder, holds up the back of my coat like a curtain, and dexterously plucks the can out of my pocket. He pulls back, then holds up the recovered can with a very proud “Ba-bwaaarb!”
I raise my eyebrows and clap appreciatively. Tennima also joins me in the round of applause, but with a much less impressed look on her face.
“Alright, now go play with your other toys while we talk.”
Mr. Crunch tosses the can over his shoulder. It flies through the air and clatters precisely back in the pile of things where he found it. Then he turns about and goes back to the pile, inspecting different items and beeping happily.
I say to Tennima, “How did he do that?”
She scoffs. “He’s a big cheater. I installed a chemoreceptor module in his head and now he can smell with his eyes. It doesn’t matter where you put it, he’ll be able to detect the oil residue in the can as long as it’s somewhere nearby. His adaptive behavioral subroutines are still figuring out how to make the best use of it, though, so for now, it’s a game. That he always wins.”
I nod. “And how does that uh… how do the rest of the fighters, uh…”
She knows what I’m angling toward. “He knows when people are watching, and I’ve taught him how to act when they’re around. It’s not perfect, but I wear a fake wrist rig when we’re in the ring and no one’s said anything yet.”
I sip my drink. The bubbly sugar is a godsend in this heat. “Aren’t you kind of a cheater? Isn’t all of this sort of… a formality?”
She huffs smoke and gives me a laser-cutting look. Tennima might be little, but she has an iron glare that’s on par with Emaphra’s.
“I’m the best engineer in this goddamn city, and I’ll prove it. Right here, regulations be damned.”
“And if you get found out?”
She jabs her smoke at me. “If you don’t dare to think the things that everyone else is too afraid to consider, you’re not an inventor, Baulric. You’re just another pair of arms, turning wrenches in the dark. No better than a maintenance automech, with a tech manual where your brain should be. If anyone thinks Mr. Crunch is a catastrophe waiting to happen, well… they can take it up with him.”
I look over at the massive machine and consider that. Yeah, she might have a point. Even the Brotherhood would have to think twice about how to confiscate a four-ton literal fighting machine that doesn’t want to be locked up.
Technology never stops marching. Even if the Brotherhood wants to tell it where to step and in what cadence, it’ll always move forward, whether they like it or not. Once the automech hit the scene, people asked questions about labor and entertainment. But a few strange people, people like Tennima, started asking more difficult questions. Questions like, What if we could make them act for themselves? What if they had their own essence? What if automechs not only looked like people, but started thinking like them too?
Animechs are even more illegal than I am. They’re so illegal that they don’t even exist. Not officially, anyway. All it took was the Brotherhood and the Tribunal to agree on this one point, and animechs went from intriguing scientific possibility to dangerous myth. A deeply ironic cautionary tale, meant to dissuade the hubris of innovators everywhere. If machines were alive, how would we control them? What would happen to poor old humanity? For all we know, we’d wind up with the cold metallic heel of a machine race on our necks before we even had the chance to heal from the bruises the magical one left. It’d be necromancer kings and elven empires all over again, except now they’d all be made out of metal.
The rare ones like Tennima think differently, though. They don’t acknowledge fear or taboo. They just gather up their genius and charge headlong into discovery, whether it means doom or a new golden age. Men like the Prime Controller think they can stop this train, but they can’t. They’re along for the ride like everyone else.
Now I’m not saying I live my life voiding my bowels every time I see an adding machine. But I’m also not saying that I completely let my guard down whenever Mr. Crunch is hulking in the corner of my vision, no matter how adorable he is. I give him the same respect I’d give any other thinking animal on the street. He’s the bigger killer, so my eyes aren’t coming off him.
I nod. “I know. I’m not saying you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve always had a better grip on that than I ever have. I’m just… looking out.”
She slugs me on the arm. It actually hurts a little. She’s got a hell of an arm for someone smaller than some dogs.
Her bright green eyes are on mine like my target has been acquired. “I’m not an orphan anymore, Baulric. You said it yourself, I’m a bigshot now. I traded you in for a bigger bodyguard a long time ago, so you can give it a rest, huh? Go be caveman daddy for someone else.”
I frown and rub my arm. “Ow. Tiny fist, punch like bullet. Baulric arm hurt. Tenny hurt Baulric.”
Tennima snorts like a miniature bull. “And there’s more where that came from.”
I sigh. “I get your point. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. It’s just... hard to update your firmware sometimes.”
She hops up to sit on an oil drum. “Then install some new drivers, you overgrown sap. Is that why you came down here? Worried for the safety of my tiny fragile body?”
