Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/jmv81zX
Prices are shipped. PayPal FF only. Comment here first and then PM me, please. Not chat. I haven't been around much in a while so let me know if prices are off. And after a bit, just throw out some reasonable offers, I need this crap gone. Note - I am going to consolidate trips to the post office, so I will probably list stuff this weekend and Monday, then ship out Tuesday/Wednesday at the absolute latest.
Honestly, I'm just trying to clear out some junk. A lot of this is used and has just sat in a box in my basement for entirely too long. The plate carriers/steel plates were bought as weight vests/potential back ups, but I never did anything with them and have actual carriers and legit armor for kit.
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/LSRJZVe
Shellback Tactical plate carrier in black. Banshee Elite 2.0. Comes with side plate bags, extra padded shoulder pads, and an Esstac triple pistol/rifle mag placard.
$165 for Carrier, $125 for plates, $275 for both SOLD
Spartan Armor swimmer cut plate carrier in tan. Comes with the side plate bags.
$65 for Carrier, $115 for plates, $170 for both SOLD
The armor should all be the AR550, level 3+ with full spall coating. The full plates have the 6x8 sides and the swimmers cut have the 6x6. Fronts are triple curved (for her pleasure) and backs are single curve. Recommend as place holders for your expensive plates/ceramics, training/exercise plates, or targets. They'll definitely stop a bunch of bullets and it will be better then taking a .308 to the chest, but it will still really suck.
Safariland, Glock 17 holsters with X300/TLR-1 profile WMLs. Level 3 retention, used. - $50 for each holster
Straight Pmags, used [Edit: 20 rounders] - $45 each mag, $85 for both mags SOLD
Mesa Tactical Side Saddle. For Remington 870s, 6 shot, 12 ga. Comes with 2 extra shell retention tubes and 12 ga shotgun bore brush and mop. - $40
Sling attachment points for picatinny rails (3 bundles)
MI QD sockets (2 1 set of 3) - $20 each set of 3 (one left)
GGG sling loops (1 set of 4) - $20 for all 4 SOLD
SOFT-T TQs. Older generation. Great for use as trainers or extra drop/throw tourniquets. Also 1 knockoff CAT style trainer. 12 TQs total. (Do not use them as your primary TQ, get a dedicated new-gen CAT)
$40 for all 12 TQs SOLD
New Nightstick Weaponlights -
TWM-30, 1200 lumens - $70
TCM-10, 650 lumens - $85
Inforce rifle light (Gen 1, used) - $60
Tango Down Vertical Foregrips (picatinny) - $45 each (ONE left)
Streamlight Protac Rail Mount 2s. Comes with the pressure pad (installed), an extra pressure pad, clicky cap, and rail mounting hardware.
$85 each SOLD
Tripod and Ballhead. Shadow Tech/Hog Saddle tripod setup. LNIB. The shorter model. Also with LNIB Sunwayfoto Ballhead. All new and fresh OD green. Very sturdy. Go hunt animals (or whatever, I won't judge) from a very stable platform. These models:
https://stores.hogsaddle.com/pig0311-gs-short-field-shooting-tripod-od-green/
https://stores.hogsaddle.com/gnn-fb-52-ball-head/
The setups like $335+ new. Take it for $265. OBO.
Any questions or concerns, let me know. PM with any offers or if you'd like additional info/photos. Thanks my dudes. And seriously, shoot me an offer.

Timestanp
Thinning the collection since I had to move to something more expensive and Im satisfied with my display pieces.
I also received 2 Sealed copies of Warhammer: 40k Darktide for the Xbox Series S that were incorrectly shipped to me, and I was unable to return them, so if you'd like one with your purchase feel free to take it.
Willing to trade for:
GMK Pacific base
GMK Matsu Base
TGR 910 ME Suave Blue + paypal
Selling

Boards	notes	Price
Aeroboard70 Black/Gold	1.6mm non-flex cut pcb, Cf plate non flex cut. Flawless condition. Will come with original box, foams, pcb tape, and both sets of gaskets. Little to no use, just ended up collecting dust on display.	$500 Shipped
Focus Fk-2001	Originally released in 1988. 102 Asian layout. White alps. Rescued from a bestbuy recycling bin. Restored and fully cleaned inside and out. Top case has a broken latch so front seam is slightly larger than normal. Sadly missing f2 and numlock keycaps, but is using the original rgb mods. Also has original tinted dust cover hinges, sadly no dust cover.	$70 Shipped

Keycaps	notes	Price
GMK Godspeed Columbia Base/SpacebaNovelties	Used a few times, no shine	$115 Shipped, ships in bags
Knockoff Midnight Rainbow	Mounted a couple times	$20 Shipped
Random beige/black/red 65% pbt kit		$5
MT3 Noctua Spacebars	Unopened	$10
XDA Honey	Will ship in bags	$10

Switches	notes	Price
Halot1s x88	Durock T1 Spring and Stem in Drop Halo true housings	$45 Shipped
Grab bag x1	Around 30 different switches, some cheap and common, some fancier ones.	$10 or can include in purchases over $100
Kailh Box Reds x90		$5
Kailh Box Browns x67		$5
Kailh Browns x67		$5

Let's assume there's no way I'll be able to hang a heavy bag at my place and get the superior experience.
I'm looking for a freestanding bag I can wail leg kicks on without having to worry about hitting hard plastic. Here's what I have so far in no particular order:

• The ideal bag for me is Maddox III Hybrid
  • Has arms to practice guard entry and manipulation
  • tbh, everything about it
  • Fairtex is bae
  • costs over $1k so it's out of the question :'(
• There's the underdog, Ringside's freestanding bag,
  • I'm convinced my shin will slide between the two pads
  • Ringside has surprised me before despite low cost
  • unclear on foam quality
  • hard plastic base could work in my basement
• Unfortunately, the most promising is Century's Versys VS.1
  • I have a bone to pick with Century
  • the foam they use feels cheap
  • looks easy to tip
  • perfectly low base and won't scratch my wood floor
  • good cost too
  • might be my best bet :(
• Maddox's cheap knockoff, Versys VS.BOB
  • as said above, it's the cheap foam they always use
  • never liked the Bob head; I kinda hate it actually
  • has the arms I like from the Maddox Hybrid
  • it looks like I could snap/crumple his legs
  • looks easy to tip
  • ugly

Anyway, what do you guys think? I know freestanding bags are a bit of a mores in martial arts, but I may as well give it a shot before considering dropping hundreds on a heavy bag stand.

Edit: If you are going to comment on the length of this post, please don't. This is not a simple snark but rather an actual critical think piece about feminism and Taylor Swift.

Introduction

Pertaining to Taylor Swift, "Female Rage" has deviated from its intended meaning after Swift debuted a new performance of The Tortured Poets Department during the Eras Tour. Now, according to Swift's use of the phrase, female rage is interpreted as public backlash against Swift's dating choices rather than as a response to the broader injustices against women and women's rights. This post examines Taylor Swift's flawed feminism, philanthropy, branding, and the controversial trademark petition for the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical". Swift's background as an entertainer, indeterminate politics, and alignment with capitalism over feminism pervades her legacy, again threatening her public tolerance as not just an individual but as a brand.

Once Upon a Female Rage...

If you were cognizant in the early 2010's, you've heard countless jabs at Taylor Swift in the media. Magazines, radio, or online. Music critics did not take her seriously as a songwriter; parents put a woman on an unrealistic pedestal as the ideal role model for their children; she dated too much and used men as lyrical fodder. No matter the story, it inevitably spread, conjoined with everyone's respective opinions, and you'd be left to wonder, "Why does everyone hate this girl so much?"
Taylor's target demographic has always been young or adolescent girls, more so when Swift herself was one. She made music that spoke to the awkward misfit, cultivating a para-social relationship with fans on MySpace, then later twitter, Instagram, and YouTube, where Taylor posted relatable vlogs showcasing the life of a homegrown American girl. Taylor had a delayed public "growing up" and, compared to her female pop contemporaries, Swift never "gratuitously sexualized her image and seems pathologically averse to controversy" (and, apparently, never even had a sip of alcohol until she turned 21). She was more than happy to spin this narrative to allude to an inherent moral superiority above other women in the industry (Better Than Revenge, heard of it?), engaging in the very slut-shaming that she herself endured (the Madonna and Whore archetypes). The victim complex arose with the need to prove Taylor as a different type of pop girl. Based upon her holy and clean image, Swift had been dubbed "a feminist's nightmare", and that "[To Swift] other girls are obstacles; undeserving enemies who steal Taylor’s soulmates with their bewitching good looks and sexual availability." Feminism and Tennessee-Christian country values don't exactly mix, it seems.
Years later, Swift befriended Lena Dunham and thus experienced white feminism osmosis, where Dunham taught Swift that real feminists defend rapists, makes insensitive jokes about rape and abortion, and prioritize all-white casts. Swift then declared herself a feminist in 2014, saying,

"Becoming friends with Lena – without her preaching to me, but just seeing why she believes what she believes, why she says what she says, why she stands for what she stands for – has made me realize that I’ve been taking a feminist stance without actually saying so."

