Pictures of penus

Pictures of dogs!

2009.08.27 22:50 Pictures of dogs!

Pictures of dogs!

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2012.03.02 04:14 zanycaswell a place for pictures and videos of nature

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2015.04.17 16:49 digestif Pictures of cats faceplanting

Pictures of cats smushing their faces against stuff.

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2023.10.20 19:43 JediSayThat Syndergaard Bobblehead

Im looking for a clip from a couple years ago. As I write this I’m going over different methods of getting the snippet I’m talking about, BUT:
I’m not sure who remembers the first Syndergaard Thor bobblehead giveaway with his hammer just behind him. A couple days before that giveaway, there was the Mets social media blunder posting picture a phallic object behind a player during a post game interview, only to then repost with an obvious crop job. The phallic object and the handle of Thors hammer looked spot on identical. More importantly, the handle looked like a dick either way. Keith, being timeless Keith, kept laughing and referring to the handle. There’s one segment where they’re showing the bobbleheads off and I can hear clear as day, Keith: “SHOW THE HANDLE, SHOW THE HANDLE!!” As the booth erupts in laughter.
That’s the kinda laughter I think we could all use right now, I know I could.
Stay Amazin’
PS. You look at that bobblehead and tell me it’s not a penus.

submitted by JediSayThat to mets [link] [comments]

2020.02.21 22:25 Skolloc753 A Gathering of ... Cross-sections & Cutaways

Thanks to a certain new artwork I took the opportunity and gathered some of the more well known cross-section and cut-away drawings for WH40k. I do not know all the authors and if someone can link me with their webpages, artstations etc I will gladly update it. And of course new artwork will be added as well.

Links to artists:

Regardless who the artists are: a big thank you for doing the Emperors work. It is by your dedication that the Imperium of Fans endures!
Ave Omnissiah

Armor

The new and most beautiful Tactical Dreadnaughty Armor aka Terminator Armor in its full glory
A Terminator Armor
Studies on a Cataphractii Armor
How a normal human with an inquisitorial mind puts on a Terminator suit
The Astartes, the Angel of Death, the final gift of the Master of Mankind
Astartes Power Armor Mk8 Helmet
A very old picture of an Astartes Power Armor with a Beak Helmet. First Edition (updated)
Several drawings/cuts of Astartes Power Armor.
A cut through the Mk7 Astartes Power Armor.
Astartes Armor being grafted to their carrier.
Astartes Armor being grafted onto Marneus Calgar.
Astartes inside their Power Armor.
Studies on a Saturnine Terminator
Layers of Power Armor
A slightly used Dark Angels Mk7 Armor cut
A cut through the new Mk10 Primaris armour of the Blood Angels, the Space Wolves and the White Scars

The Organs of the Astartes

Xeno Dissection

Land

I think that this should be a first edition Dreadnaughty
A more modern Dreadnaughty. Not quite sure, the length seems to be strange.
The inside of a Dreadnaughty
A Centaur APC to transport happy tourists from the paradise world of Krieg to the next sightseeing
The cockpit of a Sentinal Walker of the Imperial Guard
Commissar Cains most beloved vehicles ~~to flee~~ to bravely engage the enemies of mankind: the Salamander Scout Vehicle, for he is a true Hero of the Imperium!
The Chimera IFV
The Chimera IFV, a different perspective by John R. Child
An Astartes Rhino, Damocles Pattern
The Landraider Phobos Pattern, one of the few official drawings AFAIK.
The BAAAAAAANEEEEEEEEBLADE!
The Orcish Stompa.

Predator

An Astartes Pretador Annihilator .
An Astartes Pretador Standard Pattern.
A very old but beautiful cut of the Astartes Predator one of the few official drawings, I think.

Leman Russ

Air

A Valkyre Voss Pattern VTOL
A Marauder Heavy Bomber of the Aeronautica Imperialis.

Space

A Thunderhawk.
A rather old cutaway of an Imperial Void Cathedral, type unknown. Sword-class perhaps?
Lunar Cruiser
Dauntless Light Cruiser

Systems

When you feel the need to throw building-sized shells at other space cathedrals, you need a Macro Cannon.
The inner working of the weapon created by the Master of Mankind himself, the Stormbolter.
How schrooms can fly: the orcish fighta-boomber.

Structures

The Fang, Fortress Monastry of the Space Wolves Astartes.
Necromunda, a Hive City.
The Palantine, another Hive City.
Hive Primus, another Hive City.

SYL

submitted by Skolloc753 to 40kLore [link] [comments]

2019.07.17 20:39 poktanju Various ways Kawhi's laugh has been spelled

This list is not intended to be comprehensive.

BONUS! Serge Ibaka's pronunciation of "beef penis":

submitted by poktanju to nba [link] [comments]

2017.08.04 06:06 Arkimos Got sent a dick pic from a stranger..

I received a picture of a mans penus from a random number, I googled the number and found the person responsible and all his information including his name,and address. He lives in another state - is it possible to take any legal action or file a report ?

submitted by Arkimos to police [link] [comments]

2017.04.17 17:29 Cynical_Assault [How the Hell] Could You Prevent the Next K-T Extinction-level Asteroid (with a twist)?

