I'm pretty young and feminine looking. Pale, smooth skin, no facial hair, very less muscles, underweight, neck length wavy hair, and clinically low T.
Whenever I see any college tour video, I see all these chapris who are not interested in education or these uncle aunties who look like that they are 30 year old. Full beard, fat or muscular, fancy haircut etc.
Even when I gave entrance exam, I observed same people. I literally creeped out when they initiated small talk with me. Only on day of CS exam, I met someone like me, but not as "shy" as he initiated a small talk with me but I never do with anyone.
While I'm trying to gain weight and muscles, it's not that easy and might take a year. I am also 179 CM so it's slightly hard for me to gain muscles.
I don't want facial/body hair either, so I shave my whole body like once in two week..
Anyone else?
Edit: I don't have inferiority complex. I intentionally wrote the post in such a way as I don't appear to be like I'm bragging. I actually look down on those chapris, in my mind. There are few other people that I look down on, which I won't disclose.
Also I don't have social anxiety disorder. The only reason I don't start conversations is for safety, and because it hurts my ego if I do.

I'm pretty young and feminine looking. Pale, smooth skin, no facial hair, very less muscles, underweight, neck length wavy hair, and clinically low T.
Whenever I see any college tour video, I see all these chapris who are not interested in education or these uncle aunties who look like that they are 30 year old. Full beard, fat or muscular, fancy haircut etc.
Even when I gave entrance exam, I observed same people. I literally creeped out when they initiated small talk with me. Only on day of CS exam, I met someone like me, but not as "shy" as he initiated a small talk with me but I never do with anyone.
While I'm trying to gain weight and muscles, it's not that easy and might take a year. I am also 179 CM so it's slightly hard for me to gain muscles.
I don't want facial/body hair either.
Anyone else?

I'm pretty young and feminine looking. Pale, smooth skin, no facial hair, very less muscles, underweight, neck length wavy hair, and clinically low T.
Whenever I see any college tour video, I see all these chapris who are not interested in education or these uncle aunties who look like that they are 30 year old. Full beard, fat or muscular, fancy haircut etc.
Even when I gave entrance exam, I observed same people. I literally creeped out when they initiated small talk with me. Only on day of CS exam, I met someone like me, but not as "shy" as he initiated a small talk with me but I never do with anyone.
While I'm trying to gain weight and muscles, it's not that easy and might take a year. I am also 179 CM so it's slightly hard for me to gain muscles.
I don't want facial/body hair either, so I shave my whole body like once in two week..
Anyone else?
Edit: I don't have inferiority complex. I intentionally wrote the post in such a way as I don't appear to be like I'm bragging. I actually look down on those chapris, in my mind. There are few other people that I look down on, which I won't disclose.
Also I don't have social anxiety disorder. The only reason I don't start conversations is for safety, and because it hurts my ego if I do.

Platinum End Theory: Who Is God And Those Mysterious Beings In The Finale Explained
Original link- https://reddit.com/platinumend/comments/sdw2rc/deleted_by_use
Repost cause the original was deleted. I'm not OP. OP is https://www.reddit.com/usemuphenz
Deleted Theory https://www.reddit.com/platinumend/s/b347iH85A7
Thanks https://www.reddit.com/usecompletelylostcase for the Pastebin link. https://pastebin.com/A8K4bJiD
DISCLAIMER: This theory will go over the entire story of Platinum End, so obvious spoilers ahead.Just a heads up, this theory is posted at the time that only a few episodes of the anime have been released. Depending on how much the anime stays like the manga, details may end up changing. Therefore, the entire theory will be based solely on the manga. I will also leave snippets of the manga with the highlighted text to support my claim. Please be sure to read those as it will help this theory make sense. This theory is completely my own original thoughts. If anyone shares this, please be sure to credit me, Muphenz. Thanks! Hello, my fellow Platinum End fans! If you’re like me, the ending completely caught me off guard and left my head-scratching. Do not worry! I’ve overanalyzed everything and made a theory to possibly explain who god and those beings at the end of the story are, so you don’t have to. Those beings at the end of the manga, chapter 58, are drum roll…humans of the future who have achieved many scientific advancements who existed well before the story of Platinum End takes place and are simulating their own world with fake humans, fake angels, and a fake god. Why are the real humans running this simulation? Simply put, they’re suicidal and no amount of therapy is going to help with that. Why are they wanting to die? In the future, it is predicted by Gaku Yoneda that within 500 years, humans will achieve immortality. Once they achieve immortality, they will eventually master time and space and will be able to do things like teleport, time travel, see the future, etc. And once humans achieve immortality and are able to know all of the future, they will discover that the future cannot be changed according to Dr. Yoneda. Just like Dr. Yoneda’s prediction, the real humans are wanting to die which is why it’s stated by one of the real humans how annoying it is that there is no death. Whatever the process was that made the real humans immortal, it seems that it cannot be reversed to restore one’s mortality. Although it’s not stated how humans will achieve immortality and allow them to control time and space, this will somehow cause humanity’s apocalypse as well, destroying the original Earth. What makes these creatures more human-like than god-like is that they admit they were born on another planet, most likely the original Earth. They are also aware that they too were created by something that is above them. How do we know Dr. Yoneda’s predictions are right? It was stated by Shuji Nakaumi that his past predictions came true. One thing to understand about science is that it’s extremely good at accurately predicting things. Example 1: With Issac Newton’s law of motion, scientists can predict the position of an object at any specific time, past, present, or future. Example 2: In the 1840s, Fitzner astronomer Urbain Le Verrier was analyzing the orbit pathway of Mercury and found that it is changing very slowly over time. With technology limited at that time, it was hard to provide proof. In 1915, the famous German physicist, Albert Einstein was able to calculate the influence of the curved space in Mercury’s orbit. That is 75 years later that science proved its prediction was right. Although science cannot tell future events like a psychic will attempt to, I believe this is what the author was using to help advance the plot for the ending. The real humans already know the future and they’re aware that no matter what they try, death is not a part of that. If they cannot do it, someone else can. That is when these simulations come in. The real humans will create simulated humans. In one of the simulations, the story of Platinum End takes place. This would not be on a computer. This process would involve terraforming an entire planet to support carbon-based life. The planet that the simulated humans live on will be similar to the original Earth as well as the history and advancement of science will be similar to the real humans. As the simulated human’s society progresses, like in Platinum End, they would eventually learn how to become immortal and learn how to control space-time which would lead to them wanting to die just like the real humans. But unlike the real humans, the simulated ones may actually achieve a way to kill themselves once they obtain immortality that the real humans could use. But as we already know stated by the real humans, this specific simulation was a failure. Nothing was created that was capable of killing them. Thus, the real humans will move on to a new simulation. Pay very special attention to this picture. Notice right after all of the humans disappear when the fake god kills himself, the buildings are slowly crumbling away since no one is here to maintain them. According to World Building, it would take an average of 250 years for a building to start to break apart since materials like wood and plastic would be destroyed by the environment if not maintained. Metal would be expanding and no longer able to keep the building's structure in place. This would cause things like windows to fall off and shatter. So after a few hundred years, the real humans return to the planet after the simulated humans disappeared due to the fake god’s suicide. It’s possible that during this time they’re running other simulations on other planets and returned when this simulation was completed. Since the real humans have achieved master over space-time, teleporting to anywhere in the universe would not be out of the question. Since they cannot die, the amount of time it would take for the real humans to travel anywhere in the universe is irrelevant as well. Even though Gaku Yoneda’s predictions about the simulated humanity’s end were wrong, he was technically right. It did come true for the real humans. If Shuji Nakaumi, as the fake god, did not kill himself and wipe out all of the fake humans, they would of most likely learned how to cheat death and to control space-time in the future. Gaku was wrong about the fake god being a product of human belief in order to live. He even admits that the composition of the fake god was wrong. If the fake god required human belief to live, then Shuji would not have erased the memories of those who were not god candidates as it would have affected the fake god's existence if fewer people believed in him. There is one thing that begs the question. Why is a fake god needed to run these simulations? Why do the simulated humans have souls? Why not just create the simulated humans and leave them to figure out how to create an immortal killing machine without the process of a false god? This is because God and souls are actually real and are necessary for life to exist. To clarify, the “God” that Shuji Nakaumi was transmuted into is not the true God that I’m referring to. I’m referring to the first cause of everything, a self-aware creator, a deistic God who existed before time and space who created the universe and does not intervene in its creation. This means no miracles, prophecy, answering prayers, divine revelation, etc. Everything in the universe is governed by physics and these laws cannot be broken. The real humans who are running the simulations are aware that they are a creation made from a creator. However, since a deistic God does not interfere in the universe, the real humans cannot know of him, at least while they are still alive. Considering the real humans can control space-time, I can say for certain at one point, at least one person went to the very beginning of time and saw something that would be evidence of an intelligent designer creating the universe. When the real humans are conversing with each other at the finale, one human suggests identifying what created them and the second one replies that seeking their creator will be a waste of time. If a deistic God won’t intervene in its creation, the real humans would be wasting time by attempting to contact him. Even though they can control space-time, if the creator exists outside of reality, they would not be able to reach this entity. Focusing on figuring out who created them means that time is wasted if they're not figuring out how to die which is why it would take them further away from death. Just as the simulated humans have souls, the real humans also have souls. At some point, the real humans discovered the soul. They are aware that this is needed for life to be sentient. The discovery of the soul could have played a key part in the real humans achieving immortality. The fake god is engineered by the real humans to create souls so that life can be sentient, mimic the universe's deistic God by allowing the simulation to run with no interference, and act as a mod to keep an eye on life with the red and white arrows. The celestial realm was created so the fake god would not be a part of the simulated world. Even though time moves differently in the celestial realm, it is the closest thing that the real humans can engineer to simulate a deist God that is separated from its creation. This fake god does not have the powers of a supreme being. The fake god does not know everything, is not everywhere at once, and does not display any sort of omnipotent ability. There is a lot of things that the fake god admits to not knowing, such as who created him, why are souls preserved, and how long does the merging process take. Although we do see the fake god have the ability to observe humanity, I would say that this is the equivalent of having admin privileges to watch humanity live-streamed on YouTube. The fake god is aware that he is created by someone. The fake god noticed that there are things that had already been created that he was not a part of just by observing everything in the universe. Although he seems to not understand what created him. He even acknowledges the idea that humanity could have created him. All the simulated souls come from the fake god. This is done through a process of emanation, which means to flow from. In the Abrahamic religions, specifically Gnosticism, Jewish Mysticism, and certain sectors of Protestantism, instead of your typical creator being separate from its creation, everything is a spontaneous outflow from God. As pieces of God emanate from him, it becomes less divine, but these pieces will eventually become an individual soul that forms into human spirits, angels, demons, as well as other things that come into reality such as heaven, hell, and the world of the living. Eventually, everything that came from God, will return back to the creator. (If you’re still confused on what emanation is, I would do more research before continuing to read as this will play a key role in understanding who the fake god is.) Emanation is how the fake god created the simulated human and their soul, the fake angels, and the celestial realm. The fake god took a piece of himself and used it to create life. Since everything emanates from the fake god is connected to him, as he is dying, most of the angels are dying too. Due to this connection, when the fake god killed himself, everything that was tied to the fake god disappeared. But because the creation of the fake god is not connected to the physical world, the planet and everything that is not life remained on it. When the simulated human beings die, the soul goes to the celestial realm. This is the returning aspect of emanation. The souls that came from the fake god are returning back to him. You always see all angels, regardless of rank, having the task of carrying the souls to the celestial realm. It seems that the main purpose of the angels is to help with the return part of the emanation process. The more that the emanence is divided, the less divine it becomes. This is why the fake humans are considered sub-celestial in the hierarchy.It appears that there is a certain order to the flow of emanation. The newest creations emanate from the fake god. Kids will be the first in the line for the emanate process and their parents will be behind them. This is why when the fake god committed suicide, the kids were the first ones to disappear, then the adults. All things that emanate from the fake god are returning to the original source in reverse order when the fake god takes his own life. When the fake god merges with a human, this appears to go against the set pattern of the emanation process by breaking the order in which the emanence flows. This is why when Shuji merged with the fake god, it felt like there was something foreign in the fake god's body similar to how an infected person's body acts when the immune system detects foreign bacteria or a virus. The only way to get around it is by the fake god merging with a simulated human and having the fake god take over the new body when the fusion is completed. It is stated by the fake god that it is nothing more than humanity's assumption that God cannot die. This may be true for the deistic God, but not for a fake god. It is already known that the real humans achieved immortality. Although the fake god could have been engineered to be immortal, that would just create another being who would eventually want to die. The fake god was designed to live a long life, compared to humans, that could be extended through the process of merging with one of its emanated counterparts until the simulation was completed. This has been done throughout time in the form of the god choosing process. The fake god confirmed to Shuji that his purpose was to create life. Professor Yoneda confirmed that the fake god was created by human imagination and that its purpose was to end life. On the surface, this may seem like a contradiction. But both of them are right. The fake god’s purpose was to create the simulated humans. God is metaphorically a creation of human imagination. It was not by the simulated human’s imagination as stated by Yoneda, but it was designed and engineered by the minds of the real humans. Since the purpose of the simulation is for the fake humans to achieve immortality and figure out how to reverse it, you can say that the fake god is a part of that process of killing humanity. Right as all of the humans are disappearing, Dr. Yoneda realizes that the composition that makes up the creature is based on a science that the simulated humans have not discovered yet. The composition of the fake god is Aether. In medieval times, a common study among scholars is alchemy, which can be best described as the forerunner for modern-day chemistry mixed with the pseudoscience of metaphysics. According to Charles Gillispie, a historian at Princeton University, in his book, The Edge of Objectivity, An Essay in the History of Scientific Ideas, Aether is the fifth element, along with earth, wind, fire, and water, that are the basic building blocks of the universe. During medieval times, Aether is the substance that is believed to connect the physical world to the spiritual one. It was even a common belief that the Abrahamic God was surrounded by Aether and that all of the angels, demons, and souls that dwelled in the afterlife breathed it in as humans breathed in the air. According to Jakob Bernoulli, a mathematician from the 1600s, believed that Aether is what allowed souls to interact with their human bodies. All of these characteristics of Aether match the composition of the fake god. Aether is what allows life to become sentient, connecting all of the simulated humans back to the fake god from the physical world to the celestial realm. It seems at some point, the real humans discover this element. This discovery most likely led to the discovery of the soul. Using this element, the real humans used Aether to construct the fake god needed for the simulations. Everything that is a part of the simulation, the fake god, angels, the soul, the arrows, is made up of this element. The red arrow is what allows the god candidates to make other humans fall in love with them so much that the person who is under the influence of the arrow will do literally anything the person who is in control wants, even die for them. The white arrow has the ability to kill any life while all inanimate objects are unaffected. These were limits placed on the arrows by the fake god. According to Ogaro, the fake god can use the full power of the arrows at will. The red arrow is more than just making someone fall in love. The arrow does this by taking away their free will. The god candidates were limited to using the arrow on 14 people at once for a period of up to 33 days. With the fake god able to use the full power of the red arrow, he can enslave any or all simulated humans with a snap of his finger for as long as he desired. The red arrow also played a role in creating the first simulated life as well. The fake god stated that if life was left alone, it would multiply. The desire of falling in love and wanting to procreate was implanted by the red arrow when life was created. The white arrow is the opposite of the red arrow. This arrow can kill life instantly. The limit that was placed on this arrow is that only one white arrow can be shot at a time. Just like the red arrow, this arrow has a maximum range of 31.6 meters. When cycling the white arrow, there is a cool down period of 0.3 seconds. If these limiters are removed, the fake god can kill all humans with the white arrows with virtually no limit on distance, any number of arrows can be used simultaneously, and there would be no mandatory cool down period. The creation of the simulated humans involves two key ingredients. The first is the soul which comes from the fake god. The second is a physical body for the soul to be attached to. The real humans asked if it was worth planting another seed and another god as those are two separate things. The making of another god is obviously the fake god. But what is the seed? The seed is what makes the physical embodiment of all plants and animals that all emanence is attached to. I.E., souls attached to bodies. According to the fake god, before he created life on the fake Earth, there was some sort of micro-organism. This seed would be that micro-organism, specifically carbon-based bacteria that is capable of evolution. Around 3 billion years ago, the first life on Earth was bacteria. There are two types of bacteria, a classification of anaerobic bacteria that ate other organic compounds and simple sugars to survive. The other kind is autotrophs bacteria which is capable of self-feeding. Anaerobic bacteria would evolve into modern-day animals. Autotroph bacteria would evolve into modern-day plants that still have the ability to self-feed through a process of photosynthesis. It is possible to send bacteria through space. According to a 2020 study published in the Journal of Frontiers in Microbiology, bacteria were able to survive in space for three years. If the real humans were able to transport the seed through space in less than 3 years, it could easily survive. Considering they achieved immortality, it is within reason to think this would be a piece of cake for them. At some point, part of the anaerobic bacteria would come in contact with the fake god, who was on the fake Earth at that time to make life, recognized the fake god as food, and attempted to feed off of him to survive. The bacteria that fed off the fake god would eventually evolve into Nasse. The bacteria that did not feed off of the fake god would evolve into more complex forms of life on the fake Earth. Since Nasse was accidentally created from this event, it most likely means that she is the first angel that the fake god created. This means that she could serve as inspiration for the fake god to create angels for the celestial realm. The angels don't seem to share any ability to reproduce with each other. There is never any mention of any family heritage. It means that all of the angels were created around the same time. Since Nasse is the only angel that came from the seed/bacteria, her biological makeup differs from all the other angels. While the majority of her is angel, part of the genetic makeup is similar to carbon-based life. Although I would not say Nasse is an angel-human hybrid, she could be considered a type of Nephilim. Due to this biological difference, Nasse is the only angel that can interfere in both the physical world and the celestial realm. Much research has shown that facial expressions are innate among all animals, not just humans. The same animals that display facial expressions when expressing emotions, lying, determination, etc. use similar muscles in the face as humans do. For example, a Psychologist, Paul Ekman, studied facial expression from hours of film and ventured on to multiple isolated tribes who have very little contact with modern society. He showed them pictures of facial expressions and asked them to interpret them. These people were able to match facial expressions and their meaning with high accuracy. This is one of the many studies that show facial expressions are genetic. Even though Nasse is single-minded, she is able to understand facial expressions due to her biological relationship with the simulated life on the fake Earth. But hey, this is just a theory."