I suppose the male-centric songwriting subject that permeates Swift's discography contained covert feminism and that we just didn't see that. Perhaps, the "Bad Blood" song and music video were written only in jest and not about poor Katy Perry, for Swift, as a feminist, would "never make it a girl fight" or tear other women down (though all Katy did was date your terrible ex-boyfriend and allegedly steal three backup dancers from your tour). In 2013, Swift said, in response to Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's joke towards her serial dating, "There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."
There was that time in 2015 Taylor said that Nicki Minaj was "invited to any stage [she is] on" (as if Taylor expects to have access to every stage, award, and platform that Nicki might not otherwise have as a black female artist...yikes!) in response to Nicki's criticism of the white + thin VMA nominations. Later, Nicki responded with confusion, as Swift continued, "It’s unlike you to pit women against each other. Maybe one of the men took your slot..". Of course, this 'beef' was 'squashed' when Nicki performed with Taylor at the VMAs, with Nicki quite literally only having 38 seconds of stage time without Taylor. Maybe all that parading around with a legion of famous white women - similar to the way Taylor might've done with her numerous 1989-era handbags - was in fact a stance against gender inequality, and that this display of "girl power" should be enough to constitute Swift as a feminist icon.
Even while Swift says that Dunham informed her feminist outlook, she dances around the exact contents of those beliefs: "what she believes, what she says, what she stands for" is not exactly insightful towards what beliefs Swift might have inherited. Taylor never broaches women's rights topics such femicide, FGM, forced pregnancy & marriage, sex trafficking, women in slavery, women's financial and political oppression, women's educational rights, women's health, or women's autonomy, so we can assume she only gives a fuck about "girls supporting girls" (whatever that fucking means).
Despite some questionable (and sometimes vindictive) behavior, Taylor as a young woman did not deserve every media lashing that she received. We cannot deny that most headlines and criticisms perpetuated a misogynistic rhetoric which has plagued Swift for a majority of her career. Acknowledging events such as the development of her ED, her sexual assault trial, "Famous" lyric and MV depiction of Taylor, and the explicit Twitter deepfakes, for example, as both disgusting and unfortunate things that happened to a young woman in Hollywood does not negate the fact that Taylor is mostly a performative feminist.

Get Your Fucking Ass Up and Be a Philanthropist, It Seems Like Nobody Wants to Be a Philanthropist These Days

In 2013, Taylor Swift cut the ribbon at the grand opening of the Taylor Swift Education Center at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, Tennessee. The donation amount - $4 million - was the largest individual artist gift ever donated to the Country Music Hall of Fame, which is, of course, mentioned on Swift's website. The two-story facility features three classrooms, an instrument room, and an interactive children's exhibit gallery. Swift also performed at "All for the Hall" charity shows and has donated numerous artifacts from her career (such as notable guitars, tour costumes, etc) to the museum.
This was over 11 years ago, and it is still the only notable philanthropic contribution Taylor Swift has made.
For a woman of her net worth and stature, and a woman who recognizes the difficulties for women in film and music, you would think that Taylor Swift might establish a scholarship program for women to study the arts or something. Perhaps Swift might even consider becoming a member of organizations that support female artists, or one that supports LGBTQ+ causes (since she is now proudly an ally), yet she remains superficial with her graces. Broader philanthropy, such as donating relief aid to Palestinian women or women impacted by violence and discrimination will probably never receive any financial support from Miss Swift because then she'd be using her money towards philanthropies involving anyone but white entertainers.
She even says herself in Miss Americana, "My entire moral code as a kid and now is a need to be thought of as 'good'." Well, she's certainly thought of as good, though her actions say otherwise. She's more than happy to do a vaguely altruistic song and dance for a clip-worthy interview quote and mass appeasement, then fuck off to one of her mansions on a 20 minute private jet flight, rather than actually contribute to anything pertaining to the causes she has endorsed. Yet, far too many people continue to give a woman such as her their money, time, and energy, and she hoards these resources to herself.

I Like Some of the Taylor's Songs, But What the Fuck Does She Know About Feminism?

Swift continued with her self-proclaimed feminist campaign, positioning herself as a political activist and LGBTQ+ ally in the Miss Americana documentary. The primary focus of the documentary consists of the sexual assault trial, Andrea Swift's cancer diagnosis, Taylor's ED and body dysmorphia, media scrutiny, and, largely, finally speaking up about her politics publicly, mostly her opposition to the 2018 Tennessee Republican senate candidate, Marsha Blackburn, and Blackburn's beliefs. Swift says, following a scene discussing her experience during the trial,

"I just couldn't really stop thinking about it. And I just thought to myself, next time there is any opportunity to change anything, you had better know what you stand for and what you want to say."

We must ask ourselves, though: when has Swift ever spoken up to change anything? Okay, pulling her entire catalogue from Spotify because they didn't pay their artists enough and similarly pulling her catalogue from Apple Music are changes that she leveraged due to her revenue potential and power, but they are not pertinent to the average woman's rights. Moreover, these are issues that directly impacted Taylor's income, which was enough reason for her to protest in the first place. Swift has sold the most units for a female artist in first week sales, is the first female artist with 100k monthly Spotify listeners, is the first female artist to win the Album of the Year Grammy 4 times, and is the first female artist to do X, Y, and Z, all while being inoffensive and family-friendly to boot. The actual Taylor Swift seems unwilling to compromise the brand of Taylor Swift by contributing in meaningful ways to feminist causes, especially if it is for women outside of America and Hollywood.
The reason political anthems such as "The Man" and "Only the Young" of the Lover era feel disingenuous and corporate is because, well, it is. Taylor has taken every opportunity to advance her career or public image at the expense of other women. What is truly genuine to Taylor's outlook on other women is vying for male attention, taking down female competition, and vocalizing feminist injustices only if they directly impact her and her money. Some will argue that it's satisfactory for a woman with such a huge platform to even TALK about feminism, but that just isn't enough. It's even less impressive when you candidly look at the scope of her feminist lens: "If I was the man, then I'd be THE MAN", or "I really resent the ‘Be careful, buddy, she’s going to write a song about you’ angle, because it trivialises what I do", and, of course, "We all got crowns". Feminism, but only when it happens to me. It gets worse when you look at Taylor's track record of copying other famous women and removing other female artists as potential threats to her pop prowess.
It's good for PR to align yourself with certain blanket feminist and political beliefs, therefore good for branding, therefore good for ticketing and merchandise sales, therefore good for business. And Taylor Swift is a business.
She's not a feminist. Taylor Swift is a capitalist.

I Can't Pay Those Sweatshop Workers a Livable Wage or Benefits! How Else Would I Make My Billions?

Recently, Taylor's team filed to trademark the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical" after Taylor said during Paris N1 of the Eras Tour,

"So you were the first ones to see The Tortured Poets at the Eras Tour...or as I like to call it, 'Female Rage: The Musical'."

This trademark petition was filed last week on Saturday, and news comes about just as numerous unofficial fan-made merch designs have cropped up with this phrase plastered on Fruit of the Loom basics. I'm of the opinion Swift's team motioned for a trademark so that they can send out cease & desists to all those that make knockoff merch, which disrupts potential sales for Bravado, UMG's choice merchandising company; however, since it was filed earlier, perhaps Swift has bigger plans with the bizarre use of the gendered phrase. One Swiftie referred to the phrase "female rage" as "a funny Eras Tour joke". Could it be a possible fourth version of the Eras Tour Movie? Whatever the reason, the motion to capitalize off of such a concept is disgusting, but not unsurprising, for a woman that profits on her vain feminism.
Swift, through her company, TAS Rights Managements, has also trademarked over 200 phrases, including "1989", where she owns the property rights to this calendar year on keychains, phone cases, sunglasses, stationary, bags, beverage ware, clothing, entertainment services, your subconscious, and, of course, Christmas ornaments.
The vapid consumerism in Swiftie culture is, frankly, disgusting. Bravado's sustainability statement is non-existent, the quality control is abysmal, and the materials they use are horrible. The materials, such as acrylic and polyester, are made from petrochemicals. This means they are non-renewable, shed microplastics, and are quite toxic in production. The manufacturing process to make all of those lazy-rushed Eras Tour logo graphic tees is a huge blow to environmental well-being. Apparently, though, Swifties don't give a fuck. They sell out products in seconds and either have to face the manufactured scarcity or buy from a scalper that resells for 200% of the already ridiculous retail price. This doesn't include the environmental impact of vinyl records, CD, and cassette production, of which Taylor produces many variants that sell unsustainable amounts.
If we're talking about women's rights violations, why is no one acknowledging the women that work in the inhumane sweatshop conditions that have to pump out fugly t-shirts and hats? The millions of plastic microfiber dander they are inhaling, or the toxic dyes that touch their bare skin? Are they being compensated fairly for their skilled labour and are they in safe working environments? Do these women have minimal bargaining power, and do they have authority over their worker's rights? Is Taylor Swift female raging at their injustices? Does Taylor Swift ever feels bad that her wealth was built on the backs of women of color, disadvantaged by the demands of the global economy and garment industry? Do you think she ever says a little white feminist prayer for them before she goes to sleep at night?
What's even crazier is not that Taylor herself doesn't care, it's that Swifties don't care. There CANNOT BE ethical billionaires. You only make a billion dollars if you are exploiting other human beings for capital gain. Based on public perception of the possible "Female Rage: The Musical" trademark, it seems like Swifties are already asking for merch with this phrase. "If Taylor made it, I'd buy it." Oh, cool. So not only do you champion Miss Swift's avarice and billionaire status, but you also are unashamed to admit to your blind consumption of her music and merchandise, no matter where they might originate in production or sincerity. Just as Swift takes and takes and takes, Swifties' consumerism of Taylor Swift cannot be quelled.
The tortured artist's most vulnerable and sincere poetry...available now in 21 different versions!