I snicker. “You said it yourself. If anyone thinks that’s all the body you’ve got, they’re in for a nasty surprise.” I nod toward Mr. Crunch, who is twanging a large shock absorber spring repeatedly in his enormous hands and burbling what sounds almost like synthesized laughter.
My hand goes up to my hair, scratching humbly. “No, uh… well, I did want to visit you just for the sake of it, but, uh… well. You know how you’re a lot smarter than me?”
She takes a smug drag off her smoke. “Yeah.”
“I’m in kind of a pickle. Maybe a big one. Alright, it’s a whole damn bowl of sour cabbage. I’m not sure what to do, so maybe you can use one of these very fancy power tools to bash some perspective into me.”
Tennima leans her back against the support stanchion. “Okay. Hit me with it.”
I hit her with it. The whole thing, from the crime scene to now.
At the end of the tale, she just raises an eyebrow at me. “You need me to tell you what to do here?”
I frown. “You say that like it’s obvious.”
“Because it is.”
“Elucidate me, bite-size sage.”
She groans in frustration. “Are you seriously considering taking the Brotherhood’s blood money? Seriously?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I need it? In order to not die?”
Tennima wipes her face with her hands. “They’re playing you, Baulric. You said as much. They are an organization built out of every hateful, narrow-minded, despotic brick in all of Almarest, and you want to play directly into their hands? You want them to get their way?”
“No. I want money. So I can pay the angry zappy man, so he doesn’t zap me.”
“Is that so? That’s what you want?”
“... Is this a trick question?”
“No, but if you want to play games, we can play games. What do you want, Baulric? What do you really want?”
“To not get killed by the crazy electricity criminal, please.”
“And that’s it.”
“... Yes. Wait… no, yes, that’s it.”
She sighs. She won’t meet my eyes, looking away instead.
“If that’s all you want, then you’re not the same anymore, either. You’re not the same man that gave me food when he didn’t have any, and used his back as a roof to keep me dry when his own was too leaky. You’re not the same giant that used his strength to scare away the men that wanted to turn me into something I didn’t want to be. If all you want is to stay alive, then you’re not a giant at all anymore. You’re small. Smaller than I’ve ever been. I did replace you, but I didn’t think you’d ever become obsolete.”
I look down at my arm, covered in scars. “I never asked to be a giant. I’m not a bad man.”
“The only ones who do are the ones that don’t deserve it. And anyone can be not bad. It takes effort to be good. So tough. If all you want to do with your strength is sit there and take money from the same men that screw us both over every single day, if you want to take the easy way out, then you can fuck off. I don’t have any patience for outmoded little people that don’t have the backbone to try and solve their own problems. I don’t have sympathy for another redundant freeloader. You taught me that. You can either live it and do what’s right, or get out of my sight.”
Her words come down on me like a rain of hammers.
How long has it been since I wanted something other than survival? How long have I been drifting on a raft made out of advantages that I never earned?
I think I used to be useful. I helped Tennima when she didn’t have anywhere to go. I’ve stepped between the weak and the predatory a few times, mostly to prove to myself that I didn’t have to be a predator either. To prove that I was better than that. Not a cheater or a monster like other powerful men. I used to hunt children. Not to hurt them, but to pull them out of gutters when they were lost, and take them somewhere safe. I used to use my unfair advantages to protect people who never got a fair shot, and I’d do it free of charge.
Now… well, what do I do all day now? Look at things on my computer. Read the books I’m allowed to have. Take naps. Stay inside. Stomp bugs and bad men when the food runs out, but even then, only sometimes, only if there’s money. Then repeat. I barely do anything at all. I can weave Life energy like the threads of a tapestry, and I use it to take the place of meals when I’m too lazy to buy a damn sandwich. When did I become so afraid of being a predator that I became a parasite instead?
The only things I’ve ever been good at are hunting and loafing around, and I didn’t even have to earn the first. It was given to me, whether I wanted it or not, and all I’ve done with it is use it as an excuse to coast, on a wave of my own cowardice and indolence. Maybe it’s time to stop being a big animal and be a big man instead. No more drifting.
It’s time to hunt.
I huff a haughty breath. “Well, Ten, it’s been good seeing you, and I hate to cut this short. But if you’ll excuse me, something important just came up, and I have to chase after it.”
I turn and walk away, pretending like I’m not concerned with her reaction. But behind me, she calls out from her barrel throne.
“Oh Tennima, I’m such a big dumb idiot, thank you so much for reminding me not to be stupid! Why, you’re welcome, Baulric, any time!”
I smile. It’s true that I’m usually too lazy and fearful to make friends. But the ones I do have are worth keeping.