NASA brings you in to discuss preventing an asteroid from impacting Earth assumed to arrive in six month's time. It's the same size as the one that caused the K-T extinction (6.2 miles wide). It is estimated that it will make landfall in the central US around Colorado.
You wonder why they contacted you until you're brought in for the briefing; it's revealed that everyone on Earth except you is suddenly and permanently shitfaced. Some of NASA's greatest minds had recently died while thinking it was a good idea to race each other in T-38 Talons, while most of the remaining ones are lounging and partying in the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory. You find a blown-up chart of the solar system where the names of each planet have been changed: the Sun is now "Hot Dot", Mercury is now "Steve", Venus is now "Penus", Earth is now "Splash Planet", Mars is now "Brendan Fraser" (with a circle cut-out of his face over the planet), Jupiter is now "Titty Titan", Saturn is now "Cock Ring", Uranus is now "Your Anus", Neptune is now "Mah Boy Blue", and Pluto is now "Bitch Planet". You wonder what the thought process was when they chose those names. You find several scientists and astronauts-in-training in the Mission Control Center giggling and trying to plot an unrelated mission with a dick-shaped rocket to Your Anus, titled "Operation Black Hole".
It is decided that they will make ninety-nine clones of you to assist in the mission since you need more rational minds. You and your clones will have full run of the Johnson Space Center and can devise any plan you can think of except nuking the asteroid, because no one knows where the nukes are. Unfortunately, the scientists drew dicks all over most of their books (though you found a few related to astrophysics that were untouched), and the internet has been completely reduced to pictures of cats and porn. Aside from the few books you did manage to find, you'll mostly rely on your current knowledge of physics, aeronautics, and gravity. Asking any of the scientist for help will result in them either vomiting, passing out, or crying hysterically. If you force them to write out notes that may help you, they just end up drawing pizzas and then asking you if you can order them one. A female scientist is always following the original you and making several sexual advances. She will be constantly making lewd remarks ("I wanna ride yer cocket aahhahaaaHAHAHAA") and trying to shove her hand down your pants or twerk on you while you conduct the mission. You're not allowed to stop or harm her, though you get the feeling that she likes being smacked around.
Use whatever ridiculous method you can think of. It doesn't have to be scientifically accurate, it just has to sound somewhat believable if even on toonforce levels. (For example, you discover that Coca-Cola and a Mentos create efficient rocket fuel when placed under pressure.)
Can you save humanity?
EDIT: Tweaked some of the rules.

submitted by Cynical_Assault to whowouldwin [link] [comments]

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submitted by Zyalixbuy to MensHealthActivism [link] [comments]

2016.09.13 10:40 modsaredeleting /r/India mods censor a post of a girl, who got doxxed in their Telegram group.

While checking /India yesterday, I came across a post via /ceddit.com which was removed under the Meta rules.

Meta-discussions: Posts that discuss /India (or any other subreddit), its users or its moderation are not allowed. If you have feedback/suggestions/criticism regarding /India, please send them via the modmail.

The irony is the subreddit mods who would circlejerk for Internet freedom and privacy and who were on the forefront of the Net Neutrality battle, went ahead and removed a post which was highlighting problem in their Telegram group.
I did visit the Telegram group earlier this morning and it is all bakchodi on the group. A mod there goes by the handle as MrChinki. Another one goes by the name kalicharan_best_penus. You can think what the group would be all about.
I had to pm the girl for the text of post, which she messaged me today. Here it is:

Hey /India,
So yesterday I did join the /India's Telegram group.
I am a pretty introverted person, so I thought it was a good idea to join the group to know some people who share similar interests like me from /India.
As suggested in the announcement thread, I did read the FAQs and setup my profile accordingly.

Q: If someone finds me by username, messages and I reply — will they know my number?
No. Neither party will see another‘s phone number. This is similar to the case when you message a person who you’ve met in a Telegram group.
There is one exception to this: just as in the case of all Telegram messages, if you have somebody‘s number saved as a contact and you send them a message, your number also becomes visible to them. Just like with SMS. This happens regardless of how you open the conversation with that person — via the contacts menu, global search by username, telegram.me link, or from a group’s members page.

As mentioned above if somebody did have my number, they could know my user id and stalk me around.
I didn't realize that earlier, until a guy from my college group started sending me lewd messages and some NSFW pictures. The guy is also a redditor.
Few hours later I had to block him and I also made sure to shame him in the college group. Later I did delete my Telegram account.
I don't blame anyone here but I believe /India mods should had taken care to explain everyone the issues it may have while joining this group.
Also to be honest, the group is not really worth joining. Its nothing but some /India mods circlejerking with some edgy teenagers and using 4chan style language.
Also there is casteist and racist drivel being spouted in the room, which is mostly bakchodi. Honestly its not worth your time amongst such people.
Thanks and I hope this would be useful for other randians.