I Am Tortured Poet, Hear Me Whinge

Look - even if Taylor's intention is to characterize TTPD as more "tortured" and "angry", the main thread of the album is "I was ghosted by my decade-long situationship with a controversial indie boy and my fucking stupid fans wrote a 'Speak Up Now' open letter prompting me to drop him" anger, which is adequately expressed in the lyrics and performances. The extent of Taylor's "female rage" on TTPD is on tracks such as "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?", which contends with relentless media scrutiny; "But Daddy I Love Him", where Swift firmly states she'll date whoever she likes no matter how "Sarahs and Hannahs" may react; and "The Albatross", a track mythologizing her reputation and the consequences of dating her. Of course, these coincide with deep psychological wounds that formed during Swift's early years in the media, and so, from her feminist perspective, these subjects tackle the misogyny and double standards that she faced.
Yet Taylor Swift still has no grounds to be claiming that TTPD best exemplifies female rage and therefore she, in the context of this album, is female rage incarnate. As the daughter of a stock broker and mutual fund marketing executive, Taylor was born into wealth and allowed privileges like trips and subsequent relocation to Nashville all so that she might get a record deal. Her father even invested at least $120,000 into the then-fledgling label, Big Machine Records, which ensured Taylor's place with Borchetta after leaving her dead-end development deal with Sony. The fact that her parents were able to buy her a fucking brand new guitar for Christmas and pay for music lessons says so much about the financial security and safety of her childhood.
Money is privilege and protection, and despite Swift's experiences with misogyny and loser boyfriends, she does not know what female rage is.
Her rage is derived from her frustrations with her obsessive fans pulling the moral superiority card on Taylor in response to her rebound with Matty Healy. That's literally it. She's just pissed that the monster she created is no longer obediant, it's become a feral, sovereign entity that depletes the world of its natural resources and thinks it is more intelligent than it actually is because it's mommy has started to talk to it with big words. Apparently, 'illicit', 'elegy', 'nonchalant', and 'precocious' are considerably big words for the oafish monster, and I find it strange that this level of literacy is present in a group of fans that allegedly have GPAs of 3.5 or higher, but I digress.
Taylor Swift has never been one paycheck away from destitution. Taylor Swift has never experienced racial discrimination. She may have instances of gender discrimination, but she possesses the ideal white, blonde American beauty standard and therefore reaps the benefits of being a conventionally attractive woman. Taylor Swift has sufficient social capital. Taylor Swift is a billionaire woman prolonging her victimhood though she, as a woman, has mostly had control over her image and music (unlike her contemporaries). Taylor Swift is NOT entitled to be championed for her "female rage", nor should she be. Taylor Swift has never even been the struggling artist, for fuck's sake. I don't give a fuck if she's trying to fill the empty lunch tables of her past. Taylor Swift purporting herself, her unpolished album, and her lukewarm feminism as a musical bleeding with female rage is asinine.

Sigh Try and Come For My Job, Poors

Out there in the world right now is a 23-year-old woman, a recent college grad, who works as a barista. She has to wake up and get ready to go into a minimum wage job because she cannot get a job in her field. She doesn't have healthcare benefits or sick time, so she has to go into work no matter how she's feeling. All day long she is berated by vicious customers and creepy men, and, exhausted from being on her feet, she knows she has to go home to her shitty roommate that never does the dishes and her roommate's shitty dog. To comfort herself, she considers getting a treat, but thinks against it when she remembers that matcha lattes cost $15 and they taste like milky dirt. She knows that she needs to buy groceries this week, and so the woman resolves to go home, but notices that her gas tank is low. She goes to put gas in the car, but the pump stops at $27.86 because that's all that she has in her checking account. The woman, bereft and reeling, sinks into the driver's seat. "Well," she thinks, her head in her hands, "at least I don't have Taylor Swift's job. I just couldn't imagine."
Fame is somewhat of a choice. If at any moment Taylor feels that she is misunderstood, misconstrued, or overwhelmed by public opinion, she can LEAVE the public eye - Lord knows she has the retirement fund and residuals to do so. In "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart", the TTPD song about meeting the demands of your career-zenith mega-tour while in the relationship trenches, Taylor ends the song by rambling,

"You know you're good when you can even do it with a broken heart...you know you're good...and I'm good, cause I'm miserable, and no one even knows!...try and come for my job."

Yeah, obviously we wouldn't know, you recently passed the billionaire threshold and are the most famous and in-demand performer in the world right now. Taylor Swift makes an estimated $10 to $13 million dollars A NIGHT on the Eras Tour. Furthermore, the Eras Tour movie grossed $261.6 million globally, (which, as the producer, Taylor takes home 57% of the ticket sales) not counting the streaming revenue from Amazon Prime Video and the estimated $75 million deal that Disney paid to have it on Disney+. We're not even considering the income from cheap plastic popcorn buckets and drink cups plastered with colored squares in her Era-specific likeness.
It's funny. Taylor Swift often said that being famous wasn't hard, that she "isn't complaining". I'm sure it is difficult to always have to present in a good mood, else you'll end up misrepresented in the media, and I'm sure it's invasive to virtually have no privacy or semblance of anonymity. Still, Taylor Swift shows up each night of tour and performs. For a majority of her career, she has penned her sad songs while on the road. Most of "Red", her breakup album, was written in the thick of the Speak Now World tour. Now, some Swifties say they almost "feel bad" for attending the Eras Tour with Swift's revelations in this song, that they have had a 'dimmed experience' upon hearing Taylor's misery whilst performing. Despite the fact that Taylor said that "this was the happiest she's ever been" at Gilette Stadium in May, the lyrics "boohoo, woe is me, smile for the cameras and make the fans happy!!!" are jarring for Eras attendees.
While Taylor Swift was making double-digit millions a night in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and feeling miserable, Ana Clara Benevides Machado passed away due to heat exposure. The concert promoters, Time For Fun, are now the subject of a criminal investigation due to their lack of adequate hydration and safety. Taylor Swift cancelled the Sunday show that was to follow and offered VIP tent tickets to Benevides Marchado's family, which was a kind gesture, but perhaps incongruous to the incident of which they were offered as consolation. Everyone grieves differently, of course, but I'm not sure attending the very show at the very same venue that my daughter or sister passed away in two days prior, where the singer CONTINUED the show despite her death, would be healthy for closure.
There was no female rage at the show as Swift never saw Benevides Machado pass out. There was no female rage towards the disregard for fans as humans while Swift elected to proceed with her Brazil tour dates despite the country being in historic heatwaves (at risk of overheatting herself). If Taylor Swift was so shaken by touring with a broken heart or a fan's passing, she wouldn't have added an additional North American leg of Eras just two months after the Matty breakup. She's brokenhearted but willing to mend the cracks with your money and move onward with her worldwide female rage induced pillaging.
No matter what happens, even if you die at a Taylor Swift concert, Taylor collects a big fat check and flies away. She doesn't know you as anything other than a conversion rate or earning potential despite what her nearly 20-year long parasocial relationship with fans might otherwise indicate. She knows that, while some Swifties are without disposable income, they feel obligated to spend on a "48 Hours Only!" exclusive vinyl variant instead of necessities because they are so entrenched in Taylor Swift's intoxicating celebrity, they'll prioritize materialistic fandom before their needs. This is good enough for her because this means she can expand her real estate portfolio and finance her cat's lavish lifestyles. They're worth an estimated $100 million dollars. Her three cats could pool their net worth and solve world hunger.
While you and I might be denied bereavement leave and barely surviving the current political and economic climate, Taylor Swift has to, instead of gets to, perform for stadiums at full attendance for three nights in a row across the globe. You and I might be replaced by AI at our longtime jobs, but Taylor Swift is threatened with losing more and more money each time you listen to a "Stolen Version" of her songs. If we don't buy every variant of all of her albums, then who is going to pay for the fucking cats?
It is tone deaf to spend as she spends and lives as she lives in this economy, but this is her reality. She was able to donate $100,000 to all of her tour truck drivers, and that's wonderful, but it leads me to wonder about the ethos of the 2020s where one woman can hoard such life-changing amounts of money. Remember in 2014 when she gave a fan $90 ($120 in today's money) to get Chipotle because she had no fucking clue how much it cost? This is a 34-year-old woman who is increasingly out of touch with the reality for working class people and women in general. Normal everyday adults must wake up and go to their thankless jobs, and yet Taylor Swift, despite all her riches, incessantly references the lows of her life and career as a public figure and entertainer to farm sympathy and drive sales. And still, the corporate women have latched onto "I cry a lot, but I am so productive! It's an art!" as their cubicle battle cry.
Do you think that, from up in her private jet, Taylor Swift gazes at the world through her poetic, tortured eyes, and thinks, "All the little people, in their cars, walking, going about their lives...all those girls that don't support girls...do they know that I've made an album about female rage?"

Conclusion/TLDR

Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your critical insights towards this entire ordeal: TTPD, the trademark, the implications of it all.
TLDR: Taylor Swift is a bad feminist and is delusional to think that the TTPD eras set exemplifies female rage at women's injustice.

