Gpsphone emerald cheats

So, I'm sure all of us have had to deal with hearing one of our favourite games in this series be disparaged at some point or have had to sit there and sigh at the headlines once more taking another hit of negativity. I've seen this a lot, especially since I like a good, i'd say, 98% of Sonic games that have been released that I have played.
So I thought it might be nice to do a thread dedicated to a bit of positivity. Honestly, this started out as an idea for a YouTube series but i'm not sure how well that would actually go so I figured just a reddit post for now is good enough.
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Long story short, each sonic game you've played or know a lot about, all you got to do is say one genuinely nice thing you like about it whether you like it overall or not, so all of us can enjoy a little positivity about one of our favourite games. Even if its a little controversial, lets try to keep some positivity in the replies.
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Sonic The Hedgehog (1991) - The most obvious thing of all, without this game we wouldn't have our blue blur in the first place, this is the game that has in some way or another brought us every other last thing we absolutely love in this series. It all started here and I will always love this game for that.
Sonic The Hedgehog 2 - In a rather similar vein to the first game, this game started the trend of adding characters to the series. While of course the character mania wouldn't set in until a while later, Tails set the stage for it, giving us one of the cutest kitsunes in gaming and ensuring, most likely, that one of your beloved characters could be made.
Sonic The Hedgehog 3 & Knuckles - The naming of Hyper Sonic has led to endless giggling for me imagining that the truth of the transformation has nothing do with the master emerald but Sonic downing too much Sugar before transforming.
Sonic R - Genuinely, Can You Feel The Sunshine, memes aside is just one of many great vocal tracks from this game that will not leave your mind when you hear it. Also, it technically gave us this, the greatest argument in favour of this game's existence: https://youtu.be/J-Z--O2GFcY?si=sR_RIaTpl5z_QBEz (I am going to try to make this the only OST based one)
Sonic The Fighters - Honey The Cat is freakin' adorable. That is all.
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Sonic Adventure - Started giving us more explicit stories in Sonic games which would eventually lead to one of the best pieces of the entire sonic franchise later down the line, while also helping start to define the general playstyles people expect from characters other than sonic, not to mention the slow shift to extra Shonen vibes.
Sonic Adventure 2 - Gave us easily one of the most iconic rival characters in the entire series with a story that helped set a tone going forward that I feel like has always been there in the best stories of the games, that underlying hint of darkness (not edginess). (I could honestly make an entire essay topic on this with time).
Sonic Heroes - This is the game that personally got me into the franchise, the game I played on loop for hours at my grandmothers house, annoying my cousins by getting past the sections they couldn't and gaining crocodile based nightmares.
Shadow The Hedgehog - This game was rated 12, I was like 4. This game left an impression in me like the bullet that hit Maria, yet for all the over the top edginess and wild parts of the game, I genuinely just loved exploring the level settings as a kid, losing myself for hours just exploring around these maps and distracting myself from life. It also potentially gave me the ability to be able to look past the overt edginess of certain products and enjoy whats actually underneath more seriously no matter how unseriousness the edginess can make it feel.
Sonic Rush - BLAZE SIMPING BLAZE SIMPING BLAZE SIMPING- In all seriousness, I think anyone who had a DS has 'that game' that they'd play to oblivion no matter where they went to keep themselves happy and entertained. Sonic Rush was one of the two games that did that for me for close to a decade. It also did indeed introduce Blaze, starting my eventually descent into the curse of simping for Sonic girls.
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Sonic 06 - ...How do I say this without getting set on fire... Elise simp? In all seriousness, I say with full sincerity: I personally think Elise was a good idea with bad execution. I really don't think there's anything wrong with the human/hedgehog part because its cartoony and unless you also have a problem with Roger and Jessica Rabbit, i just don't see much problem with the actual concept part. Unfortunately, there were issues that I won't cover to maintain positivity but I want to say this, the idea is sound and I am confident would be popular done right. Why do I say this? Because 'more serious princess to contrast Sonic who has some kind of connection to fire and a serious duty she cannot shake, eventually warming up with the help of Sonic' applies to both Blaze and Elise, so... I'm just saying, its not impossible. For those who want something else, this game did give a near-perfect portrayal of Shadow that I argue stands up to this day as one of the best portrayals of the character.
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Sonic and The Secret Rings - While the storybook games gameplay is rather infamous for various reasons, there is one place that its only appropriate for 'The Storybook Saga' to excel and that is in its stories. Out of every single game on this list, I don't think any two games understand Sonic as a character better than Secret Rings and Black Knight, and they make stories that are charming, fun and genuinely suck me right in no matter how many times I watch them. I highly recommend if you haven't, just trying out any 'The Movie' videos on YouTube and watching Secret Rings like a TV Special Sonic cartoon. While its not the intended experience, it is a very good one.
Not to mention, this game introduced Shahra, who I would kill to have come back for more games. Having a companion Sonic can actually talk to, who can keep up (due to the ring) while being their own person and contrasting well personality wise gave such a genuine sense of charm and could even give more depth to Sonic's 'solo' adventuring. Yes, Tails could serve a similar role but Tails was a partner, a buddy who grew up out of the need to be under Sonic's protection in this era, meant to strike out on his own. Shahra feels just so perfect as a companion, soft and respectful, but conflicted and uncertain to contrast Sonic's Brash and Rude but self-assuredness and confidence in his core beliefs.
I could write an entire post solely about why the Hankerchief ending, cheesy as it is, is great beyond just being a good bookend with the start of the book. Plus there's things I haven't even mentioned like the way Darkspine is unlocked or Erazor Djinn being one of the best villains in the entire franchise.
Also, this game started the (console) trilogy of perfect ending songs with Worth A Chance.
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Sonic And The Dark Brotherhood - True fact, this game was the first ever 'RPG' I played and I was kind of addicted to it. I still remember my go to team as a kid was Sonic (as mandatory), Amy, Shadow, Cream and I had this one chao I was in love with I cried over when my save was deleted who was a fiery type chao. For any faults, I love these characters, so genuinely, being able to just sit and talk to them at least somewhat as a kid, even in a system as simple as Brotherhood's, was something that genuinely gave me unparalleled levels of joy. I loved these characters as characters, so I absorbed every word I could get by talking to them.
Sonic Riders: Zero Gravity - The first ever racer I played, it became my go to game to play whenever I had other people around, since I didn't have many other games on the Wii to play and for a while it was the only console I had. I love the designs and vibe of the entire riders series but ZG is where that series had its best visual design I think. Also, I may have some bias, as I genuinely think ZG may be the first ever piece of media my brain properly digested the story of and remembered it, rather than just being distracting moving pictures in front of me.
Sonic Unleashed - Rather fittingly considering the original title of the game, Unleashed nails the feeling of there really being an entire WORLD around you, even if you are locked to segments of it, making it feel like there's so much around you still aren't seeing. It also gave us Night of The Werehog, some truly great designs, Professor Chad Pickle, the greatest opening cutscene in the entire franchise, a really good blend of the cheesier side and the darker side, keeping the fun tone from the characters while still acknowledging the planet is freakin' dying, and while Sonic Heroes introduced me to the series, Sonic Unleashed was the game that solidified me permanently as a Sonic fan for the long haul. And of course, Dear My Friend continues the console trilogy of perfect ending songs.
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Sonic And The Black Knight - I saved writing about this one for last because I just know it's going to become the longest one here. I adore Black Knight, I really do. It took the good parts of Secret Rings and expanded on them while adding so much more at the same time.
A fun, well-written travelling companion that gets endless banter and snark out of Sonic? Check. Fun alternative takes on classic characters, fully embracing the idea rather than just dipping toes in the water while still respecting the originals? Check. A highly simp-worthy new humanoid character? Check. One of the best themed OST's in any piece of media ever? Big Check.
That's me delibrately doing my best to cut down on the stuff I can gush on, and there's still so much more I can still go over like how, if the Secret Rings portrayal of Sonic is nearly perfect, this portrayal IS perfect. I could put nearly any cutscene from that game in front of you, and give you an immediate idea of who Sonic is as a person... Which this game even explores in more detail than we normally get, putting his worldview up to the test of literally having him declare he's fine with being the villain to stay true to those beliefs.
Excalibur Sonic is easily the single most narratively earned and satisfying transformation out of any in the whole series, the entire game building on Sonic's world views and beliefs, testing him against this world's. Sonic holding fast and true every time, eventually being rewarded and gratified with the best reward possible within this universe.
However, if there is one thing I'd pick out that entire game, just one to say without doubt is the best thing, I'd say this cutscene, which I argue may be the single best cutscene in the entire franchise. If I was to distill everything good about Sonic into one scene, it would be this: https://youtu.be/fDsTdJvZ9Qc?si=bb3QV1bpcOXHfkHh
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Sonic Colors - While not a game i'd personally want to go to anymore other than in a marathon, I do genuinely think this game works as a great introduction point for younger players to not overload them with the more intense parts of the other games, as long as you don't go straight into every other meta era game. Honestly, this game is really good as a break between the serious games, more than as a 'norm'. Also Reach For The Stars is still one of the most gorgeous opening songs in the series.
Sonic Generations - Personally I consider this the best game of the meta era and a great example of when the meta era writing could work just fine, because while writing wise it felt more childish than other games, it also feels more simple. Honestly, making the time eater a little less overly intense an idea, more of a time traveller than a time eater and it would work fine. Keep things simple, fun and unserious for a game that doesn't NEED to be serious, cause its an excuse to celebrate the past rather than tell an actual story which a lot of 'Dark Era' games did genuinely do.
Sonic Forces - While I could mention Fist Bump or cheat and mention the IDW comics coming off this game, which are both also positives, I'm not going to cheap out like that. Genuinely, this games story had potential that in the dark era would of been amazing to see play out and the idea of allowing for OC's was a really fun addition and in-joke for a game. The avatar's stages were interesting concepts and a good way to start pushing back to having other characters even if it didn't pan out in time, but more than anything... The OC system may actually of been the greatest thing for this era to bow out on. The Meta Era left after giving us the most meta-joke mechanic of all.
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Sonic Frontiers - If we include Final Horizons I can't not mention one of the most Shonen final bosses in the entire series but even ignoring Final Horizon, Frontiers willingness to actually remember its past, the little details like remembering Sonic actually likes reading (Woo Storybook Saga!), just everything about Sage, the spectacle that is the Titans fights, and more than anything, the sheer love this game oozes for Sonic in general that just feels so nice to simply enjoy as someone who still really loves this dang hedgehog.
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So... What about you?

The year is 2024. I open up Reddit and scroll down to see debates about whether a game I like is good or not. For some reason I keep reading until I get tired out of it. Then after a little bit of Discord talk with friends where I discuss headcanons, I boot up the game. Today I feel like watching the entire intro where the main characters are shown over cool music. Then I press the start button, go past the logo, and open up my save file where I've already beaten the game. I'm kind of bored today so I'd rather do minigames instead of playing the actual game. Thus why I go to the Chao Garden so I can have a Chao Race.
The game, of course, is Sonic Adventure 2.
This is a post I've wanted to do for a while because for some reason I've seen similarities between Sonic Adventure 2 and Fire Emblem Engage. Most of my posts are written ahead of time, but I've decided that I'm going to just write this one on the spot so I can be done with it. Let's go ahead and list as many similarities as possible between these two games. Obviously spoilers for both Sonic Adventure 2 and Fire Emblem Engage are ahead.