Now looking back at the text the girl had posted, I am sure the /India mods didn't want their group to be closed because a zero-day account claimed she was doxxed. For them it appears, having one more avenue where they can keep their own name is more important than privacy of their own users.
This is not surprising how /India mods have been going these days. They pushed Carrot chat room, where it was found to be having serious privacy issues.
Later they started with Breaker chat room.
The ongoing joke is, soon they will start Discord chat room too.

submitted by modsaredeleting to indiadiscussion [link] [comments]

2016.09.09 05:55 StarvingAfricanKid Delta Green Fiction #4: “Aaannd, I’m out.” AKA “The Cellar”

Aaannd, I’m out.
I rarely get the chance to actually follow through with my desire to just fucking walk away from a pile of corpses and Weird Alien Shit.
Let me tell you about one of the first times I got the chance to walk fucking away.
I was having dinner with the Martell’s when my cell phone buzzed the pattern of buzzes and pauses that meant “Delta Green, Emergency”.
I explained it was my cell phone and the special ring that I gave to my sister-in-law for whenever one of her retard sons, excuse me, developmentally disabled spawn, I mean children had run astray of the law again, and might need my help.
Mrs. nodded her head and told me to answer it, family is important. Mr. just nodded.
I’m now 100% sure they know I am lying.
More to the point they accept the lies and seem to assume I am some sort of Law Enforcement Officer, and that’s fine for me. There is simply no way in hell I am telling them the truth.
So I fled to the bathroom and answered the call.
It was Ike. His team of DEA agents had hit apron something Bad. Specifically he was pretty sure it was Weird Alien Crap™.
One agent down. He was calling me for back up because I had more experience with the Very Fucking Weird than most, and that if I got eaten there would be less paperwork than if another DEA agent got eaten.
And I had grenades. I nearly dropped the phone.
HE WANTED ME TO BRING A FEW GRENADES! Hi-Ex, Frag and W.P… Thank Patton! I was gonna get a chance to test out some of my home brew chemistry for real!
It seemed in appropriate to start hootin’ and hollerin’ when it was already clear that at least 1 DEA agent was probably dead.
There is a line, that’s more or less the line. Everything is fun and games until one of ours dies.
He gave me an address a few towns over that I made not of so I could GPS it later. He told me to take my car, my Big Bag and my fake DEA ID and costume. (This means a blazer with DEA on the back, and a bullet resistant vest, level 3, with DEA on the front.)
One of the other agents on scene was calling to local PD to cordon off the area, and maybe get an ambulance in there.
He explained using our clever code words that this was already a clusterfuck, and that the Media was on the way.
Just in case you missed it on the way by, we REALLY HATE cluster fucks AND when the Media gets wind of things going pear shaped.
I explained I would be there in about 45 minutes to an hour, sorry, that’s the best I can do. He said to do my best and when I got to the police cordon to call him for a SitRep.
When I came out the Martell’s were loudly discussing their lack of sex life and how it’s his fault for having a pecker that gave up twenty years ago, apparently in his words because she gave up looking like something his pecker would give a damn about twenty one years ago…
It was a joke between them. Whenever something stressful was going on in their lives they would segway from “the taxes are overdue” into “Well, if your pecker was worth its weight in beans…” until they were both laughing too hard to continue.
I gotta admit, I was jealous. BUT! Blowing shit up, awaited!
I made my excuses and ran across the yards to my house. Spook was excited because I was excited and very sad when I explained she didn’t get to come this time. I made a mental not to go to the dog park with her ASAP so she could have some fun.
Less than 10 minutes later I was in my Japanese, maybe Korean, Suburban-box mobile with a suitcase full of death in the trunk.
I had my Delta Green gifted blue light on the dashboard, my DG ‘police ban radio’ squawking away and I was off!
The car looked like an undercover police car. Now, you might expect undercover police cars to be Queen Vics, but not all of them. For a while the local PD was actually using Taurus’s, god help us.
Word from on high, or at least Ike, was that because the DEA often went deep undercover, they had a wide variety of vehicles. Mine was on the approved list. So as long as I didn’t try pulling over a state trooper, and tried to pretend to drive sane most of the time I should have minimal problems.
GPS, Highway, Driving. You get it. Onto surface streets, navigate between identical rows of split level ranch with 2.5 children and a 30 year mortgage.
And to a cop with his car blocking most of the street and rollers. I stopped a block away and called Ike.
“Sit Rep?” “FUBAR. SWAT showed up. We have what we suspect is a lab behind a fake wall in the basement. Tossed in a Flash Bang, went in. Screamed. Didn’t come out. Hasn’t reported.”
That boys and girls is what you call FUBAR. “So, what exactly would you like me to do?”
“Burn the building down.”
… … …
I actually looked at my phone like I expected it to turn into a butterfly. When cops ask unlicensed vigilantes to commit arson in front of dozens of other cops, and maybe some TV cameras; things haven’t just gone off the rails, they’ve left the rails, blown up the tracks, hitched hiked to Vegas and started turning tricks to support their heroin habit.
“What? Say again, we have a bad connection.”
“I’m thinking an accidental fire caused by a flash bang knocked over some chemicals in the lab. Building burns. 2 cop’s wives get flowers, but I am not letting anyone else into the cellar for now.”