Me and Lila always carved dozens of jack o’ lanterns every October, so they’d absolutely saturate our lawn on Halloween night. It was our thing. But looking back on it, now that I’ve lost her, I just feel bad for the pumpkins. I almost relate to them, somehow. The way they were carved up, had everything of substance inside of them torn out, and left as hollow, rotting shells with forced smiles.
Needless to say, I didn’t cope with her death well. I didn’t want to cope with it. I wanted the world to drown in the black sludge of my grief. I loathed the people I saw going about their lives, unaware that the world had already ended the moment Lila died. The Earth shouldn’t keep spinning. Life shouldn’t go on. Not without her.
Even my relatives bringing me along on a trip to Kauai only made it worse. The most gorgeous place on Earth, and it made me sick with hatred. Nothing that beautiful deserved to exist if Lila wasn’t ever going to get to see it. It wasn’t fair.
I thought I’d never enjoy or care about anything again. Then I discovered media preservation.
It started with taking some of Lila’s old VHS tapes to a video repair place to fix some issues with the footage before it’s digitized. The job fascinated me. In a universe based on entropy, where everything inevitably fades away and is forgotten… restoring something lost is like snatching it from the jaws of death, right? Like flipping the bird to the universe and its so-called ‘natural order’. People die, but information doesn’t have to.
Now, it doesn’t matter how small — be it some god-awful plug-and-play licensed game, or a cereal commercial from 80’s — it’s my mission to recover it in as high a quality as I’m able, and make sure it’s freely available online for as long as possible.
A couple weeks ago, I came across a big haul. Four boxes of old VHS tapes offered up on E-Bay for dirt cheap. Most of the tapes were just recordings of Cheers episodes already preserved in higher qualities, but one Maxell E-240 caught my interest.
First of all, I’d never seen one so melted. Sure, sometimes they were left in an attic too long, and the colors and audio start to degrade. But this one looked like it had survived a house fire. It was covered in soot and the smell of smoke, and had the overall shape of a chocolate bar left out in the sun a little too long.
Second was the label, which read in neat sharpie: ᴇᴘɪꜱᴏᴅᴇ 4,679,329 ᴍᴀʀ 8 2035.
The casing was so disfigured, I had to bust it apart just pull out the tapes and respool them in a fresh cassette. I tried to iron out the creases in the tape as best I could, but I had no illusions about it accomplishing much — the mylar surface had been irreparably warped in places by whatever fire had half-melted the thing.
Imagine my despair at the sight of that dreaded ‘ɴᴏ ꜱɪɢɴᴀʟ’. I could clearly see the tape wasn’t blank, yet no amount of adjusting the tracking or trying different TVs or VCRs accomplished anything. Just as I was about to give up, though, the thing just suddenly started playing properly at the exact instant the clock struck 3 AM, as if it had only now decided to work. My all-nighter had paid off.
I didn’t dwell on the fact that this ‘miracle fix’ had been impossible. If I’d had any sense, I’d have torn the horrid thing out of my VCR and buried it beneath holy ground. Instead, fool I was, I sat down and watched.
At first, the thing seemed unwatchable. The audio was so distorted that the show’s theme song emerged as a low, crackling, staticky wail that made my head throb, and the logo was completely indistinguishable through the flickering and interference. I thought it was a lost cause for a moment. But then a figure appeared and cleared away the static, like Moses parting the Red Sea.
It was the sight of the show’s host that hooked me. He was just… perfect. Perfect in every way. I knew it just looking at him. Infinitely handsome and likable and charismatic, and he always said the exact perfect thing. The only issue is, I don’t remember a single thing about him now, in the same way you can’t remember a dream that seemed so clear to you while you were experiencing it. He just appears in my memory as this abstract blur in a sharp suit. Yet at the time, I was awestruck, even before he said a single word.
I can’t even remember a word he said. It was like he was speaking another language, one I felt as opposed to heard. I’ll try and transcribe it as best I can into words, but know that it’s only a pathetic imitation.
“... for another night of laughs, prizes, and fun for the whole family, with your host, #####!” I noticed that the audio and visual distortion seemed to suddenly intensify the instant he said his name, rendering it completely illegible. Idiot I was, I figured that was a coincidence. “Tonight is a night of celebration, folks, because thanks to the support of loyal viewers like you, we have just been approved for, get this: two hundred thousand more seasons!”
The “live studio audience” went wild with applause. I put that in scare quotes because, as far as I could tell, besides the host, the studio seemed completely empty. As if he was standing on a plain white stage that extended outwards into infinite darkness on all sides.
“For those just joining us, the game here is simple…” He explained that this was some sort of a trivia show. Every time a guest got an answer wrong, it brought them a little closer to some sort of unspecified ‘punishment’. And if they got it right? He smirked. “Well, they get to delay the inevitable.”
I wondered what he meant by ‘inevitable’. I didn’t have to wonder long.
The host gestured to a curtain that hadn’t been there moments ago, which raised to reveal a middle-aged man. You know the type — bushy mustache, gray hair, round-rimmed glasses. Kind of guy you’d have doing your plumbing. He couldn’t look any more out of place stood up and restrained in that — what the hell is that?
I recognized that metal coffin-looking thing from a medieval torture museum I went to once. The iron maiden. The lid hung open, countless long, needle-like blades poking inwards, threaten to poke a million new holes in him if it was shut.
His situation was not lost on him. “Where… where am I? What the hell is this!?”
“Oh, lucky guess!” The host ‘joked’. More canned laughter. “I know you always loved watching those trivia shows, Malcolm? Weren’t you always sitting there, grinding your teeth, seething that it wasn’t fair? That you should be the one up on stage, winning big?”
The man paused. Even he seemed mesmerized by the unreal perfection of the host before him. “I… this is a… game show?”
“All you have to do is answer a few questions! Think you can handle that, Malcolm?” He pulled out a cue card without waiting for an answer. “And our first question! What were you doing the night of February 18th, 1998?”
The man seemed baffled. “Just… sat on my couch watching the NFL, I think? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to remember —“
He let out a startled squeal as a horrid buzzer sounded. On cue, the lid slid a third of the way closed, making him flinch. “Oooh, I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer, Frank! But you know what? I’ll give you one more chance. What were you —“
“Following a girl home!” The man cried out. “F-from the bar. There, are you happy?”
“Cor-rect!” The canned audience began cheering! “Such honesty! Now, our second question: just what were you carrying while you followed her?”
He hesitated for a little too long. And then the buzzer sounded again, and the lid slid so near to closing that its blades began poking uncomfortably against his skin. He tried to press himself against the back of the maiden as well as his restraints would allow. “Jesus! Okay! A knife, a knife!”
“Awww, if only you’d said that just a second earlier!” Another big question. “Our third question: why, Malcolm? Why did you do it?”
That set Malcolm off. He started thrashing, clawing, screaming. “Let me out of this thing, you maniac! You can’t do this to me! Do you know who I am? Is this some sort of sick joke? My lawyers will have your head for this, you—“
And then the buzzer. All of a sudden, the lid slammed shut full-force, and the man was utterly silenced save for an unnatural, drawn-out wheeze. “Another wrong answer, Malcolm! I’m afraid I was looking for: ‘because if I can’t have her, no one can’!”
I admit it. I laughed. Out of shock more than anything. How was this allowed on TV? I took it as some sort of dark comedy show, and it was kind of satisfying to see that freaky character get his comeuppance. Still, there was something unnerving to me, seeing the man’s eyes through the openings in the maiden. Wide and red and terrified. They just looked a little… too real.
But the maiden disappeared as quickly as it came, before I could dwell on it too much. “Oh, envy! Definitely one of my favorite sins.” More laughter. “Stay tuned, folks! We’ve still got a night of fun and games in store for you! But first… how’s about a word from our sponsors?”
Cut to a corporate logo which I again couldn't recognize.
“This segment was made possible by Buer Health, which has recently announced a brilliant new initiative to protect our citizens from skin cancer by removing their skin completely.”
The camera cut to a massive industrial building, resembling a solid concrete cube around 50 meters in width and height. Its surface bore arcane symbols etched using carvings of wailing, tormented faces. The host would occasionally be rendered inaudible by a deafening metallic scraping from within, though he didn’t seem to notice. The only protrusion from the building’s cubic shape was a single smokestack, belching a scarlet red smoke into the atmosphere. A queue of gaunt figures waited at the entrance, herded and coerced by their grim overseers, and there were no words to describe the procession of scarlet ghouls limping out the building’s other end.
“Owing to the nonlinearity of time, the brand new Grand Skinpeeling Machine has spontaneously appeared several years before construction deadlines, and indeed, before it was even conceived of by anyone in our timeline. People have rushed all the way from Malebolge just to try this miracle of technology out on opening day, and so far, the reviews have been stellar!”
He shoved his microphone in the face of a shambling thing that could only scarcely be called a human. Tatters of flesh clung to its exposed musculature, blowing in the wind. Its eyes were the only hint of color in that sea of bloody red, and they were wide, white and terrified. The thing screamed and wailed for as long as it could before the last tendons connecting its jaw to its face snapped, and it was left to choke and gurgle.
“An amazing wail! The results speak for themselves, folks. The Grand Skinpeeling Machine is a hit!”
So far, I was still laughing along and having a good time. The sight of the next ‘guest’, however, started making me nervous.
It was an old lady.
She couldn’t be a day younger than sixty, the sort of sweet elderly woman who in a just world would be cooking chocolate chip cookies for her grandchildren in a comfy cottage somewhere. But here she was, tied to a metal chair, eyes wide, shaking like a leaf. Unlike the last contestant, she seemed to know exactly what was happening.
“In exchange for our loving endorsement, they’ve agreed to loan us one of their star employees. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for: the Liqisma!”
Something slunk from the darkness far behind her — or perhaps it’d be more apt to say that the darkness birthed it whole-cloth. It was like a living shadow, and it took my eyes a moment to register what I was even seeing.
How do I even begin describing this creature? I could say it looked almost human, or at least like something that may have been human long ago. Or I could start with its skin, which was all black and shiny as latex and seemingly smooth on first glance, but if you looked closer you’d realize it was covered in a million tiny reptilian scales, almost like a shark. Its head was a bald man’s, utterly devoid of any distinguishing features, like the basic stock template for a human being. It was notable only for a complete lack of pupils and irises, its eyes a pure white.
Its body defied basic biology in so many key ways, I had to stare it at for what felt like an eternity just to wrap my mind around its physiology. It was at least five or six meters long, by my estimate, composed of multiple human torsos stacked one on top of the other like segments of a centipede, each melding with the ones around it at the waist and shoulders. Each torso sported a pair of short, stubby arms that propelled it with terrifying grace. It ended with a pair of human legs, perpetually bent on their knees, beneath a ‘tail’ that looked more like its coccyx was poking free from its body.
The old last could clearly hear it, and kept futilely trying to turn her head around enough to get a peek at what stood behind her. I mouthed uselessly, don’t. You don’t want to know.
“Glad you could join us again, Miss Wethersby! Judging by our ratings last week, you seemed to have been a fan favorite!”
Her voice was so soft, I could barely hear it below the static. “Oh, God. Please, why won’t you people let me go? I’ve told you, I’ve never done anything, never hurt anybody. There must be some sort of—”
He waved a hand over her, and it seemed to forcefully snap her mouth shut. “Please, Miss Wethersby, save your breath for our questions!” Another cue card. “Your first question, my friend: where did you and your husband buy your first home?”