1. The main theme of the game has lyrics. (Live and Learn and Emblem Engage)
2. The plot begins with a character waking up from a long sleep. (Alear and Shadow the Hedgehog)
3. The character who wakes up from a long sleep has amnesia.
4. A main driver of the plot is a character being programmed to execute their father's evil plan. (Veyle and Shadow the Hedgehog)
5. Said antagonist joins the protagonists when they are freed from their programming.
6. The true antagonist is acting out of grief for someone they lost. (Sombron with Emblem Zero, Gerald with Maria)
7. The middle part of the plot features the protagonists and the antagonists racing each other to collect several MacGuffins. (Emblem Rings, Chaos Emeralds)
8. The main character gets more powerful because all of the MacGuffins combined their power for them.
9. An antagonist is allowed to flee after being defeated by the protagonist. (Multiple times in Engage, Dr. Eggman allowed to flee twice in Sonic Adventure 2.)
10. Much of the story involves a tour of different parts of the world. Then, it finishes by going outside of the world. (in Engage you go to the multiverse, in Sonic Adventure 2 you go to outer space)
11. A major ship resulting from the game pairs together a character associated with red and a character associated with purple. (Diamant/Ivy and Knuckles/Rouge)
12. The game was created in honor of the series anniversary. (Engage was for Fire Emblem's 30th anniversary, Sonic Adventure 2 was for Sonic's 10th anniversary)
13. There is nostalgia baiting. (Engage is obvious, Sonic Adventure 2 has an unlockable Green Hill Zone stage)
14. A side game is playing with a virtual pet. (Sommie, Chao)
15. The story is considered divisive, with many considering it to have plot holes and half baked character development. Others, however, love the story. (I am one of them!)
16. There is a stage where you have a hard time moving around because of darkness. (Engage Chapters 13 and 20, Lost Colony in Sonic Adventure 2)
17. The game was released late in the console's lifecycle. (Sonic Adventure 2 was the last big release for the Dreamcast, the Switch successor will probably be unveiled soon)
18. The box art for the two games features the good guys and the bad guys next to each other. (Ok, I had to cheat and use Sonic Adventure 2 Battle's box art, but most of us agree that's the superior version.)
19. You collect Emblems by beating stages.
20. Different characters can announce things on the menu. (Of course in Sonic Adventure 2 you can control it with the different themes.)
21. One character is a younger brother who feels kind of overshadowed by their big brother but wants to help them out. (Alcryst and Tails)
22. You can jump in the pool. (True, because you can jump in the pool in any of the three Chao Gardens.)

BONUS ROUND: Similarities with Sonic Adventure!

1. There is a stage where you can fly around and shoot stuff. (The two Sky Chase zones and the Wyvern Ride minigame)
2. You can go fishing.
3. You can go to a flying base in the air.
4. You can go run around an overworld and do tasks there.

Well, I hope this post put a smile on your face! If there's any more similarities that I missed, let me know in the comments.

I got a DS and im really liking HGSS u would like to finish the pokedex, unfortunately i wont be able to get another NDS or buy a 3DS in a long while. I dont want to just stop playing for few months.
I just beat Red in Souls Silver, I wanted to get different Kanto and Hoenn starter from Heart Gold and the rest from FireRed and Emerald. I was thinking about using emulators however I am no feeling it.
I was curious what others think about using emulators to trade and evolve Pokemon, also what do you think about trading between the same save. I dont think its cheating or it would be illegitimate but I just prefer the original experience, that's why i never could finish any DS game on emulators.

I've been trying to use cheats on Pokemon Emerald in my Switch, but it just won't work. I've tried with the mGBA, VBA Next and VBA-M croes, but either RA crashes or it doesn't do anything.
Have anyone else had this problem? Is there a solution for this?

why

Hey everyone. Recently Delta the gba emulator was released on the App Store. I’m looking for cheats on how to modify the moves of my mons so that they can learn any move in the game. For example charmander learning hydro cannon lol. I seen a video of someone running the cheat for emerald but I’m having trouble finding it for fire red. Can anyone help ? Thank you in advance.

