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Stalking him through the corn stuble was what I spent most of my time doing. These birds are strange....they dont really give much mind to people and big movements, but they also have a distance that they deam comfortable. Luckily, the comfort distance is close enough that a slight crop yields a decent enough photo.
Today I learned my friend, Stuart, had passed away. After years of dreaming of escaping Market Town, he’d finally sold his house, bought another on the coast and was weeks away from moving in when he suffered a fatal heart attack.
I’d known Stuart for over 15 years, time once was when we were barfly pals, attempting to dull our respective pains with cheap red wine whilst discussing the world, damning it’s evils and championing it’s beauties.
Forever on the fringe of Market Town, having returned here to care for his elderly Mother, until she passed away, Stuart stayed alone in the house that witnessed his Mother’s final breaths and some weeks ago also bore witness to his.
Stuart was one of the first people I ever documented, the encouragement he gave me, at a monumental junction within my own life, I’ll never forget, he gave me a chance, as a human being and as a fledgeling photographer and as a friend.
I remember, so vividly, when we had his portrait featured upon the Pictorymag blog, I rushed over to tell him, gave him a print of the featured photograph and he was thrilled, amazed anyone would care for a word he had said.
(*From Pictorymag feature)
Baptised in Darwin’s Bathwater.
"Stuart lives in his late parents house on the outskirts of town. Alone and somewhat isolated from the world around him, Stuart has taught me one lesson above all : to love the small, precious moments with those close to you. It’s the one element of life that can never be regretted. For him, the warmth of remembering sustains the coldness of present days."
"Stuart has watched as so many loved ones have returned to the earth, and yet maintains an air of gentle understanding about the rhythm and pattern and tempo of mortality. “I was baptised in Darwin’s bathwater” he told me as we discussed the afterlife and his resolve about the natural cycle of life’s twists and turns. “Love is the eternal where we are not so in the physical.”
“Love is the eternal where we are not so in the physical.” …these words are how I’ll forever remember Stuart. Market Town has lost one of it’s princes and is dulled with his absence.
I’m sharing some audio from our final recorded conversation, I want you to hear his voice, his laugh, his musings, memories.
Stuart, you’ve made the great leap, you know the answers, whatever they be, I miss you my friend, deeply. X
smalltowninertia.tumblr.com/post/67777855230/today-i-lear...
Note: The headline writer for the following piece was being too generous. Trump's son-in-law has no business being in government.
Trump’s son-in-law has no business running the coronavirus response.
By Michelle Goldberg
Opinion Columnist
The Washington Post
April 2, 2020
Reporting on the White House’s herky-jerky coronavirus response, Vanity Fair’s Gabriel Sherman has a quotation from Jared Kushner that should make all Americans, and particularly all New Yorkers, dizzy with terror.
According to Sherman, when New York’s governor, Andrew Cuomo, said that the state would need 30,000 ventilators at the apex of the coronavirus outbreak, Kushner decided that Cuomo was being alarmist.
“I have all this data about I.C.U. capacity,” Kushner reportedly said. “I’m doing my own projections, and I’ve gotten a lot smarter about this. New York doesn’t need all the ventilators.” (Dr. Anthony Fauci, the country’s top expert on infectious diseases, has said he trusts Cuomo’s estimate.)
Even now, it’s hard to believe that someone with as little expertise as Kushner could be so arrogant, but he said something similar on Thursday, when he made his debut at the White House’s daily coronavirus briefing: “People who have requests for different products and supplies, a lot of them are doing it based on projections which are not the realistic projections.”
Kushner has succeeded at exactly three things in his life. He was born to the right parents, married well and learned how to influence his father-in-law.
Most of his other endeavors — his biggest real estate deal, his foray into newspaper ownership, his attempt to broker a peace deal between the Israelis and the Palestinians — have been failures.
Undeterred, he has now arrogated to himself a major role in fighting the epochal health crisis that’s brought America to its knees. “Behind the scenes, Kushner takes charge of coronavirus response,” said a Politico headline on Wednesday.