Now I was looking at the roof of the car. I was actually, honestly slapping myself in the forehead.
“Can’t you… don’t you…? I mean… Really?” Ok, it was not the most coherent thing I have ever said NOR was it within our clever collection of special code words for things.
We had to make up a special code word for “Dude, have you become unglued? What the FUCK?”
Honestly it is possible that in the server of files that DG has encrypted somewhere, where we have all our files and code words and all that jazz they DO have official code words, maybe “Echo echo Charlie Mike” or maybe “The fish need deep frying, And Auntie has eaten the dog” or some such as code for “Dude, have you become unglued? What the FUCK?”
We don’t leave people behind. Ok, that’s a Marine thing to say, and I’m not one of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. I’m a fucking ground pounding dirt hugging Soldier. Army Strong. Army strong like ox! Army smart like Ox!”
Fuck.
“Ok, what do I tell the parameter guys to convince them to let me in other than; 'I’m here to burn houses down and chew bubble gum?'”
Flash forward a few minutes of nothing very important and I am standing in the back of a very nicely appointed SWAT Truck. They don’t call it SWAT in this town, it’s ERU. Emergency response team. Whatever that is supposed to mean. Apparently they handle cats in tees, drug busts, and of course; inter-dimensional aliens eating DEA agents.
And handle it really poorly if I am to judge. But, I digress.
Ike has cleverly kicked everyone else out of the truck and closed the doors.
We moved from “split level” to “McMansion” at some point in the previous block. This house is only slightly larger in foot print than the split levels 60 feet away, but has pillars out front.
It’s actually really ugly. And that’s not why I’m here. Unless it IS. Maybe the ugly house is because the ownedesigner is insane!
Maybe I am actually here as an Emergency Suburban Beautifcation Team; here to reduce this monstrosity to a pile of cooling ashes in the name of good taste and higher home values.
“So things got more complex” starts Ike.
I’m not sure what comes after FUBAR. But ‘at least One dead DEA agent, and one dead local cop/swat/ERU-team missing, and Faux News outside pretty much qualifies as FUBAR to me. And apparently we aren’t done yet.
Nope. Not paid enough. I’m going home to play with my dog.
“They aren’t dead.”
See…. Normally that’s good news.
We want to hear our brave first responders are alive and stuff. I have a nasty suspicion that the definition of “aren’t dead” really should include the word “Yet” in it, but I am letting Ike talk.
“One of them has keyed his mike and started talking. Err. Rambling. And… I had to get everyone to change radio channels because some other officers started rambling and one started puking. When they heard whatever he said."
Slow blink. I stare over his shoulder at some empty click/rack thing that looks like it should have a gun in it.
I quickly think about Spook chasing a ball. I think about punching Ike and driving away. I think about lobbing a thermite charge in the front door, and then pouring several 5 gallon jugs of gasoline in the windows.
I sigh. None of these things, all of which are clearly the right thing to do, are going to happen. I swear on Patton’s 4 stars that one fucking day I am going to get the chance and do the right thing and just blow something to pieces.
The Church doesn’t count: I didn’t do it. I didn’t even fucking SEE it. I' m not jealous. I'm bitter.
“So do you have a plan?”
“Yes, you go in with earplugs, so the babbling shit doesn’t get to you, you drag out what’s left of the SWAT or ERT or what the fuckever TLA guy out, and my agent if he is still identifiable, and then…. “
I’m not impressed with this plan.
“And what are YOU going to be doing, pray tell?”
Sarcasm, I can haz it.
“I’m going to be keeping the local chief of police from calling in the National Guard, the rest of my agents from calling the FBI HRT, and otherwise minimizing the blast zone.”
Fuck.
“Hey, wait, you said that when one of the vics started babbling on the radio, one cop started puking?”
“Yup, one other also started babbling. The rest of us shut off the radios because it either gave you an immediate headache or just made you uncomfortable.”
An idea blossomed in my head. I had… A Plan.
“Right, Ike, Tell everyone that the initial assault resulted in a spill of noxious, hallucinogenic chemicals from the guys lab. Puking, babbling, headaches, hallucinations are all results. Need a quarantine zone of like 4 blocks. Report any symptoms and go to the ER.”
This, I assumed, would get me a large area without camera, cops, civilians etc. And allow me to; for example, blow the building to slivers at my leisure without witnesses.
Or at the very least, not result in pictures of me, pouring gasoline into the basement windows making it onto the evening news. People get REALLY intense about that sort of visual.
Ike liked it.
He ran off and started shouting.
I sat and held my head in my hands, knowing that somehow I would manage to make things stupider.
On the good side, better part of an hour later, the civilians for blocks around were evacuated; the media was pushed back, including helicopters!
This left me and Ike not too far away, and me going in.
…
So I’m now in a bright yellow level 4 hazmat suit, with a scuba tank on my back, ear plugs in, a flak jacket on, a radio muttering in my ear because I’m wearing fucking ear protection, and a shotgun filled with explosive hollow point slugs in my hands.
I have rope around my waist so I can hypothetically be pulled out.
Up the stairs, around a few corners. With a fucking scuba tank on my back. Yeah, that’s gonna work.