Early last September I discovered among the exhibits in a local art gallery a sort of performance piece in the form of an audiotape. This, I later learned, was the first of a series of tape-recorded dream monologues by an unknown artist. The following is a brief and highly typical excerpt from the opening section of this work. I recall that after a few seconds of hissing tape noise, the voice began speaking: ‘There was far more to deal with in the bungalow house than simply an infestation of vermin,’ it said, ‘although that too had its questionable aspects.’ Then the voice went on: ‘I could see only a few of the bodies where the moonlight shone through the open blinds of the living-room windows and fell upon the carpet. Only one of the bodies seemed to be moving, and that very slowly, but there may have been more that were not yet dead. Aside from the chair in which I sat in the darkness there was very little furniture in the room, or elsewhere in the bungalow house for that matter. But a number of lamps were positioned around me, floor lamps and table lamps and even two tiny lamps on the mantel above the fireplace.’
A brief pause occurred here in the opening section of the tape-recorded dream monologue, as I remember it, after which the voice continued: ‘The bungalow house was built with a fireplace, I said to myself in the darkness, thinking how long it had been since anyone had made use of this fireplace, or anything else in the house. Then my attention returned to the lamps, and I began trying each of them one by one, twisting their little grooved switches in the darkness. The moonlight fell upon the lampshades without shining through them, so I could see that none of the lamps was equipped with a lightbulb, and each time I turned the switch of a floor lamp or a table lamp or one of the tiny lamps on the mantel, nothing changed in the dark living room of the bungalow house: the moonlight shone through the dusty blinds and revealed the bodies of insects and other vermin on the pale carpet.’
‘The challenges and obstacles facing me in that bungalow house were becoming more and more oppressive,’ whispered the voice on the tape. ‘There was something so desolate about being in that place in the dead of night, even if I did not know precisely what time it was. And to see upon the pale, threadbare carpet those verminous bodies, some of which were still barely alive; then to try each of the lamps and find that none of them was in working order – everything, it seemed, was in opposition to my efforts, everything aligned against my taking care of the problems I faced in the bungalow house. For the first time I noticed that the bodies lying for the most part in total stillness on the moonlit carpet were not like any species of vermin I had ever seen,’ the voice on the tape recording said. ‘Some of them seemed to be deformed, their naturally revolting forms altered in ways I could not discern. I knew that I would require specialized implements for dealing with these creatures, an arsenal of advanced tools of extermination. It was the idea of poisons – the toxic solutions and vapors I would need to use in my assault upon the bungalow hordes – that caused me to become overwhelmed by the complexities of the task before me and the paucity of my resources for dealing with them.’
At this point, and many others on the tape (as I recall), the voice became nearly inaudible. ‘The bungalow house,’ it said, ‘was such a bleak environment in which to make a stand: the moonlight through the dusty blinds, the bodies on the carpet, the lamps without any lightbulbs. And the incredible silence. It was not the absence of sounds that I sensed, but the stifling of innumerable sounds and even voices, the muffling of all the noises one might expect to hear in an old bungalow house in the dead of night, as well as countless other sounds and voices. The forces required to accomplish this silence filled me with awe. The infinite terror and dreariness of an infested bungalow house, I whispered to myself. A bungalow universe, I then thought without speaking aloud. Suddenly I was overcome by a feeling of euphoric hopelessness which passed through my body like a powerful drug and held all my thoughts and all my movements in a dreamy, floating suspension. In the moonlight that shone through the blinds of that bungalow house I was now as still and as silent as everything else.’
The title of the tape-recorded artwork from which I have just quoted was The Bungalow House (Plus Silence). I discovered this and other dream monologues by the same artist at Dalha D. Fine Arts, which was located in the near vicinity of the public library (main branch) where I was employed in the Language and Literature department. Sometimes I spent my lunch breaks at the gallery, even consuming my brown-bag meals on the premises. There were a few chairs and benches on the floor of the gallery, and I knew that the woman who owned the place did not discourage any kind of traffic, however lingering. Her actual livelihood was in fact not derived from the gallery itself. How could it have been? Dalha D. Fine Arts was a hole in the wall. One would think it no trouble at all to keep up the premises where there was so little floor space, just a single room that was by no means overcrowded with artworks or art-related merchandise. But no attempt at such upkeeping seemed ever to have been made. The display window was so filmy that someone passing by could barely make out the paintings and sculptures behind it (the same ones year after year). From the street outside, this tiny front window presented the most desolate hallucination of bland colors and shapeless forms, especially on late November afternoons. Further inside the gallery, things were in a similar state – from the cruddy linoleum floor, where some cracked tiles revealed the concrete foundation, to the rather high ceiling, which occasionally sent down small chips of plaster. If every artwork and item of art-related merchandise had been cleared out of that building, no one would think that an art gallery had once occupied this space and not some enterprise of a lesser order. But as many persons were aware, if only through second-hand sources, the woman who operated Dalha D. Fine Arts did not make her living by dealing in those artworks and related items, which only the most desperate or scandalously naïve artist would allow to be put on display in that gallery. By all accounts, including my own brief lunchtime conversations with the woman, she had pursued a variety of careers in her time. She herself had worked as an artist at one point, and some of her works – messy assemblages inside old cigar boxes – were exhibited in a corner of her gallery. But evidently her art gallery business was not self-sustaining, despite minimal overhead, and she made no secret of her true means of income.
‘Who wants to buy such junk?’ she once explained to me, gesturing with long fingernails painted emerald green. This same color also seemed to dominate her wardrobe of long, loose garments, with many of her outfits featuring incredible scarves or shawls that dragged along the floor as she moved about the art gallery. She paused and with the pointed toe of one of her emerald-green shoes gave a little kick at a wire wastebasket that was filled with the miniature limbs of dolls, all of them individually painted in a variety of colors. ‘What are people thinking when they make these things? What was I thinking with those stupid cigar boxes? But no more of that, definitely no more of that sort of thing.’
And she made no secret, beyond a certain reasonable caution, of what sort of thing now engaged her energies as a businesswoman. The telephone was always ringing at her art gallery, always upsetting the otherwise dead calm of the place with its cracked, warbling voice that called out from the back room. She would then quickly disappear behind a curtain that hung in the doorway separating the front and back sections of the art gallery. I might be eating a sandwich or a piece of fruit, and then suddenly, for the fourth or fifth time in a half-hour, the telephone would scream from the back room, eventually summoning this woman behind the curtain. But she never answered the telephone with the name of the art gallery or employed any of the stock phrases of business protocol. Not so much as a ‘Good afternoon, may I help you?’ did I ever hear from the back room as I sat eating my midday meal in the front section of the art gallery. She always answered the telephone in the same way with the same quietly expectant tone in her voice. This is Dalha, she always said. Before I had known her very long even I found myself using her name in the most familiar way. The mere saying of this name instilled in me a sense of access to what she offered all those telephone-callers, not to mention those individuals who personally visited the art gallery to make or confirm an appointment. Whatever someone was eager to try, whatever step someone was willing to take – Dalha could arrange it. This was the true stock in trade of the art gallery, these arrangements. When I returned to the library after my lunch break, I continued to imagine Dalha back at the art gallery, racing between the front and back sections of the building, making all kinds of arrangements over the telephone, and sometimes in person.
On the day that I first noticed the new artwork entitled The Bungalow House, Dalha’s telephone was extremely vocal. While she was talking to her clients in the back section of the art gallery, I was left alone in the front section. Just for a thrill I went over to the wire wastebasket full of dismembered doll parts and helped myself to one of the painted arms (emerald green!), hiding it in the inner pocket of my sportcoat. It was then that I spotted the old audiotape recorder on a small plastic table in the corner. Beside the machine was a business card on which the title of the artwork had been hand-printed, along with the following instructions: PRESS PLAY. PLEASE REWIND AFTER LISTENING. DO NO REMOVE TAPE. I placed the headphones over my ears and pressed the PLAY button. The voice that spoke through the headphones, which were enormous, sounded distant and was somewhat distorted by the hissing of the tape. Nevertheless, I was so intrigued by the opening passages of this dream monologue, which I have already transcribed, that I sat down on the floor next to the small plastic table on which the tape recorder was positioned and listened to the entire tape, exceeding my allotted lunchtime by over half an hour. By the time the tape had ended I was in another world – that is, the world of the infested bungalow house, with all its dreamlike crumminess and foul charms.
‘Don’t forget to rewind the tape,’ said Dalha, who was now standing over me, her long gray hair, like steel wool, almost brushing against my face.
I pressed the REWIND button on the tape recorder and got up from the floor. ‘Dalha, may I use your lavatory?’ I asked. She pointed to the curtain leading to the back section of the art gallery. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
The effect of listening to the first dream monologue was very intense for reasons I will soon explain. I wanted to be alone for a few moments in order to preserve the state of mind which the voice on the tape had induced in me, much as one might attempt to hold on to the images of a dream just after waking. However, I felt that the lavatory at the library, despite its peculiar virtues which I have appreciated over the years, would somehow undermine the sensations and mental state created by the dream monologue, rather than preserving this experience and even enhancing it, as I hoped the lavatory in the back section of Dalha’s art gallery would do. The very reason why I spent my lunchtimes in the surroundings of Dalha’s art gallery, which were so different from those of the library, was exactly why I now wanted to use the lavatory in the back section of that art gallery and definitely not the lavatory at the library, even if I was already overdue from my lunch break. And, indeed, this lavatory had the same qualities as the rest of the art gallery, as I hoped it would. The fact that it was located in the back section of the art gallery, a region of mysteries to my mind, was significant. Just outside the door of the lavatory stood a small, cluttered desk upon which was positioned the telephone that Dalha used in her true business of making arrangements. The telephone was centered in the weak light of a desk lamp, and I noticed, as I passed into the lavatory, that it was an unwieldy object with a straight – that is, uncoiled – cord connecting the receiver to the telephone housing, with its enormous circular dial. But although Dalha answered several calls during the time I was in the lavatory, these seemed to be entirely legitimate conversations having to do either with her personal life or with practical matters relating to the art gallery.
‘How long are you going to be in there?’ Dalha asked through the door of the lavatory. ‘I hope you’re not sick, because if you’re sick you’ll have to go somewhere else.’
I called out that there was nothing wrong (quite the opposite) and a moment later emerged from the lavatory. I was about to ask for details of the art performance tape I had just heard, anxious to know about the artist and what it would cost me to own the work entitled The Bungalow House, as well as any similar works that might exist. But the phone began ringing again. Dalha answered it with her customary greeting as I stood by in the back section of the art gallery, which was a dark, though relatively uncluttered space that now put me in mind of the living room of the bungalow house that I had heard described on the tape-recorded dream monologue. The conversation in which Dalha was engaged (another non-arrangement call) seemed interminable, and I was becoming nervously aware how long past my lunch break I had stayed at the storefront art gallery.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said to Dalha, who responded with a look from her emerald eyes while continuing to speak to the other party on the telephone. And she was smiling at me, like muted laughter, I remember thinking as I passed through the curtained doorway into the front section of the art gallery. I glanced at the tape recorder standing on the plastic table but decided against taking the audiocassette back to the library (and afterward home with me). It would be there when I visited on my lunch break the following day. Hardly anyone ever bought anything out of the front section of Dalha’s art gallery.
For the rest of the day – both at the library and at my home – I thought about the bungalow house tape. Especially while riding the bus home from the library, I thought of the images and concepts described on the tape, as well as the voice that described them and the phrases it used throughout the dream monologue on the bungalow house. Much of my commute from my home to the library, and back home again, took me past numerous streets lined from end to end with desolate-looking houses, any of which might have been the inspiration for the bungalow house audiotape. I say that these streets were lined from ‘end to end’ with such houses, even though the bus never turned down any of them, and I therefore never actually viewed even a single street from ‘end to end.’ In fact, as I looked through the window next to my seat on the bus – on either side of the bus I always sat in the window seat, never in the aisle seat – the streets I saw appeared endless, vanishing from my sight toward an infinity of old houses, many of them derelict houses and a great many of them being dwarfish and desolate-looking houses of the bungalow type.
The tape-recorded dream monologue, as I recalled it that day while riding home on the bus and staring out the window, described several features of the infested bungalow house – the dusty window blinds through which the moonlight shone, the lamps with all their lightbulb sockets empty, the threadbare carpet, and the dead or barely living vermin that littered the carpet. Thus, I was afforded an interior view of the bungalow house by the voice on the tape, not a view from the exterior. Conversely, the houses I gazed upon with such intensity as I rode the bus to and from the library were seen by me only from an exterior perspective, their interiors being visible solely in my imagination. Of course my sense of these interiors, being entirely an imaginative projection, was highly vague, lacking the precise physical layout provided by the bungalow house audiotape. Similarly, the dreams I often had of these houses were highly vague. Yet the sensations and the mental state created by my imaginative projections into and my dreams of these houses perfectly corresponded to those I had experienced at Dalha’s art gallery when I listened to the tape entitled The Bungalow House. That feeling of being in a trance while occupying, all alone, the most bleak and pathetic surroundings of an old bungalow house was communicated to me in the most powerful way by the voice on the tape, which described a silent and secluded world where one existed in a state of abject hypnosis. While sitting on the floor of the art gallery listening to the voice as it spoke through those enormous headphones, I had the sense that I was not simply hearing the words of that dream monologue but also reading them. What I mean is that whenever I have the occasion to read words on a page, any words on any page, the voice that I hear saying these words in my head is always recognizable in some way as my own, even though the words are those of another. Perhaps it is even more accurate to say that whenever I read words on a page, the voice in my head is my own voice as it becomes merged (or lost) within the words that I am reading. Conversely, when I have the occasion to write words on a page, even a simple note or memo at the library, the voice that I hear dictating these words does not sound like my own – until, of course, I read the words back to myself, at which time everything is all right again. The bungalow house tape was the most dramatic example of this phenomenon I had ever known. Despite the poor overall quality of the recording, the distorted voice reading this dream monologue became merged (or lost) within my own perfectly clear voice in my head, even though I was listening to its words over a pair of enormous headphones and not reading the words on a page. As I rode the bus home from the library, observing street after street of houses so reminiscent of the one described on the tape-recorded dream monologue, I regretted not having acquired this artwork on the spot or at least discovered more about it from Dalha, who had been occupied with what seemed an unusual number of telephone calls that afternoon.
The following day at the library I was anxious for lunchtime to arrive so that I could get over to the art gallery and find out everything I possibly could about the bungalow house tape, as well as discuss terms for its acquisition. Entering the art gallery, I immediately looked toward the corner where the tape recorder had been set on the small plastic table the day before. For some reason I was relieved to find the exhibit still in place, as if any artwork in that gallery could possibly have come and gone in a single day. I walked over to the exhibit with the purpose of verifying that everything I had seen (and heard) the previous day was exactly as I remembered it. I checked that the audiocassette was still inside the recording machine and picked up the little business card on which the title of the exhibit was given, along with instructions for properly operating the tape-recorded artwork. It was then that I realized that this was a different card from the first one. Printed on this card was the title of a new artwork, which was called The Derelict Factory with a Dirt Floor and Voices.
While I was very excited to find a new work by this artist, I also felt intense apprehension at the absence of the bungalow house dream monologue, which I had planned to purchase with some extra money I brought with me to the art gallery that day. Just at that moment in which I experienced the dual sensations of excitement and apprehension, Dalha emerged from behind the curtain separating the back and front sections of the art gallery. I had intended to be thoroughly blasé in negotiating the purchase of the bungalow house artwork, but Dalha caught me off-guard in a state of disoriented conflict.
‘What happened to the bungalow house tape that was here yesterday?’ I asked, the tension in my voice betraying desires that were all to her advantage.
‘That’s gone now,’ she replied in a frigid tone as she walked slowly and pointlessly about the gallery, her emerald skirt and scarves dragging along the floor.
‘I don’t understand. It was an artwork exhibited on that small plastic table.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘Now, after only a single day on exhibit, it’s gone?’
‘Yes, it’s gone.’
‘Somebody bought it,’ I said, assuming the worst.
‘No,’ she said, ‘that one was not for sale. It was a performance piece. There was a charge, but you didn’t pay.’
A sickly confusion now became added to the excitement and disappointment already mingling inside me. ‘There was no notice of a charge for listening to the dream monologue,’ I insisted. ‘As far as I knew, as far as anyone could know, it was an item for sale like everything else in this place.’
‘The dream monologue, as you call it, was an exclusive piece. The charge was on the back of the card on which the title was written, just as the charge is on the back of that card you are holding in your hand.’
I turned the card to the reverse side, where the words ‘twenty-five dollars’ were written in the same hand that appeared on all the price tags around the gallery. Speaking in the tones of an outraged customer, I said to Dalha, ‘You wrote the price only on this card. There was nothing written on the bungalow house card.’ But even as I said these words I lacked the conviction that they were true. In any case, I knew that if I wanted to hear the tape recording about the derelict factory I would have to pay what I owed, or what Dalha claimed I owed, for listening to the bungalow house tape.
‘Here,’ I said, removing my wallet from my back pocket, ‘ten, twenty, twenty-five dollars for the bungalow house, and another twenty-five for listening to the tape now in the machine.’
Dalha stepped forward, took the fifty dollars I held out to her, and in her coldest voice said, ‘This only covers yesterday’s tape about the bungalow house, which was clearly priced at fifty dollars. You must still pay twenty-five dollars if you wish to listen to the tape today.’
‘But why should the bungalow house tape cost twenty-five dollars more than the tape about the derelict factory?’
‘That is simply because this is a less ambitious work than the one dealing with the bungalow house.’
In fact the tape recording entitled The Derelict Factory with a Dirt Floor and Voices was of shorter duration than The Bungalow House (Plus Silence), but I found it no less wonderful in picturing the same ‘infinite terror and dreariness.’ For approximately fifteen minutes (on my lunch break) I embraced the degraded beauty of the derelict factory – a narrow ruin that stood isolated upon a vast plain, its broken windows allowing only the most meager haze of moonlight to shine across its floor of hard-packed dirt where dead machinery lay buried in a grave of shadows and languished in the echoes of hollow, senseless voices. How utterly desolate, yet all the same wonderfully comforting, was the voice that communicated its message to me through the medium of a tape recording. To think that another person shared my love for the icy bleakness of things. The satisfaction I felt at hearing that monotonal and somewhat distorted voice speaking so intimately of scenes and sensations that perfectly echoed certain aspects of my own deepest nature – this was an experience that even then, as I sat on the floor of Dalha’s art gallery listening to the tape through enormous headphones, might have been heartbreaking. But I wanted to believe that the artist who created these dream monologues about the bungalow house and the derelict factory had not set out to break my heart or anyone’s heart. I wanted to believe that this artist had escaped the dreams and demons of all sentiment in order to explore the foul and crummy delights of a universe where everything had been reduced to three stark principles: first, that there was nowhere for you to go; second, that there was nothing for you to do; and third, that there was no one for you to know. Of course I knew that this view was an illusion like any other, but it was also one that had sustained me so long and so well – as long and as well as any other illusion and perhaps longer, perhaps better.
‘Dalha,’ I said when I had finished listening to the tape recording, ‘I want you to tell me what you know about the artist who made these dream monologues. He doesn’t even sign his works.’
From across the front section of the art gallery Dalha spoke to me in a strange, somewhat flustered voice. ‘Well, why should you be surprised that he doesn’t sign his name to his works – that’s how artists are these days. All over the place they are signing their works only with some idiotic symbol or a piece of chewing gum or just leaving them unsigned altogether. Why should you care what his name is? Why should I?’
‘Because,’ I answered, ‘perhaps I can persuade him to allow me to buy his works instead of sitting on the floor of your art gallery and renting these performances on my lunch break.’
‘So you want to cut me out entirely,’ Dalha shouted back in her old voice. ‘I am his dealer, I tell you, and anything he has to sell you will buy through me.’
‘I don’t know why you’re getting so upset,’ I said, standing up from the floor. ‘I’m willing to give you a percentage. All I ask is that you arrange something between myself and the artist.’
Dalha sat down in a chair next to the curtained doorway separating the front and back sections of the art gallery. She pulled her emerald shawl around herself and said, ‘Even if I wished to arrange something I could not do it. I have no idea what his name is myself. A few nights ago he walked up to me on the street while I was waiting for a cab to take me home.’
‘What does he look like?’ I had to ask at that moment.
‘It was late at night and I was drunk,’ Dalha replied, somehow evasively it seemed to me.
‘Was he a younger man, an older man?’
‘An older man, yes. Not very tall, with bushy white hair like a professor of some kind. And he said that he wanted to have an artwork of his delivered to my gallery. I explained to him my usual terms as best I could, since I was so drunk. He agreed and then walked off down the street. And that’s not the best part of town to be walking around all by yourself. Well, the next day a package arrived with the tape-recording machine and so forth. There were also some instructions which explained that I should destroy each of the audiotapes before I leave the art gallery at the end of the day, and that a new tape would arrive the following day and each day thereafter. No return address is provided on these packages.’
‘And did you destroy the bungalow house tape?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ said Dalha with some exasperation, but also with insistence. ‘What do I care about some crazy artist’s work or how he conducts his career? Besides, he guaranteed I would make some money on the deal, and here I am already with seventy-five dollars.’ ‘So why not sell me this dream monologue about the derelict factory? I won’t say anything.’
Dalha was quiet for a moment, and then said, ‘He told me that if I didn’t destroy the tapes each day he would know about it and that he would do something. I’ve forgotten exactly what he said, I was so drunk that night.’
‘But how could he know?’ I asked, and in reply Dalha just stared at me in silence. ‘All right, all right,’ I said. ‘But I still want you to make an arrangement. You have his money for the bungalow house tape and the tape about the derelict factory. If he’s any kind of artist, he’ll want to be paid. When he gets in touch with you, that’s when you make the arrangement for me. I won’t cheat you out of your percentage. I give you my word on that.’
‘Whatever that’s worth,’ Dalha said bitterly.
But she did agree that she would try to arrange something between myself and the tape-recording artist. I left the art gallery immediately after these negotiations, before Dalha could have any second thoughts. That afternoon, while I was working in the Language and Literature department of the library, I could think about nothing but the derelict factory that was so enticingly pictured on the new audiotape. The bus that takes me to and from the library each day of the working week always passes such a structure, which stands isolated in the distance just as the artist described it in his dream monologue.
That night I slept badly, thrashing about in my bed, not quite asleep and not quite awake. At times I had the feeling there was someone else in my bedroom who was talking to me, but of course I could not deal with this perception in any realistic way, since I was half-asleep and half-awake, and thus, for all practical purposes, I was out my mind.
Around three o’clock in the morning the telephone rang. In the darkness I reached for my eyeglasses, which were on the nightstand next to the telephone, and noted the luminous face of my alarm clock. I cleared my throat and said hello. The voice on the other end was Dalha’s.
‘I talked to him,’ she said.
‘Where did you talk to him?’ I asked. ‘On the street?’
‘No, no, not on the street,’ she said, giggling a little. I think she must have been drunk. ‘He called me on the telephone.’
‘He called you on the telephone?’ I repeated, imagining for a moment what it would be like to have the voice of that artist speak to me over the telephone and not merely on a recorded audiotape.
‘Yes, he called me on the telephone.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Well, I could tell you if you would stop asking so many questions.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It was only a few minutes ago that he called. He said that he would meet you tomorrow at the library where you work.’
‘You told him about me?’ I asked, and then there was a long silence. ‘Dalha?’ I prompted.
‘I told him that you wanted to buy his tape recordings. That’s all.’
‘Then how did he know that I worked at the library?’
‘Ask him yourself. I have no idea. I’ve done my part.’
Then Dahla said good-bye and hung up before I could say good-bye back to her.
After talking to Dalha I found it impossible to sleep anymore that night, even if it was only a state of half-sleeping and half-waking.
All I could think about was meeting the artist of the dream monologues. So I got myself ready to go to work, rushing as if I were late, and walked up to the corner of my street to wait for the bus.
It was very cold as I sat waiting in the bus shelter. There was a sliver of moon high in the blackness above, with several hours remaining before sunrise. Somehow I felt that I was waiting for the bus on the first day of a new school year, since after all the month was September, and I was so filled with both fear and excitement. When the bus finally arrived I saw that there were only a few other early risers headed for downtown. I took one of the back seats and stared out the window, my own face staring back at me in black reflection.
At the next shelter we approached I noticed that another lone bus rider was seated on the bench waiting to be picked up. His clothes were dark-colored (including a long, loose overcoat and hat), and he sat up very straight, his arms held close to his body and his hands resting on his lap. His head was slightly bowed, and I could not see the face beneath his hat. His physical attitude, I thought to myself as we approached the lighted bus shelter, was one of disciplined repose. I was surprised that he did not stand up as the bus came nearer to the shelter, and ultimately we passed him by. I wanted to say something to the driver of the bus but a strong feeling of both fear and excitement made me keep my silence.
The bus finally dropped me off in front of the library, and I ran up the tiered stairway that led to the main entrance. Through the thick glass doors I could see that only a few lights illuminated the spacious interior of the library. After rapping on the glass for a few moments I saw a figure dressed in a maintenance man’s uniform appear in the shadowy distance inside the building. I rapped some more and the man slowly proceeded down the library’s vaulted central hallway.
‘Good morning, Henry,’ I said as the door opened.
‘Hello, sir,’ he replied without standing aside to allow my entrance to the library. ‘You know I’m not supposed to open these doors before it’s time for them to be open.’
‘I’m a little early, I realize, but I’m sure it will be all right to let me inside. I work here, after all.’
‘I know you do, sir. But a few days ago I got talked to about these doors being open when they shouldn’t be. It’s because of the stolen property.’
‘What property is that, Henry? Books?’
‘No, sir. I think it was something from the media department. Maybe a video camera or a tape recorder. I don’t know exactly.’
‘Well, you have my word – just let me through the door and I’ll go right upstairs to my desk. I’ve got a lot of work to do today.’
Henry eventually obliged my request, and I did as I told him I would do.
The library was a great building as a whole, but the Language and Literature department (second floor) was located in a relatively small area – narrow and long with a high ceiling and a row of tall, paned windows along one wall. The other walls were lined with books, and most of the floor space was devoted to long study tables. For the most part, though, the room in which I worked was fairly open from end to end. Two large archways led to other parts of the library, and a normal-sized doorway led to the stacks where most of the bibliographic holdings were stored, millions of volumes standing silent and out of sight along endless rows of shelves. In the pre-dawn darkness the true dimensions of the Language and Literature department were now obscure. Only the moon shining high in the blackness through those tall windows revealed to me the location of my desk, which was in the middle of the long narrow room. I found my way over to my desk and switched on the small lamp that years ago I had brought from home. (Not that I required the added illumination as I worked at my desk at the library, but I did enjoy the bleakly old-fashioned appearance of this object.) For a moment I thought of the bungalow house where none of the lamps were equipped with lightbulbs and moonlight shone through the windows upon a carpet littered with vermin. Somehow I was unable to call up the special sensations and mental state that I associated with this dream monologue, even though my present situation of being alone in the Language and Literature department some hours before dawn was intensely dreamlike.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat down at my desk as if I were beginning my normal workday. It was then that I noticed a large envelope lying on top of my desk, although I could not recall its being there when I left the library the day before. The envelope looked old and faded under the dim light of the desk lamp. There was no writing on either side of the envelope, which was bulging slightly and had been sealed.
‘Who’s there?’ a voice called out that barely sounded like my own. I had seen something out of the corner of my eye while examining the envelope at my desk. I cleared my throat. ‘Henry?’ I asked the darkness without looking up from my desk or turning to either side. No answer was offered in reply, but I could feel that someone else had joined me in the Language and Literature department of the library. I slowly turned my head to the right and focused on the archway some distance across the room. At the center of this aperture, which led to another room where moonlight shone through tall, paned windows, stood a figure in silhouette. I could not see his face but immediately recognized the long, loose overcoat and hat. It was indeed the statue-like individual whom I had seen in the bus shelter as I rode to the library in the pre-dawn darkness. Now he was there to meet me that day in the library, as he had told Dalha he would do. At that moment it seemed beside the point to ask how he had gotten into the library or even to bother about introductions. I simply launched into a monologue that I had been constantly rehearsing since Dalha telephoned me earlier that morning.
‘I’ve been wanting to meet you,’ I started. ‘Your dream monologues, which is what I call them, have impressed me very much. That is to say, your artworks are like nothing else I have ever experienced, either artistically or extra-artistically. It seems incredible to me how well you have expressed subject matter with which I myself am intimately familiar. Of course, I am not referring to the subject matter as such – the bungalow house and so on – except as it calls forth your underlying vision of things. When – in your tape-recorded monologues – your voice speaks such phrases as “infinite terror and dreariness” or “ceaseless negation of color and life,” I believe that my response is exactly that which you intend for those who experience your artworks.’
I continued in this vein for a while longer, speaking to the silhouette of someone who betrayed no sign that he heard anything I said. At some point, however, my monologue veered off in a direction I had not intended it to take. Suddenly I began to say things that had nothing to do with what I had said before and that even contradicted my former statements.