This is dilettantism raised to the level of sociopathy.
The journalist Andrea Bernstein looked closely at Kushner’s business record for her recent book “American Oligarchs: The Kushners, the Trumps, and the Marriage of Money and Power,” speaking to people on all sides of his real estate deals as well as those who worked with him at The New York Observer, the weekly newspaper he bought in 2006.
Kushner, Bernstein told me, “really sees himself as a disrupter.” Again and again, she said, people who’d dealt with Kushner told her that whatever he did, he “believed he could do it better than anybody else, and he had supreme confidence in his own abilities and his own judgment even when he didn’t know what he was talking about.”
It’s hard to overstate the extent to which this confidence is unearned.
Kushner was a reportedly mediocre student whose billionaire father appears to have bought him a place at Harvard.
Taking over the family real estate company after his father was sent to prison, Kushner paid $1.8 billion — a record, at the time — for a Manhattan skyscraper at the very top of the real estate market in 2007.
The debt from that project became a crushing burden for the family business. (Kushner was able to restructure the debt in 2011, and in 2018 the project was bailed out by a Canadian asset management company with links to the government of Qatar.)
He gutted the once-great New York Observer, then made a failed attempt to create a national network of local politics websites.
His forays into the Israeli-Palestinian conflict — for which he boasted of reading a whole 25 books — have left the dream of a two-state solution on life support.
Michael Koplow of the centrist Israel Policy Forum described Kushner’s plan for the Palestinian economy as “the Monty Python version of Israeli-Palestinian peace.”
Now, in our hour of existential horror, Kushner is making life-or-death decisions for all Americans, showing all the wisdom we’ve come to expect from him.
“Mr. Kushner’s early involvement with dealing with the virus was in advising the president that the media’s coverage exaggerated the threat,” reported The Times. It was apparently at Kushner’s urging that Trump announced, falsely, that Google was about to launch a website that would link Americans with coronavirus testing.
(As The Atlantic reported, a health insurance company co-founded by Kushner’s brother — which Kushner once owned a stake in — tried to build such a site, before the project was “suddenly and mysteriously scrapped.”)
The president was reportedly furious over the website debacle, but Kushner’s authority hasn’t been curbed.
Politico reported that Kushner, “alongside a kitchen cabinet of outside experts including his former roommate and a suite of McKinsey consultants, has taken charge of the most important challenges facing the federal government,” including the production and distribution of medical supplies and the expansion of testing.
Kushner has embedded his own people in the Federal Emergency Management Agency; a senior official described them to The Times as “a ‘frat party’ that descended from a U.F.O. and invaded the federal government.”
Disaster response requires discipline and adherence to a clear chain of command, not the move-fast-and-break-things approach of start-up culture.
Even if Kushner “were the most competent person in the world, which he clearly isn’t, introducing these kind of competing power centers into a crisis response structure is a guaranteed problem,” Jeremy Konyndyk, a former U.S.A.I.D. official who helped manage the response to the Ebola crisis during Barack Obama’s administration, told me.
“So you could have Trump and Kushner and Pence and the governors all be the smartest people in the room, but if there are multiple competing power centers trying to drive this response, it’s still going to be chaos.”
Competing power centers are a motif of this administration, and its approach to the pandemic is no exception.
As The Washington Post reported, Kushner’s team added “another layer of confusion and conflicting signals within the White House’s disjointed response to the crisis.” Nor does his operation appear to be internally coherent. “Projects are so decentralized that one team often has little idea what others are doing — outside of that they all report up to Kushner,” reported Politico.
On Thursday, Governor Cuomo said that New York would run out of ventilators in six days. Perhaps Kushner’s projections were incorrect. “I don’t think the federal government is in a position to provide ventilators to the extent the nation may need them,” Cuomo said. “Assume you are on your own in life.” If not in life, certainly in this administration.
www.nytimes.com/2020/04/02/opinion/jared-kushner-coronavi...