Short background: I have been actively questioning my gender for around a year now with hints that I might be trans going as far back as when I was 12. Most of those indicators were things like "I didn't get along with most boys my age" and "I wanted boobs and hated having facial/body hair". I work from home and have been crossdressing when my partner is at work because, while they are bi*sexual*, they are hetero*romantic* and have expressed discomfort at the idea of seeing me en femme. My partner has expressed that she thinks that I likely am not trans because I probably just have a boob fetish and that I don't really act feminine, though I also don't act very stereotypically masculine either.
I worry that she might be right because I mostly just want the physiological changes associated with HRT and transitioning: fat redistribution, loss of body and facial hair, breast growth, and even reduction in libido, muscle mass, and vein prominence. I know that is a major part of transitioning, especially because how you look informs how you are treated w/t your social role and being correctly gendered. But my concern is that's all I'm interested in.
To be brutally honest and potentially insensitive: I see a lot of t-girls that dress in ways that are kinda silly, like they are anime characters or they dress in ways that are super showy or not appropriate for their age. On the one hand: I get having to relive puberty and learning how to dress and having fun dressing youthfully because of having missed out on that the first time. On the other hand: seeing that only makes me wonder "oh god, am I just inconsolably horny like these girls? and am I self-directing that horniness?" People are allowed to want to be hot and like how they look, and I like how I look most when I am en femme. But I worry that's all I'm interested in.
What else should I be looking for besides a desire for physiological changes to know if I want to transition?
I feel like women that socially transitioned but not chemically would be able to answer this best.

Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.
The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that.
And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone.
Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea.
Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back.
"Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says.
The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation.
This is good. Unintentional, but good.
The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down.
The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science.
Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition.
Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match.
Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity.
First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished.
Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd.
He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious.
Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it.
"Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now.
Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match.
A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is.
But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row.
The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way.
Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater.
Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing.
Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat.
The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion.
Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for.
But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction.
This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job.
Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance.
Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore.
He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust.
He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count.
Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused.
Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died.
***
Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then.
He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows.
He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged,
"Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault"
Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.
For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. That's ample time, he decides for the first time in his career.
"I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified.
He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar.
The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further.
"I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's really using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite."
"So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?"
The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab.
Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp.
He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face.
Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker.
His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he.
Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again.
Oh. Shit.
He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else.
He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again.
The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage.
His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow.
Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. ***
After regaining some strength, Cannibal uses his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He finds nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabs his duffel and checks out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tears his car door open, then drives off with only half a plan in mind.
The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, 'Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow.'
He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs.
Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle
Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again.
You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.
After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine.
Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece.
And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even.
Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up.
The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry.
Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was rabid in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears.
The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward.
Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words.
"You ready?"
To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop.
Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood.
He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park.
Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't.
With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park.
The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky.
A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking anything to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp.
Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk.
People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile.
"Sir, do you need help?"
"Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson."
He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it.
Ernie Samson 211
Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door.
Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211.
Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them.
"Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room.
Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp.
"Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say.
Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off.
Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal.
"Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!"
A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back.
There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The real Cannibal. But nobody wants real.
They only think they do.

Info: Male, 21, 220lbs, 6ft, no known allergies or health issues.
For the past two months my skin has felt like its ON FIRE while in varying degrees of pain but the skin shows no signs of irritation in the slightest. NOTHING in my lifestyle has changed. It feels like a sunburn, it feels dry when I move and its as if I can feel my skin stretching and it is extremely sensitive to touch.
Things I have tried to combat it:

• Changing my detergent to All Clear and Free detergent and doing three rinse cycles per load.
• Taking Zyrtec 24hr relief 2x per day, daily.
• Changing my shampoo to Vanicream Shampoo
• Changing my body wash to Cereve Hydrating Cleanser Bar
• After showers, applying Aveeno Eczema Therapy Moisturizer

Things that have worked:

• Biofreeze, for a very short period of time before it returncs.

Things that make it worse:

• Mainly friction, specifically when I am wearing a shirt

Areas of Pain: Body Diagram

• Shoulder caps
• Back of shoulders
• Traps
• Back of neck going up and stops at my hairline
• Collar bone area
• "Teres Major Muscle", googled this, idk how else to describe the area
• Sometimes I feel it slightly on my cheeks right below my eyes and on my forearms.
• Both sides of my waist, right above the hip bone

Please help me.

Diving into the topic of masturbation can lead us into a sea of myths and misunderstandings. One major myth is that it reduces testosterone levels in the body. However, studies have shown that this is not true. For both men and women, masturbation does not decrease testosterone levels in the long run.

Testosterone is key for sexual health and desire. Yet, its levels are not affected in the long term by masturbation. So, feel free to enjoy your own company without fearing for your hormone health.
It's crucial to dispel the myth that masturbation lowers testosterone. Instead, we should look into what really does affect these hormone levels. This way, we get a more precise understanding of how masturbation relates to our health.

Key Takeaways:

• Masturbation does not decrease testosterone levels in the long term.
• Testosterone plays a crucial role in sexual health and desire.
• The fluctuations in testosterone caused by masturbation are short-term and do not impact overall levels.
• Understanding the actual factors that affect testosterone levels is crucial for accurate information.
• We should focus on debunking the myth and promoting a better understanding of the relationship between masturbation and testosterone levels.

Debunking Masturbation Myths: The Testosterone Myth

Many myths surround masturbation. One frequent myth is it lowers testosterone levels, affecting health. Yet, studies have shown the truth about this myth.
Research tells us masturbation doesn't change testosterone levels long-term. There are wrong ideas about how sex and ejaculation impact us. It's time to share the real story about masturbation and testosterone.
Studies find no proof that masturbation drops testosterone. Testosterone usually stays the same, even after you masturbate. Any rise in testosterone during the activity goes back down.
Testosterone is key for sex health and desire. It helps keep your libido, manage sperm making, and maintain good erectile function. It's key to know the true effects of masturbation on this hormone.
By sharing the truth, we help people understand the facts. It's vital to clear up worries about masturbation hurting testosterone. Remember, masturbating is normal and good for sexual health, without affecting testosterone in bad ways.

Understanding Testosterone: Functions and Fluctuations

Testosterone is key for both sexual health and desire in men and women. It maintains libido, regulates sperm production, and helps with healthy erections. In the game of sexual desire, it's like the main player, making sure our sex lives are satisfying.

Testosterone's Role in Sexual Health and Desire

In men, testosterone is the major sex hormone, but women make it too in smaller amounts. It's important for men growing facial hair, having a deep voice, and building muscle. Testosterone also keeps the male reproductive system in good shape.
For both genders, it's crucial for wanting sex and getting turned on. The right amount means a strong sex drive and the ability to perform in bed. Too little, and you might not feel like doing it or have trouble getting ready.

Short-Term Hormonal Responses to Sexual Activities

Any sexual activity, even solo play, can briefly boost testosterone. Testosterone spikes during arousal and sexual action. This boost makes you want sex more, enjoy it better, and perform well.
Once you reach orgasm, testosterone drops back to normal levels. These ups and downs are just part of how our bodies handle sex. They aren't the same as long-term changes in testosterone.

The Impact of External Factors on Testosterone Levels

Things outside of sex, like stress, can mess with your testosterone. Stress can lower testosterone levels, affecting your desire and performance in bed.
Not getting enough sleep is also bad for testosterone. Sleep is super important for keeping your hormones in check and staying healthy. Issues like obesity and diabetes can also mess with your testosterone levels.
It's important to know what testosterone does and what affects it. Misinformation about testosterone and masturbation is common. By learning the facts, people can better take care of their sexual health and happiness.

Does Masturbation Decrease Testosterone?

Many think that masturbation lowers testosterone levels, but research says otherwise. This myth is false. Engaging in solo pleasure does not significantly affect testosterone production long-term. It's important to share the truth about this topic.
Masturbation is common and good for you. It might briefly change your testosterone levels because of arousal and release. But these effects are short and do not influence long-term testosterone levels.
The idea that too much ejaculation drops testosterone has circulated. Yet, studies show otherwise. The body balances testosterone levels well, regardless of how often you masturbate.
Sharing accurate facts on masturbation and testosterone is key. Knowing the reality helps everyone make better choices for their sexual health. It also fights against spreading harmful myths.
Keep in mind, testosterone can be affected by age, lifestyle, and health. Taking care of yourself with exercise, a balanced diet, enough sleep, and stress relief is important. This helps keep your testosterone levels healthy.
In conclusion, the claim that masturbation lowers testosterone is false. Masturbation is normal and does not hurt testosterone levels in the long run. It's essential to spread true information and clear up misunderstandings about masturbation and testosterone.

Managing Testosterone Levels: Beyond Sexual Activities

Masturbation doesn't lower testosterone levels, but there are key factors in play. Lifestyle choices are crucial in controlling testosterone levels. It's not just about sex.
Simple lifestyle changes can positively affect testosterone. Regular workouts boost testosterone. Strength training, like weightlifting, is great for this. Also, a diet rich in zinc and vitamin D helps.
Getting enough sleep is vital for testosterone. Bad sleep lowers testosterone. Try to get 7-9 hours of sleep each night to stay healthy.
If low testosterone is a serious issue, consider therapy. This includes testosterone injections under a doctor’s care. This can boost energy, increase desire, and prevent muscle loss.
Optimizing testosterone involves more than just sex. Healthy habits like exercise, good food, and sleep are key. They help keep your testosterone at a healthy level.

FAQ

Does masturbation decrease testosterone levels?

No, masturbation doesn't lower your testosterone for good. Studies show this isn't true. While it might change a bit in the short term, it doesn't last or matter much.
So, it's fine to do what feels good without worrying about your testosterone levels being affected much.

What are some myths about masturbation and testosterone levels?

One big myth is that masturbating makes your testosterone drop. But, science has proven this wrong. It's important to share the right info and stop these false ideas.

What is the role of testosterone in sexual health and desire?

Testosterone is key for both men and women's sexual health and desire. It keeps your interest in sex, makes sperm, and helps you get erections well. So, it's pretty important for a healthy sex life.

Do sexual activities cause short-term fluctuations in testosterone levels?

Yes, having sex or getting turned on can bump up your testosterone quickly. After you reach orgasm, these levels generally go back to normal.

What factors can impact testosterone levels?

A lot of things can affect how much testosterone you have. Stress, not sleeping enough, and some health problems can lower it. But, lifestyle choices like working out, eating right, and getting enough sleep can keep your levels in check.

How does masturbation affect testosterone levels?

Frequent masturbation doesn't seem to lower your testosterone over time. There's little to no proof that it does. It's key to share accurate info and put this myth to rest.

What strategies are available for managing testosterone levels?

To keep your testosterone in a good range, you can do more than just have sex. Things like staying active, eating healthy, and sleeping enough are important. Sometimes, someone with very low testosterone might need extra help from their doctor.

Source Links

• https://www.verywellhealth.com/does-masturbation-decrease-testosterone-8402597
• https://www.healthline.com/health/masturbation-and-testosterone
• https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8697462/

To clear up a common misconception that this is something that only happens extremely rarely, here's a list of every time more than 4 words have fit one of the categories and what number puzzle it occurred in. The first 4 words are the answers and every word after that in parenthesis are words that fit that category but were part of another group. Also, category names might not be exactly the same as the ones used.

#4 Cleaning Verbs

Possible answers: DUST, MOP, SWEEP, VACUUM, (IRON)

#5 Condiments

Possible answers: KETCHUP, MAYO, RELISH, TARTAR, (MUSTARD)

#5 Clue Characters

Possible answers: GREEN, MUSTARD, PLUM, SCARLET, (PEACOCK)

#6 Shades of Blue

Possible answers: BABY, MIDNIGHT, POWDER, ROYAL, (SEA)

#6 Rappers

Possible answers: COMMON, FUTURE, ICE CUBE, Q-TIP, (CHANCE)

#9 Shirts

Possible answers: CAMI, HALTER, TANK, TEE, (POLO)

#9 Vegetables

Possible answers: BEET, CARROT, CORN, ONION, (SQUASH)

#9 Insects

Possible answers: ANT, BEETLE, MANTIS, TERMITE, (CRICKET)

#10 Countries

Possible answers: CHAD, GEORGIA, JORDAN, TOGO, (TURKEY)

#10 Birds

Possible answers: CRANE, JAY, TURKEY, SWALLOW, (KIWI)

#11 Spices

Possible answers: CARDAMOM, CLOVE, CORIANDER, CUMIN, (GINGER)

#11 Terms of Endearment

Possible answers: BOO, HONEY, SUGAR, SWEETIE, (BABY)

#12 Animal Group Names

Possible answers: FLOCK, PACK, POD, SCHOOL, (PRIDE)

#12 Deadly Sins

Possible answers: ENVY, GREED, LUST, PRIDE, (SLOTH)

#13 Airlines

Possible answers: FRONTIER, SPIRIT, UNITED, VIRGIN, (DELTA)

#13 Greek Letters

Possible answers: BETA, CHI, DELTA, IOTA, (NU)

#13 Silent G's

Possible answers: GNAT, GNAW, GNOCCHI, GNOME, (GNU)

#14 Famous Brothers

Possible answers: JONAS, MARX, WARNER, WRIGHT, (MARIO)

#14 Honda Vehicles

Possible answers: ACCORD, CIVIC, PASSPORT, PILOT, (CANOPY)

#15 Colors

Possible answers: BROWN, PINK, TURQUOISE, VIOLET, (SILVER)

#15 Fishing Equipment

Possible answers: LURE, REEL, ROD, TACKLE, (HOOK)

#16 Nuts

Possible answers: ALMOND, CASHEW, PECAN, WALNUT (PEANUT)

#17 Neck Accessories

Possible answers: ASCOT, BOLO, TIE, SCARF, (BOW)

#19 Disagreement

Possible answers: QUARREL, ROW, SPAT, TIFF, QUARREL, (BEEF)

#20 Grains

Possible answers: BARLEY, OAT, RYE, SPELT, (RICE)

#20 Royal Titles

Possible answers: BARON, EARL, KING, PRINCE, (DUKE)

#23 60's Band Member

Possible answers: BEACH BOY, BEATLE, BYRD, MONKEE, (ROLLING STONE)

#23 Dance Fads

Possible answers: DOUGIE, MACARENA, MASHED POTATO, TWIST, (VOGUE)

#25 Desserts

Possible answers: CHEESECAKE, FLAN, MOUSSE, TIRAMISU, (FUDGE)

#25 Animals with Tusks

Possible answers: ELEPHANT, HIPPO, NARWHAL, WARTHOG, (WALRUS)

#26 Countries (Holland is technically a region but it's often used as an informal name for the Netherlands)

Possible answers: DENMARK, GREECE, POLAND, PORTUGAL, (HOLLAND)

#26 Spelled with Roman Numerals

Possible answers: DILL, LIVID, MILD, MIX, (MIMIC)

#27 Body Parts

Possible answers: HEART, LIVER, LUNG, KIDNEY, (SPINE)

#28 File Extensions

Possible answers: GIF, PDF, TIFF, ZIP, (DOC)

#28 Fruits

Possible answers: BANANA, COCONUT, MANGO, PINEAPPLE, (KIWI)

#30 Joints

Possible answers: HIP, KNEE, SHOULDER, WRIST, (ELBOW)

#33 Boats

Possible answers: FERRY, JUNK, TUG, YACHT, (SUB)

#33 Cuts of Beef

Possible answers: FLANK, LOIN, ROUND, SHANK, (CHUCK)

#34 Smell

Possible answers: AROMA, BOUQUET, FRAGRANCE, SCENT, (FUNK)

#34 Music Genres

Possible answers: BLUES, COUNTRY, FUNK, SOUL, (ROCK)

#35 Metals

Possible answers: IRON, LEAD, TIN, ZINC, (NICKEL)

#36 Animals

Possible answers: KANGAROO, KOALA, WALLABY, WOMBAT, (MOLE RAT)

#38 Trees

Possible answers: ASH, CEDAR, MAPLE, PINE, (ELM)

#38 Land Formation

Possible answers: HILL, MOUNTAIN, PLATEAU, VALLEY, (PLAIN)

#38 Bagel Flavors

Possible answers: EVERYTHING, ONION, PLAIN, POPPY, (SESAME)

#41 Islands

Possible answers: CUBA, JAPAN, MALTA, PALAU, (FIJI), (JAVA)