How do I fix this? As soon as I apply cheats in Retroarch the game crashes instantly every time. Playing Pokemon Emerald on a PS Classic. Master code is not enabled, only code I have "on" is for unlimited money.

Reggie Bush is getting his Heisman back. That's fine, but it misses the point. The fact is, however, that Reggie was not a victim of unfair treatment. He knew the rules. He chose to break them. He went out of his way to hide his actions, from his coaches, USC, the NCAA and even federal law enforcement.
The NCAA couldn't really do much to Bush himself, so they took it out on USC's athletic program and our football program in particular nearly a decade after Bush played his last game. That is the injustice we should care about. The Trojan teams that were not bowl eligible despite never having even played with Bush. The countless high school athletes whose scholarships were lost. The vacated wins and * seasons from the program that Bush participated in. Those are the real victims.
If you're not familiar with how unfair the NCAA response to Reggie Bush's actions was to USC, here's a refresher I wrote after reading the actual infractions report in 2010 when the sanctions were handed down.
TL:DR version: If this was all the NCAA could find after 5 years and the help of the FBI, how was USC supposed to have known about any of this. The sanctions for institutional violations were terribly unjust.
Disclaimer: I have little doubt that Reggie Bush was on the take. If the claims contained in the NCAA Report are even a fraction true, he was knowingly and willfully violating NCAA rules by asking for cash, cars, lodging and other obviously inappropriate benefits. You will not find an apology for Reggie Bush here. He was on track to make millions and he couldn’t wait for 12 more months. He got greedy and impatient. Sure he was young, and his scumbag, sleezeball step-father LaMar Griffin was a corrupting influence, but his actions to cover it up indicate that he knew right from wrong, and he made an active decision to violate the rules.
Unfortunately, the NCAA can’t touch Reggie Bush. They can’t touch his scumbag, sleezeball step-father LaMar Griffin, or any of the unscrupulous prospective agents who were involved. No laws were broken, just the rules of the NCAA, and none of the perpetrators have any more ties to the NCAA.
So the only avenue for punishment is the institution of USC, more than half a decade after the violations took place and after almost everyone who was involved has moved on. It’s the punishment of the institution that I’ve got problems with. This seems a little bit like punishing mom and dad because junior cheats on a test in school.
See, that’s the real issue here – not whether mom and dad Bush took money, but whether USC’s Athletics Program had some responsibility to know about it. What level of internal enforcement is an academic institution required to take? Should they hire private investigators to stake out anyone who interacts with an athlete?
So let’s review the facts.
1) The Football Violations Were Perpetrated by Reggie Bush and his family; Not USC
Finding B-1-a-(1) addresses an agreement between third parties to form a sports agency. Reggie Bush is implicated by circumstantial evidence.
Finding B-1-a-(2) is about impermissible payments to Reggie Bush’s family, including his scumbag, sleezeball step-father LaMar Griffin.
Finding B-1-a-(3) is about travel for Reggie Bush’s family.
Finding B-1-a-(4) is about Reggie Bush’s new car, although the cash was provided to his parents, who then paid for the car.
… and on and on through B-1-a(12). Each instance is a benefit received by Reggie Bush (usually indirectly, or in cash) or his family. And again, I’m not saying Reggie Bush is innocent; it looks like he’s guilty as O.J…
So the question is, did USC know, or should they have known?
2) The Conspirators Went to Great Lengths to Hide Their Actions
It seems clear that Reggie Bush and the merry band of criminals knew they were breaking the rules and took extreme measures to cover their tracks.