========================================================
Trump is responsible for our unfolding coronavirus disaster
Michael Gerson
The Washington Post
July 6, 2020
The United States is entering dangerous, uncharted territory. With a little more than 4 percent of the world’s population, our country has about 25 percent of coronavirus infections.
Over the course of five months, more Americans have lost their lives to this disease (127,000 and counting) than died in World War I (116,516).
New infections have reaccelerated and are rising toward some unknown peak.
And we have a president who doesn’t appear to give a damn.
How did we get here? The story is relatively simple.
Through shutdowns and social distancing, Americans flattened the curve of new infections. But we plateaued at a very high level — roughly 20,000 a day during most of May. (Contrast this with France, which flattened the curve to a plateau of roughly 400 daily cases.)
Then came Memorial Day. Many Americans — with the encouragement of some politicians — took this as the mental end of the crisis phase. On May 25, there were roughly 18,000 new infections. On June 25, it was 40,000. Six days after that, 53,000.
And a few weeks from now, the Fourth of July harvest of stupidity will be revealed.
On the second upswing of the first wave — where we currently stand — the profile of the disease has changed.
Because nursing homes are better protected and the elderly have adhered to pandemic hygiene, the average age of someone infected by the disease has fallen by roughly two decades.
Though a significant number still need hospitalization, fatality rates are lower. America is doing a better job shielding the most vulnerable.
But there are two problems.
First, following covid-19’s assault on the body, a significant number of younger people end up with long-term health complications.
One doctor I know says that 40-year-old patients he has treated sometimes end up climbing stairs like wheezing senior citizens. Researchers warn of lingering damage to the brain.
President Trump’s claim that 99 percent of covid-19 cases are “totally harmless” is a cruel lie.
Second, allowing the exponential spread of the disease will eventually make protecting the vulnerable an impossible task. All our islands of safety for the ill and elderly are endangered when the sea level of infection rapidly rises.
Many Americans simply don’t understand what exponential growth means. Three million infections can quickly bloom to 10 million infections, and higher. Even with a relatively low fatality rate, this could easily leave more than half a million Americans dead.
Who is responsible for this unfolding national disaster?
It starts at the top, where Trump has been a determined and creative ally of the virus.
In mid-April, the president simultaneously endorsed a strategy for gradual, prudent reopening of the economy and began egging on populist advocates of immediate reopening. It was clear to everyone where his sympathies truly lay.
Rather than bucking up governors to continue shutdowns until the burden of disease was manageable, Trump undercut them for his own (perceived) benefit.
Foolish, reckless governors quickly got the message that economic recovery was more urgent than pandemic responsibility.
In Texas, Gov. Greg Abbott (R) actually stripped localities of the authority to issue stay-at-home orders so no one could resist his aggressive reopening plan.
But even governors who demonstrate concern about people’s lives have found many Americans — particularly younger Americans — increasingly resistant to basic pandemic precautions.
The successful control of infectious disease — using bed nets against malaria, adhering to AIDS medications, social distancing to inhibit the spread of the novel coronavirus — is ultimately a matter of individual behavior.
Successful attempts to improve such behavior on a large scale require a consistent message from all the commanding heights of a culture — the medical profession, the government, the church and the media.
The default position for many Americans is a robust individualism that leads to suspicion of government mandates. Overcoming this natural tendency requires energetic persuasion.
In the coronavirus crisis, the medical profession has done its job by providing the facts.
But the government (see Trump), the church (see Trump’s evangelical enablers) and the media (see Fox News and talk radio) have encouraged broad skepticism about essential health measures. In the process, they have created a right-wing constituency for preventable death.
There are two options here. Either Americans will be rudely jerked toward sanity by the sight of rapidly filling graves, or leaders of determination and talent will rise above the self-destructive strife and make deliverance from illness and death a unifying national cause.
The president has left this role vacant. It needs filling.
www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/trump-is-responsible-for-...
What's up, all my HULKAMANIACS!!
Him again!!
We're not Hulkamaniacs!
He's still orange...