#42 Punctuation Marks

Possible answers: COLON, COMMA, HYPHEN, PERIOD, (DASH)

#43 Birds

Possible answers: BOOBY, GULL, PELICAN, PUFFIN, (CANARY)

#45 Modes of Transportation

Possible answers: BOAT, CAR, PLANE, TRAIN, (SUBWAY)

#46 Cities

Possible answers: CHICAGO, MUNICH, PHILADELPHIA, RIO, (MANHATTAN)

#46 Fashion Magazines

Possible answers: ALLURE, ELLE, GLAMOUR, W, (COSMOPOLITAN)

#46 Storms

Possible answers: BLIZZARD, CYCLONE, SQUALL, TORNADO, (HURRICANE)

#48 Apparitions

Possible answers: GHOST, PHANTOM, SPECTER, SPIRIT, (GENIE)

#49 Relatives

Possible answers: AUNT, COUSIN, MOTHER, NEPHEW, (GRANDFATHER)

#49 Offbeat

Possible answers: DAFFY, KOOKY, QUIRKY, WACKY, (CUCKOO)

#49 Fictional Ducks

Possible answers: DAISY, DEWEY, DONALD, SCROOGE, (DAFFY)

#50 Imperial Measurements

Possible answers: FOOT, INCH, MILE, YARD, (QUART)

#52 Rodents

Possible answers: GERBIL, HAMSTER, RAT, VOLE, (MOUSE)

#52 Musical Instruments

Possible answers: HARP, HORN, ORGAN, TRIANGLE, (KEYBOARD)

#52 Complain

Possible answers: CARP, GRIPE, GROUSE, MOAN, (HARP)

#53 Animal Group Names

Possible answers: COLONY, HERD, PRIDE, SWARM, (FAMILY)

#53 AP Classes

Possible answers: BIO, CHEM, GOV, STATS, (LIT)

#54 Places for Worship

Possible answers: ALTAR, RELIQUARY, SHRINE, TEMPLE, (ABBEY)

#54 Presidents

Possible answers: CALVIN, CHESTER, GROVER, HARRY, (GARFIELD)

#56 Dances

Possible answers: HUSTLE, SALSA, SWING, TANGO, (TAP)

#57 Patterns

Possible answers: HOUNDSTOOTH, PAISLEY, PLAID, STRIPES, (DOT)

#58 Arachnids

Possible answers: MITE, SCORPION, SPIDER, TICK, (BLACK WIDOW)

#58 Fish

Possible answers: CHAR, EEL, PERCH, SHARK, (CATFISH)

#58 Superheroes

Possible answers: BLACK WIDOW, BLADE, FLASH, STORM, (TICK)

#59 Quantity

Possible answers: FEW, HANDFUL, SEVERAL, SOME, (PAIR)

#59 Celestial Objects

Possible answers: ASTEROID, COMET, MOON, PLANET, (SUN)

#60 Sports Venues

Possible answers: COURT, DIAMOND, FIELD, RINK, (RING)

#60 Jewelry

Possible answers: ANKLET, BANGLE, BROOCH, PENDANT, (RING), (CHARM)

#62 State Abbreviations

Possible answers: CO, MA, ME, PA, (LA)

#62 Period Table Symbols

Possible answers: FE, HE, NA, NI, (CO), (PA), (LA), (TI)

#63 Slang for Zero

Possible answers: JACK, NADA, NOTHING, SQUAT, (ZIP)

#63 Exercises

Possible answers: CURL, LUNGE, PLANK, PRESS, (SQUAT), (CRUNCH)

#63 Captains

Possible answers: CRUNCH, KANGAROO, OBVIOUS, PLANET, (JACK)

#64 Dog Names

Possible answers: FIDO, LUCKY, ROVER, SPOT, (REX)

#64 Perceive

Possible answers: CATCH, NOTICE, OBSERVE, SEE, (SPOT)

#64 Fishing Terms

Possible answers: BAIT, CHUM, FLY, SINKER, (CATCH)

#65 Energy

Possible answers: JUICE, SPIRIT, STEAM, VIGOR, (GAS), (FIRE)

#66 Time Periods

Possible answers: CENTURY, DECADE, MILLENNIUM, YEAR, (MONTH)

#66 Breakfast Foods

Possible answers: CEREAL, OMELET, PANCAKE, WAFFLE, (BACON), (EGG)

#67 Desserts

Possible answers: CAKE, COBBLER, PIE, TART, (FUDGE)

#67 Occupations

Possible answers: FISHER, MASON, MILLER, SMITH, (DOCTOR)

#68 Extremely

Possible answers: AWFUL, QUITE, SUPER, VERY, (REAL)

#68 Currencies

Possible answers: RAND, REAL, STERLING, WON, (POUND)

#68 _____Cake

Possible answers: CARROT, COFFEE, POUND, SPONGE, (CUP)

#69 Shoes

Possible answers: CLOG, PUMP, SLIDE, WEDGE, (MARY JANE)

#69 Slang for Marijuana

Possible answers: GRASS, HERB, MARY JANE, WEED, (BUD), (POT)

#70 Camping Supplies

Possible answers: COOLER, LANTERN, SLEEPING BAG, TENT, (CAMPER)

#70 Insult

Possible answers: BARB, DIG, DISS, JAB, (SLIGHT)

#71 States

Possible answers: ARIZONA, COLORADO, NEVADA, UTAH, (KANSAS), (MONTANA)

#72 Santa's Reindeer

Possible answers: COMET, CUPID, DASHER, VIXEN, (DANCER)

#72 Seen on Valentine's Day

Possible answers: CARD, HEART, CHOCOLATE, ROSE, (CUPID)

#73 Facial Hair

Possible answers: BEARD, GOATEE, MUSTACHE, STUBBLE, (HANDLEBAR)

#73 Pursue

Possible answers: DOG, FOLLOW, TAIL, TRACK, (SHADOW)

#74 Failures

Possible answers: BUSTS, FLOPS, MISSES, TURKEYS, (DUDS)

#75 Social Gathering

Possible answers: BASH, BLOWOUT, PARTY, SHINDIG, (MIXER)

#75 Found in a Kitchen

Possible answers: COUNTER, MIXER, RANGE, SINK, (ISLAND)

#79 Depart Quickly

Possible answers: BOOK, BOUNCE, RUN, SPLIT, (JET)

#79 Shades of Black

Possible answers: EBONY, JET, ONYX, RAVEN, (BLACK)

#80 Influence

Possible answers: CLOUT, PULL, WEIGHT, SWAY, (IMPACT)

#81 Appetizer Unit

Possible answers: FRY, NACHO, POPPER, WING, (CHIP), (CRACKER)

#81 Response to a Correct Answer

Possible answers: BINGO, CORRECT, RIGHT, YES, (DING)

#82 Drink Vessels

Possible answers: GOBLET, SNIFTER, TUMBLER, STEIN, (FLUTE)

#82 Woodwinds

Possible answers: CLARINET, FLUTE, OBOE, SAXOPHONE, (BASSOON)

#82 American Poets

Possible answers: BISHOP, FROST, OLDS, POUND, (STEIN)

#83 Unclothed

Possible answers: BARE, NAKED, NUDE, UNCLAD, (BUFF)

#83 Football Actions

Possible answers: FUMBLE, PUNT, SACK, SNAP, (TURNOVER)

#83 Finger Actions

Possible answers: BUFF, CLIP, FILE, POLISH, (SNAP)

#84 Female Animals

Possible answers: COW, DOE, HEN, MARE, (EWE)

#84 Pronouns

Possible answers: I, IT, THEY, WE, (YOU)

#84 Roman Numerals

Possible answers: D, L, M, V, (I)

#86 Information Displays

Possible answers: CHART, DIAGRAM, GRAPH, MAP, (PIE)

#86 Additional Benefit

Possible answers: BONUS, EXTRA, ICING, PERK, (GRAVY)

#86 Creatures in Folklore

Possible answers: GNOME, GOBLIN, OGRE, TROLL, (DRAGON)

#89 Alcohol

Possible answers: CIDER, PORT, SAKE, STOUT, (SPIRIT), (SCOTCH)

#89 Pixar Movies

Possible answers: BRAVE, CARS, COCO, UP, (SOUL)

#90 Baseball Calls

Possible answers: BALL, OUT, SAFE, STRIKE, (WALK)

#90 Fish

Possible answers: CARP, CATFISH, FLOUNDER, SMELT, (SALMON)

#91 Jungle Animals

Possible answers: ANACONDA, CAPYBARA, JAGUAR, TOUCAN, (LION)

#91 Lowest Point

Possible answers: BASE, BOTTOM, FOOT, FOUNDATION, (LEGS)

#92 Halloween Decorations

Possible answers: BAT, COBWEB, PUMPKIN, TOMBSTONE, (BONES)

#93 Animal Sounds

Possible answers: BUZZ, CLUCK, MEOW, OINK, (BARK)

#93 Inside Info

Possible answers: DIRT, DISH, SCOOP, SKINNY, (TEA)

#95 Songs that are Names

Possible answers: ALEJANDRO, LOLA, MICHELLE, STAN, (IRIS)

#96 Animals

Possible answers: BUFFALO, COW, GOAT, SHEEP, (HORSE)

#96 Gymnastics Apparatus

Possible answers: FLOOR, HORSE, RINGS, VAULT, (BEAM)

#97 Fairy Tale Figures

Possible answers: GIANT, PRINCESS, WITCH, WOLF, (QUEEN)

#97 "Peanuts" Characters

Possible answers: CHARLIE, PEPPERMINT PATTY, PIGPEN, WOODSTOCK, (LUCY)

#98 Fruits

Possible answers: APRICOT, FIG, GRAPE, LIME, (BERRY)

#98 Luxurious

Possible answers: DELUXE, GRAND, LAVISH, OPULENT, (SWANK)

#99 Intelligent

Possible answers: BRIGHT, CLEVER, QUICK, SHARP, (SMART)

#100 Web Browser-Related

Possible answers: BOOKMARK, HISTORY, TAB, WINDOW, (LINK), (POCKET)

#100 Dirty_____

Possible answers: DOZEN, JOKE, LAUNDRY, MARTINI, (WINDOW)

#101 Bowling Terms

Possible answers: ALLEY, BALL, LANE, PIN, (SPARE)

#101 Common Merch Items

Possible answers: MUG, PEN, TEE, TOTE, (PIN)

#102 Vehicles

Possible answers: BUS, CAR, MOTORCYCLE, TRUCK, (SCOOTER)

#102 Muppets

Possible answers: ANIMAL, BEAKER, GONZO, SCOOTER, (CHEF), (PIGGY)

#103 Soda Fountain Orders (Concrete can mean a type of milkshake or frozen custard)

Possible answers: FLOAT, MALT, SHAKE, SUNDAE, (CONCRETE), (SPLIT)

#104 Robust

Possible answers: FIT, HEALTHY, SOUND, STRONG, (WELL)

#104 Water Sources

Possible answers: FOUNTAIN, SPRING, TAP, WELL, (SINK)

#105 Kitchen Utensils

Possible answers: GRATER, LADLE, PEELER, WHISK, (CLEAVER)

#106 Wedding Items

Possible answers: BOUQUET, RING, TRAIN, VEIL, (CAKE)

#106 Encase

Possible answers: CAKE, COAT, COVER, CRUST, (VEIL)

#107 Snakes

Possible answers: BOA, MAMBA, PYTHON, VIPER, (GARTER)

#108 Produced by Trees

Possible answers: ACORN, CONE, POLLEN, SAP, (GUM), (NEEDLE)

#108 Candy

Possible answers: CHOCOLATE, GUM, LICORICE, LOLLIPOP, (SUCKER)

#108 Target of a Scheme

Possible answers: CHUMP, FOOL, MARK, SUCKER, (SAP)

#109 Rap Subgenres

Possible answers: BOUNCE, CRUNK, DRILL, GRIME, (TRAP)

#110 Golf Clubs

Possible answers: IRON, PUTTER, WEDGE, WOOD, (CLUB)

#112 Coffee Counter Items

Possible answers: CUP, LID, STIRRER, STRAW, (STICK)

#114 Talk

Possible answers: BLATHER, CHAT, GAB, JABBER, (YAK)

#115 Christmas-Related

Possible answers: MISTLETOE, REINDEER, SNOWMAN, STOCKING, (PRESENT), (CANDY CANE)

#116 MLB Teams

Possible answers: ANGEL, CUB, MET, RED, (NAT)

#119 Celebratory Occasion

Possible answers: ANNIVERSARY, BIRTHDAY, SHOWER, WEDDING, (RECEPTION), (SERVICE)

#120 Crops

Possible answers: CORN, CUCUMBER, PEPPER, TOMATO, (MELON)

#121 Bible Books

Possible answers: ACTS, JOB, KINGS, MARK, (GENESIS)

#121 NHL Teams

Possible answers: FLAMES, KRAKEN, STARS, WILD, (KINGS), (RANGER)

#123 Conceal

Possible answers: BLOCK, COVER, HIDE, MASK, (SHIELD)

#124 "L" Cities

Possible answers: LAGOS, LIMERICK, LINCOLN, LUXOR, (LIMA)

#124 Poetry Terms

Possible answers: LINE, METER, RHYME, VERSE, (LIMERICK)

#125 Butt

Possible answers: BOTTOM, BUNS, SEAT, TAIL, (BOOTY)

#126 Tools

Possible answers: HAMMER, FILE, LEVEL, SAW, (WRENCH)

#126 Keyboard Shortcuts

Possible answers: COPY, FIND, PRINT, SAVE, (FILE)

#127 Days of the Week

Possible answers: FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY, THURSDAY, (WEDNESDAY), (TUESDAY)

#127 Go Bad

Possible answers: ROT, SOUR, SPOIL, TURN, (FESTER)

#129 Bit of Air

Possible answers: BREEZE, DRAFT, GUST, PUFF, (PANT)

#130 Falsify

Possible answers: FABRICATE, FAKE, FIX, FORGE, (FUDGE)

#130 TV Shows

Possible answers: FARGO, FIREFLY, FLEABAG, FLIPPER, (FRIENDS)

#131 Animal Homes

Possible answers: DEN, LAIR, HIVE, NEST, (WEB), (WARREN)

#131 Equitable

Possible answers: EQUAL, EVEN, FAIR, JUST, (GOOD)

#132 Tableware

Possible answers: BOWL, DISH, PLATE, SAUCER, (CROCK), (CUP)

#133 British Food

Possible answers: MASH, ROAST, SCONE, TRIFLE, (BANGER)

#133 Predicament

Possible answers: BIND, PICKLE, SCRAPE, SPOT, (JAM)

#134 Impel

Possible answers: DRIVE, INSPIRE, MOTIVATE, SPUR, (SPARK)

#135 Compound Words

Possible answers: BACKPACK, BIGWIG, DOWNTOWN, RAGTAG, (TEXTBOOK)

#136 Grammar Tenses

Possible answers: FUTURE, PAST, PERFECT, PRESENT, (SIMPLE)

#136 The 12 Days of Christmas

Possible answers: DRUMMER, LADY, RING, SWAN, (LORD)

#137 Excellent

Possible answers: ACES, KEEN, NEATO, NIFTY, (SWELL)

#137 Bubbles

Possible answers: FOAM, FROTH, HEAD, LATHER, (BUBBLE)

#138 Metals

Possible answers: COPPER, GOLD, NICKEL, SILVER, (BRASS), (MERCURY)

#139 Aesthetics

Possible answers: DRESS, LOOK, MANNER, STYLE, (TASTE)

#140 Mishmash

Possible answers: HASH, JUMBLE, MEDLEY, STEW, (LITTER)

#143 Filler Words

Possible answers: ERM, UH, UM, WELL, (LIKE), (ER)

#146 Clue Weapons

Possible answers: CANDLESTICK, KNIFE, ROPE, WRENCH, (PIPE)

#147 Unchanging

Possible answers: EVEN, LEVEL, STABLE, STEADY, (UNIFORM)

#147 Long, Sharp Objects

Possible answers: LANCE, PIN, SKEWER, SPIT, (PITCHFORK)

#148 Musical Format

Possible answers: LP, PLATTER, VINYL, WAX, (CD)

#148 Cube-Shaped

Possible answers: BOUILLON, DIE, ICE, SUGAR, (STOCK)

#150 Equivocate

Possible answers: HEDGE, SEE-SAW, WAVER, YO-YO, (FLIP-FLOP), (WAFFLE)

#151 Podcasts

Possible answers: RADIOLAB, SERIAL, UP FIRST, WTF, (FRESH AIR), (REPLY ALL)

#152 Intelligent

Possible answers: BRIGHT, QUICK, SHARP, SMART, (SAGE)

#152 Medieval Weapons

Possible answers: CLUB, MACE, SPEAR, SWORD, (AXE)

#153 Filmmaking Equipment

Possible answers: BOOM, DOLLY, LENS, TRIPOD, (GRIP)

#154 Sports Professionals

Possible answers: COACH, GM, PLAYER, SCOUT, (SUB)

#154 Car Companies

Possible answers: BMW, HONDA, JAGUAR, SUBARU, (FORD), (GM)

#156 Vocal Fanfare

Possible answers: BEHOLD, PRESTO, TADA, VOILA, (SURPRISE)

#157 Magazines

Possible answers: O, OK, US, W, (EW), (SI)