[this story has over 30 posts now, which you can find through my reddit profile. hundreds and hundreds of pages of ol' Featherlight. and i update pretty much every week, so you can look forward to more ♥]
[you can read this story on Royal Road too, if that's the kind of thing you're into. reviews would be greatly helpful for a new guy on the scene ♥]
[if you think this story is good enough to pay for, why not flip me a tip? i'd appreciate it ♥]
[and thanks for reading ♥]

Zoom CEO Eric Yuan Is Giving K-12 Schools His Videoconferencing Tools For Free

https://www.forbes.com/sites/alexkonrad/2020/03/13/zoom-video-coronavirus-eric-yuan-schools/?subId1=xid%3Afr1584152044402jhi&fbclid=IwAR2XiHAjhJcgxIP3FfUr7zwNe1GulL60t6euYhi2-XFdEmBwymVqIYxc-E0#28fa9f144e71
On Thursday, on the heels of Zoom's biggest day ever for downloads the day before, CEO Eric Yuan was taking the time to remotely sign up schools to free accounts of his videoconferencing software. First was a prestigious school in Silicon Valley, then two schools in the Austin, Texas area.
“They told me they’d connect with my team, and I said, ‘no, I’ll do that for you,’” said Yuan, reached by Zoom at the San Jose, California-area home that is now his office for the foreseeable future. “I did it manually myself.”
As the Covid-19 virus sweeps across the planet, leading to quarantined cities and shut-down schools, Zoom has emerged as one of the leading tools to keep businesses up and running and students learning. On Wednesday, the most recent day for which data is available, 343,000 people globally downloaded the Zoom app, 60,000 in the U.S. alone, according to mobile intelligence firm Apptopia — compared to 90,000 people worldwide and 27,000 in the U.S. just two months ago. (Zoom doesn't share such numbers and wouldn't comment on a third party report.) And overnight, having already removed the time limit from video chats using Zoom's free service for affected regions in China and elsewhere, Yuan took another measure to help mitigate the impact of the coronavirus: he decided to remove the limit for any K-12 schools affected in Japan, Italy and the United States.
Students or teachers who fill out an online form using their school email addresses and are then verified by Zoom will have any accounts associated with that school’s domain also gain unlimited temporary meeting minutes, according to a site set up for the process overnight. The free Basic accounts are also available by request in Austria, Denmark, France, Ireland, Poland, Romania and South Korea, a spokesperson for Zoom said. "Given that many K-12 schools are starting closing, we decided to offer Zoom access to all K-12 schools in the country starting tomorrow," Yuan wrote in an email overnight.
Such generosity is nothing new for Yuan, who was known to hook up nonprofits and other institutions in need with prized free access to Zoom’s online video communications since he cofounded the business in 2011. But now his leadership is taking on global importance as Zoom has become one of the most in-demand software tools for the work-from-home economy.
Zoom is far from the only tool standing to benefit from this trend. Analysts point to others like file-sharing service Dropbox, e-signatures business DocuSign and emergency communications business Everbridge as obvious fellow cloud companies that will likely see a boost in usage as the world moves even more online. But few are as richly valued as Zoom, whose shares are up 77% since it went public in April 2019, making Yuan a billionaire. Last Wednesday, the company reported an earnings beat and year-to-year revenue growth of 78%, GAAP operating margins of 5.6% and non-GAAP earnings per share nearly double analyst consensus — and still saw shares dip, though they remained up 24% for the past month as of Thursday’s market close, versus a 27% drop for the S&P 500.
Zoom isn’t just a focus for Wall Street, either. On Twitter, it’s become a viral theme. “Just got an email from a prof: ‘As a reminder, you are required to wear clothes during Zoom meetings.’ Rules are made when they become necessary, not before,” one Twitter user quipped to more than 84,000 likes. “I’m seeing a lot of funny tweets now, so this is something new,” says Yuan, who retweeted that one, but not the viral tweet from Box CEO Aaron Levie, or the viral joke about presidential debates happening over Zoom.
With the increased demand has come another question: can Zoom possibly keep up? “Is your platform prepared for practically every college class in America to be using it? Simultaneously? Asking for a whole lot of friends,” tweeted academic Dr. Adrienne Keene.
Yuan, the entrepreneur who knows that answer best, is unperturbed. He’s already working on new features for Zoom focused on a work-from-home lifestyle, from better face lighting to a lecture tool for professors, while he continues to roll out Zoom free to affected schools. Above all, he argues it’s actually a pretty great time to work at Zoom. “I feel like overnight, this is one of the catalysts where in every country, everybody’s realized they needed to have a tool like Zoom to connect their people,” Yuan says. “I think from that perspective, we feel very proud. We’ve seen that what we are doing here, we can contribute a bit to the world.”
Since Zoom went to a work-from-home policy nine days ago, Yuan has been learning how it holds up as a full-time remote tool firsthand. So far, he’s pretty happy – if a bit worn down by the volume. “On the one hand, we like working from home; we’re using our own services,” says Yuan. “On the other hand, somehow, I do not know why – maybe because of the recent demand, maybe the working at home – we just have more meetings working at home than in the office.”
Yuan says Zoom first started to brace itself for huge changes when the Covid-19 virus disrupted business in China starting in January. At that time, customers like Walmart and Dell started to reach out with concerns, Yuan says, wondering if their local employees would be able to move full-time to communications through Zoom. In the run-up to going public, Zoom had trained staff on responses to natural disasters, though the company didn’t anticipate such a disaster would come through a pandemic. Zoom’s servers – distributed across 17 data centers globally, which Zoom operates itself – have so far been able to handle the increased volume of videoconferences and calls.
In those data centers, Zoom operates a cloud architecture using auto scaling, a method that monitors usage of applications and makes it easier to add more computing power when demand increases, then ratchet it back down to save costs when demand drops. Zoom’s data centers were set up to handle surges of traffic of 10x the normal, or 100x, says Yuan. “The beautiful part of the cloud is, you know, it’s unlimited capacity in theory,” he says. And by employing engineering teams across the globe, including in China and Malaysia, Zoom has technical talent able to remotely monitor its systems around the clock. Yuan says any mental images of Zoom technical staff forgoing sleep to keep your weekly team meeting running are unbacked by reality. “Working the whole night is not scalable,” he says.
Zoom is already working on new features from user feedback from the work-at-home surge. One would be a tool, inspired in part by consumer apps like Instagram and Snapchat, that would provide a filter that frames a user’s face in better lighting, or with blemishes tuned out. “We want to have a touch up to your appearance just from one feature,” says Yuan.
Another feature that has moved up on the product pipeline came from feedback from a professor using Zoom to host lectures for his class. The new lecture-focused feature would make it so that every student’s video was appearing as though shot from the same angle, allowing the teacher to see how students are reacting – and who is paying attention – like they were physically in class.
Yuan doesn’t agree with the skepticism of reporters like The Intercept’s Sam Biddle, who recently warned that Zoom’s software offers “attention tracking” that marks attendees who haven’t had Zoom open or top of their screen for more than 30 seconds. Is a future of Zoom calls from home more invasive than office life? To Zoom’s creator, there’s a key distinction between an online meeting you take on the fly – perhaps while grabbing a coffee, or in transit – versus a work-from-home environment. There, he’s betting staff will want to see each other. “I can feel very lonely now,” he says.
How much Zoom stands to profit from calamity is another sensitive subject. Originally from Shandong Province in eastern China, Yuan doesn’t have family left in China who are affected by the virus, but he says he’s concerned just like any parent still dropping their kids off at school. Yuan says the decision to make free Zoom use unlimited in affected regions – first China, and now Italy and in K-12 schools – was unanimous among his direct reports. “I told the team that with any crisis like this, let’s not leverage the opportunity for marketing or sales. Let’s focus on our customers,” he says. “If you leverage this opportunity for money, I think that’s a horrible culture.”
Culture is important to Yuan, who built Zoom after running engineering for Cisco’s competitive product, Webex. (For more on Zoom’s rise, see Forbes’ feature story from last year: Zoom, Zoom, Zoom!) That’s left analysts optimistic, but uncertain, how much Zoom’s business will benefit from its current surge, as much of the new use is believed to be among free users who may or may not convert to paying customers over time. “Zoom is being a good corporate citizen,” says Sterling Auty, an analyst at JPMorgan Equity Research. “They are not looking to take unfair advantage. They are looking to help and we think that goodwill carries a long way.”