The lights are on all over as I make my way through the house. Ike was part of the initial team, and briefed me on what I should see. Missing-in-action homeowner is a dot-com millionaire who was known to be 'eccentric'. Started flying all over the world collecting oddities.
Apparently this was one of his houses where he stored his collections of 'weird shit'.
I was pretty much expecting Weird Alien Shit at some point, because, let’s be honest… I’m going to run into Weird Alien Shit.
Ike and I have agreed the radio call and weird babbling fall into the category of “Alien Mind Control crap”.
No, that’s not what the After Action report will say, but its short hand.
On the plus side, almost everyone has cleared out and gotten the fuck away.
On the minus side the local SWAT/Three Letter Acronym for ‘Bigger Guns’ actually had Biological Gear and so here I am.
Ok, so. Enter the house, huge dramatic wooden pillars outside, like a 40 foot ceiling with a chandelier and an actually kinda nicely done staircase. Open doors lead to a dining room, Living room, and kitchen. Cellar door is in kitchen.
Cellar door is open smoke is billowing out, into the kitchen and dissipating though out the house and out windows and doors.
The light down stairs is out.
That, is what we call in the bizz; “A bad sign”. See, when Ike went in, they had flashlights and turned on all the lights anyway as they went.
And now the light was out. I only stood there looking down the unlit stairs for one breath.
Then I started swearing. Then, I had a clever. I opened drawers until I found a yellow EVERREADY flashlight.
Thinking for another second I had another Clever.
And found some tape. And taped the flashlight to my arm. NOT mind you, to my shotgun.
See, if my gun gets taken away, then I have a convenient view of whatever the gun is pointed at. The wall maybe. IF on the other hand my light is attached to my Right Arm; I can still SEE. Hopefully. Hopefully this actually was a Clever, and not a well disguised Really Dumb. Time would tell.
So with luck, I would be able to see, even if I can’t HEAR.
Which reminds me to tell the murmuring radio that: 1) I am in the kitchen, 2) the cellar lights are off, 3) I am equipping myself with a flashlight, 4) no I don’t want to come back out again and 5) no I don’t want back up.
Sigh.
RIGHT! Down the stairs.
Pluses: light streaming in from just barely above ground windows.
Minuses: shelves full of food and other crap blocking lines of site. I have no peripheral vision. All I can hear is my own breathing and the crackle of this stupid plastic suit I am wearing. I have a full length, police issue, 12 gauge magnum 8 shout semi-automatic shot gun in my arms that does not have a folding stock nor a pistol grip. And mist. Smoke? Who cares; grey clouds from 'Ceiling' to 'like 18 inches down' from the ceiling. And the light bulbs are out. There is NO WAY the fact that there is this smoke, and the lights are out are going to become a problem in my life anytime soon.
So I am trying to swing nearly 3 feet of black cop-penus extension in my hands, balanced nicely with around 60 pound of breathing equipment, another few pounds of plastic bio-shield and the happy making level IIIa bullet resistant vest I am wearing.
Ike sketched out an approximate map of the basement and the door to the secret room.
I have to walk down the stairs, turn left move 3 feet. Turn left, move 18 feet, turn left (loving it yet?) and move forward 10 feet. There SHOULD be a door in the wall with… who knows.
A swat team guy muttering the secrets of the universe sitting on the floor, just inside a doorway cut into concrete, while… let’s see, what would be nice. I know! Several Victoria’s Secret Catalogue babes are waving cold beer and diamonds at me.
That’d be nice.
Of course; if that’s what I saw; I would open fire toss a high-explosive grenade and stumble backwards towards the stair while swearing my head off.
No, I don’t have a problem with queers, nor do I have a problem with scantily clad women. In fact, I am kinda in favor of them.
BUT.
If I saw scantily clad women down here; I would be pretty damned certain that … well. I am just going to say, again, “that things went off the rails” mostly because I have lost the ability to come up with new metaphors for “Got weirder” at this point.
I get to the point that, in a slightly less ridiculous world I would be taking out the dentist’s mirror I have gotten in the habit of carrying and using it to look around the corner.
Since to get to my mirror would either involve 19 minutes of struggling with plastic and straps and the like, OR much fewer minutes with a knife that I have… on my belt.. Inside this fucking haz-mat suit.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Ok. SO! Onward and upward!
I swing around the corner!
Now, for a flash back.
A few hours ago Ike and crew busted in the front and back doors and searched the place. Imagine all the yelling of “FEDERAL AGENTS! GET DOWN!” and “CLEAR!” and all that dramatic cop stuff.
The find the upper floors have the more or less expected tasteless expensive furniture et al.
No signs of Mr. ‘Twit-Space” or what the funk ever game this guy came up with.
The THEORY was that he was producing MDMA for himself and friends at this location. They had overflown his property a few nights earlier, and what do you know? They saw on infra-red a large glowing rectangle in this back yard.
The sort of thing you get when someone has without proper permitting dug out an extra cellar to grow weed, manufacture LSD, etc. in.
It’s more common than you might think.
So, Ike and his friends had been watching the place, seemed that the only person home was the scrawny, unshaven late twenty-something year old who owned the place.
So it was time to strike!
Moving forward a small bit in time; they go down stairs. And find the washer and dryer, food, other misc. life supplies.