Since it's late in the evening the Hulkster said to himself, 'I'm gonna ride down there to the Beejoo Planks and tell all my Hulkamaniacs a bedtime story before they leave!'
...
Well, we were thinking of leaving early tonight.
We started thinking that when you showed up.
It goes like this! Once upon a time all the wrestlers in the world got together for the biggest rumble ever, to see who was the biggest, baddest wrestler on the planet!
Great story, thank you Hulk, goodnight!
And they fought and tore the whole stadium down! But then they heard a sound like a tornado and that whole stadium, and all the wrestlers in was lifted right up!!
I thought the stadium was torn down.
Shh!
Well, I'd appreciate some continuity.
And all the wrestlers in the world looked and saw the 26 inch golden pythons! It was the Hulkster, lifting up the whole shootin match just like Atlas!!!
Oh, no, not the 'pythons'.
That isn't 'gold'.
That's 'I fell asleep at Palm Beach Tan again.'
And the Hulkster roared, "WHATCHA GONNA DO, WHEN HULKAMANIA RUNS WILD ON YOU!!?" And all the wrestlers in the world bowed down before the Hulkster!
What kind of story was that!?
Would you PLEASE stop interacting with him?
Don't feed the Big Orange Goblin. He'll leave.
__________________________
A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
That was so stupid.
I know! Everyone knows Speedo would have won that rumble!
Crack!
"Daddy, no!"
Leonard hit the ground hard. His cheek was set aflame, tiny droplets of red leaking from his lips. Lewis, his father, stood above him, his fist balled tightly.
"You shut the fuck up!" he yelled, his opposite hand pointing at Lisa, Leonard's sister. The girl sat crying, a fainter red mark on her cheek. "When I'm done with this little fucker, you're getting punished."
Leonard jolted up, ramming his small fist into his father's stomach. "Don't touch her!" he yelled, tears running down his swelling face. "If you do… I'll kill you!"
"Why you miserable…"
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Hours passed after Lewis' rampage. Leonard had suffered multiple injuries from the man; a black eye, a busted lip, and paintball-like bruises riddling his stomach. Lisa had taken far less of the attack, only receiving a small bruise on her cheek.
The girl was currently curled up next to him, her cheeks stained with tears. Leonard had calmed her down enough after the incident, singing her to sleep.
He couldn't sleep, however. His eyes needed to stay open at all times. He never knew if he'd need to be awake to save his sister from the maniac, so he kept awake, no matter how tired he truly was.
-^-
"I'm not playing around, Lisa," Lewis yelled, jolting up from the dinner table. "You're gonna go to that boy and apologize, you understand me? Whatever the hell he wants, he's gonna get!"
"He was forcing himself on me!" Lisa snapped back. "I wasn't going to sit there and… and let him…"
"You sent him to the emergency room cause clawed his damn eyes out, you stupid bitch!" he said, walking towards Lisa. "You're lucky he's not pressing charges, as long as you do what he wants!"
Lisa cowered as Lewis stood over her. She had grown up and learned some self defense from Leonard… but she was still a fourteen year old girl.
Smack.
Her body dropped to the floor, the mark of her father's ring now imprinted on her red cheek.
"Daddy, please…"
"You wanna be a tough girl?" he asked, undoing his belt and folding it into a weapon. "Let's see how tough you really are."
Lisa raised her arms to block the hit, but the sound of the door opening caused both to freeze.
"What the hell?"
Leonard stood in the doorway dressed in his work uniform. He was small for a sixteen year old, but his eyes were burning with anger.
"What the hell!?" he repeated, dropping the toolbox he was carrying.
"I-I-I-Its fine, Leo," Lisa said, forcing a smile. She could see the rage in her brother… a rage that wouldn't end well for him. "I-I-I'm fine."
"You're finally back," Lewis said, side-eyeing Lisa. "Find anywhere that'll be an easy enough run?"
"What are you doing to my sister!?" Leonard asked, walking towards the two. "Well!?"