Lost in the Sauce: Feb. 23 - 29

Welcome to Lost in the Sauce, keeping you caught up on political and legal news that often gets buried in distractions and theater. (the previous edition can be found here if you are super behind).
House-keeping:

How to read: the headings will guide you through this piece. The Main Course covers the “big” stories and The Sides covers the “smaller” stories. IF YOU FOLLOW THE NEWS CLOSELY: you likely know about the stories in the Main Course section, so you will be best served by scrolling down to The Sides portion.
How to support: If you enjoy my work, please consider becoming a patron. I do this to keep track and will never hide behind a paywall, but these projects take a lot of time and effort to create. Even a couple of dollars a month helps. Since someone asked a few weeks ago (thank you!), here's a PayPal option
How to get notifications: If you’d like to be added to my newsletter, use this SIGNUP FORM and you’ll get these recaps in your inbox!

Let’s dig in!

MAIN COURSE

Trump’s incompetence, authoritarian patterns continue with coronavirus response

In a standalone piece published yesterday, I go over Trump’s response to the coronavirus, how he made the spread inevitable, and the impact of Trump’s authoritarian impulses.

Nadler launches Barr investigation

House Judiciary Committee Chairman Jerrold Nadler sent Attorney General Bill Barr a letter last week requesting a slew of interviews and documents in preparation for Barr’s scheduled testimony at the end of March.
Most notably, Nadler requested interviews with the four career prosecutors who withdrew from Roger Stone’s case after Barr intervened to recommend a lower sentence (which Stone received): Aaron Zelinsky, Adam Jed, Michael Marando, and Jonathan Kravis. John Durham, who is leading Barr’s investigation of the origins of the Russia probe, is also on the list, as is Jessie Liu, who supervised not only Stone’s case, but also the attempted prosecution of Andrew McCabe.

“Although you serve at the president’s pleasure, you are also charged with the impartial administration of our laws. In turn, the House Judiciary Committee is charged with holding you to that responsibility.”

While it is likely that Barr won’t comply with many of these requests, Nadler may issue subpoenas directly to individuals of interest. As Democrats learned during the impeachment hearing, career officials are more likely to be forthright and honest about the Trump administration’s crimes and misdeeds.

Court rulings

McGahn’s testimony

A divided three-judge panel of the D.C. Appeals Court dismissed the House Judiciary Committee’s lawsuit against former White House Counsel Don McGahn, ruling that federal courts have no role to play in disputes between the Executive and Legislative branches. The two judges who ruled in favor of the Trump administration - Thomas Griffith and Karen Henderson - were appointed by George W. Bush and George H.W. Bush, respectively. The pair write that Congress should use other tools to try to compel McGahn’s testimony:

“Congress (or one of its chambers) may hold officers in contempt, withhold appropriations, refuse to confirm the President’s nominees, harness public opinion, delay or derail the President’s legislative agenda, or impeach recalcitrant officers.”

It should be mentioned that the majority does not mention the fact that during the impeachment trial Trump’s lawyers argued that Congress should pursue its subpoenas to executive branch witnesses in court.
Judge Judith Rogers, a Bill Clinton appointee, wrote a lengthy dissent that is worth reading in full (starting on the 58th page of this document)

“The court removes any incentive for the Executive Branch to engage in the negotiation process seeking accommodation, all but assures future Presidential stonewalling of Congress, and further impairs the House’s ability to perform its constitutional duties… Future presidents may direct wide-scale noncompliance with lawful congressional inquiries, secure in the knowledge that Congress can do little to enforce a subpoena dramatically undermining its ability to fulfill its constitutional obligations now and going forward.”

Unfair competition suit

Trump also racked up a win in an “Emoluments-adjacent” lawsuit last week: a three-judge panel of the D.C. Appeals Court united to dismiss a wine bar’s claim that President Trump's D.C. hotel is unfairly undermining the business of other venues in the city. Judge Thomas Griffith, a George W. Bush appointee, and Reagan appointee Judge Stephen Williams joined Judge Merrick Garland in the ruling.

Though it is undisputed that the wine bar has experienced a downturn since Trump took office — his gilded hotel now attracting lobbyists, advocacy groups and diplomats who used to frequent the local business — the appeals court said no evidence suggests that the president or his hotel interfered in Cork’s business.
The lawsuit “boiled down to an assertion that businesses with famous proprietors cannot compete fairly — a proposition alien to unfair-competition law,” Griffith wrote summarizing the 2017 dismissal of the case by U.S. District Judge Richard Leon.

Purge confirmed

As I explained in last Sunday’s post, Trump is seeking to purge any disloyal officials from his administration. Newly-returned staffer John McEntee is leading the search for “Never Trumpers” with the assistance of a network of conservative activists including Ginni Thomas, the wife of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. On Monday, White House spokesman Hogan Gidley confirmed that the White House is identifying employees seen as disloyal to force out of their positions.

“It’s not a secret that we want people in positions that work with this president, not against him, and too often we have people in this government—I mean the federal government is massive, with millions of people—and there are a lot people out there taking action against this president and when we find them we will take appropriate action,” Gidley said.
“Time and time again we see in the media reports from people in the bowels of the federal government working against this president...The president's been pretty clear about the fact he wants people in this administration who want to forward his agenda. Donald Trump was the only one elected. He was the only one that the American people voted for. They didn't vote for someone at any of these other agencies, any of these other departments.” he said.

Unqualified loyalists

One of those purged from the administration, DNI Joseph Maguire, was fired for allowing his top aide to brief Congress on Russia’s intervention in the 2020 election to Trump’s benefit. Last week, Trump said he will nominate Republican Rep. John Ratcliffe to fill the position - again. Trump previously announced his intent to nominate Ratcliffe in July, but withdrew the nomination five days later after members of both parties questioned his qualifications.