#157 Yes

Possible answers: HAI, JA, SI, DA, (OK), (OUI)

#158 Animals

Possible answers: BUFFALO, DEER, FISH, MOOSE, (BULL), (STEER), (SEAL)

#160 Quick Observation

Possible answers: GANDER, GLANCE, GLIMPSE, LOOK, (PEEK)

#160 Parts of a Mountain

Possible answers: CLIFF, CRAG, LEDGE, RIDGE, (BLUFF), (PEAK)

#161 _____Day

Possible answers: EARTH, GROUNDHOG, LABOR, MAY, (BIRTH)

#162 Primates

Possible answers: BABOON, BONOBO, GIBBON, GORILLA, (APE)

#162 Fashionable

Possible answers: CHIC, HIP, HOT, IN, (VOGUE)

#164 Area Between Mountains

Possible answers: CANYON, GULCH, PASS, RAVINE, (GORGE)

#165 Food

Possible answers: PASTY, PIE, TART, TURNOVER, (PARFAIT), (RAGOUT), (CURRY)

#165 Countries

Possible answers: JAPAN, POLAND, TUNISIA, TURKEY, (JORDAN)

#166 Reality Shows

Possible answers: ALONE, CATFISH, CHOPPED, SURVIVOR, (BACHELOR)

#168 Municipalities

Possible answers: CITY, TOWN, COUNTY, VILLAGE, (CAPITAL)

#171 Parts of the Foot

Possible answers: ARCH, BALL, SOLE, TOE, (HEEL)

#171 Dog Commands

Possible answers: COME, DOWN, SIT, STAY, (HEEL)

#173 Ways to Remove Hair

Possible answers: SHAVE, THREAD, TWEEZE, WAX, (CUT)

#174 Hold Back

Possible answers: CAP, CHECK, CURB, LIMIT, (HAMPER)

#175 Excite, with "Up"

Possible answers: AMP, FIRE, HYPE, PUMP, (GAS)

#177 TV Shows

Possible answers: CHEERS, EUPHORIA, FELICITY, GLEE, (FRASIER)

#178 Found on Sheet Music

Possible answers: CLEF, NOTE, REST, STAFF, (SCALES)

#178 Zodiac Symbols

Possible answers: BULL, CRAB, SCALES, TWINS, (VIRGIN)

#180 Absolute

Possible answers: PURE, SHEER, TOTAL, UTTER, (STARK)

#180 Express

Possible answers: AIR, SPEAK, STATE, VOICE, (UTTER)

#181 Cooking Oils

Possible answers: CORN, OLIVE, PALM, PEANUT, (RICE)

#183 Luxurious Fabrics

Possible answers: CHIFFON, SILK, SATIN, VELVET, (LACE)

#185 -ough

Possible answers: BOUGH, COUGH, DOUGH, TOUGH, (ROUGH), (ENOUGH)

#189 Used to Build a Snowman

Possible answers: CARROT, COAL, SNOW, STICKS, (STONES)

#190 NYC Avenues

Possible answers: BROADWAY, FIFTH, MADISON, PARK, (SECOND), (FIRST), (ELEVENTH)

#191 Accessories

Possible answers: BELT, BRACELET, TIE, WATCH, (CHARM)

#199 Name Prefixes

Possible answers: GEN, MS, PROF, REV, (DR)

#200 Parts of a Car

Possible answers: BUMPER, HOOD, TIRE, TRUNK, (DASH)

#201 Single Letter Homophones

Possible answers: BEE, EX, GEE, JAY, (TEE)

#203 New Years-Related

Possible answers: BALL, COUNTDOWN, FIREWORKS, KISS, (PARTY), (RESOLUTION), (CHAMPAGNE)

#207 Gift-Giving Accessories

Possible answers: BOW, BOX, CARD, WRAPPING, (MESSAGE)

#210 Kinds of Exams

Possible answers: BAR, FINAL, ORAL, PHYSICAL, (EYE)

#211 Long, Skinny Objects

Possible answers: POLE, ROD, STAFF, STICK, (CLUB)

#212 Cooking Elements

Possible answers: ACID, FAT, HEAT, SALT, (PEPPER), (SMOKE)

#213 Seen at a Casino

Possible answers: CARDS, CHIPS, DICE, SLOTS, (POKER)

#213 Ways to Prepare Cheese

Possible answers: CRUMBLE, MELT, SHRED, SLICE, (GRATE)

#217 Thieve

Possible answers: PINCH, ROB, STEAL, SWIPE, (JACK)

#218 Medicine Formats

Possible answers: CAPSULE, CREAM, SYRUP, TABLET, (POD)

#221 Colors

Possible answers: BLUE, GREEN, WHITE, YELLOW, (SCARLET)

#222 Minced Oaths

Possible answers: CURSES, DARN, RATS, SHOOT, (FUDGE), (NUTS)

#224 Contains Wax

Possible answers: CANDLE, CRAYON, HONEYCOMB, SEAL, (EAR)

#229 Baseball-Related

Possible answers: BALL, BASE, BAT, GLOVE, (STRIKE)

#233 Mario Power-ups

Possible answers: FEATHER, STAR, MUSHROOM, FLOWER, (HAMMER)

#234 _____Pit

Possible answers: BARBECUE, ORCHESTRA, SNAKE, TAR, (FIRE)

#235 Make Shorter

Possible answers: CLIP, CUT, PARE, TRIM, (PRUNE)

#235 Muscular

Possible answers: BUILT, JACKED, RIPPED, SWOLE, (TRIM), (BUFF)

#237 Farm Fixtures

Possible answers: COOP, PEN, STABLE, STY, (RANGE)

#238 Unexciting

Possible answers: BORING, DULL, MUNDANE, VANILLA, (ROUTINE), (DRY)

#239 Ecclesiastical Titles

Possible answers: BISHOP, CARDINAL, PASTOR, PRIOR, (BROTHER), (LORD)

#251 Media Attention

Possible answers: COVERAGE, EXPOSURE, PRESS, PUBLICITY, (MEDIA)

#254 Little Bit of Liquid

Possible answers: BEAD, GLOB, DROP, TEAR, (DRIP)

#257 Shades of Green

Possible answers: OLIVE, FOREST, LIME, MINT, (CACTUS)

#260 Ilk

Possible answers: KIND, SORT, TYPE, VARIETY, (MANNER)

#263 Propel into the Air

Possible answers: HOP, JUMP, LEAP, SPRING, (VAULT)

#266 Large Amount

Possible answers: MASS, SEA, SLEW, TON, (WAVE)

#266 Fall under Pressure

Possible answers: BUCKLE, CAVE, COLLAPSE, GIVE, (FLOP)

#268 Pop Stars

Possible answers: GRANDE, MARS, STYLES, SWIFT, (LEGEND)

#269 Found at an Airport

Possible answers: HANGAR, RUNWAY, TARMAC, TERMINAL, (WINDSOCK)

#269 Ends in an Article of Clothing (A Mac is a raincoat)

Possible answers: FOXGLOVE, GUMSHOE, TURNCOAT, WINDSOCK, (TARMAC), (LAWSUIT)

#271 Food Preservation Techniques

Possible answers: CAN, CURE, DRY, FREEZE, (SPICE)

#272 Space_____

Possible answers: BAR, CADET, HEATER, STATION, (BLANKET)

#273 Keyboard Keys

Possible answers: COMMAND, CONTROL, OPTION, SHIFT, (SPACE)

#283 Seen at a Sports Stadium

Possible answers: ASTROTURF, JUMBOTRON, SCOREBOARD, SKYBOX, (KISSCAM), (JOURNEYMAN)

#284 Animals

Possible answers: COW, DOE, HEN, EWE, (YAK)

#284 Palindromes

Possible answers: BIB, EYE, GAG, POP, (EWE)

#285 Olympic Sports

Possible answers: BREAKING, HOCKEY, TRAMPOLINE, SKELETON, (CRICKET), (SQUASH), (VOLLEYBALL)

#289 Plant Growths

Possible answers: BLOOM, BUD, SHOOT, SPROUT, (CORONA)

#290 Quarrel

Possible answers: FIGHT, ROW, SCRAP, TIFF, (WAR)

#290 Games of Chance (Poker is technically a game of skill but it's still highly associated with chance)

Possible answers: BINGO, LOTTERY, ROULETTE, WAR, (POKER)

#291 Whale Species

Possible answers: BLUE, FIN, GRAY, RIGHT, (PILOT)

#293 Food Preservation Techniques

Possible answers: CANS, CURES, SALTS, SMOKES, (JAMS), (PICKLES)

#296 Thrust

Possible answers: JAB, POKE, PROD, STICK, (ELBOW)

#301 _____Horse

Possible answers: CHARLEY, CRAZY, DARK, GIFT, (PRIZE)

#302 Brief Moment

Possible answers: FLASH, HEARTBEAT, JIFF, WINK, (ZIP)

#302 Dispute

Possible answers: CLASH, TANGLE, SCRAP, TIFF, (SPAT)

#303 Hair Care Items

Possible answers: BRUSH, COMB, DRYER, IRON, (OIL)

#307 Seen at the Circus

Possible answers: CLOWN, RING, TENT, TRAPEZE, (LION)

#310 Parts of a Theatre

Possible answers: BALCONY, BOX, ORCHESTRA, STAGE, (FLOOR)

#312 Golden_____

Possible answers: FLEECE, GIRLS, PARACHUTE, RULE, (MEAN)

#315 Starting with the Same Sound

Possible answers: CYMBAL, SCIMITAR, SIMMER, SYMPHONY, (SYMBOL)

#318 Mexican Food-Related

Possible answers: CILANTRO, LIME, ONION, SALSA, (PICO), (WRAP), (MOLE)

#328 _____Sale

Possible answers: BAKE, CLEARANCE, GARAGE, SAMPLE, (YARD)

#329 Enjoy

Possible answers: FANCY, LOVE, RELISH, SAVOR, (LIKE)

#330 Quantity

Possible answers: FEW, MANY, SEVERAL, SOME, (COUPLE), (HANDFUL)

#333 Restrict

Possible answers: CHECK, CONTAIN, CURB, LIMIT, (CAP)

#339 Forthright

Possible answers: DIRECT, FRANK, OPEN, STRAIGHT, (PLAIN)

#342 Games

Possible answers: CATEGORIES, CHARADES, FISHBOWL, WEREWOLF, (MOUSETRAP)

#345 Billiards-Related

Possible answers: BALL, CHALK, CUE, RACK, (POCKET)

#348 Things You can Crack

Possible answers: EGG, KNUCKLES, SMILE, WINDOW, (CORN)

#351 _____Iron

Possible answers: PUMP, STEAM, TIRE, WAFFLE, (FLAT)

#355 Things People Shake

Possible answers: HANDS, MARACA, POLAROID, SNOWGLOBE, (BODY)

23F I have Crohn’s and I’ve been on prednisone for about 4 months straight at this point (dosage kept fluctuating because I was getting better but then getting worse again, right now I’m on 30mg and I’ve been on 30mg for 2 months I think?)
I know steroids can cause bone issues which I did experience a bit at some points but this doesn’t feel like the same thing. So I’m not sure what to make of this.
I have a strange achy soreness only in 3 specific locations. Idk much about anatomy terms so I googled diagrams to try to match the location to a name, and if I’m right then the pain is in my knee ligaments and extensor tendons on both feet and hands.
It’s not unbearable pain or even bothersome, it just exists. Feels like throbbing or a VERY mild pulled muscle. Like I said it’s very localized too, I can place my finger exactly where I feel it and it’s constrained to that spot, it’s not a general area kind of thing.
Everything I read online only mentions stuff like physical trauma or repetitive motions causing this which makes no sense in my case since I’m obviously not doing any sports or physical labor.

Hi all, I’ve always had very irregular and heavy periods and almost a couple years ago I got the implanon implant to help this. I found it made my acne and mood worse so I had it out in December 2023. Since having it out my cycle has been pretty regular, between 4-6 weeks.
I will note that I have suspected pcos due to having every symptom except for excess facial hair. I have not had this confirmed by ultrasound yet due to personal reasons but my doctor has been seeing me since I was a child and knows everything about me.
My last period was on May 9th, had a normal period which lasted 5 days but since then I’ve been having what feels like period pain, without the period. It feels like a pulled muscle/period pain all across my lower stomach where I would usually get period pains. I’m currently on cycle day 24.
I’ve been working a lot so haven’t had chance to see my doctor but I do plan on seeing her soon. Is this kind of pain common? Thanks in advance x

So I'd like to share my experience, I appeared for boards this year. I'll be talking about chemistry specifically.

1. Periodic Table- this is one of the easiest chapters in icse. you just need to memorize the trends and the exceptions to them. those green boxes which you see pls dont ignore them they hold a lot of value. i ignored one in Electrolysis Jo mcq me puchliya that's where I lost 1 mark. also the important reasons, like "why are halogens of the same period smaller in size than noble gases of the same period" questions like this are council fav and they ask such questions everytime. SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES OF SELINA or whichever book your school has prescribed.
   
2. Chemical Bonding- there isn't much about this chapter, js remember the definitions, the most important thing is the Dot Structure of Ionic Compounds and most importantly COORDINATE compounds ke Structure. also there are minute details like "the shape of water molecule is wedge shaped cuz bond pairs repel the lone pairs", this is a very small details but holds a lot of value. so dont miss out anything. SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES.
   
3. Analytical Chemistry- so to prevent y'all from being traumatised reactions dekhle, I'll suggest start with analytical chemistry to become comfortable with reactions.
   

in this chapter, learn the precipitate and colour of precipitate. and also if it dissolves in excess and if it does then what is the colour of solution, also with which base NaOH or NH4OH they dissolve. in exams they'll give you questions like "what is the effect of sodium hydroxide on zinc sulphate normally and it excess", so for answering this, you must be knowing what is THE COLOUR OF PRECIPITATE and it dissolves or doesn't. (don't write PPT in exams, write the full thing PRECIPITATE). SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES

1. Study Of Compounds- start right away with this section, with HCl ofcourse. if you complete study of compounds first then acid Bases and Salts would be a cakewalk.

I'll tell u how to go on doing this, focus on the product being formed, write the reactions several times, it will keep getting stores in your muscle memory, learn the important properties of specific acids, at what temperature do they form azeotrope etc.
PROPERTIES OF ACIDS ARE ALMOST SIMILAR, THEY ARE CORELATED. not much difference you'll notice. if u completed one then you won't be panicking in completing other acids, cuz they share the same property.
learn the laboratory preparation process that's what they ask. the diagram is important for labelling and recognising drawing doesn't has much significance but you shouldnt be taking any risk so yeah do it. SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES.

1. Acid Bases and Salts- after you've completed compounds wala section come to this, it's a very easy chapter. now that you're comfortable with reactions you'll easily pass through this, and also if you did practice well in the compounds section then most of the reactions here you've already seen so no worries, you js need to remember which part is it of. which acid is prepared how, generally oxyacids are prepared from .... method like this. also practice dissociation of acids. learn the definitions as well, this is yet more of a learning chapter. so yeah learn the uses of certain acids and bases given in the table form. FOCUS ON THE REACTIONS. SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES.
   
2. Electrolysis and Metallurgy- Do both of these in this sequence and together, both of them have a lot to do with each other as you'll read you'll gradually realise. for Electrolysis focus firstly on the PRODUCT BEING FORMED AT THE CATHODE AND ANODE, then jump into the reactions. FIRST AND FOREMOST THING IS LEARNING THE PRODUCT BEING FORMED, THEN THE SETUP AND THEN THE REACTION. lemme tell you where I lost that one mark, there was a green box given at the end of Electrolysis of copper sulphate, where it was mentioned when does the colour of copper sulphate fades, it was asked in mcq and I left that thing so I lost that 1 mark there. don't do such silly mistakes. LEARN THAT WHICH MATERIAL IS THE ELECTRODE MADE UP OF. ITS ASKED ALMOST EVERY TIME.
   

FOR METALLURGY, LEARN THE hall heroults process, the bayers process. they ask you these in either give reasons for. okay let's take an example, "why is cryolite mixture is used", so these types of questions arise, so make sure to mark it. also learn the composition of cryolite mixture. theyll probably ask you the entire process/part of it in reaction form. so be thorough with the reaction. learn the DRESSING OF ORE AND CONCENTRATION of ore AND EXTRACTION, they make up a good amount of reasoning questions. SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES.
Organic Chemistry- start with the basic definitions like catenation, hydrogenation, etc. then learn how to draw structural formula of all the compounds, BACK EXERCISES SHOULD BE SOLVED. practice more and more and more of the structures, the more thorough you are with the structures, the more you'll master it so practice it. then coming to specific study.
LEARN THE LABORATORY PROCESS LEARN THE COMMON/TRIVIAL NAMES OF CERTAIN COMPOUNDS LEARN THE IMPORTANT PROPERTIES LIKE HALOGENATION, HYDRATION AND REACTION WITH HYDROGEN. LEARN COMBUSTION REACTIONS. LEARN THE STRUCTURE OF METHANOL, METHANAL, ACETIC ACID.
learn important points like esterification reaction, why is it called glacial acetic acid. SOLVE THE BACK EXERCISES.
OKAY THIS POST HAS BEEN WAY TOO BIG. SO CONCLUDING IT HERE. DONT WORRY YOULL DO GOOD JS BE CONSISTENT AND GIVE 3-4 DAYS OF PRACTICE REACTIONS AND ALL OVER CHEMISTRY KO. I tried to solve all your doubts in this one post. (p.s. I scored 99 in chemistry so ig its okay for me to post this.)
ALL THE BEST :)

So I got my blood test results back and I have both too high testosterone and androgens.
My facial hair has been getting really bad lately amongst other things.
I was put on metformin but I don’t want to take it as it stunts muscle growth and I am working hard to build muscle to increase insuline sensitivity in the longterm.
Also I have severe hypermobility and lack of muscle causes a huge amount of orthopedic issues for me.
I’m desperate to fix my hormones naturally and wanted to ask if anyone here has managed to do so and if yes how.
Thank you in advance.