During subsequent conversations, agency partner A and student-athlete 1 agreed that everything would be done with cash and that the student-athlete’s name would not appear on any documents. By dealing in cash and thus avoiding a “paper trail,” they believed they could insulate student-athlete 1 from any entanglement in institutional, conference or NCAA violations should there be any questions about the agency. (USC Public Infractions Report, p. 9)

Deals were brokered in cash, using intermediaries including Reggie Bush’s family, friends and girlfriends, off-the-books bank accounts. None of the parties involved were registered agents or had any professional athletes as clients; in fact they had a pre-existing relationship with the Bush family since they had attended the same high school in San Diego.
So the question is, was USC supposed to have known what was going on? Keep in mind that it took the NCAA more than five years to put the story together. And that’s with the help of the freaking FBI, cooperative witnesses, hearings, testimony and of course an army of investigative reporters helping uncover the truth. Five years! Is it really reasonable to expect that USC should have known what was going on while it was happening and all of the conspirators were still working very hard to keep it a secret?
3) So what did USC know, and when?
The only evidence that I can find in this report is on page 23:

At least by January 8, 2006, the assistant football coach had knowledge that student-athlete 1 and agency partners A and B likely were engaged in NCAA violations. At 1:34 a.m. he had a telephone conversation for two minutes and 23 seconds with agency partner A during which agency partner A attempted to get the assistant football coach to convince student-athlete 1 either to adhere to the agency agreement or reimburse agency partners A and B for money provided to student-athlete 1 and his family. Further, during his September 19, 2006, and February 15, 2008, interviews with the enforcement staff, the assistant football coach violated NCAA ethical conduct legislation by providing false and misleading information regarding his knowledge of this telephone call and the NCAA violations associated with it. The assistant football coach failed to alert the institution’s compliance staff of this information and later attested falsely, through his signature on a certifying statement, that he had no knowledge of NCAA violations.

After this call, apparently the assistant called Bush and they spoke for 13 minutes. This looks bad. Okay, USC screwed up. If this happened, and there’s no reason to think it didn’t, USC screwed up and deserves punishment. But the loss of 30 scholarships and a 2-year bowl ban is a bit extreme. Let’s review a time line.

• December 2005 – The bad things start to happen.
• January 4, 2006 – Reggie Bush plays his final game as a USC Trojan – the Rose Bowl loss to Texas. He would publically announce his intention to skip his senior year to go to the NFL about a week later.
• January 8, 2006 – An assistant coach gets the call above.

So the NCAA proves that an assistant coach apparently finds out something is fishy four days after Reggie Bush’s college career ends. And in the content of a 143-second conversation, he is apparently supposed to now be aware of a situation that it takes the NCAA 67 pages to explain?
The NCAA Report goes on to allege apriori knowledge of violations by tangeantly suggesting that the assistant coach knew of the would-be agent’s existence (they ultimately admit that there isn’t enough evidence for an “unethical conduct finding”). I think this line of attack misses the mark; just because the assistant coach knew that the third-party existed doesn’t require that he knew that there were ongoing violations. Remember none of the participants were registered agents, and there was that pre-existing relationship which would explain away any interactions that USC became aware of.
Still, if the assistant coach lied, USC isn’t innocent and deserves punishment. It’s the severity of the punishment that I think is unfair.
4) Did USC do bad?
The simple answer to this question is yes. Finding B-2-a indicates that the USC Athletics department helped arrange paid internships for student athletes (gasp!). USC had too many coaches between August 8 and December 11 in 2008 when they hired a “consultant” to help review tapes and offer input (gasp!). A local restaurant owner (aka booster) apparently contacted possible recruits (gasp!). It also appears that Joe McKnight was on the take – although to a much lesser degree – and when USC found out they didn’t clear him to fumble play in the Emerald Bowl.
So yes, USC isn’t perfect. But given a big enough microscope, I submit that not a single football program would withstand the scrutiny of perfection. This isn’t to say USC shouldn’t be punished. But the punishment should be fair.
Conclusion
It should come as no shock at all that the NCAA is willing to forgo fairness to make a point. While I can respect the goals of amateur athletics, the sanctions against USC’s football program are vindictive and unwarranted. The Institution is being punished for the actions of others; actions it is completely unreasonable for them to have known about.
They are punishing today’s athletes, many of whom weren’t even in high school when Reggie Bush was playing.
While USC Athletics aren’t perfect, it’s not the villain either. Ultimately, we may never know what really happened (and I admit, there is some pretty suspicious circumstantial evidence in the report), but what we do know is that the wrong people are being punished for what appears to be the hypothetical worst-case scenario. That’s not justice.
In the legal system, you don’t get to “make an example” of someone. I understand that the NCAA isn’t part of our legal system, but that doesn’t mean it should ignore a good idea. Enforcing rules by over-punishing a fraction of offenders is inherently unjust. If they NCAA is serious about enforcing its rules, they should be applied fairly across the board, not just harshly in the high-profile cases.
Finally, USC is bigger than our football team. We’re bigger than our basketball team. While this situation sucks, it’s not the end of the world. And just remember, when the haters suggest that we cheated, not a single one of the NCAA rules violations gave an athlete a performance enhancement of any kind. We still whooped butt on the field, and intercollegiate sporting organizations aside, that’s what really matters.
You can take our stats. But you can’t take our wins.

Reggie Bush is getting his Heisman back. That's fine, but it misses the point. The fact is, however, that Reggie was not a victim of unfair treatment. He knew the rules. He chose to break them. He went out of his way to hide his actions, from his coaches, USC, the NCAA and even federal law enforcement.
The NCAA couldn't really do much to Bush himself, so they took it out on USC's athletic program and our football program in particular nearly a decade after Bush played his last game. That is the injustice we should care about. The Trojan teams that were not bowl eligible despite never having even played with Bush. The countless high school athletes whose scholarships were lost. The vacated wins and * seasons from the program that Bush participated in. Those are the real victims.
If you're not familiar with how unfair the NCAA response to Reggie Bush's actions was to USC, here's a refresher I wrote after reading the actual infractions report in 2010 when the sanctions were handed down.
TL:DR version: If this was all the NCAA could find after 5 years and the help of the FBI, how was USC supposed to have known about any of this. The sanctions for institutional violations were terribly unjust.
Disclaimer: I have little doubt that Reggie Bush was on the take. If the claims contained in the NCAA Report are even a fraction true, he was knowingly and willfully violating NCAA rules by asking for cash, cars, lodging and other obviously inappropriate benefits. You will not find an apology for Reggie Bush here. He was on track to make millions and he couldn’t wait for 12 more months. He got greedy and impatient. Sure he was young, and his scumbag, sleezeball step-father LaMar Griffin was a corrupting influence, but his actions to cover it up indicate that he knew right from wrong, and he made an active decision to violate the rules.
Unfortunately, the NCAA can’t touch Reggie Bush. They can’t touch his scumbag, sleezeball step-father LaMar Griffin, or any of the unscrupulous prospective agents who were involved. No laws were broken, just the rules of the NCAA, and none of the perpetrators have any more ties to the NCAA.
So the only avenue for punishment is the institution of USC, more than half a decade after the violations took place and after almost everyone who was involved has moved on. It’s the punishment of the institution that I’ve got problems with. This seems a little bit like punishing mom and dad because junior cheats on a test in school.
See, that’s the real issue here – not whether mom and dad Bush took money, but whether USC’s Athletics Program had some responsibility to know about it. What level of internal enforcement is an academic institution required to take? Should they hire private investigators to stake out anyone who interacts with an athlete?
So let’s review the facts.
1) The Football Violations Were Perpetrated by Reggie Bush and his family; Not USC
Finding B-1-a-(1) addresses an agreement between third parties to form a sports agency. Reggie Bush is implicated by circumstantial evidence.
Finding B-1-a-(2) is about impermissible payments to Reggie Bush’s family, including his scumbag, sleezeball step-father LaMar Griffin.
Finding B-1-a-(3) is about travel for Reggie Bush’s family.
Finding B-1-a-(4) is about Reggie Bush’s new car, although the cash was provided to his parents, who then paid for the car.
… and on and on through B-1-a(12). Each instance is a benefit received by Reggie Bush (usually indirectly, or in cash) or his family. And again, I’m not saying Reggie Bush is innocent; it looks like he’s guilty as O.J…
So the question is, did USC know, or should they have known?
2) The Conspirators Went to Great Lengths to Hide Their Actions
It seems clear that Reggie Bush and the merry band of criminals knew they were breaking the rules and took extreme measures to cover their tracks.

During subsequent conversations, agency partner A and student-athlete 1 agreed that everything would be done with cash and that the student-athlete’s name would not appear on any documents. By dealing in cash and thus avoiding a “paper trail,” they believed they could insulate student-athlete 1 from any entanglement in institutional, conference or NCAA violations should there be any questions about the agency. (USC Public Infractions Report, p. 9)

Deals were brokered in cash, using intermediaries including Reggie Bush’s family, friends and girlfriends, off-the-books bank accounts. None of the parties involved were registered agents or had any professional athletes as clients; in fact they had a pre-existing relationship with the Bush family since they had attended the same high school in San Diego.
So the question is, was USC supposed to have known what was going on? Keep in mind that it took the NCAA more than five years to put the story together. And that’s with the help of the freaking FBI, cooperative witnesses, hearings, testimony and of course an army of investigative reporters helping uncover the truth. Five years! Is it really reasonable to expect that USC should have known what was going on while it was happening and all of the conspirators were still working very hard to keep it a secret?
3) So what did USC know, and when?
The only evidence that I can find in this report is on page 23:

At least by January 8, 2006, the assistant football coach had knowledge that student-athlete 1 and agency partners A and B likely were engaged in NCAA violations. At 1:34 a.m. he had a telephone conversation for two minutes and 23 seconds with agency partner A during which agency partner A attempted to get the assistant football coach to convince student-athlete 1 either to adhere to the agency agreement or reimburse agency partners A and B for money provided to student-athlete 1 and his family. Further, during his September 19, 2006, and February 15, 2008, interviews with the enforcement staff, the assistant football coach violated NCAA ethical conduct legislation by providing false and misleading information regarding his knowledge of this telephone call and the NCAA violations associated with it. The assistant football coach failed to alert the institution’s compliance staff of this information and later attested falsely, through his signature on a certifying statement, that he had no knowledge of NCAA violations.

After this call, apparently the assistant called Bush and they spoke for 13 minutes. This looks bad. Okay, USC screwed up. If this happened, and there’s no reason to think it didn’t, USC screwed up and deserves punishment. But the loss of 30 scholarships and a 2-year bowl ban is a bit extreme. Let’s review a time line.

• December 2005 – The bad things start to happen.
• January 4, 2006 – Reggie Bush plays his final game as a USC Trojan – the Rose Bowl loss to Texas. He would publically announce his intention to skip his senior year to go to the NFL about a week later.
• January 8, 2006 – An assistant coach gets the call above.

So the NCAA proves that an assistant coach apparently finds out something is fishy four days after Reggie Bush’s college career ends. And in the content of a 143-second conversation, he is apparently supposed to now be aware of a situation that it takes the NCAA 67 pages to explain?
The NCAA Report goes on to allege apriori knowledge of violations by tangeantly suggesting that the assistant coach knew of the would-be agent’s existence (they ultimately admit that there isn’t enough evidence for an “unethical conduct finding”). I think this line of attack misses the mark; just because the assistant coach knew that the third-party existed doesn’t require that he knew that there were ongoing violations. Remember none of the participants were registered agents, and there was that pre-existing relationship which would explain away any interactions that USC became aware of.
Still, if the assistant coach lied, USC isn’t innocent and deserves punishment. It’s the severity of the punishment that I think is unfair.
4) Did USC do bad?
The simple answer to this question is yes. Finding B-2-a indicates that the USC Athletics department helped arrange paid internships for student athletes (gasp!). USC had too many coaches between August 8 and December 11 in 2008 when they hired a “consultant” to help review tapes and offer input (gasp!). A local restaurant owner (aka booster) apparently contacted possible recruits (gasp!). It also appears that Joe McKnight was on the take – although to a much lesser degree – and when USC found out they didn’t clear him to fumble play in the Emerald Bowl.
So yes, USC isn’t perfect. But given a big enough microscope, I submit that not a single football program would withstand the scrutiny of perfection. This isn’t to say USC shouldn’t be punished. But the punishment should be fair.
Conclusion
It should come as no shock at all that the NCAA is willing to forgo fairness to make a point. While I can respect the goals of amateur athletics, the sanctions against USC’s football program are vindictive and unwarranted. The Institution is being punished for the actions of others; actions it is completely unreasonable for them to have known about.
They are punishing today’s athletes, many of whom weren’t even in high school when Reggie Bush was playing.
While USC Athletics aren’t perfect, it’s not the villain either. Ultimately, we may never know what really happened (and I admit, there is some pretty suspicious circumstantial evidence in the report), but what we do know is that the wrong people are being punished for what appears to be the hypothetical worst-case scenario. That’s not justice.
In the legal system, you don’t get to “make an example” of someone. I understand that the NCAA isn’t part of our legal system, but that doesn’t mean it should ignore a good idea. Enforcing rules by over-punishing a fraction of offenders is inherently unjust. If they NCAA is serious about enforcing its rules, they should be applied fairly across the board, not just harshly in the high-profile cases.
Finally, USC is bigger than our football team. We’re bigger than our basketball team. While this situation sucks, it’s not the end of the world. And just remember, when the haters suggest that we cheated, not a single one of the NCAA rules violations gave an athlete a performance enhancement of any kind. We still whooped butt on the field, and intercollegiate sporting organizations aside, that’s what really matters.
You can take our stats. But you can’t take our wins.