She had to think about it for a long time. Eventually, she cried out, “Alabama! Tuscaloosa, Alabama!”
“Ding ding ding! Why, you’re already doing better than our first contestant! Next question: what breed of dog was your childhood pet?”
She had a pained look on her face as she thought. Eventually, a timer started ticking down. It wasn’t visible, so it wasn’t clear how much time she had left exactly, but the sound it made got more shrill and high-pitched with every second. “Miss Wethersby, need I remind you that we have a time limit on this show?”
A tear ran down her cheek. “I… I keep telling you people, I don’t know. I have dementia, I can’t remember, please—”
That buzzer again. “I’m afraid that was the wrong answer! Liqisma?” The old lady shuddered at the sounds of hundreds of feet drawing a little closer to her. “Now, your first grandchild. What did he look like? What color were his eyes? His hair?”
She was crying harder now, like it hurt her that she couldn’t remember something so dear to her. “I told you I can’t remember! Why are you doing this to me!?”
“If you don’t remember them, why would they remember you?” The host mocked as the buzzer sounded, and the beast drew a little closer. “Really, do you believe they still even think about you? Or do you think they’re glad that the old bag of bones isn’t there sucking up their inheritance?”
This went on for… God, it could have been an hour. I was glued to the screen all the while, frozen with terror, praying for this nightmare to just end, for her to make it out okay somehow. He poured over every little detail of the life she lived and the people she loved, delighting in how little of it she could still recall.
And the thing grew closer, and closer… until she finally felt multiple pairs of hands resting upon her shoulders. The thing was looming over her now, and a long, black tongue a few feet in length emerged from its mouth and ran trails of dark saliva over the back of her head. She looked broken down, eyes raw from crying, and I could tell by the dampness of her dress that she’d wet herself.
“Now, Miss Wethersby, our time here has been fun, but I do believe it is time for our final question. Tell me, what is the name… of your only son?”
She couldn’t even answer anymore. She just stared ahead, like her mind was a million miles away. He cackled as the buzzer sounded one final time, and threw his cue cards aside. “Thank you for playing, Miss Wethersby. Better luck next time.”
I would say the thing unhinged its jaw like a snake, but that’d be an understatement. The way the thing’s face malformed and wrinkled and stretched as it opened its maw, it no longer looked even remotely human. Its jaws must have parted at least thirty centimeters apart, revealing a second, pharyngeal pair of jaws that lashed out and gripped the woman’s skull, pulling her headlong into that darkness.
I could hear bones crunching and snapping as its throat constricted down around her body, peristaltic muscles compacting her into a meat slurry, bit by bit. Yet she just wouldn’t die. Even as her skull and upper body were already crushed and compacted, organs and muscles pressed into mulch, she still kicked her legs, twitched her fingers, let out a gurgling that must have been some attempt at screaming. She was squirming even as the beast snapped its jaw shut around the last of her, condemning her to whatever torments awaited her inside the creature.
And all the while, that horrible laughter. “Don’t worry, folks! She’ll be back next week! And the next. And the next…”
Needless to say, I wasn’t having fun anymore. In fact, I had to turn away and fight the urge to throw up. I stood, about to turn the TV off and —
“Ah, ah, ah! Don’t touch that dial, now!” I froze. There was something chilling about the way he said that, staring right into the screen as if reacting to what I was doing. I hated that grin on his face. “The real show is just beginning.”
And with the barely restrained excitement of a child on Christmas morning, he yanked back another curtain, and I recognized everything.
I recognized that crappy bootleg knockoff Always Sunny in Philadelphia jacket that was so gaudy and terrible it instantly became her favorite thing in her wardrobe. I recognized those subtle hints of slight acne she disguised as fake freckles. I recognized the way her gray eyes would remind me of those overcast mornings at the beach at Hilton Head and pointing out all the cannonball jellyfish washed up on the sands. I recognized that tattoo of the name ʀᴏᴄᴋʏ, how I’d held her all night long as she cried into my shirt after her childhood cat had died.
It was Lila.
I shuddered, gasped, fell from my seat as if I’d been punched in the stomach and the air had been knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be real. I was dreaming right now. I must be. I just had to wake up.
But I couldn’t wake up. Nothing I could do dispelled the sight of her curled up in that… that thing. That bronze statue of a bull, horns jutting on either side of a head that roaring silently up at the heavens, all while the love of my life was locked in its hollowed out belly, visible only through a pane of glass. I could hear her cry out in shock at where she’d found herself, and every whimper felt like it drove a knife through my chest.
The host soaked in the moment. It was ecstasy for him, the suffering of it all. He stared dead into the camera like he was looking right at me as she called, “What is this? Where am I?”
“Why, I have good news, my dear Lila! You’re exactly where every American dreams of being: you’re on TV.” He pointed to the camera. “And we have a very special guest in the audience tonight. Your very own beloved Jackson!”
I shuddered, hearing my own name ooze from his fetid lips. His façade of perfection was slipping, and there was something so profoundly ugly beneath it. Her eyes snapped to the camera, confused, despairing. “Jackson? Baby? What — what’s happening? What is this?”
I don’t know, I thought, gripping the sides of the TV so hard my knuckles turned white, but I’m going to get you out of there, baby. I’m going to find whoever did this and I’m going to bury them all so far beneath that studio that they’ll never-
“I’m afraid Jackson hasn’t joined us quite yet, my dear. But if you truly love him, surely you’ll give him a show to remember, won’t you?” He taunted her. “All I want, after all, is to ask you a few questions! In fact, I’ll offer you a special deal: get even a single answer right, and I’ll let you go free! But get one wrong and, well…”
On cue, a fire was lit beneath her. Small, smoldering for now, but she whimpered as she noticed the heat. We both realized in that instant what this was. By now, I was screaming things I can’t repeat here, and slamming my hands against the TV screen as if I could reach through and save her.
She bit her lip and acquiesced. Not like she had any room to argue. The host grinned and readied a cue card. “Your first question: where are you, Lila?”
“I… I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?”
“You do know, Lila. You know exactly where you are.” He smirked at her. “Here’s a free hint: what’s the last thing you remember, before you woke up here?
She thought about it… and choked back a sob, visibly shaking as the realization slowly settled in. “But… but why? I… I…”
The horrible wail of the buzzer cut her off. “Oooh, too bad! I’m afraid you’ve run out of time!”
Seemingly as if on its own, the fire doubled in size. Sparks licked the belly of the bronze bull, and began to ever-so-slowly heat the surface. She pawed around in the tight confines, searching for any reprieve from the scalding heat all around her as the metal grew hot like it’d been left out in the sun on a summer’s day. “Please! Oh, God, let me out of this thing! It hurts! It hurts!”
The host seemed to breathe in her pain as if stealing a moment’s indulgence. “Now that there is no doubt about where you are, my dear, let us proceed to the second question.” He switched to his next card. “Did you believe in God, in the end?”
“O-of course!” She pled her case as if she was being tried in court. “My entire life… every day I gave to the poor, helped the sick, did whatever I could to honor Hi-“
“I’m afraid you misunderstood my question. I asked, did you believe in him at the end? The very moment your pitiful little life was snuffed out?”
“I always believed! I’d never forsake Him!”
“Yes, yes, I know. You lived a good and holy life, didn’t you?” He cackled. “But what of the very end? You and your little husband were so excited to deliver your first little baby boy. But o, tragedy! It all went wrong, didn’t it? Your precious little boy didn’t make it through childbirth… and you followed closely behind.”
“That whole business with the botched pregnancy, it was… what do you call it? Ah, yes. A ‘test of faith’. And I’m afraid you failed. In your final moments, you watched the light fade from your child’s eyes, and you assumed — wisely, in my humble opinion — that no ‘kind’ and ‘loving’ God would allow something like that to happen.” He laughed. “Funny how after a lifetime of dutiful service, all it takes is one little mistake at the end… to bring you here. To us.”
I’d never seen such depths of despair in a person’s eyes. Such emptiness. Like with every word, he’d been scooping out another piece of her until she was hollow. And then that buzzer roared again, more shrill than ever, and I could barely see her little window through the smoke and flames. The belly of the bull was turning orange in places, and I could hear her flesh start to sizzle like meat on a grill. There are no words for the noises she made. No words at all.
“And our last, final question,” he continued. “What were your last words to your poor, beloved Jackson?”
“I love you!” I called out the answer. Bloody fingerprints stained the TV screen from my slamming my hands against it, as I screamed the answer over and over. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” At some point, I forgot that there was ever a question. I was just screaming it at her as if hoping that she could hear it, that it could bring her a modicum of comfort in that place.
The buzzer sounded again. I couldn't bring myself to look. All I could hear was the roaring of the bull, and the steam rising from its bronze nostrils.
The curtain fell. Silence drowned the sound. The host dropped all pretense that he hadn’t been speaking directly to me. “Now, Jackson. You just might be one of my new favorite audience members this show had ever had. I know this must have been hard for you. But if you’ll just stay tuned, I have one more show I know you’re certain to love!”
I didn’t bother to touch the remote. After all, nothing could be worse than what I’d just seen, right?
Wrong. Horror wracked me as the curtain rose, and I saw the man chained to a chair. I pulled away like a caveman witnessing fire, cringing and stuttering, face wet with sweat. It was the sort of fear that worked its way into your bones like a bad chill, that left you shaking, teeth chattering.
It was me.
An older me, sure. But not by much. Ten years, maybe. A gaunt and hollow version of me, one twisted by ten years of depression and hard drugs. But it was unmistakable.
His eyes widened as he recognized the host. “Oh — oh God, God please no! It can’t be — oh Christ, let me out of this chair, you —“
“Come, now! We wouldn’t want to use the lord’s name in vain, would we? I mean, that would be a sin!” The host laid a hand on the other me’s shoulder. “It may have been a few years since you watched our program, but I’m sure you remember the rules, don’t you, old friend?”
The other me was wordless, on the verge of hyperventilating, just as I was. The host was giddy with delight. “Now! Our first and only question is one I’m sure our viewer will be very interested in: what sins, exactly, do you think landed you here?”
The other me tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. I could see it in his eyes. The years of self-destruction, the bitter hopelessness, the whirlpool of nihilism and vice and decay. The suffocating depths of a man. The darkness. How could he put it into words?
The sound of the buzzer was like a pig’s squeal. “Mmm, I’m afraid that our viewer is going to have to figure that out for himself! In the meantime, your punishment? Well, we wouldn’t want to spoil anything…”
The curtains slowly began to fall just as a couple other of those black, grotesque monstrosities emerged from the darkness. The curtain covered them all before I could get a good look at their obscene, twisted, asymmetrical figures. All I could hear was the crunching, the sound of skin tearing like paper, the screaming that went on for longer and louder than a human throat or vocal chords could endure.
The image and audio were beginning to distort, glitch, burn away. The tapes were physically melting as they played. My VCR was starting to overheat, sparks pouring from its front panel. The host voice jumped around in tone, his voice fading into the static blur as the tapes bubbled and boiled and distorted. “But, my friends, I’m afraid that concludes tonight’s episode of our show! So, with a final farewell to our dear, beloved viewer, Jackson…”
Just before the image melted away, the camera seemed to jump forward until his face filled the screen, his eyes piercing into mine as he cackled in that singsong voice.
“See you sooooon~”