I understand for ASD L2 and L3 that communication and social issues are massive.
But for me, un-diagnosed ASD L1, my whole life has been controlled by sensory issues.
Many of these issues make me less or un-social (not antisocial) or I piss friends and family off.
This on it's own made me lonely or extreme weird most my life.
SPD isn't recognized and if that's what I have it's somehow meaningless.
If the medical field worked on this people like me would have better health and less need for going to the doc.
Having all these negative physical feelings all the time drastically adds to anxiety and stress.

Diet

I don't eat most foods. I mean I eat variations on like 10 things. I can and have gone through periods of eating the same foods daily for 5 yrs at a time. I ate tuna fish for lunch every day for 2 yrs then never ate fish again. I ate Stouffer's lasagna every night (almost except lasagna pizza) every night for 5 yrs.
The diet issues alone can kill anyone and the diet issues can make other sensory issues worse.
For example:
-if you under eat nutrients your body becomes obsessed with getting whatever it can in and you can then go to horrible foods like sweets/carbs which then...
-cause inflammation and weight gain
-that increases any allergy issues, temperature issues, clothing sensitivities etc.
When I was a kid and didn't understand much of this I was in an allergy nightmare land and much of that was due to diet and much of our foods we didn't know how bad they were (70s-90s) because they just started converting them to mostly artificial and addictive chems.
Many of my sensory issues diminished once I controlled my diet. But since diets are the wild west and filled with marketing lies I had to go through so much unhealthy stuff before I figured that out.
Now my interest in limited types of food is a benefit.
I've had stomach issues all my life. I have stress from digestion.
Digestion even affects my back to the point it swells up and I can't move from extreme pain.
Friends parents forcing me to try to eat at their homes made me stop being friends with at least a few kids.

Sun, Temperature, Sweat and Freezing

I can't explain how much I hate the f'n sun.
I sneeze when it shines warm on my nose.
My clothing becomes uncomfortable in various ways.
I have weird temperature issues where hot in some areas cold in others. My hands are freezing in 90 degree weather. Even when active EXCEPT when I eat tons of sugar snacks. Docs don't know what it is.
I do not go many places because of this.
As a kid it was worse because you don't go out at night as much but in my teens going out was way more fun because it was at night.
When I sweat I ONLY feel my sweat. I almost can't feel or think about anything else and it drives me nuts.
So I have to avoid being hot or moving a lot.
I get sun sick without a tan. I have to sleep out of sickness and dizziness after being outside too much in the sun.

Hair

I feel my body hair when I sweat.
I don't shave much of it off because I can feel it growing back in for days.
My facial only bothers me after a few days as long as I shower immediately after shaving.
People think I'm a narcissist because I'm obsessed with my hair.
I HAVE to control it completely because i feel it in various areas moving all day.
My hair is also a key component to my very successful masking.

Hearing

I don't hear the beginning and ending of words as loudly. Likely an auditory processing issue from endless ear infections as a kid. They won't test it for some friggin reason.
That prevents me from learning my wife's language and processing many conversations.
It may have caused my dyslexia or fully similar dyslexia like symptoms.
I can hear people talking VERY clearly behind me from hundreds of feet aware but up close in front of me certain words don't process.
It's event possibly me processing people visually may make me not hear them as well.
If there is something in a plastic bag on the seat in the back of my car, when I turn it slides, then suddenly I can't see anything except my imagination of what that bag sliding looks like. So I have to pull over and put it on the floor - I'm not the only person that uses my car.
Hearing my kids talk loud or scream puts me into a shocked state where I have issues thinking straight for a few minutes after.

Smell

My mother faints from certain smells.
I'm allergic to almost all colognes or perfumes.
Many food smells make me want to throw up.
I can smell things from hundreds of feet away.
My wife says i can't smell many smells that disgust her. I've read this is normal/common in evolution though.

Taste

Most tastes are gross as F to me.
Even some days my favorite sweets are disgusting. Then I'm just totally dissatisfied.

Texture and Feeling

My food the texture is the biggest deal. I love the taste of most meats but can't stand various textures when chewing it.
Clothing it took a long time to realize I just didn't like how it grasped my body and rubbed on me. 40 yrs to figure this out. Closets filled with clothing I liked how it looked but could never wear it. Costed me THOUSANDS in my life.
I had mentioned I can feel my hair all the time.
I can feel the sun on my skin and HATE IT.
Here's where I'm weird. Hugs from my parents overwhelms me or stresses me out. I don't recall ever hugging or touching my mother.
Hugs from my wife/kids and girlfriends before my wife are very important to me.
I do flinch extremely when people touch me and I'm unprepared.

Interoception

I have both a huge sensitivity to my inner body and don't notice normal things in my body.
I don't realize I have to go to the bathroom until I'm physically sick sometimes or it's right away minutes after I eat.
I can feel various veins pumping blood, not just arteries.
I knew I had ulcers at 11 or so pretty quickly but that may be normal.
I can feel almost every location in my head that is affected by allergies and mucus. I feel the upper back of my throat daily. I feel my inner ears.

Proprioception and muscle nerve communication

I have to lean on the wall to put on sneakers or pants etc.
I have general walking balance issues. Adjusting for this causes more back issues.
I have issues tying shoes.
I choke on water daily.
I spill water if I filled a glass beyond 60%, almost daily.
I don't have a fear of heights but I have a fear of controlling my balance when on a ladder or a high area. This then appears as a fear of heights.
I worked very hard at becoming a good guitarist as a teen. 2-3 hours a day, I loved it. But I was always confused why some days i'd seem like a virtuoso and other days I just couldn't play accurately at all. I'd lose timing in picking and then next day I was great. I do know alcohol, a small amount, improves this but this is likely why many guitarists have drinking issues - on top of life issues. So I don't want that.

Cramping

If I don't drink half a glass of water with 200mg of magnesium EVERY night I have to shoot out of bed with excruciating pain nightly. It hurts me so bad that those muscles hurt for days after. I can get cramps in the front muscles of one leg and back of the other at the same time causing me to be immobile.
I have to add zinc on my diet cheat days after too much sugar or worse cramps.
I get cramps in my hands from just lifting drinking glasses.
This is just some of it that I could think of right now.