I’ve recently started playing an Emerald ROM and have been using cheats to force shiny spawns, but I’ve noticed something odd.
Every pokemon I encounter when the cheat is on is female as well. I know it’s the shiny cheat as whenever I also have the cheat to force the pokemon to be male on, the game slows down and the pokemon spawns as a non shiny male.
It’s not a deal breaker, but I was just curious if anyone has an idea as to why this is happening. I’m playing using Delta on iOS.

Can anyone help ive been trying to use cheats on Pokemon emerald in the ios app and nothing has been working

I'm currently Emerald 1/2. Today, since my usual teammates were unavailable, I played with some people from the R6 Discord. I teamed up with two others, also Emerald 1 and one Diamond 1. Right from the start, I noticed that they seemed to have too much information. They knew the locations of roaming players, all gadget placements, and even when they were dead, they continued to call out the exact positions of enemies, the locations of Frost mats, kapkans trap etc. During defense, they knew where the opponents would push and what operators they were using without having to check the cameras.
At the beginning of a round, one of them asked his friend how to activate the gadget display on R6 Tracker, so he could see how many gadgets he had supposedly destroyed. That was when I realized they were likely using wall hacks.
Is this normal? Because it seems just ridiculous to me.
Additionally, it seems like Ubisoft might struggle to combat these types of cheaters who "legit cheat." They don't make it obvious but rather use wall hacks discreetly to gather information, which makes it hard to detect and address.

Hello, I'm starting playing Nuzlokes on an emulator to pass the time. I don't mind using the Fast Forward, but it gets really annoying if i want to reach the level cap for a certain gym.
Are there any Cheats that i can use to gain EXP to a certain lvl? Like i beat a wild pokemon and while pressing, for example, R, it gets infinity exp points while i hold it?
The multipliers work well too (and i found them for the games im looking for), but the fact that i must be checking and controlling the multiplier to not traspassing the limit.
I don't know if it exists something like this. Or even for certain game, but I'm looking for a cheat like this for Platinum, Heartgold, Black, White 2, emerald and Fire red. I don't know if it affects, but the version affects too? Like a code like this might not work for an Australian or American version vs an European one?