My uncle is an incredibly pompous and materialistic Chinese man who exists to show off his wealth, buy his influence, impose his opinion and shout over people. I was visiting my aunt at their house and he shoved a Fendi purse at me. I accepted because it would have caused a scene to refuse, and he likes pretending he doesn't care because it's "nothing" to him to give someone a luxury item. I don't wear or covet designer things because I don't give a fuck.
I checked the model number later and it's worth $4000. I then went to a consignment store and paid them $100 to authenticate it so I could resell it as I'd rather pay my rent than have a designer purse. Turns out it's fake! I'm surprised that he would buy something fake, but it also makes sense that he wouldn't take the time to validate the authenticity. It's just the look of luxury that matters. He probably got ripped off as he told me later he still paid around $600 for a bag that had a factory defect (bags with defects are burned and not resold). I still felt shame when I left the consignment boutique - Wondering if these white sales women are judging me and thinking I'm just another crook bringing them a Chinese knockoff.
Now I have a bag that I can't resell but is for all intents and purposes a perfectly fine bag. The whole situation has made me reflect on ideas of face, worth, authenticity, and what's a "real" bag even if the bag itself is literally real.

Timestanp
Thinning the collection since I had to move to something more expensive and Im satisfied with my display pieces.
I also received 2 Sealed copies of Warhammer: 40k Darktide for the Xbox Series S that were incorrectly shipped to me, and I was unable to return them, so if you'd like one with your purchase feel free to take it.
Willing to trade for:
GMK Pacific base
GMK Matsu Base
TGR 910 ME Suave Blue
Selling

Boards	notes	Price
Aeroboard70 Black/Gold	1.6mm non-flex cut pcb, Cf plate non flex cut. Flawless condition. Will come with original box, foams, pcb tape, and both sets of gaskets. Little to no use, just ended up collecting dust on display.	$500 Shipped
Focus Fk-2001	Originally released in 1988. 102 Asian layout. White alps. Rescued from a bestbuy recycling bin. Restored and fully cleaned inside and out. Top case has a broken latch so front seam is slightly larger than normal. Sadly missing f2 and numlock keycaps, but is using the original rgb mods. Also has original tinted dust cover hinges, sadly no dust cover.	$70 Shipped

Keycaps	notes	Price
KAT Great wave spacebars	Sealed	$20
KAT Great Wave Hiragana Sub alphas	Sealed	$55 Shipped
KAT Great Wave Icon mods	Sealed	$60 Shipped
GMK Godspeed Columbia Base/SpacebaNovelties	Used a few times, no shine	$115 Shipped, ships in bags
Knockoff Midnight Rainbow	Mounted a couple times	$20 Shipped
Random beige/black/red 65% pbt kit		$5
MT3 Noctua Spacebars	Unopened	$10
XDA Honey	Will ship in bags	$10

Switches	notes	Price
Halot1s x88	Durock T1 Spring and Stem in Drop Halo true housings	$45 Shipped
Grab bag x1	Around 30 different switches, some cheap and common, some fancier ones.	$10 or can include in purchases over $100
Kailh Box Reds x90		$5
Kailh Box Browns x67		$5
Kailh Browns x67		$5

This is just a little something I threw together. Fairly unpolished, but I hope it livens up someone's day. A series of fan-written deleted scenes about our favorite chromatically-confused Red soldier.
Scene 1
Int: Command Bridge, Infinity-class Supercarrier.
Door opens. Admiral enters, morning mimosa in hand. It’s Donut, wearing a spiffy white Naval uniform with the camera conveniently avoiding his face.
Executive Officer: Attention! Admiral on deck!
Donut: Thank you, thank you.
XO: Your morning report, sir. Also, Private Renfield asked me to tell you he's got a full audition list for the musical ready for your review.
Donut: Finally! I'll look that over once we're done with the morning stand-up.
Takes his seat, and a long sip
Ah, another glorious day in this man’s army!
Carolina, offscreen: Ahem.
Donut: Ah, every time, sorry.
Carolina: Heh. Don’t worry about it.
Comes up to stand next to Donut’s seat
Donut: You know, I don’t mind the company, Carolina, but I have been wondering. Why DID you decide to tag along? I mean, we’ve never exactly been the closest members of the team or anything…
Carolina: Well... I guess I just agreed with what you said. About feeling wrapped around what everyone else is doing. AIs and Freelancers and pirates and what not. Figured it might be nice, exploring the galaxy for a while. And it’s not like everyone’s going anywhere, I keep up with Wash on Basebook, and…
Donut: Yeah, I get that. Caboose is the only one that’s really kept in touch with ME, though. Haven’t heard from him in a few days, actually, come to think of-
Comms Officer: Sir! We’ve got a strange transmission coming in, I think it might be some form of distress call?
Donut: Speak of the devil, bet you anything… Put it through!
Comms: It’s not audio, sir, just data. It’s saying it’s something called a Recovery Beacon?
Donut: Oh, no! Does it say who from?
Comms: An… Agent Washington?
Carolina, Donut: Crap!
Donut stands up
Donut: Chart a course for those coordinates. RIGHT. NOW!
XO: But sir, our orders? The... smugglers?
Donut: I don't care what kind of knockoff Gucci bags the Jackals are selling, we need to get there NOW! A hero of the UNSC's life is at stake!
Donut sits back down while the crew scrambles to ready position
Carolina: You… think this has anything to do with those attacks?
Donut: What attacks? How do I not know about this?
Carolina: I mean… I don't know. It's been all over the news. Basically, it almost looks like the Meta or someone dressed like him's been running around attacking-
Donut: Oh, CURSE MY METICULOUS MORNING BEAUTY ROUTINE!
Presses a button on his armrest
Attention! I want Vermillion, Amethyst, and Sunburst squads prepped for deployment on the double! This is not a drill!
Ship jumps to slipspace
Oh, and uh… Maybe break out some of the heavy weapons while you're at it.
Carolina: These guys of yours any good?
Donut: Well, they fought in some of the battles of the war where we actually won AND managed to survive, so that's gotta count for something.
Carolina: Good enough for me.
Scene 2
Ext: Ship exits slipspace near a Halo Ring
Int: Bridge
Helm: Sir, we are entering stable orbit over Gamma Halo now.
Donut: Fantastic work, Lieutenant. Presses button again Bridge to Major Rosa. How we doing?
Major Rosa: Looking at about 15 more minutes, sir.
Donut: Understood. Carolina, you might want to run down to the armory yourself and get ready.
Carolina: Fuck that. Where's the nearest drop pod bay?
Donut: I, Ah, really think you should wait and-
Carolina glares and growls at him
Donut: Oh, fine. Deck 19, far aft starboard. As she's leaving, he mutters to himself, Have fun getting your ass kicked again…
Donut sits silently for a moment, starts drumming his fingers on his armrest.
(Sigh) Fuck it. Presses intercom button again Armory? This is the Admiral. Please go into my private storage unit and crack open the case labeled “Museum Piece.” And someone ask Major Rosa to prep an extra pod.
Scene 3
Drop pods land. Donut exits, now fully lightish-red
Donut: All right, spread ‘em!
Long beat
Literally everyone: DONUT?!
Simmons: Donut! How the hell are you here? Who the fuck are these guys? Where the fuck did you all come from?!
Donut: Stand down, everyone, looks like we missed the party. Um, flew here, my troops, and the… 23 Librae system I think it was? Man, the flotilla chief’s gonna be pissed about this… Okay. Sergeant Philippe, you have medic training, right? Grab anyone else with training and start helping any wounded. Everyone else, start questioning the survivors. Simmons, take me to Sarge for a good old-fashioned debriefing.
Scene 4
Int: Red Base
Donut: Shame on you, Simmons. Shame. On. You!
Simmons: We thought you were out! Busy with your own stuff! You know?
Donut: Lightly punches Simmons on the shoulder Yeah, but you should have still CALLED ME if there was an emergency. I have an army, now!
Simmons: Yeah...
Donut: Also, you remember the Staff of Charon? That whole BS? I've got TEN ships that size in my flagship's hangar bays! Whole thing would have been over in like… five minutes!
Simmons: …I'm sorry.
Donut: Ah, I can't stay mad at you, Simmons. If it makes you feel better, I've heard from everyone that you did a hell of a job stepping up in that fight. Sarge would have been proud.
Simmons: Yeah. Proud of me. Running a team with only one soldier.
Donut: Well, hey, if you ever get tired of giving Caboose and Tucker the business, there’ll always be a place for you on my kickass party boat. I'll let you pick your own squad, you can decorate your quarters however you like, it'll be great!
Simmons: Hm. Well, maybe. Some other time.
Donut salutes him. After a moment Simmons salutes back.
Donut: Sergeant.
Simmons: Admiral.
Scene 5
Donut walks out of the Pelican
Donut: Ready to vamoose, Grif?
Grif (solemn): Hell, yes, I am.
They walk silently for a moment.
Grif: Hey, uh... I just wanna say, well, sorry, I guess. For not really get to know you better all this time. I guess I just kind of... wrote you off as this annoying tag-along kind of guy.
Donut: Well… thanks. I guess. I can kinda understand, though. You, Sarge, Simmons, you guys already had your own thing going before I came along.
They board the Pelican. It takes off while they continue talking
But, you know… it is a long way back to Earth. And my ship has this fantastic wine bar on deck 10. That Santos guy really knows his way around a drink mixer…
Grif: Heh. Just might take you up on that.
Outside shot of Pelican leaving orbit
Back to Pelican interior
So, this ship of yours. I'm probably going to regret asking… but what'd you name it, anyway?
Cut to Pelican flying along the exterior of the ship. Camera pans left.
Donut: Oh…
Something appropriate.
Camera pans and zooms out to reveal ship's name, UNSC Blood Gulch