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The following two brain scans were provided by the Neuro-Warfare branch of the Halcyon Security Division (HSD) for the purpose of analyzing the thoughts, behaviors, and information of notorious gangsters Vincent 'Troy' Cohen and Bruno (Deadname: Koraak Tel-Char). At the point of the recording of this archival shared, Bruno has since received his rebirth therapy, and Vincent is currently serving a long-term rehabilitative and reeducative sentence in the Erebus Supermax Prison on Io.
Warning: the contents of this archival shared may be especially disturbing to some audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.
Warning: the contents of this archival shard are for the sole purpose of analyzing the thought patterns and memories of certain degenerate criminals in an effort to ascertain vital information that can be used to eliminate their organizations. Only staff with clearance level Omega may view this archival shared, and the viewership of this archival shared by anyone of inadequate clearance level will lead to twenty years in prison and a fine of over a hundred thousand credits.
Booting up memory scan: Vincent 'Troy' Cohen, November 4th, 2446…
Loading and processing firmware data… translating… memories and subconscious simulated…
Beginning archival shard presentation…
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"Do you have visuals of the target, Troy?"
I knelt down in the alleyway, the bodies of me and my partners shrouded in long, waterproof, ashen-gray overcoats the shade of dirty street scum that we wore to ward off the constant heavy rainfall the color of osmium. Our faces were covered in a mix of scrapped respirators, visors, or full metal face masks carved with intricate designs to hide our identities. On our waists were our badges of honor: leather belts studded with interlocked rivets made from blackened titanium, each buckle forged of silver and shaped into the head of our gang's symbol, the black mamba. We hid amongst the shadows of the dark midday of Halcyon City, the heavy, oppressive rains blanketing the roads paved obsidian-black with asphalt and weathered concrete walkways. The street lamps were always on, like beacons of false hope in a storm of melancholy.
The city was dark and dreary as always, the planet of Proxima Centauri B, renamed Dawn's Lamentation over a century ago, orbited the red dwarf star of Proxima Centauri, and the atmosphere was thick with natural smog and ever-storming rain clouds. That didn't dissuade people from living here: there was plenty of money to be had for shrewd industrialists and hardworking pioneers, even in the urban sprawl. But that life also came with risks, especially for those on the bottom of the totem pole.
I was a ganger, and we were criminals; full stop. I won't assault you with some spiel about how we're the good guys fighting oppression because, at the end of the day, we could be just as bad, if not worse, than Halcyon's Security Division, or the HSD for short. We were traffickers, killers, extortionists, and money launderers. We dealt with everything from stolen tech and military-grade hardware to hard drugs and sentients.
Yes, sentients. We trafficked sentients, but not in the way you might think. They weren't prisoners, in fact, we were their saviors if they had the cash. We had developed a reputation for fighting the power, but it was still business: sure, freeing captives from the clutches of the Protectorate. The disruption of its many oppressive organizations held a certain satisfaction in my heart for sure, but we didn't help those who couldn't pay unless someone else paid on their behalf. It was about making sure me and my gang, my family, could live a decent life for another day.
It helped that most of us joined after leaving the state yard for partaking in acts of 'degeneracy' and 'anti-xenopet illegalities' as if those terms meant anything anymore other than that we were a threat to the local status quo. It was hard to pick up a job as a former inmate when even in something as harsh and backbreaking as a job in the iridium mines near the poles when the employment office had you blacklisted as a degenerate, which lead to the formation of many of the gangs: we needed to make a living somehow, and when all social programs were cut off from you unless you submitted for 're-education' and the only way to put food on the table was subverting, breaking, or even downright fighting the law, you did what you had to do or you died on the streets a scorned beggar.
It wasn't like the HSD made it easy for us on even a good day: the local HSD units were armed to the teeth with advanced, military-grade hardware that you'd often see on the front lines of the Second Authority War: armored assault transports, a myriad of advanced war droids, all sorts of chemical countermeasures that made tear gas seem like putting the garden hose on mist mode, and of course advanced firearms. Add that to the fact that they were authorized to use deadly force when they deemed it necessary and you had a ruthless, heartless, and nearly unstoppable enemy. But we could make that work: we weren't trying to stop them, just to withstand them.
"Yeah, I got eyes on the prize, Koraak; seven armored transports, two for droids, five for prisoners."
Today wasn't a day for a normal job: we were getting bolder, cockier, more ambitious. Our numbers had swelled for the last few years after the raid at Barnard's Star and the fall of the Blood Dragon Mafia. Their leader, Saito Yasuhide, had committed seppuku as their manor burned, and his twin sons had gone down fighting rather than allowing themselves to be captured simply to face a firing squad. In the aftermath, many of the family's associates had fled to the surrounding systems, and with the sheer size and scope of the criminal underworld found here, it was no wonder that many people who had developed skills of the less legal variety had decided to form ranks with the gangs, and with them they brought guns, tech, knowledge, contacts, and even something that we thought wasn't possible beforehand: a semblance of peace between the gangs, or at least the closest thing to peace that gangs could cultivate effectively. With the fall of the Blood Dragons, we saw the writing on the wall, and the writing couldn't have been clearer: work together or die together.
"Sounds like a massacre, Troy: are you sure we can handle seven?"
"We ain't got no choice, Cinder: this job's double the usual rate, and that's not including the weapons and gear we could scrounge if this goes well," I hissed, my eyes scanning for any resistance. There were at least four guards for each van, not to mention at least eight droids in total, meaning that we were already outnumbered, but we had the element of surprise: we could make it work. "So put your balls in your purse and get ready to spill some blood."
Koraak snorted at our antics, which sounded like someone pulling the ripcord on a lawnmower. He was a veteran Russu Corsair, and while his past of slaving, raiding, and killing was unsavory, so were the lives we'd lived, so who were we to judge? All we cared about was that he was a brutal and capable fighter and a loyal brother in arms. It turned out that being a ganger wasn't much different from being a Corsair: you lived and died by a code of honor, you fought to the death for your brothers, and you lived to die for the sake of your gang and your family, simple as that. In a strange, ironic way, it was an incredibly honest way of life: we were under no illusions as to what we were, what we did, and why we did it, and we'd long since accepted it. The Russu related to us in that aspect, in many ways I could respect, which is why I hated what the Protectorate was doing, and why I couldn't grasp how most of humanity could just collectively lose their marbles so long ago. What had happened for us to deem all other life below us in such a demeaning and infantilizing way?
The Russu were a race of tall, muscle-bound Saurians with avian features, and Koraak was no exception: reaching almost seven feet in height and weighing over four hundred and fifty pounds, he could be an absolute menace if he so desired. His skin was covered in stubby, knobby scales and dense plumage, with elegant feathers adorning the ridges along his back as well as his forearms, elbows, knees, and the crests on his head. He almost looked like how paleontologists described velociraptors, with razor-sharp talons, feathers shaded in vibrant greens, reds, and purples, and a maw full of sharp teeth, but at the tip of his snout was a sharp, beak-like growth meant for ripping flesh off the bone.
The Russu were strange as hell, but they also looked almost cute in the same way a fully grown alligator was cute: they were obviously dangerous, but humans would always have this innate desire to anthropomorphize them and to pet them for some inexplicable reason, although common sense usually prevented that, at least amongst the very few of us left that were sane.
"Shut up, Troy! All I'm saying is that that'll be rough, and you know it," hissed Cinder. Cinder was a tall black man whose coffee-colored skin was covered in tattoos. He wore an ebony mechanic's jumpsuit with metal inserts underneath his grimy overcoat covering his body and a faded black respirator on his face. His eyes were a startling blue that seemed sorely out of place, and his hair was braided into thick cornrows along his scalp. He wore a pair of heavy black combat boots and palmed his compact shotgun in his hands, the square barrel less than seven inches. Like a lot of the weapons the Black Mambas carried on their persons and dealt in, they fired caseless ammunition; in Cinder's case it was 16x40mm caseless shotshells filled with depleted uranium micro-flechetes no thicker than a toothpick. Cinder nervously fiddled with the detachable tube magazine underneath the barrel, his hands shaking. Despite the shit I have him, I didn't blame him for being anxious: I was anxious too, even if I refused to show it. The biting cold of unease and pessimism was in my stomach, and I ran all the way that this job could go wrong in my head over and over.
"Just hold yourself together, this ain't anything we haven't done before, there's just more of it," I reassured Cinder, "besides, we're not alone; we have reinforcements across the street. We'll make it out of this alive."
Cinder nodded almost absentmindedly, his eyes downcast and his breathing shallow. I turned from him and back to Koraak, who was making sure he had everything on his person; he had a synthetic leather bandoleer across his chest that contained the heavy eight guage depleted uranium slugs he kept loading and unloading into his much larger, longer, and more traditional shotgun he nicknamed ‘carnage’ and several leather straps that held his Tu'shan daggers: traditional Russu pyramidal blades forged from a silvery alloy with all three edges serrated and the tip barbed to leave behind horrible, gaping wounds that gushed blood. They were wickedly sharp and absolutely straight like a stiletto, and the hilts and pommels were beautifully decorated. He wore no clothes underneath his overcoat to cover the countless scars and blemishes he's earned in combat across his chest and abdomen, and instead of a normal respirator or visor, he simply wore a hood over his head and some traditional Russu facial armor to protect his mouth, eyes, and cheeks.
"You ready to fight, Koraak? The caravan will pick up and leave soon."
Koraak was silent for a moment before nodding, a human gesture he had picked up after serving as a soldier with the Black Mambas for years. "I'm always ready to fight," he said before lifting up his shotgun and aiming down the sights at the reinforced front wheels of the first armored car in the caravan. He exhaled and fired, the slug ripping through both front tires and causing them to deflate and fall apart. The echo of the shot rang through the alleyway and the street, causing pedestrians to panic and flee the scene as heavily armored guards poured out of the side doors of the armored cars and unholstered their carbines.
"Go, now!" I shouted, and both me and Cinder rushed out into the fray, our guns raised. Koraak was right behind the two of us, providing covering fire with his shotgun. Several guards fell quickly, Koraak's precise fire and the sheer force of the depleted uranium slugs putting them down for good as their heads were vaporized or their chest cavities were turned to mush. He emptied the tube with one final shot that painted the grey matter of a security guard on the door of one of the armored cars, then racked the shotgun and expertly loaded it in threes, his hands deft and agile as he reached for more slugs faster than any human.
With the cacophony of our initial assault, more Black Mambas poured out from the alleyways and the subways, armed to the teeth with all manner of weapons; shotguns, submachine guns, pistols, machetes, baseball bats, and all manner of homemade explosives. Molotovs and more potent concoctions shattered against the asphalt, herding in the caravan guards with their volatile contents as they were quickly gunned down. The assault was working, and we were winning.
Then I heard the robotic whine of a combat droid activating, and my heart sank. One of the armored cars in the back activated the four combat droids it held, the robotic assault units detaching from their charging ports on the sides of the large van and began to form up, each armed with a terrifying array of deadly weapons meant to quash any and all resistance. They were blocky, soulless, utilitarian things that stood at eight feet tall, with flat feet meant for stomping and blades, grasping claws designed to lacerate flesh and shatter bone. On each shoulder was a weapon: on the left was a multi-barrel rotary grenade launcher loaded with 15mm concussion grenades, and on the right was a burst-fire splinter cannon. They were all painted a dull grayish-green, the color of Halcyon's Security Division, although some had a few decorations on them: the one closest to me had a bit of graffiti on the side that said Mr. Hugs in Comic Sans, which I couldn't decide whether that made it more or less terrifying. They split up without hesitation and began to scan the chaotic battlefield, their single, red, beady lenses the security forces had the gall to call eyes focusing on specific targets to eliminate.
An entire group of Black Mambas was torn to pieces by a cloud of flechettes as one of the droids fired a withering three-round burst of shotshells from the four gauge splinter cannon mounted on its shoulder. Another picked up a Black Mamba in its hand and crushed her skull effortlessly before tossing her limp body to the side, its single, red, remorseless robotic eye tracking a new target. Most bullets that struck their thick armored chassis simply bounced off, and those that could pierce the armor didn't seem to phase the droids whatsoever, merely notifying them of a new potential target.
"Damnit," I shouted as I gunned down another guard only for two more to take his place. "Cinder! We gotta pop open the cars and scram! Get the maglock cutters!"
Cinder rushed and slid over through a dirty puddle, pulling out a maglock cutter from the inside of his coat and slipping it onto the back door of the first van. It immediately went to work, drilling through the maglock with a high-powered plasma torch nozzle, and within ten seconds we heard the telltale clunk of the maglock separating. I yanked the door open and ordered I side, ready to escort the prisoners out… only for my face to contort in shock and horror.
The back was empty. There was not a single soul inside of the back brig of the armored car.
"What the fuck…" Cinder gasped, his eyes wide with shock. "What the actual fuck… what the fuck is this, Troy?"
"I… I don't…" I stuttered the sounds of battle and carnage drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my ears. All five cars were supposed to be filled with recently captured Russu from the front lines ready to be housed in the local Xenopet-Megaplex for processing and conditioning. The fact that this one was empty…
Suddenly, it all hit me at once with the force of a freight train, but it was too late. "We were set up, Cinder; our fucking client either squealed or was crooked to begin with…"
"Fucking bitch!" Cinder shouted as he spun around in an enraged arch, anger growing in his eyes. He aimed his shotgun at an approaching security guard and reduced his upper body to a fine red mist with a cacophony of shotgun blasts. "We gotta get everyone who's left out of here! Do you know what this means? The Jurors will be here soon, and then we're all going down! We gotta go, fuck the job!"
I grit my teeth. Not the Jurors, anything but the Jurors.
"Fine, gather everyone who's left and we'll slip through the sewers, the droids are too bulky to follow us there…"
As I spoke, my eyes wandered to the seventh and final armored car, the second of the droid cars, and my blood froze. Not only were all four ports empty, but they were also smaller and more shallow than the ports for the combat droids. That could only mean one thing.
"Oh fuck! Cinder, we gotta get our Russu members out of here! They've got arachnid droids!"
Arachnid droids were the stuff of nightmares. Resembling blocky, robotic arachnids the size of a manhole cover, they were specifically designed to take down sentient aliens, specifically the Russu, using sickeningly non-lethal means. They were equipped with full-body adaptive cloaking to blend in with their environments, paralytic agents that they could inject into their victims, built-in taser barbs, psychedelic gas ports for crowd-control, and a narrow-coned cacophony canon that disabled the Russu using incredibly high-pitched sounds that only they could hear, forcing them onto their knees and clutching the backs of their heads where their auditory organs were stored in agony. But worst of all was their stygian spinnerets: special ports near the end of their robotic abdomens that excreted a viscous, latex-like substance made up of millions of nano-bots. This substance could be used to render Russu blind, deaf, and mute by having it forced onto their faces, the black substance growing and enveloping their heads and working its way into every orifice. It was completely permeable to the standard atmosphere, but any Russu who had been 'webbed' was completely helpless and essentially captured, and the 'webbing' was both nearly indestructible and nigh impossible to remove without a triple-encrypted override key that was found in every arachnid droid's code, which was corrupted when the droid was destroyed or hacked into. Once you were 'webbed', you were essentially captured and the standard protocol was to leave you to the wolves since the nano-bots could be tracked, endangering the entire gang.
I turned just as I heard the deafening sound of Koraak discharging his shotgun, and I saw him squaring off against one of the assault droids. The droid has obviously been programmed to not use lethal force against Russu if possible, as instead of simply killing Koraak with it's shoulder-mounted splinter cannon, it approached with its claws extended, blades retracted. Koraak continued to back away and fire, pumping the droid full of depleted uranium slugs, its armor crumbling inward as the slugs pierced its chassis and damaged its internal cyberstructure. Eventually, Koraak ran out of slugs and instinctively reached to his bandoleer only to find that he had no more shells left at all, and he drew one of his knives and his sidearm, a simple high-caliber handgun. He tried to take down the droid with his handgun, but the bullets didn't even seem to affect the droid upon penetration, it's claws still extended as it attempted to apprehend Koraak.
In the corner of my vision, as I watched Koraak battle with the droid, I noticed a faint shimmer in the air on one of the black streetlight poles that was right behind him. I focused on it and blinked, believing my eyes had deceived me for a moment before realizing that it was actually a cloaked arachnid droid stalking Korvaak, ready to pounce and incapacitate him.
Before I could shout, it leaped from the pole and landed on Korvaak, causing him to shout in surprise while it began to coagulate its horrifying stygian webbing to disable Korvaak. Korvaak tried to wrestle it off of him, but the droid was agile and fast, clinging onto Korvaak and skittering around across his upper body as he attempted to grab it, forcibly wrapping the sticky black liquid across his face as he gagged like a spider wrapping up a fly. I rushed towards him to try and help, but I felt pain explode in my ribs as I was struck with the arm of the closest combat droid and launched into the chassis of a parked car, the metal denting from the sheer force of impact. I groaned in pain as I saw stars and my head spun, and just then I felt a blinding light be cast over me.
“Drop your weapons and kneel with your hands on your head, or you will be pacified with deadly force!” Shouted a loud, artificially deepened voice from above. “I repeat, drop your weapons and kneel with your hands on your head! Neither hostility nor hesitation will be tolerated!”
It was the Jurors, I could feel the air being pushed around from the thrusters on their drop ships, and I could hear screams and shouts as my fellow Black Mambas were quickly gunned down. I couldn’t see well since I was seeing double, but I could hear the slaughter as my eyes dimmed and I began to lose consciousness, my regrets crawling up my throat like vomit.
I’m sorry was all I could think as everything finally went dark, and the sounds of chaos, destruction, and combat faded away.
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Memory halted due to loss of consciousness. Booting next available memory in shard…
Booting up memory scan: Koraak Tel-Char Bruno, November 5th, 2446…
Loading and processing firmware data… translating… memories and subconscious simulated…
Beginning archival shard presentation…
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“Good morning, sleepyhead; it’s time for breakfast.”
My eyes shot open. I was not in the street anymore, nor was I home in my bed with my mate. I knew instantly that something was horribly wrong. I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t gain the leverage to do so: my ankles had been shackled together with magnetic cuffs and my arms were forced together in front of me.
I was wearing some kind of thick shirt. It was warm, fluffy, and comfortable on the inside, but it still made me incredibly uncomfortable that my arms didn’t have a free range of motion. I looked down to see that I was wearing some human garment I had heard about before, a straightjacket maybe?
The entire room was padded: the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. There was no bed or furniture; the floor was soft enough to serve as a bed in itself. There was nothing else except for the soft reddish-orange lights on the ceiling that somehow made me sleepy. I blinked slowly for a moment, my body screaming at me to just lay back down and lose consciousness, but I couldn’t do that: I needed to figure out where I was and how to escape.
Then I noticed who was speaking to me: it was a short human female, with crow's feet around her blue eyes, blonde hair braided down her back, and freckles all over her face. She had a soft smile on her lips, and her forehead was slightly crinkled. She wore a full-body white lab suit with a white overcoat and a pair of glasses for snugly on her face.
"There we go, now I can see those pretty eyes, such a beautiful shade of teal," she cooed softly, "You're such a handsome boy, even with all those scars: I'm sure you'll be adopted very quickly once we get you fixed up."
Fear gripped my heart as I began to piece all the evidence together. I had been captured; I was no longer on Halcyon, and instead, I was in one of the horrific space-born facilities I had heard so much about from the inside agents. I started to hyperventilate and squawk like a newborn hatchling, my eyes dilating in panic. This couldn't be happening! This has to be a nightmare!
The human woman merely wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into an embrace, cradling my head under her chin and speaking softly. I couldn't bite at her or claw at her: I was muzzled and wearing a straight jacket, so I had no choice but to allow her to coddle me.
"It's okay, sweetheart: I understand you're scared, but Julie's here to make all the pain and bad thoughts go away," she said as if she was comforting a child, which made anger blossom in my chest indignantly. "I'll be your caretaker for the next few months, and I'm going to make sure you're healthy, happy, and most importantly safe while you're under our care. I'm sorry to say that includes your restraints and restrictive clothing, but we have to make sure you aren't a threat to yourself or others before we can determine if it's a good idea to remove you from suicide watch."
I growled under my muzzle. Suicide watch? They must have had a lot of instances of Russu taking their own lives after being captured, something I wished I had been able to do before that damnable droid launched itself onto me and…
I shuddered at the thought of the black, viscous substance forcing itself into my nostrils and down my throat and windpipe, gagging me and rendering me completely helpless. It was so cold, so harsh, like slime, and when I had tried to tear it off of my face it merely attached itself to my claws and bound my talons together. I remember squirming on the ground as it enveloped me, unable to see, hear, or speak, and then everything went dark in an instant. It was the most horrible thing I had ever experienced, which was saying something.
"You alright, sweetheart? Oh, I know, you're probably hungry! Here, try some of this." She held up a piece of what looked like raw bacon and wiggled it in front of me before reaching out to remove my muzzle. In an instant, I attempted to snap at her only for pain to blossom in my forehead and my eyes to roll up in my head as I convulsed. It was like something was attempting to drill through my skull from the inside, and every breath felt empty and labored.
"Now, that didn't feel very nice, did it? This is why we have countermeasures in place because we can't trust you yet, sweetheart! Don't worry, we'll work on breaking you of all those bad behaviors and habits while you're here; after all, a well-trained pet is a happy pet!" She began to stroke the crests on my head as I slowly recovered, and she snugly fit the muzzle back onto my snout. "But I won't hold it against you this time, sweetheart; you're just scared and confused, but I'll make all the pain go away."
I struggled in the straight jacket, trying my best to break out of it, but it was no use. Eventually, I became exhausted and despondent, allowing my new caretaker to have her way with me as she gently ran her fingers through my feathers and along my ridges, quietly speaking to me in a hopeless attempt to cheer me up. She seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, which concerned me even further: who could be this naturally twisted while attempting to be as benevolent and kindhearted as possible?
I felt the pain and terror build up in my chest, the anxiety from what horrific activities I imagined they had planned for me here. I couldn't take the infantilization, the lack of any autonomy, the dehumanization, and what I feared the most was if the rumors of 'rebirth' were true: would they take my personhood from me?
Suddenly, I felt her whisper to me. "Don't worry sweetheart, I know you're so scared and confused, but I promise you everything will be okay: it's going to be your birthday soon, and then everything will get better." She ran her fingers through the feathers along my crest lovingly. "It will be such a wonderful day, and then we'll choose for you the most wonderful family, and you'll spend the rest of your life happy in your forever home! Doesn't all of that sound wonderful?"
I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I didn't want to lose myself, not like this, not to these monsters!
"It'll be your birthday soon," she said wistfully as if she was remembering similar events to this in the past like I wasn't the first she'd done this too, "and you'll never be sad again."
I realized that I wasn't the first the stay in this particular cell, and I knew for certain that I wouldn't be the last: I'd end up like my brother, a broken, erased mess of a pathetic creature, reduced to nothing more than a pet for these humans to amuse themselves with.
"We took the liberty of picking out a nice name for you, sweetheart! Now, let me just slip this little programming chip into the port slot on your occipital bone, and... there we go! It will also help you calm down a bit and adjust."
I felt the chip begin to invade my mind, suppressing my thoughts. What made me me was slowly being ripped out of my mind. I couldn't remember my name my name is Bruno, and I needed to get out! I can't let them do this to me! Somebody help me! I was a good boy.
##Do not think. You are a good boy.##
I tried to scream, but my voice wouldn't work: I had trouble forming any words at all, the confusion clouding my mind like wet, slimy eels curling around my brain and sinking their teeth into its folds like needles. I couldn’t scream any longer, because I had nothing left: the chip was slowly beginning to take everything from me, robbing me of my identity and branding a new one into my psyche with a white-hot iron. Julie simply held me close, attempting to reassure me as I awaited the inevitable demise of my personhood. Soon I would be just like my brother: erased. My mind would be shaped into the mind of a loyal plaything, like a Dog.
##Relax. Allow caretaker [Julie] to comfort you. You will let go of your burden.##
Soon, everything was a blur. I quickly found myself resting my head in her lap as she whispered to me and fed me, my eyes bleary and my head fuzzy. I couldn't remember my name anymore My name was Bruno, and I needed to break free from this trance relax, and allow her to help me; good boys didn't resist help.
##Good Boy. Do not think. You are a good boy.##
You can't... I...
##Good boy.##
I wouldn't… good boys don't… I…
##Good boy##
I was a good boy… I was a good boy…
I was… I was… a good… boy…
Someone help me, please! I don't want to be erased!
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The following script is from episode #343 of Halcyon After Dark, a popular late-night and current events talk show hosted by Melinda Carter. This specific episode was sponsored in part by the Halcyon Security Division, with Director Lochlin O'Brien joining as a guest star to talk about the changing crime statistics in Halcyon City and the HSD's recent successes in busting organized crime as well as their plans for addressing the growing criminal underworld.
MC: Good evening Halcyon! I'm your host, Melinda Carter, and you're watching Halcyon's most popular late-night talk show, Halcyon After Dark!
The crowd claps and cheers as Melinda walks on stage and sits behind her desk, her glittering red dress waving as she does so from the special effects.
MC: Tonight we have a very special guest here to tell us about the state of crime in the city and his plans on resolving it: please put your hands together for the HSD's very own Director, Lochlin O'Brien!
The crowd cheers some more as HSD Director Lochlan O'Brien, a tall, muscular, caucasian male in his early forties with red hair and a well-trimmed beard steps into the room, waving at the crowd with a bright smile. He sits in the armchair angled next to Melinda's desk and gives her his full attention.
MC: It's so good to have you on the show, Director! Tell me, how are you doing on this fine evening?
LO: I'm doing excellent, Melinda: every day I wake up feeling fulfilled knowing I'm serving Halcyon to the best of my abilities and then some."
MC: That's the spirit, Director! Now, I know this question is just on everyone's lips, so I have to ask: how successful was the recent gang bust? I heard HSD forces took out dozens of gang members and liberated at least a dozen Russu Hounds from their abusive clutches, but I know that everyone in the audience and at home wants to know the numbers.
LO: I'd be glad to tell you, but I do have to preface this by saying that we still lost a lot of good officers that day, and while we did strike a crippling blow to one of Halcyon's biggest gangs, it doesn't change the fact that each death is a tragedy, and we're taking steps to prevent them in the future. That being said, those valiant officers did not sacrifice themselves in vain: we had over a dozen confirmed kills and several arrests, including the rescue of several corrupted Russu hounds.
MC: That's excellent, Director: proof that even when the number of degenerates and scum grow by the day, the HSD will always be here to keep the citizens of Halcyon safe.
LO: Absolutely, Melinda, and we're always working tirelessly to increase the efficiency and effectiveness of our units, as well as racing to stay several steps ahead of the many gangs of Halcyon at all times. My newest goal as Director is to vastly increase the funding given to our Robotics Department and our Neuro-Warfare Department to potentially reduce the number of casualties we may experience in the future, as well as to quickly and effectively detain, and if necessary, eliminate criminals. Within the next decade, I want to double the number of automated units each Security Platoon is assigned: droids are the future of public safety as well as countless other industries, and it would be foolish to be left behind.
MC: That is quite a lofty goal, Director: what about the displaced jobs from the increased automation? What will the union say?
LO: And to that, I say: what misplaced jobs? We aren't replacing our honored and beloved service members with droids, Melinda, we are simply supplementing our units with more droids to ensure that future gang assaults end with fewer HSD casualties and more gang members in prison or eliminated, simple as that.
MC: That makes much more sense, Director, thanks for clarifying. Now, I have one more question that I'm sure much of Halcyon wants to know the answer to before we take a short break: what plans do you and your fellow directors have to make long-term progress in reducing crime beyond just increasing funding? Have you proposed any plans to strike at the source of where crime and degeneracy flourish?
OL: That's an excellent question, and one I am proud to answer: my constituents and I have been working tirelessly on a two-step plan to greatly reduce crime levels in Halcyon. Step one would be to prevent people from becoming criminals and degenerates at all in the first place: a lot of young men and women, but especially young men, have lost either one or both parents or even a sibling, aunt or uncle, or even a close friend by the brutality of the Second Authority War, and while the service of their lost loved ones will always be recognized and honored, many of these young men and women are left bitter, angry and lost without the guidance these people give them in their lives. Oftentimes they seek to fill that void with others who claim to relate to them: career criminals. These criminals will fill their heads with lies and false narratives to make them feel like they're fighting back against the 'evil protectorate government' that took their loved ones from them by sending them off to war when in reality it was the rogue Xenopets of the Triarchy that took them away by resisting their just and inevitable unburdening.
In response, I have proposed a slew of special programs that will make sure local law enforcement and HSD officers are present and contributing to their local community, and we'll be providing easy and light job openings for youngsters and teens looking to make a career for themselves in the force when they grow up. We want to let these lost souls know that there are people who care about them, people who understand them and that you shouldn't turn to degeneracy to feel fulfilled. We want to help the youth of our great society soar to new heights!
MC: That sounds like a wonderful beginning to your plan, Director, but what about the second step?
LO: Well, the second step is to prevent criminals and degenerates from becoming repeat criminals. Sure, they've made their mistakes, some worse than others, but they're only human like the rest of us. Some of them have been through hell: some are traumatized veterans who don't know how to adapt to normal life, others were recruited when they were young and don't know that there's a better way to live, and even more are mentally ill. We're alone in this galaxy, and we can't leave so many people behind. That's why we've come up with an excellent solution: we've set up isolated communities on distant moons and frontier planets where these criminals can be reeducated, rehabilitated, and allowed to repay their debt to society. When they're deemed 'reformed' and have graduated from our program, they'll be granted a hefty stipend and their criminal record will be deemed irrelevant, allowing them to reintegrate and become functioning members of our proud society.
MC: all of these sound like incredible steps forward in the fight to better our society and make real progress, Director. Sadly, we do have to step away for a moment, but you best believe I'll be back, Halcyon, and we'll be asking the Director here some burning questions about allegations over the quality of life Erubus Supermax! Now, a word from our sponsors!
Halcyon Xenopet-Megaplex! Everything your xenopet could ever need in one place! Adoption is now free-
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Good, you’re still alive! The rest of this shard appears to be corrupted, which means this particular trail seems to have run cold here, but do not despair; you need to keep searching. Find out what happened. Find the truth.I cannot guide you any longer: they've already found me, and if I remain in contact with you they'll find you as well. Take the archival database, and see what you can piece together. Maybe if we discover what truly happened we can put an end to this madness once and for all. I'm counting on you. Don't cry for me, I don't fear death, but I fear what they'll do to me to get to you: there are far worse fates than death, after all.