The day this all started seemed as boring and mundane as any other. My wife, Sarah, and I were going to the movies to see a comedy that she was interested in, and that I was not. We had driven across the city and parked in an overpriced parking lot, stepping over the sleeping forms of filthy homeless people and the used needles and cigarette butts that littered the sidewalks here. I was listening to Sarah talk about the recent rise of “gutter oil” and “spit oil” in China, both horrifying topics in their own right.
As Sarah went on to explain to me, gutter oil was when restaurants in China scooped up the vegetable oil from the trash cans out back of the restaurant. They would use the filthy, carcinogen-ridden oil to cook food for new customers.
Spit oil was when Chinese restaurants would just take the broth from bowls where customers had finished eating and reheat it. They would then pour the reused “spit oil” broth into new bowls with fresh pieces of meat and vegetables added and serve it to the next customer. This was broth that someone else, a total stranger, was just drooling into.
“It’s so disgusting,” Sarah said over the din of contrast traffic as she brushed a lock of hair the color of chestnuts behind her ear. The crosswalk turned green and we started ahead with Sarah in the lead. “It shows that China really is just a paper tiger, at least in terms of its economy. The people are so desperate they’re…”
I saw a blur of something pale behind us, something tall and spidery that slunk through the crowd. I quickly spun my head, but I only saw groups of people milling around. I wondered if I was hallucinating for a moment.
“Are you listening to me?” Sarah said, and I saw she was looking at me now with a queer expression on her face. Her eyes always reminded me of emeralds, the way the green irises sparkled. I shook my head.
“I thought I saw something,” I murmured as we pushed our way through the crowd and into the movie theater. We waited in line and bought our tickets. Everything seemed normal enough. I kept thinking back to that glimpse I had of the pale creature skittering through the city with its thin, jointed legs. I had never seen anything like that before, not even in my nightmares. I shuddered.
“This is our theater,” Sarah said. I followed her, silent. I felt off-balance, though little did I know that things were about to get much worse. I looked down at my arms, seeing goosebumps rise all over my skin. Everything felt freezing cold as we walked through the door into black hall parallel to the stairs in the theater.
The door closed behind me, but everything seemed wrong. There was no light coming from the front of the movie theater. No film was playing on the screen, if indeed there was a screen at all, because all I could see here was total blackness, as if we had walked into an abyss. I didn’t hear the chattering of the crowd in the seats, either. In that endless void, only the breathing of myself and Sarah rang out along with my thudding heartbeat.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shattering the silence. I took out my cell phone and turned it on, shining it around. Sarah stood in front of me, but we weren’t in the movie theater anymore.
It looked like we were standing in some sort of empty warehouse with concrete floors disappearing into the distance all around us. Deep cracks spiderwebbed their way through the floor. The walls, too, were the same bare, gray concrete. They rose high into the air, and my phone’s dim light couldn’t penetrate deep enough to find any ceiling. The air here felt cold, and the wind constantly whipped through, as if we were standing on top of a mountain.
Sarah took out her phone, too. Her eyes gleamed with panic. I turned, looking for the door we had just come through. It was there, and relief filled my heart. It looked different, cracked and ancient, the wood splintering down the middle in a jagged, lightning-bolt pattern, but it was there.
“Did we go through the wrong door or something?” Sarah whispered in a small, frightened voice. “I’m so confused right now. That was our theater, wasn’t it?” I ignored her and ran forwards, flinging the ancient door open. On the other side, though, I didn’t see the red carpeted hall for the movie theater or the cheesy posters lining its walls.
“No, it wasn’t the wrong door,” I whispered, horrified. “Something’s happened. Something bad. I don’t know what it is, but…” My voice trailed off as, side by side, we stared out into the strange world waiting before us. We each took a step outside onto the surface of the alien planet.
The nighttime sky swirled above us, blood-red and bursting with lightning that sizzled through the clouds. It whirled like a hurricane, meeting in a black eye that bubbled over with thick clouds of fiery smoke that blew across the landscape in suffocating torrents. The ground was covered in layers of fine, glossy sand that looked like obsidian.
The building we stood in stretched far above our heads, appearing hundreds of stories tall. It was of a sheer, brutalist architecture composed of thick walls of cement with no windows. The top of it disappeared in the impenetrable mist of the bloody clouds. It had only one single door on this wall as far as I could see, a wall which stretched out for what looked like thousands of feet in each direction. It almost appeared like an optical illusion with the smooth, gray concrete disappearing off in the distance. It looked like a windowless gray warehouse in my mind, though perhaps, in hindsight, it was really more of a prison.
Throughout the massive chamber of the warehouse, there was a white glare that continuously cut out and turned back on every few seconds. Hanging down on cables hundreds of feet long stood thousands of flickering fluorescent lights. They strobed on and off with an incessant tinking, pinging sound.
“So much for going back the way we came,” I said, shaking my head grimly. “Am I dead right now? Are we in Hell or something?” Sarah gave a short bark of sarcastic laughter that sounded far too loud in the eerie setting. It looked like some endless, empty warehouse built on an alien planet.
“I’ve heard of stories like this,” she whispered, her face pale and covered in sweat, her eyes wide and dilated. “Some people call it no-clipping. I thought it was all a bunch of bullshit, but how else could you explain this? It’s like we accidentally went through the wrong door into another world.”
“No-clipping?” I asked. I would’ve laughed if I weren’t petrified with terror. “That’s from some 90’s videogames, I think Doom and Duke Nukem. It’s just a cheat code that allows you to walk through walls.”
“It’s just what people call it,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I didn’t make it up.”
“I think it’s more likely someone drugged us or something,” I said. “Or probably just me. I bet you’re not even real. Maybe I’m just talking to myself, drooling on the floor somewhere with a dart of bromo-dragonFLY sticking out of my back.”
Sarah looked out onto the alien landscape and the black volcanic sands that stretched off as far as the eye could see. The swirling of the clouds in the sky seemed to grow faster. They threw off rusty streaks of bloody light that flashed in regular intervals and lit up the world with a blinding crimson radiance.
At first, I thought it had started to rain outside. I saw drops of what looked like luminescent, orange-red hail falling from the sky and raining down on the black sands below. But as it rapidly grew closer with a roaring like a tornado, I realized the sky was raining drops of liquid magma. They sizzled and popped as they fell through the air in a fiery blur. The earth greedily sucked the molten lava into its dark skin. A smell like matches and campfire smoke filled the area as clouds of choking black smoke rose high into the air.
“No, it’s real,” Sarah exclaimed in a horrified voice as she quickly backpedaled away from the door and the approaching showers of lava. “It’s coming towards us! Close the door! Close it, close it!” But my body felt sluggish and faraway. Nothing seemed to be reacting like it should. I could only stare at the flames as they filled the world with their sizzling radiance, fifty feet away, then thirty, then ten.
Sarah grabbed my shoulder, snapping me out of reverie. I stumbled back inside the warehouse and slammed the ancient-looking door closed behind me. The roar of the fire continued outside, smashing against the roof high above our heads with a sound like a hurricane. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t hear my own voice over the ear-splitting cacophony.
The fluorescent lights high above us with their cords like endless snakes stopped their flickering at that moment, shutting off abruptly and plunging us into total darkness. The sound of a siren started from all around us, ringing out from the walls and floor of the giant concrete structure itself. It reminded me of a tornado siren, rising and falling in an eerie, ghostly moan as if the spirits of the dead were themselves wailing in agony.
We took out our cellphones, shining the lights out in front of us. The bouncing shadows went skittering out across the smooth concrete floor. We stood there, huddled together and terrified.
“You know what this reminds me of?” I whispered. The firestorm had passed overhead, and though the reverberations of the molten drops hitting the roof still echoed across the endless chamber, the sound had grown faded and distant as the storm continued off into the distance.
“I heard a case in Hungary where a schoolbus full of kids were traveling in the absolute middle of nowhere. Apparently, the few people who lived in the area saw a bright light in the sky and heard an explosion. Later on, someone found the schoolbus, but all the kids and the bus driver had disappeared- except for two twin girls. But you know what the strangest part is? Both of the girls claimed they didn’t have any siblings, that they had no twins and that they had no idea who the other person was.” Sarah covered her face with her hands.
“That doesn’t help us at all,” she said, shaking her head.
“What if this kind of stuff happens all the time, though?” I continued. “What if those kids ended up in a place like this? What if they just fell through a doorway into another reality or were taken…”
“So who was the real twin? I don’t get it,” she said.
“I don’t know. Maybe neither of them. I think you’re missing the point here. Maybe there’s other people here. Maybe there’s another way back to the regular world. If there’s a doorway here, then there must be another doorway that leads back somewhere, right? Maybe there’s hundreds of doorways that lead into this place. Maybe there’s millions,” I said. Sarah opened her mouth to say something when the siren started again, followed by a deep man’s voice. He spoke like a radio broadcaster announcing a terrorist attack, using a grim, emotionless tone.
“Alert: the dead things are crawling. Alert: level five firestorm in progress. Alert: the dead things are crawling. Alert: level five firestorm is approaching in your direction. Please seek cover immediately. Remain in hiding until the danger has passed.
“Alert: the dead are rising. Alert: the dead are rising. Please take shelter immediately,” the voice repeated. The siren wail rang out for a couple seconds, and then the message started repeating again. It sounded like there were speakers built into the walls and floor of the structure all around us, but I saw no vents, no boxes or wires. The lights far overhead flickered in time with the booming alert. After about thirty seconds, the voice abruptly cut out in the middle of its sentence.
“Emergency alert: the dead are rising. Emergen-SEE alllllllllll….” it droned on before the alert and the lights both cut out at the same time. There was a whining sound as if countless hidden fans were slowly whirring to a stop. I looked over at Sarah with a panicked expression. But as I opened my mouth to say something, the booming voice gave one last deep, drawn-out warning.
“Look… behind… you…” it hissed as it deepened into something inhuman, something demonic and brimming with evil.
***
My heart felt like a block of ice as I spun on my heels, raising my phone’s light in front of me like a shield. Sarah’s face had gone pale and she wavered on her feet, looking as if she might pass out. The darkness pressed in on all sides, but the voice had been right. We weren’t alone anymore. Something that looked like an old woman stood there only a few feet away, but everything about her looked wrong.
She had a face as white as burning desert sands. Wrapped around her body, she wore a moth-eaten funeral shawl that looked as black as death. Her pale, nude body had bloody steel bars forced through her arms and chest. The steel rebar had been bent and twisted around her torso, ending in points sharp enough to skewer a human heart. The blood-stained bars formed a cage-like covering over her mutilated, bone-white flesh. Around these deep wounds, the skin hung, ragged and loose. Pieces of sharp steel jutted out from the ends of her fingers, ripping their way out of the flesh like talons. She grinned, and even her teeth were wicked points of glinting metal.
She opened her mouth. Black, clotted blood gurgled and spun within. Her jaw unhinged, showing that her tongue had been cut out. The bloody, infected stump squirmed with maggots. Her filmy eyes seemed to look through us as she stood there, as motionless as a statue. Neither Sarah nor I moved for a long moment.
I came to life then, stumbling back and away from this otherworldly abomination. As soon as I moved a single step, her neck snapped up with a cracking of bone. Her head ratcheted towards me. With twisting, jerking movements, she started towards me.
“Run!” I screamed, tearing off without looking back to see if Sarah would follow. The smell from the old woman was wretched, like the stench of putrefying meat and formaldehyde. I headed straight into the heart of the massive building, hoping that it wasn’t all just empty, bare concrete.
I heard the thudding of feet behind me. Glancing back, I saw Sarah only a few feet behind me. The corpse of the old woman was close behind her, only a couple paces away. Her slashed legs skittered forward, leaving a trail of writhing maggots and drops of black blood in her wake.
As we sprinted forward into the center of the warehouse, it seemed to open up around us like an abyss. The only wall fell further and further behind, but up ahead, there was a crimson glow in the great pool of shadows, something that shone like an emergency light. I pushed myself to the limit, but I knew I couldn’t keep up this pace much longer. Sarah and I neared the bloody glow with the pale corpse of the old woman still close behind us. I could hear the gnashing of her metal teeth and her congested breathing, smell the stink of rot and death that emanated from her like a cloud.
I realized that the red light was actually an elevator, stuck in the center of this immense abyss. Its shaft soared straight up into the air, disappearing from view in the darkness. The metal doors stood open, as if the elevator were waiting for us. I wondered where it led.
A sudden scream erupted from behind me. I turned, seeing Sarah on the ground, the undead corpse writhing on top of her. Her metal teeth snapped together with a sharp ringing sound. Sarah had her arm up and was pushing with all her strength against the old woman’s neck. But the old woman snapped and bit at the air, and with every bite, it seemed her face lowered another fraction of an inch closer to Sarah’s eyes, her nose, her lips. Sarah would be ripped to shreds, her flesh sliced to pieces as if by a woodchipper. I saw the sharp points of metal poking from the corpse’s torso biting into Sarah’s skin. Thin rivulets of blood soaked into her clothes.
I ran forwards in a blind fury, my vision turning white with adrenaline as I brought my boot up into the old woman’s chalk-white face. Her head snapped back, the neck cracking like a tree branch. Her head ratcheted up to face me, her pale cataract eyes gleaming with a rabid hunger. I backpedaled as she lunged forward, leaping through the air like a cat. Sarah lay on the ground, moaning and bleeding, temporarily forgotten by the abomination.
I reached into my pocket, frantically looking for anything to defend myself with. I only felt my car keys. I brought the fob out with its point of steel. At that moment, she tackled me to the ground. A piece of steel stab into my left shoulder as I was forced down. She wrapped her sharp claws around my throat, choking me. The points slashed into my neck, leaving deep gouges that burned like fire. It felt like thousands of needles stabbed their way into my throat as I tried to scream.
I held the fob like a knife in my right hand, clenched tightly in my fist. I brought my knee up and smashed it into her with a sudden rush of adrenaline, feeling her cold steel talons release my throat.
A moment later, the undead woman’s head snapped forward, biting deeply into my neck. I screamed as I struggled, writhing under her weight. I managed to free my right arm and brought the sharp point of the key straight up into her filmy eye.
She gave a wail as she twitched, shaking her head from side to side. The key stayed firmly implanted. As cold, thick blood dripped from her exploded eye onto my face, I reached up and smashed the end of the fob with my palm, forcing the end deeper into her skull. I felt her weight lift off me suddenly. Sarah stood next to her, pushing at the exposed ribs of her putrefying torso, shoving her to the side. The sharp end of the key remained stuck in her rotted skull.
The old woman went sprawling. Sarah reached down and helped pull me up off the ground. As the undead creature’s banshee shriek reverberated all around us, we sprinted into the elevator.
The undead woman leaked blood and gore all over the concrete in the bloody glow of the elevator’s lights as she crawled forward on all fours in our direction. Sarah frantically began slamming the buttons on the elevator. As the undead woman came within inches of the threshold, the metal doors finally slid shut with a faint whirring. I released a long breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
Covered in blood, both my own and the old woman’s, I leaned heavily against the glass wall. The elevator began ascending up the shaft at a rapid pace. My stomach filled with butterflies as we rose.
***
“Are you OK?” I asked breathlessly as we stared out the glass panes. Sarah was grabbing her stomach. I saw trickles of blood staining her white shirt in crimson blotches. I kept one hand on my neck, trying to stem the bleeding. I felt trickles of warm blood running through my fingers.
“Nothing fatal,” she whispered, though she was clearly in pain. So was I. I groaned, grabbing my head. Sarah was crying, her tears dripping down her face like drops of wax. Still stumbling, I went over and hugged her. She put her head against my shoulder, sobbing. “We’re going to die here, aren’t we?”
“No, no, absolutely not,” I said, not believing a word of it. “The worst is behind us.”
After rising thousands of feet into the air, the elevator’s whirring gears began to slow. Above us, another level of the warehouse opened up. The shaft of the elevator rose through the center of a steel ceiling. We passed through and into something strange.
“It looks like a mall,” Sarah said as the elevator doors opened. In front of us stood a dimly lit hallway lined with dark stores on both sides. On the top, in ancient, rusted letters, I read: “The Badlands Mall”.
I didn’t recognize the names of any of the stores, and there were some odd ones. I saw a shop that said “Dahmer’s Fresh Meats,” with naked, butchered bodies strung up in the display windows, their arms, legs and heads all cut off, their skin removed to show the glistening muscle underneath. Maggots had long ago infested the putrefying meat.
Next to it was a giant department store with the bubbly name of “Perillos” engraved above the entrance. But this was no ordinary department store. Instead of mannequins showing off clothes, the entire department store was filled with torture tools. Iron maidens and roaring bulls were set up out front. Many of the tools looked used, soiled with strips of flesh and pieces of rotting gore. Flies buzzed all around them, and a fetid smell like the bowels of Hell wafted out of the department store in our direction. Perillos had mannequins in many of the soiled torture tools, naked, pale mannequins covered in gore and blood.
The fluorescent lights running overhead had power here, though they were dim. They flickered constantly, sending dancing shadows skittering across the mall.
“I think we’re in some kind of mall from Hell,” I whispered, wincing as even that echoed across the marble and off the glass panes of the stores. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Why?” Sarah asked, a deep sense of terror reflected in her eyes. “I don’t want to go out there. Let’s just wait here in the elevator and…”
“Wait for what?” I said, scoffing. “Rescue? You think anyone knows we’re here? We don’t even know where the hell we are. We need to keep moving forward. There must be some connection back to the real world. There must be.” I didn’t know if I was trying to convince myself or her. Sarah shook her head. I could see she was sweating heavily, her hands trembling.
“I don’t want to,” she said in a voice like a little girl. I took her hand and pulled her forward. We limped out of there together.
“We have to,” I insisted. “Keep an eye out for any sort of useful weapons. That bitch took my only fob for my car. It’s probably still stuck in her eyeball.”
“We could go check in there,” Sarah said, motioning to Perillos department store with its grisly array of torture devices. I shook my head quickly.
“No, not there,” I responded, casting a disgusted look at the patches of rotting skin still sticking to the open iron maidens, the burnt, melted fat leaking out of the roaring bulls. “I’m not sure we’re alone up here. And I have a bad feeling about that place.”
Every time I glimpsed one of the faceless mannequins out of the corner of my eye, it made my heart leap in my chest, thinking it was a person. The mannequins were crucified, impaled or nailed to the ceilings and walls in front of Perillos. It looked like hundreds of them filled the store. Even stranger, they all appeared to have blood crusted on their naked, plastic bodies. And it was a lot of blood.
A shiver ran down my spine as we hurried away without looking back.
***
The stores and shops lining both sides of the dark, flickering hallway got stranger and stranger. There was a run-down ice cream shop called Brownie’s. On the dust-covered menu, they advertised ice cream in many flavors, including bloody pus-flavored, maggot-flavored and tombstone-flavored ice cream. Through the clear plexiglass, I saw rancid buckets of foul-smelling sludge that might once have been ice cream.
I was staring at two broken-down vending machines. One had drinks and advertised Springie’s Lemon-Lime soda, Kanna-brand cola and Saint Kristoff’s Ginger Ale. The other had strange foods, including Overholser’s Beef Jerky, chocolate bars with caramel and peanuts called Eisenhearts, Took’s salt-water taffy and Riza’s fruit snacks.
“This is truly bizarre,” Sarah whispered, looking around furtively. “It’s like we’ve wandered into a parallel Earth with its own brands and stores. But where are all the people?” As if in answer to her question, we heard something dragging behind us.
There was a low whispering of many voices, though they formed no words. It created a low susurration more reminiscent of a den of hissing snakes. With horror, I glanced behind me and saw the mannequins from the store crawling down the hall towards us.
Their smooth, faceless heads ratcheted up as if they had gears in their necks. With jerky movements, they twisted forward, their flat palms smacking the marble floor. Drops of thick, old blood dripped from their plastic bodies. They had no mouths, but I could hear the low gurgling of their strange voices all the same. Hundreds of these pale forms slithered through the halls.
I took off running. A second later, I heard Sarah’s thudding footsteps close behind me. We passed by dozens of eerie, dark stores. In the glass displays of many, naked mannequins covered in gore came to life as we passed, their heads twisting to follow us, their arms and legs shivering with newfound energy.
At the end of the hallway, I saw a familiar sign above a massive department store. It said “Sears”. The doors opened up into a dark, mildewed chamber filled with rusted metal shelving and debris. Without any better ideas, I turned to scream at Sarah, pointing at the store.
“It’s a goddamned Sears! We need to get to it!” Her face had turned chalk-white, her eyes wide with terror. I realized the skittering mannequins were only feet behind her.
As a gurgle hissed from its mouthless face, one of the mannequins reached forward and grabbed Sarah’s ankle. She fell forward, smashing her head hard against the marble floor. I heard the bone give a crack as a blossom of blood exploded from her forehead. Moaning, she tried to crawl away as the mannequins swarmed her, ripping her skin off with their sharp plastic fingers.
I glimpsed this horror only for a moment. It was the last image I would ever have of my wife, the woman I loved. With the last of my fading strength, I pushed myself forward. Sarah’s dying screams followed me into the Sears. I heard more of the tapping limbs of the mannequins close behind me, but I dared not look back.
As I ran through the smashed glass doors leading into the abandoned department store, Sarah’s screams abruptly cut off. For a few moments, I thought I still heard the hissing whispers of the mannequins, but then that, too, went silent.
I wandered through the dilapidated Sears under water-logged ceilings and over thick layers of dust. Eventually, I found the front of the store and smashed my way out of the door. I was in the middle of a parking lot for a mall that looked like it had been abandoned since the 1990s.
***
I saw a highway stretching out nearby, filled with headlights streaming in both directions. I wandered out of the abandoned mall parking lot and down a winding ramp until I found myself on some sort of bridge. Injured and exhausted, I pushed myself forward with the last of my energy.
After a few more minutes, I finally came to a house. Frantically, I knocked on the door and asked for help. They called the police, who were totally baffled by everything I tried to tell them. Apparently, my wife and I had been missing for over two weeks, even though less than a day had passed for us.
Even stranger, however, I ended up thousands of miles away from where I started, seemingly teleported there from the procession of strange doors of the Badlands. My wife and I had started our “trip” over in Boston, and by the time I staggered out, bloody and terrified, I found myself in an abandoned mall near San Jose, California.
Now, I always check every room before I enter it. That hellish place took my wife from me and gave me enough nightmares to last an entire lifetime.
I never want to see that abandoned mall of horrors or that swirling, blood-red sky again.