I bought a pair of Cleto Reyes bag gloves with the Velcro hook and loop just over six weeks ago. Today I noticed the padding shifts around over my left middle knuckle. It feels like the padding has torn away and is free-floating in the liner.
Anyone have this happen? I’m in my 40s, boxing for health. I only ever hit the heavy bag with these gloves. I’ve had two pairs of CR gloves before, both lasted at least two years. I bought these from Amazon—knockoffs maybe?

Gonna be doing a lot of grilling the next few months and I’m looking for a cheap, possibly home-made firestarter for lighting my coals in the chimney for my Weber. Been using tumbleweeds, they work great but $8.99 for a small box at my local store seems outrageously high. Was buying the knockoff ones From Amazon but those are smaller and are $15.99 so I’m using double the amount. Without sounding like a cheap ass, do you guys make your own or know of any other cheap options?
EDIT: You guys came through on this one! Thank you! I’ve always been skeptical about using paper, paper bags or newspaper because I assumed it would burn very quickly, too quickly to light the light chimney and get the coals hot. The council has spoken 🤜🏼🤛🏼🫡✊🏼

Timestanp
Thinning the collection since I had to move to something more expensive and Im satisfied with my display pieces.
Take the whole KAT Great wave bundle for $190 Shipped
I also recieved 2 Sealed copies of Warhammer: 40k Darktide for the Xbox Series S that were incorrectly shipped to me, and I was unable to return them, so if youd like one with your purchase feel free to take it.
Willing to trade for:
GMK Pacific base
GMK Matsu Base
TGR 910 ME Suave Blue
Selling

Boards	notes	Price
Aeroboard70 Black/Gold	1.6mm non-flex cut pcb, Cf plate non flex cut. Flawless condition. Will come with original box, foams, pcb tape, and both sets of gaskets. Little to no use, just ended up collecting dust on display.	$550 Shipped
Focus Fk-2001	Originally released in 1988. 102 Asian layout. White alps. Rescued from a bestbuy recycling bin. Restored and fully cleaned inside and out. Top case has a broken latch so front seam is slightly larger than normal. Sadly missing f2 and numlock keycaps, but is using the original rgb mods. Also has original tinted dust cover hinges, sadly no dust cover.	$70 Shipped

Keycaps	notes	Price
KAT Great wave spacebars	Sealed	$20
KAT Great Wave Hiragana Sub alphas	Sealed	$55 Shipped
KAT Great Wave Icon mods	Sealed	$60 Shipped
GMK Godspeed Columbia Base/SpacebaNovelties	Used a few times, no shine	$115 Shipped, ships in bags
Knockoff Midnight Rainbow	Mounted a couple times	$20 Shipped
Random beige/black/red 65% pbt kit		$5
MT3 Noctua Spacebars	Unopened	$10
XDA Honey	Will ship in bags	$10

Switches	notes	Price
Halot1s x88	Durock T1 Spring and Stem in Drop Halo true housings	$45 Shipped
Grab bag x1	Around 30 different switches, some cheap and common, some fancier ones.	$10 or can include in purchases over $100
Kailh Box Reds x90		$5
Kailh Box Browns x67		$5
Kailh Browns x67		$5

Hey folks, gather around for a tale from the trenches of a swanky Manhattan hotel, where I, your trusty narrator, witness a fashion parade fit for a runway... or a comedy club.
I'm the designated eye-catcher at a posh 4-star joint, where designer bags strut through our doors like they own the place. And let me tell you, I've seen enough faux GUCCIs and knockoff CHANELs to rival a street bazaar in Bangkok.
Now, let's talk about the nervous wreck known as the 'reppers'—the daring souls who tiptoe through life with their replica handbags, fearing the dreaded "Is it real?" interrogation. But fear not, my replicas-in-arms, for I bring tidings of great relief: nobody cares!
Seriously, not a soul bats an eyelash or demands a stitch count when a suspiciously familiar-looking bag graces our lobby. And believe me, I've mastered the art of casual glances without raising suspicion—I've got a hotel to run, after all.
But here's the kicker: I've seen guests decked out in designer duds from head to toe, strutting like peacocks, only to pull out a library card when it's time to pay the bill. True story, folks. So, let that sink in: it's not about the label on your bag, but the confidence.
So, to all you undercover fashionistas out there, wear those replicas with the swagger of a runway model. After all, as I always say, fashion isn't about real or fake, cheap or expensive—it's about owning your style. And trust me, you can't buy that kind of confidence at the knockoff market. Cheers to strutting your stuff with pride!

I got 2 LF bags this week, one was the Ahsoka holding Grogu mini backpack and the other was the round Death Star bag from Hot Topic. I have to buy online from HT because there isn't a store where I live and the nearest one is like 3 hours away. When the bags arrived I was just not impressed with the Death Star bag. I took all the stuffing out, and removed all the plastic but left the tags on it and walked around my house with it on to see if maybe I would like it but at the end of the day it was just an awkward bag for me, felt like a basketball being strapped to me and hitting me in the butt and hip with the strap set on the highest notch.
I decided rather than try to get a refund through HT that would take a couple of weeks because they'd have to send me a shipping label and then I'd have to wait for the card to be refunded, that I would just post it on FB Marketplace and try to recoup some of my losses so I posted pictures of it tags and all and have an asking price of $60, paid $66.90 so I didn't think asking for almost full price on a bag literally worn for a couple of hours around my house was that big of a deal. I also checked Mercari, Ebay and other sites that are selling the same bag and it seems I'm asking lower than most I found.
The first message I got was from someone asking if I would take $30 for it because they saw it on the Loungefly website marked down on clearance for $37 which is listed as out of stock, I told them no, the lowest I would go would possibly be $55, they left the chat. The second message and the one that prompted me to ask here, said they saw Amazon has it though some random third party seller for $46.99 plus $3.99 shipping and asked if I would take $50 because that's as low as he's willing to go to pick up locally. I explained to the Amazon guy that I also saw the listing and the seller says they have 4 available which I said looks like it was bought by a reseller who couldn't unload them fast enough and is offering them at a lower price to get rid of them and said I wouldn't trust the Amazon listing because it's not backed by Prime and there was no guarantee he wasn't going to get a knockoff whereas I have the tags and the order info that shows I paid $66.90 for it from HT and it's a legit bag. He said I was being unreasonable and said I won't get $60 for it.
So, do you guys think I'm being unreasonable or am I ok with asking for $60 for it? At this point, I'm debating on keeping it as a display piece instead of a useable one, because of all the messages asking me to lower the price on it when it hasn't even been posted 2 days. This is also the first bag I've ever tried to sell so I am in very uncharted waters, any insight is greatly appreciated!