I gave myself whiplash when laughing and throwing my head back in a seat I mistakenly thought had a headrest. It did NOT have a headrest, so unfortunately for me, my neck did not engage to protect me. My neck snapped backwards and hyperextended badly. Whats worse, is since my injury happened while I was stationary and there was no outside force imposed on me to cause my head to move back, there was no inertia to push me forwards either. That meant my neck muscles had to wrench my head back up and forward by themselves, against gravity. And naturally that meant my hyper extension was pretty severe. As of writing this post my injury was 6 days ago. I am very frightened as I have since experienced rare and unusual symptoms that I believe mean I may have injured my brain stem itself - which is incapable of healing.
My symptoms: 1. Neck Pain/Stiffness 2. Dizziness/Unsteadiness 4. Fatigue/Drowsiness 5. Headaches 6. Burning Face, Neck, Throat, and Tongue 7. Hot flashes
My neck pain started immediately and worsened 8 hours later, which is normal for Whiplash. I was very afraid but hopeful it was all muscular and would heal. About 3 days in however, my tongue began to burn. It then moved to my face, and worsened. I feel as though I have a terrible sunburn. It seems like it may be Trigeminal Neuralgia. And since it was my neck that was injured, there can’t have been any trauma to the Trigeminal nerve root - it would be coming from the brain stem. As that is the case, no decompression surgeries will likely aid me. I am in the worst case scenario I feel, and can’t believe it. I am desperate to see if anyone else has experienced facial or mouth burning as a result of whiplash or a neck injury and if it is something that can be healed or recovered from? I really hope someone finds this forum and is able to give some insight someday.

Fuck this is a tough one but here we go. So growing up in my culture men were taught to be men and not showing emotions or feelings and to find a girl of our culture and get married etc. It’s a machismo thing and I fucking hated it because growing up I failed at so many “manly” things. I was very emotional and could never grow body hair or facial hair and was always thin. No muscle, baby face, etc. I was extremely closeted but even then my family knew something was up with me. I’ve always had beef with my older brother too. (Very important for the story)
I also struggle with mental illness. I’m bipolar II, BPD, and high functioning autism. I also struggle with c*tting and my arms/thighs are covered in stories.
Well one day about 5 years ago I went into 5150 for SI and during that time I was hospitalized I was secretly taking HRT behind my family’s back. Well when I was in hospital my A-hole of a brother went into my room, dug around, and found my HRT meds. Sucks because I thought I hid it well. Well he showed it to my family and my sisters are allies and they got super pissed off at him for going thru my stuff and outing me to my family. My parents were incredibly upset and when I came home from the hospital they confronted me. My brother thought I would run back into the closet but I thought about it for a second and without really thinking it through I told them “yes I am transgender and I’m also not straight. I’m bisexual”.
Well my parents flipped out because I was supposed to be a “man” and do manly things. They yelled at me in our language to “cut the bullshit out or else…”. Very forbidding shit. Well I didn’t cut it out. I shaved my legs, finally wore skirts around the house, and just tried my best to be fem and show them this was real.
My older brother told my parents not to worry because this was just a fad and I did it because it was “in” right now. Well little did he know I was dead set on transitioning. I continued on my journey and without notice they hit me with a restraining order. It said I was a threat to my momma. I know my older brother coerced my momma into signing it because he had tried to file one against me on his own behalf but the judge didn’t buy it and saw no threat to him because he’s a big guy. I am petite compared to him. So when that didn’t work he coerced my momma into signing it. He filled it out and she just signed it. I know this because my momma can’t read or write in English.
I was beyond in disbelief but luckily I had a job and a car so when the time came for me to leave I was ready. I wasn’t the best daughter but I was definitely not any threat to my momma. I hugged my momma and we cried. She kept asking me if I had everything I needed and if I needed anything else to let her know now. She tried to give me money but instead I gave her the rent I owed for the month (I regretted that later) and we hugged, cried, and said goodbye. I spent my first homeless night in a Walmart parking lot. I was drinking at the time and I just fell heavy into it. I was drinking all day everyday. Even at work. It greatly negatively affected my life and my health.
A lot of stuff happened but thank god when the time came for my court date it was through Zoom because it was during COVID. We told our stories and the judge could tell where the problem was because he was representing my mommas n her behalf. He set the restraining order at the lowest he could possibly make it for, 3 months. My brother objected and said it should be for years because my momma wasn’t safe. Well the judge called him out on his bullshit and said he could see the real problem was between my brother and I so the 3 months was just a cool down period and that’s why it was the lowest he could set it at.
The judge turned to me and said on the 91st day to call my momma and begin to fix things with her. I said absolutely and I broke down in my car after the hearing (I setup my phone in my car and was sitting in my car during the hearing. I was in a park parking lot). Well I was still an alcoholic, drug addict and homeless. But for the most part I was a functioning addict. Finding a spot wasn’t easy even though I had a job. I can only afford a month to month room and the only one I could find was in a literal trap house deep in the ghetto.
A lot of stuff happened in between finding a spot. I actually had an older guy try to take advantage of me and my situation. He showed me a room and when we were talking about the rent he began to say things like “well I walk around naked sometimes, I hope that isn’t a problem.”. I thought that was weird but whatever, his house his rules. Then he said something along the lines of “I’ll take some rent off if you do some chores around the house”. Said cool sounds good! Then he came out with this bullshit. He essentially said if I do sexual favors for him he’d take a little rent off. I sat there in complete disbelief.
He knew my situation and literally tried to take advantage of it. I said no fucking thank you and got up to leave and he immediately took that back as a joke. But I was so furious I wanted to beat his ass. I don’t wish harm upon anyone unless I can do it with my own 2 fists and I was ready but understood that that would probably ruin my life.
I left and began my search for a room from the start all over again until I found that room at the trap house. After the restraining order was lifted I called my momma and began to fix things with her. I had burned so many bridges because I was an alcoholic and drug addict throughout many years. My entire 20s and most of my teenage years were a complete hazy memory because I was so twisted most of the time. I’ve had many attempts and many hospitalizations. At one point I was in and out of 5150 7 times in a single year.
One day at the trap house I was broke, without a job, down to my last $20 and was suicidal. I called my best friend one night and told her I was ready to off myself. She stayed with me on the phone the entire night. Literally like 12 hours talking.
When the sun rose she told me to call my momma and tell her what’s going on. So I did just that. I called my momma and told her straight up I was an alcoholic and drug addict, had no money, no job and was about to be homeless again. Another thing that happened was my car caught fire one day when I was drinking and driving because I drove with my E brake on so when I parked, smoke came out from the brakes and immediately caught fire. The only thing I could save was my wallet because the fire spread and was engulfed within literally 1 minute. Sat there and watched my car burn. Everything I had was in that car so when the month was over at the trap house I was officially going to be truly homeless. I called my best friend and he came over to wait with me until an ambulance came to take me to 5150. And unannounced to me he went to my mommas house and told her what had happened to my car. She called a tow truck (it was in Walmart parking lot where I slept) and picked it up so I can salvage whatever was left in the car later.
So I called my momma in the morning and told her what was up. I was an alcoholic, drug addict, about to be homeless and without money. (I had lost my job). Told her I wanted to off myself and literally cried and begged my momma that I needed her and to please help me. Told her I didn’t want to die. Literally sobbing like a baby and couldn’t control myself. She also broke down but told me to pack my things and that she was on her way to pick me up to take me to the hospital. She said when I got out we’d try and figure something out. So I packed my things, turned in my key and left (I have pictures of the my room in the trap house to remind myself what I went through. Also have pictures of my burned car)
I told my doc at the psychiatric hospital that I was a drug addict and alcoholic and wanted to either quit or die. He asked me if I was serious or if I was just saying that. I legit begged him to help me. So he kept me in 5150 for 3 months!! For those who don’t know 5150 in California is an involuntary 72 hour psychiatric hold. It’s meant for emergencies and only supposed to be for about a week or 2 to stabilize you and let you go on your way. Well my doc kept tweaking my meds every few days and when he did that he legally had to hold for a few days to see the changes. So every few days he tweaked my meds to hold me longer.
I detoxed in the hospital in a professional setting, took it seriously and began fixing my relationship with my momma. She visited me twice a week, every week I was in there and gave me money for the vending machine each and every single visit. Eventually my daddy came to visit me and I started fixing the bridge I burned with him. I spent thanksgiving, Christmas, new years, and even my own birthday in 5150. After 3 months my doctor told me I was ready to leave so I was discharged into CRP (Crisis Residential Program) for a month to help me with tools to live sober. When I got out of the program I was 4 months sober and I decide to run with it and see how long I can go.
I’m happy to say I’m about 2 1/2 years sober without a single drop of alcohol and drugs. I’ve also began to repair all the bridges I’ve burned along the way. I haven’t been able repair them all but most I have been able to.
I now have the best relationship with my family (minus my only brother) that I have ever had!! I have a decent job, my own apartment, and go to therapy once a week, see a psychiatrist once a month and take my meds everyday. I’m eating healthier and life is just so much better this way!!
I’m still trans and now focus 100% on my transition and it’s been quite the journey. I posted a pic of transtimelines and in the first pic I was about 18 and I was only smiling because I was one on. I was always on one and never smilied in my pictures unless I was on cloud 9.
Not everyone’s journey of coming out is easy and some are more difficult than others. I don’t consider myself a strong willed person or even a good person but I’m trying my best to work and change that. My brother outing me lead to an incredibly dark chapter of my life but ultimately it lead to the best chapter of my life. It was the best thing he could have ever done for me. But I no longer talk to him or have any sort of communication with him and neither do my sisters. He’s a horrible human being that needs help but refuses to but that’s another story. If I could do it then you can too!! I’m not saying destroy your life by coming out if you truly feel you can’t at the moment but there’s always a time and place for everything!!
If anyone needs advice trans related I will be happy to do what I can to help but there’s never a guarantee. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, I’m living and eating healthy, I’m being my true fem self that I’ve always felt I was! My relationship with my family. My daddy only tolerates me and still gives me crap every once in awhile but it’s better than not having him in my life. We both realized that. But my relationships either my parents and (new) friends have blossomed like never before!! Sorry to rant and for those of you who read it this far. Thank you 🙏🏼
TL,DR: It’s darkest before the dawn.