Andy, the guy who was in front at this stage saw the open doorway, seems a bookshelf filled with paperbacks swung into the room. It was supposed to be sort of a geeks – Man Cave. Table with books and dice and little plastic dolls. A kegerator, flat screen TV all that.
And to one side, a wall of book shelves. And one of them swung out, into the room that was an entry to the hidden room.
The Shelf was open, and Andy, in front, yelled “DEA! Get Down!”
Everyone behind him squatted down, Ike was third in line and saw very little as he was more or less back between the toilet paper and the extra taco sauce when things blew up.
“Flash Out” came the cry and Ike blocked his ears and closed his eyes.
!BANG! (Flash!) And Hank, in front of Ike moved forward.
Ike said all he saw there were shit loads of white smoke pouring out of the doorway when Hank entered. Andy was invisible in the smoke.
Hank was stepping on broken glass.
A Loud inhuman SCREECH followed by a shot gun blast. Shouts in nasty acrid smoke.
And then voices apparently SCREAMING incoherently. SO in coherently that Ike nearly fell over.
WAT?
Right. Hands over his ears, squatting down, holding a pistol in one hand and blocking his right ear with the ball of his thumb, sneezing and chocking on gas, Ike backed up.
Can you feel the WTF look I was shooting him while he was telling me this in the back of the Cop truck, excuse me Eee-Roo; E.R.U. truck.
So, it seems Hank too had the bright idea of backing up while hacking up a lung and trying to block his ears.
Hank and Ike and Tony got the fuck out of the cellar, and fled the building. Tony called the local PD for backup Ike called me.
THEN: The Local E-ROO team.
The local SWAT fucking team wearing gas masks went in. The fire marshal had decided that since the place hadn’t exploded in flames in the intervening minutes from initial smoke until their arrival, it wasn’t going to.
~~SWAT~~ERU team goes down stairs. Reports lights on. Bare Bulbs every 10 feet or so. Smoke at the ceiling, some mist at their feet.
A quick aside. (inside an Aside, bet ya didn't think I had the balls to do this!)
“Looking at the mist pooling at their pants, the E.R.U. team chose this moment to exercise un police like wisdom, withdrew, poured gasoline into the cellar windows, tossed in a road flair and wrote it all off as a bad job. The End.”
Sigh.
Nope. Being cops they continued in. You know what? I don’t even care what this guy’s names were.
First Cop, in the lead, cleverly enough, gets to the corner. Reports seeing by flash light:
1) An unlit room, maybe 30 feet deep, 10 feet wide, 9 feet tall. Work bench with shelves above on one wall.
2) Fish tanks on shelves above work bench, one broken.
3) Two men down. Blood on neck and scalp of victim one. Second Vic is sitting in chair at far end of room, head at a bad angle; probable broken neck.
4) Lots of smoke in room, maybe a small fire as it is still pouring out.
And then… reporting gets garbled.
The second officer reports at that point that something came flying at them. Out of the smoke filled room came. A soccer ball.
At head height.
And SWAT Cops 2-4 ran like hell out.
…
Can you hear my eyebrow rising as I am getting told this by an experienced officer of the law who is looking at the ground explaining that while he WAS playing basketball indoors, the very expansive vase got broken somehow?
Yeah, it was that voice and body language.
“I’m guilty as hell of something, I’m not really clear on WHAT crime I committed, but things are broken, and I am pretty sure it’s my fault , I’m trying to minimize the weeks of being grounded in front of me, without actually –lying- to Mommy.”
I could swear he said “Got Broked somehow” during the telling of his tale, but not really.
Ok. One more time. What happened?
“So we were in line per tactical training…. (I am not going to make any sarcastic remarks about the combat simulation training Bozo here probably received. I am not. Really! Look at me not rolling my eyes so hard they fall out on the floor and roll away!)
“And Steven’s was in front of me. He was scanning the room with the light on his M4, (Ok, it was a fucking Armalite M15VSR you lying sack of shit.) And reporting what he saw. I was behind him looking over his shoulder (in all likelihood, doing so in a Tactical Way. I swear these Swat jokers SHIT tactically.) When down out of the smoke… a…a thing swooped out at us. I thought at first it was a soccer ball. About that big. And white and black. So, soccer ball. See? And uh… (At this point he actually looked left and right, all shifty eyed. It took every ounce of self-control I have to not start laughing so hard I burst something.) But this was Serious Shit. We had a fucking Cop Down, maybe Dead. No laughing. Maybe heavy sighing.
“I raised my gun with the intent of tracking the distraction, to see if it was a danger or not, right?” (Ah, I see! We are making up the story to tell our boss, later already! Good cop!) And that’s when it… it became clear that it wasn’t a soccer ball.”
I nodded.
“It was a human head. And it was looking at Steven’s. And I could see what looked like, uh, organs hanging down from the stump. Of the Neck. And it had… Bat Wings where the ears should be.”
I didn’t even nod. I didn’t sigh or giggle, or make other signs.
This was clearly Class A 1 “Weird Alien Shit”.
Gadamnit. Ok, it COULD have been some fucked up prank set up by Doofus the Boy Millionaire for whatever reasons that people prank each other. I’ve pulled on or two. We all have.
But then:** “It attacked Stevens.”**
This makes it less likely to be a prank.
“It bit his face mask, you know, the gas mask? And then flapped its wings and flew up and looked right at me.”
Yup. Weird Alien Shit.
“And I wasn’t sure I had a clear shot, I didn’t want to cap Steven’s in the back of his head. “
Ok, Mr. “Sorry I fucked up” has just redeemed himself a little bit. “Not shooting your partner” is in my book a good reason for not shooting at all. Ok, Fine. Moving forward.