Ratcliffe rewind: Following Trump’s announcement last year, “key Republicans in Congress quickly signaled that Ratcliffe lacked the national security expertise that the job requires by law.” Ratcliffe also lied to inflate his resume: “Records and interviews with former colleagues also showed that Ratcliffe had exaggerated his role in terrorism and immigration enforcement cases when he served as a federal prosecutor in Texas. During his campaign and on his congressional website, Ratcliffe had boasted that he ‘arrested 300 illegal immigrants on a single day.’ That turned out not to be true. Former colleagues also said he didn’t play a significant role in a major terrorism case as he has claimed.” (WaPo or non-paywalled)

The current acting-DNI, Ric Grenell, can only serve until March 11 unless a permanent replacement is formally submitted to the Senate for confirmation. The Federal Vacancies Reform Act allows Grenell to remain in position throughout the confirmation process and - should Ratcliffe fail - another 210 days after. If a second person is nominated, the clock “resets” again.

To add onto previous reports of how massively inappropriate Grenell’s appointment is, ProPublica revealed that the new spy chief once got over $100,000 from the Hungarian government, but never reported it. Failing to register as a foreign agent would normally be something the DOJ would jump at prosecuting. Senate Majority leader Chuck Schumer wrote a letter to the Justice Department last week asking the assistant attorney general for national security to "immediately investigate." Grenell also wrote op-eds in 2016 defending Vladimir Plahotniuc, a Moldovan politician, and allegedly failed to disclose payments for his work on behalf of the oligarch.
What is the play here? The White House may believe that Ratcliffe is likely to be confirmed because Grenell is so ill suited for the job that Ratcliffe looks better in comparison. Alternatively, Trump is likely comfortable with Grenell as acting-DNI. Knowing that he would never survive the confirmation process, Trump may be using the generous time limits of the Federal Vacancies Reform Act to circumvent the Senate to keep his unqualified loyalist in the position in an acting capacity.
Rep. Robin Kelly, a member of the Oversight National Security subcommittee, introduced legislation last week that would mandate unconfirmed national security leaders testify before oversight committees every 45 days. “...this Administration has consistently used the ‘acting’ denotation to skirt these rules and limit Congressional oversight of our national security...The American people deserve better. They deserve to know who is responsible for protecting their families and our security. Congress must hold these individuals and any Administration accountable to the highest level of oversight and transparency to protect our national security.”

The effect of Trump’s grip on intel

The NSA, CIA, and Pentagon have been urged by the White House not to share information about Russia and Ukraine with lawmakers, while the “Gang of Eight” senior members of Congress were bypassed leading up to at least one major intelligence operation. And intelligence community leaders have backed out of the public portion of the annual worldwide threats hearing, fearing Trump’s wrath if their assessments don’t align with his.
“We have an enemy of the United States that is conducting information warfare against us and our executive leadership doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want the Congress to hear it, and doesn’t want the people to hear it,” said former acting DNI David Gompert, who said he was “aghast” at the hiring of Grenell. “We now have a situation where the principal objective, evidently, of this acting DNI is to ensure that information about Russian interference and Russian preference for this particular president does not get out.” (Politico)

Ukrainian officials have noticed Trump’s purge and worry that efforts to force out individuals “would in the short term leave a hollowed out U.S. office in Kyiv and space for Russia to ratchet up its aggressive political influence operations.”

“Russia is getting more ambitious. They are already taking an aggressive position. Putin knows what he wants and he does not need to seek approval for his actions inside Russia let alone outside of Russia,” Danylyuk said. “There are not enough people in the administration—in the U.S. administration—to focus on Ukraine and Russia issues. A lot of people left. It will not be easy to find several counterparts.

THE SIDES

March is SCOTUS month

This month, several highly-charged issues will be heard by the Supreme Court, setting up potentially-massive changes to the legal framework of our country.
This week, Trump’s conservative appointees get their first chance to consider new curbs on abortion rights as the court examines the legality of a Louisiana law that could force two of the state’s three clinics that perform the procedure to shut down.

The case, June Medical Services v. Russo, pertains to a law passed in 2014 that requires doctors performing abortions to have admitting privileges to local hospitals. This requirement has proven to be unnecessary for clinics (an abortion rarely results in complications, and if one did, the patient would be admitted to a hospital regardless of the doctor’s privileges). And it’s so difficult to implement that when Texas passed a similar law, it shut down half the state’s clinics. (Buzzfeed News)
While it is overwhelmingly likely that five justices will vote to uphold Louisiana’s law, there is some uncertainty about how they will do so. It is possible that the Court will overrule Roe v. Wade outright. But it is at least as likely that the Court will leave Roe nominally in place while simultaneously watering down the abortion right to such a degree that it loses meaning in red states. The Court often prefers to create the impression that it will not allow the law to swing wildly according to the justices’ whims. (Vox)

Also this week, the court will hear arguments on whether Congress exceeded constitutional boundaries in 2010 when it created the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. The Trump administration believes the independent structure of the CFPB is unconstitutional and wants the president to have more control over the agency. For instance, Trump wants to be able to fire the director at will.

A court ruling on the President's removal power could affect a multitude of independent agencies including the Federal Trade Commission, Federal Energy Regulatory Commission and Federal Reserve Board. For more than a century, Congress has been creating such agencies within the executive branch with directors who can only be removed only "for cause." (CNN)

Finally, on March 31, the high court will hear arguments in three cases involving House Democrats’ and New York state prosecutors’ attempts to obtain years of Trump’s financial records and tax returns.
Last week, Trump called for Supreme Court Justices Sonia Sotomayor and Ruth Bader Ginsburg to recuse themselves from these three cases. Ginsberg criticized Trump’s character during his 2016 campaign, though she later apologized. Trump did not explain his reasoning for calling for Sotomayor’s recusal, other than her authoring of a dissent critical of the conservative justices on the court.