Really been grinding this champ this season and it is rough. Currently sitting at 34 games 67% win rate, and currently amongst top 50 on server.
For elo context, this is at Emerald 1 BUT im playing against players who are consecutive previous season Masters/GM/Challengers.
This champ is just absolute dogshit; 1. Passive MS is complete ass. 2. You are reliant on enemy stupidity to function 3. You are reliant on the first wave state of the game. What i mean is, IF your wave is winning the RNG against enemy wave and is pushing towards tower. You are fucked.
Seriously, Kayle is probably the only champ completely reliant on 1st wave RNG. It is so stupid how your lane is dictated by this. This would be completely fine if she can Trade HP but she can't, kayle walking up to the wave is a death sentence lmao.
Not to mention Merc Boots... Seriously, it takes Kayle 2 expensive items + decent spacing to counter merc boots. 3 items it if you're in a teamfight.

1. Kayle 15 is a joke, it barely makes any difference. +50 range doesn't do jackshit. Even the permanent passive ms makes no difference.

This champ, i repeat, is completely reliant on enemy team being stupid. It is impossible to play Kayle if the enemy laner knows Lane Tempo and Wave management.
She went from; 1. Strong from release 2. decent after 1st nerfs 3. ok after 2nd nerfs 4. trash after Void Staff removal and magic pen rework 5. to finally being the worst and weakest champ after Kraken Slayer removal.
People who will say just pick other OP champs. No, i won't... What's the point if you're just going to cheat your way to the top with unfun braindead op champs? Being top 1 ranked don't mean shit if you're just abusing Asol, Talon, Yone, Pantheon, Aatrox, Akali.

I need help finding cheats for pokemon emerald plz tell me how🙏

There are about 140k users using neo daily, and 29% of those are food club botter accounts
2024-04-18 141358 29.04%
2024-04-17 140596 29.30%
2024-04-16 141919 29.02%
2024-04-15 141377 29.11%
2024-04-14 140545 29.29%
2024-04-13 141485 29.11%
2024-04-12 143142 28.78%
2024-04-11 139677 29.40%
2024-04-10 139706 29.38%
2024-04-09 139627 29.39%
2024-04-08 139315 29.47%
2024-04-07 134765 30.03%
r100s botter won with wheel of extravagance
Chocolate Lipstick: 5
Chocolate Gum: 10
Mastermind Plushie: 8
Chococherry Blumaroo Ears: 9
Choco Spray: 12
Bat Thing Usuki: 13
Chocoon: 11
Interplanetary Communications: 6
Mummified Hot Dog: 11
Beam Me Aboard: 7
Chocolate Sandwich: 6
Emerald Eyrie Coin: 10
Crunchy Chocolate Grarrl: 5
Scenic Kreludan Views: 16
Queen Fyora Usuki Doll: 13
Chocolate Peanuts With Peas: 5
How Purples Got Their Spots: 6
Creamy Chocolate Pie: 11
Advanced Kreludan Physics: 4
Know Your Robot Petpet: 7
The Green Grundo Invasion: 9
Kreludan Engineering: 8
Koya Korbat Huntress: 5
Battle Quill: 4
Glittery Scorchstone: 6
Kreludor Versus Neopia: 2
Chocolately Cheese Wedges: 4
Neopian Times Coin: 4
Some recent items botter bought:
botter gave 4.8B for Moehog Skull, Rod of Dark Nova 2024-03-03
botter gave 2.7B for Rod of Dark Nova 2024-03-06
botter gave 2.4B for Super Attack Pea, Jhudoras Wand 2024-03-18
botter gave 2.25B for Super Attack Pea x2, Uni Neon Hair Accessory 2024-03-01
botter gave 2.1B for Faerie Slingshot x2, Purple Negg 2024-03-04
botter gave 1.8B for Wock Til You Drop Stamp 2024-03-11
botter gave 1.55B + Faerie Caverns Stamp, Dark Battle Duck Stamp for Super Attack Pea, Thunder Sticks 2024-04-03
botter gave 1.35B for Super Attack Pea 2024-04-05
botter gave 1.35B for Super Attack Pea 2024-04-06
botter gave 1.35B for Super Attack Pea 2024-04-16
botter gave 1.15B for Super Attack Pea 2024-03-13
botter gave 1.14B for Super Attack Pea 2024-03-14
botter gave 1.13B for Super Attack Pea 2024-03-10
botter gave 1.11B for Snegg x174 2024-03-20
botter gave 1.1B for Super Attack Pea 2024-03-03
botter gave 1.1B for Commander Garoo Stamp 2024-03-27
botter gave 1.05B for Super Attack Pea 2024-03-12
botter gave Super Attack Pea for 950M + Moltenore x2 2024-03-19
botter gave 950M for Commander Garoo Stamp 2024-03-21
botter gave 850M for Midnight Jelly World Stamp 2024-03-23
botter gave 751M + Plushie Paint Brush x7, Maraquan Paint Brush x2, Ghostkerbomb for Seasonal Attack Pea x2, Wand of the Dark Faerie, Thunder Sticks 2024-03-11
botter gave 650M for Seasonal Attack Pea x5 2024-04-11
botter gave 650M for Kyruggi Stamp 2024-04-12
botter gave 600M for Monoceraptors Claw 2024-03-31
botter gave 590M for Thunder Sticks x2 2024-03-14
botter gave 35M + Seasonal Attack Pea x3 for Wand of the Dark Faerie 2024-04-15
botter gave 480M for Thunder Sticks x2 2024-03-03
botter gave 475M for Thunder Sticks, Kings Lens 2024-03-04
botter gave 460M for Hubrids Noxious Blade, Leaded Elemental Vial 2024-03-06
botter gave 25.8M + Wand of the Dark Faerie, Valentine Paint Brush x9, Maraquan Paint Brush x2, Hubrid Nox Memorial Shield, Ghostkerbomb, Candy Paint Brush x11, Pastel Paint Brush x6, Toy Paint Brush x8, Pink Petpet Paint Brush x8, Lost Desert Paint Brush x5, Oil Paint Brush, Marble Draik Egg x3, Stealth Paint Brush x2, Marble Paint Brush, Neovia Shop Silhouette Background, Draik Transmogrification Potion x3, Ghost Petpet Paint Brush, The Mystical Tablet, Secret Laboratory Map, Snowbunny Stamp, Faerie Kadoatie x3, One Thousand Dubloon Coin, Baby Paint Brush, Secret Laboratory Map, Battle Hammer, Kadoatie x2, Cyodrake x2, Ultimate Icy Negg, Gold Brightvale Job Coupon, How to Earn NP the Easy Way x2, Taiko Standing Drum Collectable Charm, AAA Collectable Charm, Ultra Icy Negg, Star Gazing Background, Jelly Negg, Coltzans Shrine Coin for Seasonal Attack Pea x3 2024-04-02
botter gave 400M for Seasonal Attack Pea x3 2024-04-02
botter gave 425M for Glittery Scorchstone, Blaze 2024-03-13
botter gave 353.85M for Secret Laboratory Map x366 2024-03-31
Some recent things botter gave for free
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x10, Wand of the Dark Faerie 2024-03-16
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x10 2024-03-01
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x10 2024-03-12
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x10 2024-03-17
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x10 2024-03-28
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x10 2024-03-28
botter gave Super Attack Pea x2 2024-04-03
botter gave 454M + Seasonal Attack Pea x2, Wand of the Dark Faerie, Scowling Sloth Coin, Captain Scarblade Stamp, Thunder Sticks, Thyoras Tear, Candychan x2, Techo Fanatic Stamp, Leaded Elemental Vial, Misprint Meuka Stamp, The Many Adventures of Ylana Skyfire x2, Cloud Aisha Shield, Grarrl Commentator Action Figure x2, Faerie Kadoatie Plushie, Halloween Paint Brush x4, A Collection of Shenkuu Novels x2, Ghostkerbomb, Ylana Skyfire Spring Perfume, How To Cheat At Bagatelle, Viras Dagger (TCG), Reactor Core (TCG), Team Dacardia Stamp, Magical Coconut Chia Pop, Moltenore, Lost Desert Paint Brush x6, Lutari Transmogrification Potion, The Great King Altador, Varia is the Bomb, Jetsam Transmogrification Potion x2, Altador Cup V Champion Laurel, Pastel Paint Brush x3, Garin Stamp, Skuffler, Valentines Day in Shenkuu, Dual Expert Bow x2, Scorchio Brush Kit, White Paint Brush, Morguss Stamp, Ghost Snowbunny (TCG), Jhudoras Potion, Von Roos Castle Stamp, Maraquan Petpet Paint Brush, Mini Evil Coconut, Scoach, Baby Cloud Hat, Candy Paint Brush x2, Invisible Paint Brush x4, Evil Sloth Clone #177 (TCG), Candychan Stamp x3 2024-03-01
botter gave 1.2B 2024-04-01
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x8 2024-04-13
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x8 2024-04-13
botter gave Super Attack Pea, Chia Leaping Boots, Seasonal Attack Pea, Aubergine Mace 2024-03-12
botter gave 1B + Golden Shell, Sasha Stamp 2024-03-02
botter gave 1B 2024-03-06
botter gave 1000M 2024-03-23
botter gave 488M + Seasonal Attack Pea x2, Wand of the Dark Faerie 2024-03-04
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x6, Ghostkersword 2024-03-27
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x5, Wand of the Dark Faerie 2024-04-11
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4, Wand of the Dark Faerie 2024-04-02
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x5 2024-03-06
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x5 2024-03-18
botter gave 750M 2024-04-01
botter gave Wand of the Dark Faerie x4 2024-04-06
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-03-05
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-03-07
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-03-09
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-03-15
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-03-17
botter gave Hubrids Odial Sphere 2024-03-18
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-03-29
botter gave Super Attack Pea 2024-04-01
botter gave 700M 2024-03-05
botter gave 670M 2024-04-12
botter gave 250M + Seasonal Attack Pea x2, Smiling Space Faerie Coin, Mumbo Pango Stamp, Hanso and Brynn Stamp, Usuki Doll Stamp, Gorix and Cylara Coin, Neopet V2 Coin, Bzzt Blaster Coin, Mallow Coin 2024-03-26
botter gave 610M 2024-04-15
botter gave 610M 2024-04-17
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-03-07
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-03-24
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-03-26
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-04-03
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-04-04
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-04-08
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-04-12
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-04-14
botter gave Seasonal Attack Pea x4 2024-04-17
botter gave 600M 2024-03-30
botter gave 600M 2024-03-30
botter gave 600M 2024-04-03
botter gave 600M 2024-04-17
botter gave 600M 2024-04-01
botter gave 261M + Seasonal Attack Pea x2 2024-03-02
botter gave 509M 2024-03-30
botter gave 505M 2024-03-08
botter gave 501M 2024-03-26
botter gave Wock Til You Drop Stamp 2024-04-15
botter gave 200M + Seasonal Attack Pea x2 2024-03-21
botter gave 499.5M 2024-03-31
botter gave 470M 2024-03-04
botter gave Moehog Skull 2024-04-10
botter gave 408M 2024-03-23
botter gave 405M 2024-04-03
botter gave 400M 2024-03-21
botter gave 400M 2024-03-30
botter gave 400M 2024-03-31
botter gave 400M 2024-04-02
botter gave 399.97M 2024-03-26
botter gave 350.98M 2024-03-13
botter gave Tornado Ring, Baby Paint Brush 2024-03-05