~First~
HHH/Herbert’s Hundred Harem
The sound of his alarm got him moving. But more than moving or the alarm, it’s when he pulls in Axiom to wake up that it truly starts to disturb his wives.
“It’s okay, back to sleep.” He bids them as he slips to the far side of the room as he answers the communicator. “What’s going on? Civvies present.”
“Catch of the day has bite marks on it.”
“I see, do we recognize the pattern or are the dentists still debating?”
“It’s going to take a little longer.”
“Which catch was this? The piranha, snapper, barracuda or we getting a shark?” He asks trying to see if they got something random, something juicy, something dangerous or something really dangerous.
“Barracuda, but the teeth marks suggest a shark is nearby. Could just be an enthusiastic snapper though.”
“And there’s always the risk of piranha or another barracuda, or if we’re lucky a snapper. We eating off a platter or a stick?”
“Plastic platter.” He says signifying a ‘slum’ on one of the Plates.
“Hmm... Got it. Is the meal hot enough to eat through the plate? Does it need mastication?” He asks and glances over to see some of his brides shifting as the strange word is used and then settling as they remember it means ‘to chew’. Code is so damn useful.
He flashes them a grin and the girls sigh a little and there are some grins. He then steps out of the room entirely and into the hallway. Still not in the clear, but clearer.
“Alright, out of casual earshot. Still home.” He says and there’s a cough.
“Your tagged fish swam to some friends. She has a lot of them. Some are looking tasty, but we think there may be fin soup on the horizon and there’s a hint of something familiar, but it could be a case of mistaken identity. After all, lots of shark wind up missing a couple of teeth, and in an ocean as vast as Centris.”
“It can always be coincidence. Got it.” Herbert answers. “Fishing with beers? Fly Fishing, Casting a Net or Deep Sea?” IE: Standard Procedure, Delicate Operation, Overt Operation or Focused Operation?
“Just beers for now.”
“Understood.” He says. “You’re not calling to tell me all’s well and things are progressing as normal. Spill it.”
“I won the bet.” The man on the other side says and Herbert curses. Them winning a bet and a grin in their voice is always a bad sign. “Mister Hazard.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s being juggled around if your cute routine should be classified as a Cognito Hazard as you seem to have turned several normal women into pedophiles.”
“I’m calling hard bullshit on that. I was going over the top but not to that level.” Herbert retorts.
“I dunno, that riot you left behind when you were unsafe lasted nearly an hour before the police broke it up. A few of them were shown pictures of you and the rioters were let go with a warning. So you’re memetic cuteness can transfer through images you naughty widdle boy.”
“Then you better watch yourself, because this is a woman’s galaxy and if I can steal their hearts and minds then I can have them tear yours from it’s moorings.”
“The heart or the mind?”
“You know which I mean.”
“My mind? I suppose having a mind blowing train pulled on me is ONE way to go.”
“You know what I mean!”
“I do, but let’s pretend I don’t.”
“You ARE aware that I’m working on a way to strangle someone through a communicator right?” Herbert asks.
“I am now, but working on implies you can’t so far. So hah.”
“Agent Marlin...”
“But for fear of your little kiddie fingers finding their way around my throat, I will back off. Just be ready, we’re getting a lot and it can happen at any time.”
“I was ready when you called Marlin. If that’s all this is really about then I’m just going back to bed. An exhausted soldier is an ineffective one.”
“Just have your gun close.”
“I sleep on top of it. Small size means I can sleep on my stomach with my hands under my pillow. Around the grip of a pistol.”
“Dude, how paranoid are you?”
“Some days I fear not nearly enough.” Herbert replies.
“I hate how much sense that answer makes.”
“Love you too, goodnight asshole.” Herbert states before hanging up. He gives the communicator a little flip as he considers. Varthy is no innocent, but the fact that even with her body being tagged, her clothing and bags being tagged and her communicator’s frequency monitored they only had a maybe? And right after a mission gone wrong? She was clearly being kept at arm’s length, or has a professional policy of distancing herself from her customers. Either way it’s smart, but who’s being smart? Or perhaps both are.
“Smart enemies suck, no easy way to pull them apart.” He notes before he senses a tiny amount of movement as one of the Purriz comes up to him. He helps the little thing up and it starts making it’s distinctive purring sound as he gives it a few gentle rubs. The light blue and orange crustacean cuddles close as he thinks. He then nods and pockets the communicator again. Time for more sleep.
•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•
“Uh... sir you have... something in your hair.”
“It’s product. My wives adore it and it blends well enough with my natural hair colour to my eyes. But to them it looks amazing.” He says.
“And... what does it look like?’
“It looks like I have a glittering halo. Apparently this stuff refracts ultraviolet light to a high degree.” Herbert says as he rolls his neck. “Alright, it’s been five and a half hours since my last update. I know Marlin’s off shift and likely sawing logs. So where’s my... thank you.”
He opens the folder he was handed as he walks to his office and opens the door. “Think carefully on where a cross punch from me will go.”
His fellow agent steps out of the shadows without trying anything and he greets the bearded Merra. “Haddock.”
“Sir, things are progressing oddly.” Haddock tells him.
“I can see that. So our new friend has a connection to the Darnaxion Concurrence, or at least hangs out in those areas. Could have been a dead drop, could have been litter she picked up. Hard to tell.” Herbert notes as he sits at his desk. “Alright, I’m sitting and braced. What’s so bad you need to tell me in person?”
“We’ve fully identified the metal. It’s sending alarms through the system of every allied government organization we’ve shared it with.”
“So it IS some kind of blood metal?”
“It’s not just that sir. It’s that the metal is ridiculously hard to make, can not be mass produced and basically works like Khutha on Steroids.”
“And the reason we haven’t run into it before is because the refining process takes such a huge loss of life that Khutha is just better.”
“Basically. It’s also insanely illegal to even possess. If you can’t justify why you have it, then possession of a piece as small as a coin can get you executed, even in states where execution is NOT in the standard books.”
“That bad?”
“If you kill person to make some, you get maybe five milligrams of the metal.” Haddock says and Herbert sucks in a sharp breath past his teeth. “The fact that so much was found...”
“That corridor was a monument to genocide. But why?”
“I don’t know. Cloned blood doesn’t work. Chemically crafted or enhanced blood doesn’t work. Both of them get close-ish, and if you mix in maybe one part per thousand of the authentic Blood-Metal with it’s False Brother you get a closer alloy. But the samples we got are pure.”
“Meaning that they came out of a person. Something to do with being part of a living soul that does it.”
“Yes. Sir, this can easily become a causes-beli if mishandled.”
“Then we won’t mishandle it. We inform everyone we are required to and bring them in fully to our investigations. We get ambassadors to the Admiral and allied agents in here as well. This isn’t some schlocky war film that needs to justify high drama based on a time period of a real life cold war. We are not their enemies, we are not opposed to them and they are not to us. We have different ways of operating but we are on the same side.”
“Everything?”
“Everything within reason. Us working to declaw criminal organizations and calm down potential points of chaos will have sparse details in order to maintain proper operations, but otherwise we’re going to work with them openly.”
“And if they press for details?”
“Explain why that’s a bad idea and insist on Non-Disclosure Agreements. We have a legal division for a reason, and as much fun as they’re having with the trial of Juliette Comet they might appreciate the change of pace.” Herbert says.
“Bazalash is really earning her nickname as The Trytite Lady. She’s putting Comet’s life under an atomic microscope and citing the laws relevant at that point in time, and the laws of the spires she’s above as well to make sure that any argument from any angle is considered.”
“Yeah, I’m shocked most criminal organizations haven’t spontaneously combusted with her in the system.” Herbert says in an amused tone. “This is going to get weird. We’re going to have to be open, but discrete at the same time. Knowledge that something like this had been done will set off a panic, a nasty one, but if we’re found covering up any part of this then men or not, the sky is falling on us with perhaps the literal wrath of god, perhaps even multiple gods.”
“Falling on YOU, if that happens I’m throwing your ass under the buss and booking it like my ass caught fire.”
“Fair enough, not everyone can cute away the wrath of the righteous.”
“The cute kid routine is not the answer to all life’s problems.” Haddock says in an amused tone.
“Then perhaps it should stop being the proper answer to so many problems.” Herbert states before looking at Haddock sharply. “Soldier.”
The tight tone makes Haddock straighten up. Things may run fairly casual to keep the stress down, but when that tone is used... “Is this verbal report serious? My next step is to call the lab and confirm, and if I find you are joking about something this potentially dangerous.”
“I am not Sir. I wish I was, I wish I could hit you with a pie and run away until I’m pinned down for a court marshal. But I can’t. This is a kind of metal where you need to kill ten people to make a fucking knockoff trytite coin out of it. This sort of shit only shows up in horror novels, the ones that never make it to the holo-screen because they’re too fucking graphic. Best case scenario the Darnaxian Concurrence bumbled their way into finding a method to refine it en-mass by complete fucking accident, but even that is horrifying because while Blood Metal is poorly understood due to how thankfully rare it is, everything we know about it is an increasing nightmare. It does weird things embedded in a person’s body and can be used to trigger the really nasty Axiom Effects. The kind of things you only imagine after taking the hard stuff and going to sleep with a splatterfest horror movie on.”
“I see...” Herbert says to himself as he considers. “Excuse me, I need to talk to a lot of people and see if I can’t get our researchers to find some method to detect this stuff. Creating or refining something like that will be a kiss on the lips to the people that want to help us.”
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“So...” Herbert notes as he scans the immediate area. The response to all his calls and trying to straighten this potential cluster fuck out? He was now on a team. Each of them under orders to work together and find the source of the Blood Metal. Simple as that.
The personal assistant of The Trytite Lady was ostensibly in charge and giving him the stink eye. Something about him is bothering Jahlassi and the Nagasha is giving him a stern look and is clearly the eyes of the literal goddess of justice on this case.
“Good evening ladies. All of you are here because we have a situation that we need to keep a lid on to prevent a panic, but working in secret will merely get suspicion and rage thrown about. So in summation I have encountered the object of our attention for this combined investigation. It occurred during my investigations of the Darnaxian Concurrence who are active on Spire Anmeru as well as the Plates Glavori and Muliti. Long story short The Undaunted through me encountered an unusual metal that was used in their constructions that we have confirmed to be pure Blood Metal.” He says and there is a wave of discomfort, muttered swearing in multiple languages and very upset expressions.
“Yes, so this isn’t something we’ve encountered before, but from how difficult the damn stuff is to create I hope I can be forgiven for my ignorance.” Herbert notes. “Now then, if you’ll all direct your attention to the bundles of folders on the table, there is all the information related to the Darnaxian Concurrence we have as well as every case or mission that has even tangentially touched it.”
“Children are involved?” Jahlassi asks in horror.
“Children accidentally intercepted a weapon drop that a criminal tried to cover up and then a professional assassin who occasionally does work for the Darnaxian Concurrence was found in the station she was arrested at. I consider that enough of a connection.” Herbert says and there are looks of consideration. “Subtracting myself as a commonality because I lead to The Undaunted and that leads into everything we’re doing. But otherwise everything we know is in those documents.”
“These are fairly thick and expansive.”
“People are at the front as is appropriate.”
“Shrunken munition launchers?” One person asks.
“Shrink guns?” Another asks.
“There are several names for such, but we found one in the hand of the Darnaxian Concurrence. I took a bad shot from it as it was mentally linked and not a standard fire weapon. So I dodged at the wrong time. It’s why I look even more illegal than normal.”
“Could you not joke about such please?” Jahlassi asks.
“Sorry.”
~First~ Last Next