“Perhaps most troublingly, the Court’s recent behavior on stay applications has benefited one litigant over all others. This Court often permits executions — where the risk of irreparable harm is the loss of life — to proceed, justifying many of those decisions on purported failures ‘to raise any potentially meritorious claims in a timely manner,’” she wrote. “Yet the Court’s concerns over quick decisions wither when prodded by the Government in far less compelling circumstances.”
What she really is saying is that the same justices who have no problem allowing condemned prisoners to be killed before legitimate questions about their cases can be resolved have no compunction in rushing to prematurely protect the Trump administration, and the president’s personal interests, from legitimate legal processes. In other words, Sotomayor is calling her conservative colleagues hypocrites who are willing to bend precedent in the pursuit of ideological goals. (Brennan Center)

Ukraine emails

The latest batch of emails released by the Department of Defense in response to a FOIA suit reveals evidence that the administration withheld from Congress during the impeachment inquiry and trial. Senior members of the Trump administration, including Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, Defense Secretary Mark Esper, and then–National Security Adviser John Bolton had all advised President Trump to release the military aid to Ukraine, but the final decision was ultimately up to Trump.

The August 26, 2019, email from a senior career Pentagon official states that there was “no ongoing interagency review process with respect to USAI [Ukraine Security Assistance Initiative],” and states clearly: “Final decision rests with POTUS.”

“Critically, the email appears to contradict the White House budget office’s stated rationale for withholding the aid,” American Oversight states. Administration officials had been instructed to tell Congress that the freeze of aid to Ukraine was necessary to allow for an “interagency process to determine the best use of such funds.” The August 26 email clearly states that no such process was in action.

“Tonight’s document release is a reminder that before they lined up parrot the president’s line on Ukraine aid, senior members of the president’s national security team unanimously disagreed with his decision to withhold aid from Ukraine,” said Austin Evers, executive director of American Oversight.

An earlier email release revealed that Secretary of State Mike Pompeo fully coordinated with Rudy Giuliani on Trump’s pressure campaign on Ukraine and the ouster of U.S. Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch.
“We now know Mike Pompeo and his aides encouraged Rudy Giuliani to deliver his bogus 'dossier' smearing Ambassador Yovanovitch during a week in 2019 when Giuliani's henchmen were stalking the ambassador in Kyiv,” American Oversight executive director Austin Evers told Yahoo News.

The House continues Ukraine probe

The Foreign Affairs Committee is reportedly at odds with pro-Trump candidate Robert Hyde, who claimed to have former Ambassador Yovanovitch under surveillance. Chairman Eliot Engel, who is investigating the alleged surveillance and threats to the Ambassador, said in an email to Hyde last month that he was “dismayed to read yesterday that you have made statements to the media which greatly exaggerate the extent of your cooperation with this investigation."

"As you know, we have expressed repeated concern that the records you previously produced contain significant gaps," the House staffers wrote. They added that it was obvious Hyde hadn't turned everything over because his batch of materials was missing records that Congress already knows about because they were turned over by Parnas, who was on the other end of the texts.

Last week, six members of Congress led by Reps. Denny Heck (WA-10) and Jim Himes (CT-04) sent a letter to World Bank Group President David Malpass requesting information about his August meeting with Zelensky in Ukraine. The lawmakers voiced concerns that the meeting could be seen as a part of Trump’s pressure campaign that resulted in his impeachment.

The lawmakers asked Malpass to disclose when he decided to visit Kyiv, whether he coordinated his trip with non-World Bank officials, the “deliverables” of the meeting, the meeting’s impact on the World Bank’s plans in Ukraine and whether they discussed Hunter Biden, Burisma or Viktor Shokin, the former Ukrainian prosecutor general who was ousted under international pressure from leaders including former Vice President Biden. (The Hill)

Russia, Russia, Russia

Last week:

Trump accused House Intelligence Committee Adam Schiff of leaking information about Russia’s efforts to interfere in the 2020 election, dismissed the intelligence as “exaggerated,” and refused to acknowledge that Moscow was behind similar efforts in 2016. “Schiff leaked it, in my opinion — and he shouldn’t be leaking things like that,” Mr. Trump said without evidence.
House Speaker Nancy Pelosi informed the public that the Trump administration “failed to provide Congress with a report on the ongoing attacks on America’s elections from foreign governments, which was required by the bipartisan FY2020 National Defense Authorization Act.”
It was reported that Senate Intelligence Committee Richard Burr warned Senate Homeland Security Committee Chairman Ron Johnson and Senate Finance Committee Chairman Chuck Grassley that their probe targeting Biden could aid Russian efforts to sow chaos and distrust in the U.S. political system.
The Washington Post reported that “U.S. officials are sitting on test results that may show how the Putin regime twice tried to kill a peaceful opponent whose close ties to the United States, and columns for The Post, are reminiscent of Jamal Khashoggi, the murdered Saudi journalist.”
A Russian court ordered former United States Marine Trevor Reed be detained for another six months on accusations he assaulted police officers in Moscow last year, a charge that his defense team has called “fraudulent.” Meanwhile, former Marine Paul Whelan has been in a Russian jail since 2018 on espionage accusations. Their treatment is a stark contrast from that received by celebrity rapper A$AP Rocky - when detained in Sweden, Trump dispatched his hostage envoy (and current National Security Adviser) to oversee the matter and secure Rocky’s release. No such effort has been made for the two former service members in Moscow.
Hopping the pond to look at Russia’s interference in the U.K.: The wife of former Russian Finance Minister and Putin-ally Vladimir Chernukhin made a £90,000 donation for a game of tennis with Prime Minister Boris Johnson. “The donation comes as Johnson continues to delay publication of a parliamentary report detailing extensive links between his party and donors with links to Russia.”

Alleged Saudi and UAE funding for Trump

Lebanese-American businessman Ahmad "Andy" Khawaja told Spectator Magazine that officials from Abu Dhabi and Saudi Arabia illegally funneled millions of dollars into Trump’s 2016 campaign. As the CEO of an online payment processing company, Khawaja claims that George Nader obtained his assistance to disguise the money using stolen identities and gift cards as under-$200 campaign contributions that are not required to be reported to the Federal Election Commission.