“And it started… this weird babbling. Shouting almost. ‘Ah-Beh-Lo-Te’ and shit. And like. I don’t know what happened. (Weird alien mind control shit happened, is what happened. But I wasn’t going to say that to HIM.)
“The next thing that’s clear to me is Ryan was in front of me and we were booking up the stairs.”
And that was more or less my briefing.
That led to me, making my clumsy, noisy as hell well way through a now darkened cellar, with a flying screaming severed head thing that could make you puke by shouting over a radio at you, somewhere in here. Wanting to eat my face. Presumably hovering in the mist above my head.
I have had better Thursday afternoons.
Back to the 'sort of Here/Now
So. The ceiling of the cellar is obscured down to like 2 feet in thick white smoke. The ground is shrouded in mist up to about 2 feet. Thankfully none of the previously fleeing cops have knocked shit off shelves, so I don’t have to worry about going ass over teakettle on to my back, (remember the 45 lbs. steel tank back there?) and being stuck like a turtle on its back down here.
Which would really complete my day.
I am now looking into the room.
And I was… well… nowhere near right.
First Cop. Stevens, the ERU guy is alive. Sitting up, leaning his back against the door jamb with his mask off.
He is babbling and drooling and crying while holding the mike. His eyes are fixed and focused on something a million miles away.
Yup, he’s ‘alive’. I don’t think he is “and well.” I am no expert, but he looks like he is not going to be coming home to his loving wife and 2.5 children again anytime soon. I really think he is section 8 and a loon. Gonna need a new one of those.
That sucks.
I keep my shotgun pointed at him, while I try to swing my light around to see other stuff.
Ok, so scotch taping a flashlight to my arm was dumb.
Maybe I should have gotten a few more lights.
Ok, so…. I heard a voice coming from the room beyond. In the darkness and smoke.
Happily, I could fucking understand it. In a stroke of genius, I had a clever idea.
I opened fire.
Since I was pretty deaf ANYWAY, I wasn’t worried about that aspect.
I also figured I might light up what the fuck ever was going on. See?
And Surprise! IT WAS a clever idea!
My flashes lit up a 10 x 30 foot room. The floor of the room was obscured by mist as was the ceiling.
To the right side I could see the previously described work bench and shelves with the glass terrarium – fish tank things.
The one closest to the door was smashed open and sitting on the workbench, with what looked like maybe cloth, maybe flesh hooked on the shards of glass. The flashes were too short in duration for me to see further into the room.
I was aiming at an upward angle as I figured there was a not bad chance there was a possibly still alive DEA agent face down in the mist.
Gasping, sneezing and coughing, silently while bleeding from the head/neck per previous reports. I'm sure he is fine.
Ok, maybe he was dead, but I still didn’t like the idea of blowing a hole in him.
I fired three shots and then reloaded.
Something slapped into the side of my head as I reloaded.
I was knocked to the right side but couldn’t see what did it, as I conveniently had a yellow plastic helmet/hat blocking my view.
I went down on one knee and spun, waving my light in hopes of seeing something that needed shooting.
A swirl of white fog.
Crap. This was not good.
Heh.
And then apparently the smoke affected Flying Head in the same way is affected everyone else.
It dropped downward from the smoke, coughing and fumbling with its wings.
It really, no shit, looked like a fucking human head, Caucasian, light brown hair, fucking bat wings where its ears belonged. (No, I did not see all this at first, this was after I picked… Anyway)
I had my shotgun in my hands, more or less pointed in the right direction.
!boom!
It was … effective. See, I was loaded with ammo that consisted of a 12 gauge magnum round, hollow point, with a small amount of high explosive and a contact detonator in it.
It’s called “a door breaching round”. If the bad guys have a steel door, and cement frame, you fire a round at where the hinges should be and you get nice hole in the wall. Another hinge and one for the door lock and the door falls downward!
If used on a human being, it is a war crime! So I had that going for me.
Used on a human head? Um. REALLY effective.
Used on a human head sized and shaped Weird Alien baddie; it results in a loud BOOM/BANG/SPAT.
Wings and hair bits on the floor and ceiling.
Problem solved! Let’s go home!
…
Damn.
Babbling cop, maybe injured cop, maybe scrawny millionaire devotee of Weird Alien shit, maybe more Weird Alien Shit.
Right. Report/explain gun fire.
“Stevens is alive. Wounded. No Agent Marks (Ike’s partner), Not sure if clear yet. Stay Back.”
Cleverly Stevens DID have another flashlight, so I grabbed that and looked around.
Large glass terrariums, one smashed. One with …. Weird Alien Shit #2 in it.
It was a rock. A crystal. And it glowed. And looked at me. And about the same time that I started to feel cold fingers reaching into my brain I shot it. Twice.
Small bits of rock got embedded in the wall and ceiling. Thankfully, as I am not a cop, I have minimal paperwork to write, and I can be dead fucking honest about what I saw.
My guess is Weird Alien Flying Head lived in the broken open terrarium.
I moved further into the room and saw a brass maybe bronze bowl thing with white mist pouring out of it, pooling on the floor. Weird Alien symbols on the outside. Chemicals I did recognize and small bottles with random collections of numbers and letters on the labels surrounded the bowl. There were piled around this bowl, several, call it 7 books bound in leather, or bark; and were NOT shit you got on AMAZON. crap