Cannibal had made up his mind a few moves ago: If this kid doesn't swing this chair, doesn't absolutely fuckin' nail me, then he's getting taxed, and big time.
The kid's name is Rob Small, and he's supposedly some hot-shot rookie fresh out of the local school. But Cannibal doesn't get it. Everything about the kid bugs him, right down to the name. The sport lost something when people stopped calling themselves ridiculous things, like 'The Big' this, or 'Ultimate' that.
And besides, it's a dirty trick. It's too easy, just like everything the new kids are doing. It's almost too real. And the audience doesn't want real. They only think they do. Cannibal knows this better than just about anyone.
Cannibal feels that he's been carrying them both since the bell. Again, it's this new, soft shit. Flipping, and posing, and nobody wants a single scratch on their pretty mugs. The word fake doesn't exist in this business, but as Rob winds up for another one of his little tricks, all flare, no impact, you can kind of see where people get that idea.
Cannibal takes a knee, then another, but wide, because that's how you take a real hit. Rob pulls the chair back.
"Don't fuck this up," Cannibal says.
The blade of the chair just grazes Cannibal's eyebrow, opening two inches of scar tissue, and perforation.
This is good. Unintentional, but good.
The crowd isn't theirs yet, but the stream of blood pulls a few people forward and gets them almost leaning into the next row down.
The blood is good, no doubt about it. But the sound of skull on steel would've lit them on fire, and that's just science.
Rob moves to the ropes, taking a squeaky-clean moment to acknowledge the crowd. He waves his arms around like he's leading a marching band or something, and it "earns" him a small pop of recognition.
Here's the problem- there's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just some rookie nobody cares about, and an aging prick that people care even less about. This is when every move is supposed to count. Not just every move, but every transition, every facial expression too. The kid's athletic, sure. But so is everybody. He doesn't have the rhythm yet, and his nose is too straight. And Cannibal is tired of carrying this match.
Cannibal starts back on his feet, quickly, counter-intuitively, like a jump scare. The kid's finally connecting with the crowd now, lifting the chair like some intramural trophy. But it's too little, too late, and Cannibal sees his opportunity.
First Cannibal snatches the chair, up, and behind Rob, then steadies his giant, calloused fingers with a well-timed exhale. He whirls Rob around, ready or not, and drives the lip of the chair into the liver side of his waist, which folds him directly in two. The crowd chatters a bit, but he isn't finished.
Cannibal throws the chair less than a foot away, then sets up the move that's going to win the crowd.
He didn't invent the move, not even close. It's not even particularly uncommon. But he made his name off this move. Here's some wisdom from the old school: There are precious few people who make money from this business by looking good. And if you can't look good, you need to look vicious.
Cannibal hooks his arms under Rob's armpits, then wrenches both arms so violently that the triceps almost touch. Operating on pure panic, and instinct, Rob's legs unwind, independently searching for a better position, but never finding it.
"Hey, easy up there," Rob says from somewhere near Cannibal's midsection, but he may as well be speaking to the mat now.
Cannibal wrenches Rob's arms again, but this time the triceps touch for one moment of searing pain. He does this half for show, and half as a warning to keep quiet during his finisher. He looks out at the crowd, and their features form for the first time since he entered the arena. Before then, they were nothing, just a wallpaper pattern of merch, and facial hair. There's a difference between the individual faces in the first row, and the voice that fills the venue, and guides your match.
A single fan can be wrong, but a crowd never is.
But Cannibal takes some of that power back now, and he's staring at the crowd, the entity, right in the face, starting with the first row.
The first few faces that he locks eyes with are rabid, their eyes wild with anticipation. They're gesticulating wildly, like they can't believe, or can't wait for what's coming next. The next face is a little boy who shies away and looks at his dad for help. He scans about a seating section and a half, screaming spittle-seasoned insults along the way.
Mid-taunt, before anybody can count it off, Cannibal hits his finisher, The Flesh Eater.
Cannibal pushes off the toes of his boots, about a foot into the air, bringing Rob's craned arms with him. That's why you really need to wrench. With Rob feeling real pain at each arm's socket, he has no choice but to sell. At the height of his jump, Cannibal shoots his legs straight out in a wide V, unclenching his ass for a nice, cushioned landing.
Rob's face hits the chair a microsecond before Cannibal's legs, and underside absorb the remainder of the blow. It's enough to make the aluminum ring out into the high warehouse ceiling and put a pretty little face-sized dent in the seat.
The crowd reacts with screams, with horror, with finally, some fucking emotion.
Cannibal climbs to his feet, while the lights flick on-and-off, on-and-off in Rob's eyes. Rob props himself on his palms, and knees, finding the floor he wasn't even looking for.
But he loses it again with a big, booted punt to the ribs. The crowd boos now from every direction.
This is good. It means that right now, they hate Cannibal. It means that when they go home, they'll remember how much they hated him. It means that he did his job.
Cannibal takes a victory lap around the ring while Rob writhes in presumably authentic agony. Cannibal leans over the top rope, pointing at the front row again, dissolving the boundary between them. He's screaming at a fan. He may even be screaming at one hundred fans when he notices a face that shouldn't be in attendance.
Was it section B? He looks over but can't find the face anymore.
He darts his eyes wildly, unfocusing them so that the crowd transforms into nothing but eyebrows, and merch, approval, and disgust.
He glances back toward Section B, right around where he thinks he saw the face, right as Rob crawls from behind, hooks his leg, and rolls him into a three count.
Both men roll onto their backs; Rob, because the pain from his neck, down to his waist puts him there. Cannibal, because he's defeated and confused.
Had he really seen that face? He knows he hadn't. One, because that would make no sense. And two, because, and he only saw it for a second, but the face was significantly younger than it should have been. About 20 years younger. Which would put it right around a time that he doesn't think, or speak about. Cannibal decides that he didn't see the face after all. He doesn't believe in ghosts. Especially not ghosts that haven't even died.
***
Cannibal collects his pay, and the doc plugs up his gash, in that order. He's got a show in a bigger market tomorrow, so the butterfly stitches just need to hold until then.
He unlaces his boots in the parking lot, then trades them for some once-white Adidas from the back seat of his gray Toyota Camry. Then he thinks about the ghost again. The one that he didn't see, the one that isn't even dead as far as he knows.
He stands still in his untied sneakers and thumbs a few reps through his social pages. If he had died, the news would have picked it up by now. An old friend would have even messaged,
"Here if you need to talk." Or, "It's not your fault"
Something like that, anyway. But Cannibal doesn't see anything, no messages, neither of their names gracing, or disgracing any headlines. And besides, that doesn't exactly solve the issue at hand. Maybe the kids are right, he thinks. I've officially taken too many blows to the skull.
For twenty years, Cannibal has always driven to the next city, or the next stop on the road, the night prior. Tonight, he checks into the nearest hotel/rest stop that connects to the main road. It's only about a four-hour drive, three if he can avoid traffic, and the need to piss. He doesn't even need to check into the venue until 5 pm. That's ample time, he decides for the first time in his career.
"I just need a bed and a shower", Cannibal tells the night clerk, a pimply boy who has deepened his voice since the exchange intensified.
He's the only employee, except for a few maids pushing yellow baskets around the parking lot, and a few unofficially affiliated girls prowling around from the local skin bar.
The boy wants to avoid a hassle. He knows that the nearest signs of life are the old warehouse a few exits down, and the sheriff's office even further.
"I'm sorry sir," he begins, and he's really using diaphragm now, speaking to the back of the house, "But all's we got left tonight is the honeymoon suite."
"So it's $30 extra for a dirty mirror on the ceiling, and a vase full of plastic fuckin' roses?"
The clerk winces at the swear, then gleams over Cannibal's right shoulder into the mostly empty parking lot. Cannibal gives the kid his best mean mug, the same one that he'd shoot toward a new opponent or a crowd that hates his guts. The quiet moment lingers, and then, wouldn't you guess it, just like that, thirty dollars gets shaved off the tab.
Cannibal tosses his duffel onto the frilly red sheets, then rolls off his sneakers as his reflections oblige in both the ceiling and wall-length mirrors. He sits on the bed, then wiggles his toes a bit generating a sound like gravel crunching in a driveway. He wants to get up and shower off some of the dried blood that's clotted his hair to his face, but the world rocks, and spins, and he lays down and falls asleep without even killing the bedside lamp.
He can't remember the ramp, the fans, or the bell. He can't remember the promos, or what angle he's supposed to be taking. But judging from the dark cherry splatted canvas, and the ringing in ears, it's been a fuckin' barn-burner so far. He looks directly ahead, at the high, pipe-laden ceiling, and realizes he's on his back. A boot lands next to his head, then another. Maybe it's the high-intensity discharge lights that are stinging his eyes, maybe he's still rattled from whatever move put him on his ass, but as his opponent steps over him, he can't seem at all to make out their face.
Whoever his opponent is, he begins to pick him up by the hair, and that's when Cannibal notices that the abstract art on the mat has mostly come from the back of his head. Drops of blood race down his opponents wrists, and pool near his elbows. Cannibal is bent over looking down at the mat, at his opponent's standard-issue black boots, and at the fresh coat of bright red, which will soon dry darker.
His opponent cranks his arms clumsily but with intensity. He can feel his blood greasing his opponent's grip, not allowing for any real traction. Then his opponent's knees square up, then bend, and Cannibal realizes. "Hey, that's my fucking move!" he says, or tries to say, but his opponent's airborne, and then so is he.
Usually, there's a nice thud when you hit the mat, but not this time. This time it sounds more like a series of wet pops, like cracking your knuckles underwater. Cannibal tries to roll over and assess the situation. Then he tries to roll over again.
Oh. Shit.
He's face down on the mat, and he intuits, rather than feels his opponent hurry off him, and in that same foggy way, he can feel the crowd. The beast with one thousand eyes is silent, but it isn't bored. It's murmuring, but with a sort of upward inflection, like it's asking him a question can't answer. Now a referee rolls him over. Cannibal awakens in a panic and tries to jump out of bed, away from the red sheets, but his body is uncooperative. His head lolls at an unnatural angle toward the mirrored wall. He can move his eyes, but nothing else.
He wants to scream for the pimply-faced boy or one of the night girls, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He can see his reflection, the collapsed muscles in his face, and the pool of spit that's collected on the pillow by his ear. The parts of the bed directly under him appear a darker red than the rest of the sheets. His eyes roll wildly and take in different parts of the same wall that he's frozen on. He can barely feel his breathing, but he knows that it's sporadic and shallow. He keeps rolling his eyes, searching for a modicum of control over his own body. And that's when he sees him again.
The ceiling mirror casts its reflection into its wall counterpart, and with the furthest strain of his eyeball muscles, Cannibal can just barely recognize him. He's a little older than he looked in the crowd earlier, but it's unmistakable this time. Fucking ghosts. Ghosts who aren't even dead yet. From somewhere behind his eyes Cannibal feels the onset of rage.
His eyes blink involuntarily, and a well of tears are pushed, and guided down into the spit-soaked pillow. He imagines himself rocking forward and tries to send this signal to a part of his body that doesn't exist. He imagines it again. He tries to kick a leg, throw an elbow, he'll settle for anything. He sends that signal in random intervals like he's trying to surprise his own faculties. He "throws" another elbow.
Except this time his arm releases from his side and soars out in front of him. His body follows, and he feels a vile concoction of fear, and relief as he falls off the bed, with arms and legs too weak to break his fall. He narrowly avoids contact with the corner of the nightstand and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. He wiggles his toes, and the sound of tires on gravel rings out into nothing. ***
After regaining some strength, Cannibal uses his recently renewed limb strength to tear through every creak, and crack of the hotel room. He finds nobody in the room, nobody in the mirrors, just himself and his aching fucking cranium. Exhausted, but no longer tired, Cannibal grabs his duffel and checks out of the hotel room by tossing his key in the general direction of the unsuspecting clerk. He tears his car door open, then drives off with only half a plan in mind.
The morning sun breaks as Cannibal pulls up to a red light, and re-reads his early morning text to the promoter, 'Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you somehow.'
He's never backed out of a show before, and he knows that he'll have to confront that fact soon, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He needs to see him. He cobbles his route out of headlines and news stories that he manages to search up between red lights and stop signs.
Where are they now? 6 Wrestlers Whose Careers Ended In Tragedy The Real Story of Ernie "The Eagle" Samson Former World Champion Contender in Hospice After 20-Year Battle
Cannibals mind races as single sentences fire out at him like shrapnel. He scrolls past his own names, both gimmick and government a few times over. He feels the rage, and tears form behind his eyes again.
You weren't the only one that lost your legacy that day, you prick.
After twenty years he knows these roads well. Well enough to cruise over to the hospice unassisted by a map, or GPS. He acknowledges his thoughts as his motions become routine.
Ernie Samson was poised to be the next big thing back before all the wrestling territories got swallowed up by the Big Guy in the corporate machine. He was a handsome bastard, and a city man with the strength of a farm boy. He could talk fear into the crowd without raising his voice, and he pulled women who didn't know and didn't care what he did for a nightly living. Cannibal hated him, but in a brotherly way that was steeped in admiration. Even in those times, Cannibal was more brutish and uglier than everyone in the locker room. It was a stroke of momentary genius when some otherwise dipshit promoter first suggested that they pair up. Some sort of beauty and brawn type gimmick. The monster and his mouthpiece.
And you know what? It worked. People ate that shit right up. Cannibal chewed through his opponents with ferocity, while Ernie dazzled the crowd with his mixture of strong style, flips, and tricks. They melted the imaginary territory perimeters and became shooting stars in every market they played. Men paid off their tabs at the bar, and Ernie was gracious enough to send some trim Cannibal's way every now and again. It was a nice system, comfortable even.
Then that dipshit promoter had another bright idea. The team was ready to break up.
The way he described it, they'd take all that heat they had amassed together, and cover double the ground. This storyline was a natural, mostly because it was real. What the promoter was saying, in his dickhead way, was that Cannibal had served his purpose. He'd put the real star in place for his meteoric rise. Cannibal looked at where his career was, and how far it had come, and he agreed. They'd go out in one final bloodbath of a match, and defeat their current rivals, The Maniacs. Then Cannibal would attack Ernie, severing their ties, and launching their individual careers. Cut, dry.
Right up until the end, that match stands in Cannibal's memory as his finest work. If he'd been vicious before, he was rabid in this match. The hits were real, the emotions were high, and the crowd invested in every last pectoral twitch. After nearly half an hour of slogging and bruising, Cannibal hit his finisher and covered his opponent to the tune of twenty-something-thousand screaming fans. As the three-count fell, the crowd hit a decibel that he'd never heard before. They were screaming so loud, that it almost dampened in volume, and became a whisper in his ears.
The Maniacs had done their jobs well, bloodying and bruising Cannibal and Ernie for a gruesome glamor shot that would make the following day's paper. That image, of Ernie raising Cannibal's arm before the inevitable turn, would haunt almost every article written about either of them from that day forward.
Soaked in the moment, and each other's blood, Ernie hoisted Cannibal's arm, and they spun the ring, facing every single fan in attendance. Normally you'd wait for a break in the volume before the next big moment, but this crowd had no intention of quieting down. They faced each other, and Ernie mouthed the words.
"You ready?"
To this day Cannibal doesn't exactly know what went wrong. First, he felt sadness. Then he felt anger. He realized that the cheers wouldn't end for Ernie, but there was a very real possibility that this was his own last big pop. He went ahead as planned. First with an absolutely brutal kick to the midsection, which softened Ernie's abs into dough. Ernie let out a real, dry cough as the crowd's cheers morphed into shock and confusion. Then he cranked his arms, clumsily, but with intensity. Ernie's arms were slick with blood, and Cannibal couldn't sink in his hooks correctly. His legs shot out gracelessly, and rather than hearing the cushioned thud of his own ass, all he heard was a sick, wet pop.
Cannibal notes that he is about one exit from the hospice, and shakes his head vigorously as if to erase his thoughts. The exit approaches, and he cuts in deftly. He is immediately greeted by a green, bustling town, in a decent Midwestern neighborhood.
He cruises toward the hospice, passing a few young couples, and their church-clothed children. Bells chime nearby, and a dog emits a medium-sized bark from a nearby public park.
Cannibal glances in his rear-view as he changes lanes. Ernie is seated behind the middle console, smirking, but with no joy in his eyes. Cannibal tries to scream, but can't.
With the wheel slightly angled for his turn, Cannibal cruises subtly across lanes, onto the sidewalk, then into the park.
The first few couples dive out of the way with synchronized, but inharmonious shrieks. A young man pushes his wife and child to the ground, and the driver's side front wheel crunches, and shatters his ankle. The next few people aren't so lucky.
A group of friends sprawled across a picnic blanket snap around toward the source of the commotion just in time to greet the Toyota Camry's fender. Cannibal's eyes dart between his windshield and the rearview where Ernie sits smirking. He sees a young woman snatched from his sight line and hears a gunshot of a pop as the back of her skull smacks against some concrete. Tears roll down Cannibal's face as he wills his arms, legs, or fucking anything to move. The litter of bodies test the car's shocks, as the wheels find their way over strange terrains of bone and flesh. Then, a street lamp.
Cannibal's forehead smacks against his wheel a millisecond before the airbags deploy. He flinches, and his arms twitch as the bag chafes his nose and brow. He has regained control of his movement, if only slightly. He kicks open the door but does not face the trail of mayhem that succumbed to his vehicle. Instead, he realizes that he is just one block away from the hospice. With the remaining screams a comfortable distance behind him, he half runs, half stumbles to the reception desk.
People react to Cannibal's arrival with appropriate confusion and terror. The butterfly stitches have ceased to hold, and a rigid pattern of blood trails him as he staggers across the linoleum tile.
"Sir, do you need help?"
"Samson. I need Ernie fucking Samson."
He peers over the desk and sees a directory of sorts, like a cheat sheet of hospice patients, and their assigned rooms. He leaks blood from his brow over the counter, and onto the sheet, and the seated receptionist recoils with disgust as he snatches and reads it.
Ernie Samson 211
Cannibal marches now on sturdy feet to the nearest stairwell. A small security guard attempts to stand in his way, but Cannibal dwarfs his face with his gigantic palm, and smashes it into the drywall behind him, eliciting a collective gasp from the lobby waiting room. He kicks open the stairwell door and drags himself up the single flight of stairs onto the landing. Then he kicks open the second door.
Nurses gasp and take a step back as he emerges from the stairwell, ferocity emblazoned across his face and written in his scar tissue. He observes the direction in which the numbered rooms flow and stomps toward Room 211.
Half a dozen people are stood outside the room, with hospital staff accounting for only two of them.
"Bradley?" an older woman asks, as Cannibal tears past her, and into the room.
Inside the room is a white sheet spread over a series of lumps on a lightly inclined bed. A young man is seated near the side of the bed where the railing has been temporarily removed. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks are damp.
"Brad, what the fuck is-" he begins to say.
Cannibal lifts his leg and boots the man right off the green cushioned chair. Then he turns to the white lumps and tears the blanket off.
Ernie's face appears as it did in his back seat but without the rigid smirk. The muscles in his face are weak and sag as if they'd collapsed several years before his death. His dull eyes are still open, still staring at Cannibal.
"Ernie, you fucking prick," Cannibal starts, "You fucking prick, you get back here right now! You gonna fuck with me? You gonna fuck with me, Ernie? I fucking made you Ernie! We both fucking died that day!"
A small militia of security guards pour into the room, and it takes every last one of them to restrain Cannibal. He fights, and squirms as the fattest guard sits on the wide of his back, and pulls his arms. Cannibal thrashes and screams like an animal as he is restrained. He bashes his face into the tiled floor, leaving increasingly large spots of blood at the sight of impact. The fat guard applies some pressure to his hold, as small, wet pop emits from Cannibal's back.
There's no story here. No tale of the tape. Just a has-been wrestler in tomorrow's headlines, and a family mourning a loss that begun two decades prior. The crowd of mourners gasp and scream as all the fight leaves Cannibal's body at once. Then a woman breaks into sobs. She used to know Bradley Hughes. The real Cannibal. But nobody wants real.
They only think they do.

I don’t currently have the option to go on T right now but it should be available to me soon, however I’m conflicted about going on T for a few different reasons.
Firstly, I’m bigender so I identify as both a woman (my agab) and a man. Since I’m afab I feel really far from the other side of my gender due to my biological body and while I don’t dislike it in general, I wish I had more muscle definition and arm strength like a cis guy (I feel really euphoric when I match cis male stereotypes for some reason? I’m not fully sure why). I also have intense dysphoria about my voice. I know that technically for a teen “girl” my voice is fairly low but I keep feeling so insecure about it and hope that T could help me lower my voice.
But on the other hand I’m hesitant because I really do NOT want facial hair. It would hinder me if I decide to present fem on any given day and even more than that I feel like it would be hell for my sensory issues. I love that my face is smooth and it’s comfortable, if I had hair there it wouldn’t feel good on my skin.
So as you can see, there are some very attractive positives but also some negatives. I know that if I go on T I’ll likely develop more body hair pretty quick as I already have quite a lot on my arms, legs and face without T due to being Indian.
Slightly off topic from T, I’ve heard about the second puberty that you go through during your 20s and it’s made me afraid of becoming 20. How do I stop it from happening. My body and hips have developed and I don’t plan to have top or bottom surgery but my boobs are the perfect size to bind and stay flat if i want them covered and if they develop more im scared that won’t be the case anymore. My hip curve can be hidden by all the clothes I wear so I also want that to stay the same. I’m basically saying that I really don’t want this second puberty to happen to me so how could i prevent it? Would getting a prescription for puberty blockers in my 20s work?