He remembers Nader explaining why they wanted to fund the Trump campaign. According to Khawaja, Nader said: ‘I’ve been meeting with the Trump campaign people…we have a deal with Trump: my boss, His Highness, made a deal that if we help Trump get elected, he’s going to be harsh on Iran, he’s going to take out the nuclear deal that the Obama administration made. That will cripple the Iranian economy and will sanction Iran from selling oil again. It will make it very difficult for them to compete in the oil market. That’s worth a hundred billion dollars to us. That’s the reason we cannot allow Hillary to win at any cost. She must lose.’
Khawaja says he asked: ‘But you really think he’s going to win? I mean, this is crazy.’ And he says that Nader replied: ‘His Highness is not stupid, he will never bet on a losing horse.’ The money would come from the Saudis. The Emiratis would run the operation, using data bought from the Chinese. Khawaja says that Nader told him: ‘We have all the data already, we have 10 million US consumers’ data. And we have endless money.’ The Russians were ‘on board’ too: ‘He said, “Yes, I have met with Putin already and we have a green light from him. Because Putin is on the same page with us. He wants Hillary to lose.”’

Khawaja and Nader were charged with making false statements, obstruction, and allegedly making illegal contributions to Clinton’s campaign on behalf of an unidentified foreign official. While Nader is currently in jail, Khawaja is a fugitive in the Middle East.

Cuccinelli appointment illegal

A D.C.-based federal judge ruled Sunday that President Donald Trump's appointment of Ken Cuccinelli as acting U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services director violated the Federal Vacancies Reform Act, a decision that suspends two policies Cuccinelli implemented while leading the agency. (Politico)
Three weeks after assuming his new role, Cuccinelli issued a memorandum announcing a revised policy for scheduling credible-fear interviews, the first step in the asylum process, according to the court ruling. Under the revised policy, the agency reduced the time allotted for asylum seekers to consult with others prior to their interviews.
Under Cuccinelli, USCIS also prohibited granting asylum seekers extensions of time to prepare for their credible-fear interviews, "except in the most extraordinary of circumstances." The asylum directives must be set aside, Moss ruled. (CNN)

Eric Trump’s taxpayer-funded business trip

Eric Trump visited a Trump property in development in Uruguay from January 8 to 9, 2019, a two-day business trip that cost taxpayers at least $80,786. CREW obtained records through the Freedom of Information Act today that add to the massive bill of Secret Service protection related to the Trump family’s management of the president’s business empire. The 2019 trip brings Eric Trump’s total up to at least $178,616 in taxpayer funds to work on development of the Trump Organization’s Punta Del Este property alone.

Scottish leader calls for Trump investigation

Parliamentarian Patrick Harvie, a co-leader of the Scottish Greens party, implored the government to pursue a legal order forcing Trump and the Trump Organization to reveal the funding of its multi-million dollar Scottish land acquisitions, saying there were “reasonable grounds” to suspect the U.S. president has been involved in illegal activity.

Mr Harvie said that the House of Representatives had heard testimony which stated: "We saw patterns of buying and selling that we thought were suggestive of money laundering" - with particular concern expressed about Mr Trump's golf courses in Scotland and Ireland.
He added: "Trump's known sources of income don't explain where the money came from for these huge cash transactions. There are reasonable grounds for suspecting that his lawfully obtained income was insufficient.”

"Scottish ministers can apply via the Court of Session for an unexplained wealth order, a tool designed for precisely these kinds of situations." The orders can be issued by the courts to compel their target to reveal the source of funding, and are often used to tackle suspected international money laundering.

Roger Stone

District Court Judge Amy Berman Jackson denied Stone’s request that she disqualify herself from his case for supposed “bias,” issuing a sharply-worded rebuke of the defense’s allegations: "At bottom, given the absence of any factual or legal support for the motion for disqualification, the pleading appears to be nothing more than an attempt to use the Court’s docket to disseminate a statement for public consumption that has the words 'judge' and 'biased' in it," Jackson wrote. “Judges cannot be ‘biased’ and need not be disqualified if the views they express are based on what they learned while doing the job they were appointed to do.”
Footage of Roger Stone’s interviews with prosecutors last month has been released… and the only word that can sum it up is “wow.” The entire archive can be found here, but if you are short on time Politico’s Andrew Kimmel made a supercut of the must-see moments that illustrate Stone’s true character: a narcissist who can barely control his anger at being questioned.

Stefanik broke fundraising rules

A constituent of Republican Rep. Elise Stefanik (NY-21) filed an official complaint against her with the Office of Congressional Ethics for using footage of House floor activities to raise funds for her campaign - an express violation of House rules. Stefanik has used clips of her questioning during the impeachment inquiry in fundraising emails, including one with the subject line, that read, “WATCH: I EXPOSED ADAM SCHIFF.”

In a letter sent on June 7, 2018, the House Ethics Committee reminded legislators that “rules specifically prohibit the use of footage of House Floor activities and committee proceedings for any partisan political purpose.”
“I think Rep. Stefanik’s use of video of the House hearing to solicit political contributions is a serious violation of that rule,” says Larry Noble, the former general counsel of the Federal Election Commission. “The rule is clear, and so is the guidance given by the House Ethics Committee.”
Donald K. Sherman, general counsel of the ethics watchdog Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington — a group that routinely opposes the Trump administration — agrees with that assessment. “House Ethics Committee guidance clearly prohibits Members from using video of committee proceedings for campaign purposes,” said Sherman, who was previously a high-ranking Senate attorney, “which Rep. Stefanik appears to have done nine times in the last six months.

Nunes’ lawsuits

Campaign Legal Center, a nonprofit government accountability watchdog, filed a complaint with the Office of Congressional Ethics asking for an investigation into how Rep. Devin Nunes is paying for his six separate lawsuits against media companies and critics.