That’s another mystery (mist) more or less nailed down. I kinda wanted to do something about it, but knowing what happens when you mix the wrong things together (say, water and magnesium) I decided to leave that for the fire department/EPA/someone who gets paid more than me.
Further into the room, books on shelves above work bench, with jars of powers and the like lining the back of the workbench.
I glanced at the book titles quickly and recognized most of them as mass market crap, not to worry about.
At the far end of the room, there was a body sitting in a chair.
Human. Male. Scrawny. Long hair. Hair coming out in chunks.
I moved closer and confirmed his head was at an odd angle.
You know those moments when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt what you are about to do, and you know it’s the right thing to do, and you know it’s going to put some nightmare fuel into your head, and you do it anyway?
Yeah. One of those. I really didn’t want to touch the body. I DID see, in front of it; on the work bench, was another bowl. IT had smoke rising out of it to the ceiling.
Mystery number… what, 6? Solved. I also determined that this bowl fell into the “someone else’s’ job” department. It did explain why the ceiling fog had not cleared in the past few hours of an open Cellar door. It was being refilled. Fine.
I touched the corpse and spun it. He had … white… goop, pouring out of its mouth. It wasn’t like drool or saliva. It was a trail of white goop down his chest, across his pants, a trail about 3 inches wide, down across his lap, and down into the mist.
Crap.
Crap x 2. So… Mystery number, what, eight? Appears.
The ceiling lights are out still. I am standing over this corpse with a light in my left hand, another strapped to my right forearm, and a shotgun in the right hand.
I fucking hate this Weird Alien Crap. Weird Alien Things. Slimy Weird Alien things. You know, the sort that crawl out of a humans mouth, breaking his jaw on the way out, and then crawl, leaving a 3 inch wide trail of white slime behind itself, as it crawls into the mist around the floor AT MY FEET.
I could just start shooting explosive slug rounds into the concrete floor at random. There is no way THAT could go poorly.
I fumbled around and found the down DEA agent. He was cold and not bleeding, just seeping. Right. Also someone else’s problem.
I grabbed the EEROO guy, Stevens, and dragged him by the unresistant arm out of the cellar. He pretty much was technically alive and thus probably my problem.
We made our way out of the house.
Gave him to an EMT who was waiting outside (I mentioned that I was bringing out a survivor).
Got out.
Got to Ike.
Sadly I still had the gear on that took 2 people and several minutes to get out of it. I was not going to broadcast my debriefing to all the rest of the cops around here and every teen with a fucking scanner.
On the way out I repeatedly ordered that no one enter until I debriefed the site chief.
I told Ike about the crystal, the goop trail, and the 2 bowls.
In theory the fire department should and could be able to go down and deal with the smoke (now pouring out the front door) producing bowls and the bodies and all.
But that slime trail, along with the books, not the paperback books you could order from Amazon I could see, but rather the few “bound in dark leather with crumbling covers” books were NOT the Fire Departments Problem; they were OUR fucking problem.
I explained that I was in favor of the gasoline and road flare trick.
He explained that in the meantime more cops and the CDC and the state police SWAT people and some FBI agents had shown up.
And that he wanted me to go back in, grab the Happy Fun Books of The Doom, and then maybe put glass carboys over the 2 bowls to capture the smoke, to make it easier to clean up.
And then we would hand this operation to other people and go home.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You want some fireman or some Fed walk into that basement, maybe have Creepy Alien Slime thing crawl up his leg and take over his mind?”
Technically, no. Technically I wanted to make a break for the space ship, nuke the site from orbit, because it was the only way to be sure.
This colossal fuck up was NOT my fuck up.
But “I didn’t make this mess” has not been an excuse since probably the Romans marching into Gaul. I spent 12 years as an Infantry man in the U.S. Army.... You see where this is going, right?
Fuck.
At this point, I am half way out of the fucking yellow gear, sweating and drinking water while Ike and I had our pow-wow.
And there was a knock on the door of the ERU truck.
Significant glances were exchanged and Ike opened the door to face a DIA badge and a severely groomed gentleman with a wire leading to his ear and eyes concealed by some nifty shades.
“We are taking over this operation. We have been monitoring your radio communications and are aware of the dangers we are facing. Evacuate the area. This is non-negotiable.”
And the man stepped back at that point. Behind him, we could see a black Queen Vic and a Black SUV with several men; also in very sever suits and haircuts.
Ever see the movie “Men in Black”? Yeah, these were the real thing. Majestic. Majestic 12. Very very Bad.
See, the US government knows about The Aliens. More to the point, the US Government had made a deal with the Aliens.
This is why Ike and I were secret and illegal as hell. These assholes were legit. Thankfully they seemed to think we were two bumbling DEA agents who had wandered to close to something above our pay grade.
Ike was more frozen than I was for the moment.
“Oh, thank god. Experts. I don’t know what’s in that cellar! I think there is still a dead body. I found that one SWAT guy and got him out. I was down there for as little time as possible.”
Aaannd, I’m out.

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