The complaint says Nunes appears to be in “blatant violation of House rules,” because he would have trouble paying for all these lawsuits solely from his congressional salary of $174,000 per year. The group argues he’d only be able to pay if he received legal services for free, at a discounted rate, or based on a contingency fee, meaning the lawyer would get compensated from Nunes’ winnings if he prevails in his lawsuits.
In all of those cases, the complaint says, Nunes must disclose the legal help he is receiving by filing a legal expense fund, otherwise it would represent an illegal gift given to Nunes under congressional ethics rules. Nunes has not filed a legal expense fund with the Office of Congressional Ethics.

Immigration news

Washington Post: A federal appeals court in California halted the Trump administration’s “Remain in Mexico” asylum policy on Friday, removing one of the key tools the president has used to curb mass migration across the southern U.S. border. The ruling was in effect for only a few hours, however, as the judges later granted a Trump administration request for an emergency stay “pending further order of this court.” Justice Department lawyers said in court filings that 25,000 migrants have been waiting in Mexico and argued that they feared the ruling would lead to an influx on the southern border.
New York Times: The Justice Department said Wednesday that it had created an official section in its immigration office to strip citizenship rights from naturalized immigrants, a move that gives more heft to the Trump administration’s broad efforts to remove from the country immigrants who have committed crimes… Some Justice Department immigration lawyers have expressed worries that denaturalizations could be broadly used to strip citizenship.
- The Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights: "We reject any denaturalization task force that destroys citizenship as we know it and keeps every naturalized immigrant living in fear. Trump is weaponizing the DOJ to make naturalized immigrants look like second-class citizens."
Jurist: The US Supreme Court issued a 5-4 decision in Hernandez v. Mesa on Tuesday, holding that the parents of a Mexican child who was shot and killed by a border official have no right to seek a remedy in American civil court. The child, Jesus Hernandez, had been playing with friends in a dry culvert that straddles the US-Mexico border between El Paso, Texas and Ciudad Juarez. Border Patrol agent Jesus Mesa fired at Hernandez from the US side of the culvert, and the bullet struck the boy on the Mexican side, where he died.
CNN: Secretary of Defense Mark Esper faced a bipartisan grilling from lawmakers Wednesday on Capitol Hill for his decision to divert military funding to pay for the US border wall as he testifies before the House Armed Services Committee… The top Republican on the committee, Rep. Mac Thornberry, also slammed the move saying it is "substituting the judgment of the administration for the judgment of Congress," adding "I am deeply concerned about where we're headed with the constitutional issue."
ACLU: The American Civil Liberties Union today filed a new lawsuit challenging the Trump administration’s transfer of an additional $3.8 billion in military funds for border wall construction. Congress did not authorize the funds. “The president is doubling down on his unlawful scheme to raid taxpayer funds for a xenophobic campaign promise that is destroying national treasures, harming the environment, and desecrating tribal lands.”
Associated Press: President Donald Trump may not divert $89 million intended for a military construction project in Washington state to build his border wall… “Congress repeatedly and deliberately declined to appropriate the full funds the President requested for a border wall along the southern border of the United States,” [Judge] Rothstein wrote.
Today, Monday March 2, the Supreme Court will hear arguments in a case involving the Trump administration’s “expedited removal” of asylum seekers without allowing them a chance to take their application before a federal judge. For a detailed discussion of the case, see the ACLU and Lawfare.
Mother Jones: Melania Trump Got an “Einstein Visa.” Why Was It So Hard for This Nobel Prize Winner? Immigration attorneys say the Trump administration is rejecting highly qualified applicants for “genius” green cards.

The Ratchet system by George Elliott is a horse racing betting system. With this system, George claims you can make returns of 18-25% profit per week on your investment quickly and easily and without having to use any complicated software. You can see straight away that the simple flat stakes (without ratcheting) also produces profits, but the curve is much flatter – here, the betting bank only increases from 4,000 units to 13,909 units. Flat staking lacks the exponential element of a ratcheting system to grow a bank, but on the other hand, it is much easier on the nerves as I will show you later in this article. Please note that these above settings are for 1-by-1 betting, i.e. the next stake is calculated based on the current betting bank balance after the previous bet has been settled. If you are betting on multiple matches at the same time (Simultaneous Betting), then the settings need to be reduced and a Daily Percentage used, i.e. a percentage of the betting bank at the start of the day. Laying by Ratchet Staking Plan. Description. The idea for this staking plan is to increase your lay stake or liability every time your bank balance increases. When set to stake amount (amount to win minus commission), your liability is unknown until the bet is placed, and can put a lot of pressure on your bank balance. The downfall of Feynman’s ratchet. The problem with Feynman’s ratchet, as you’ve probably figured out by now, is that there is no such thing as a perfect ratchet mechanism. What I drew above was a spring-loaded lever that is supposed to prevent the gear from rotating backward.

Football Betting Systems That Work - 90% Win - YouTube

http://www.geegeez.co.uk Create Killer Horse Racing Betting Systems. This 75 minute video shows you how to research and create your own horse racing systems,... http://laybettingsystems4u.com Producing a consistent income from successful football betting systems that work in the real world may become a reality if you... Matched Betting Systems are here to make you money and we deem Casino and online Bingo offers too risky. Our extensive training includes, Matched Betting Walkthroughs, Step by Step guides, Each ... We look at just how you could predict a draw result in a football/soccer match. Predicting a draw is one of the hardest things to do when betting on football... My vintage Kamasa 3/8" Ratchet was seizing up and needed some lubrication. Heres how to take apart a circlip retained round head ratchet for repair Subscribe...

Feynman’s Ratchet and the perpetual motion gambling scheme ...

Former investment bank FX trader: Risk management part II

Letting stops breathe

Reasons to change a stop

Entering and exiting winning positions

Entering positions with limit orders

Risk:reward and win ratios

Risk-adjusted returns

Sharpe ratio

VAR

Coming up in part III

Remaining DLC Predictions

Need help with layering system

So, Comrade, You Caught Your First Charge(s)