"Don't try and act tough, Leo," Lewis said, turning his full attention to Leonard. "A fine, wealthy gentleman wanted to take your sister here somewhere nice. This bitch had the audacity to claw his damn eyes out!"
Leonard's head snapped to Lisa, a worried expression appearing on his face. "Blaine?" he asked, Lisa nodding her head lightly. "That son of a… I'm going to kill that sick bastard."
"The hell is wrong with you?" Lewis yelled, pointing the belt at Leonard. "That bastard's rich! Your sister passed up the opportunity of a lifetime!"
"He was trying to r-ra…" Lisa said, shuddering at the word.
"Put the damn belt down, now," Leonard said, Lisa shaking her head violently for him to stop.
"Oh, ho ho, Leo," Lewis chuckled. "I thought you'd finally gotten the lesson through your dense ass skull that you aren't shit."
"Try me."
Lewis charged forward, the belt ready to crash down against Leonard.
"Daddy, no!"
Bang!
Lisa's eyes widened, her hands shooting to her mouth.
Leonard stood firm, his right hand extended and holding a revolver. Lewis had stopped in his tracks, a trail of crimson running down from the center of his chest.
"L-L-Leo..." Lewis said, his voice trailing off as blood began to deep from the corners of his mouth.
"I told you…" Leonard started, staring at Lewis' body as it toppled over, "I'd kill you."
-^-
"There was a call reporting a gunshot from your home, Leonard," Detective Joe West said, sitting across from Leonard in the CCPD Interrogation Room. "Your father was dead when we got there, your sister with a bruised cheek, and you with a 357 in your hand. It isn't too hard to put together what happened."
"Congratulations, detective," Leonard said, clapping his hands, rattling the cuffs around his wrists, "you can do your jobs."
Joe's mouth curved into a frown. "I understand that… topics like these can be difficult to go about… especially with a stranger," he sighed, leaning forward in his chair, "but I want to make it clear, I'm going to do everything I can to help you. No child should have to go through what you have been.
"I was able to get your sister into a good home," Joe said, finally gaining Leonard's attention. "The charges pressed on her for attacking Travis Blaine weren't easy to work around, but she's in good hands."
"Who are they?" Leonard asked, sitting up fully in his chair. "What do they do? What neighborhood are th-"
"Hey, it's okay, relax," Joe said, placing a family photo on the table. "She'll be moved in with the Bivolo family. They're good people, they own a nice book store downtown. They even have a son her age."
Leonard's shoulders relaxed, leaning back in the seat. "That's… that's good," he said, eyes shifting down to the photo. "You'll make sure Blaine doesn't try anything?"
"I don't think he'd ever try anything again," Joe said, with a slight chuckle. "Not unless he's looking to be a pirate."
"Funny…" Leonard responded, a slight smile appearing on his face."Thank you, detective…"
"I wouldn't ever want one of my boys to go through what either of you are," Joe said, placing the photo back into the folder. "I'm gonna help you any way I can. I promise."
-^-
"Leonard Snart, meet your cellmate," the officer said, pushing the 16 year old forward. "Play nice… or don't."
As the cell door slammed behind him, Leonard watched as the person on the top bunk shifted, hopping down in a swift motion. The boy stood about 5 inches taller than Leonard, his mass much larger to go with it. He had short, nearly buzzed brown hair and light burn marks running along his exposed forearms.
"Names Michael, friends call me Mick," he said, eyeing Leonard down. "You look young to be in here."
"That's because I'm not supposed to be," Leonard responded, not intimidated by his cellmate's stature. "You look like you're pretty young yourself, Mick."
"Thought I said my friends call me that," Mick said, his eyes narrowing.
"Thought we'd be friends," Leonard responded, walking past Mick and sitting down onto the bottom bunk. "If not… well that would make the next couple years a lot more irritating."
Mick grunted, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "So, what got you in here? Like I said, you look pretty damn young."
Leonard nodded, laying back on the hard bed. "You're right, I'm only sixteen," he confirmed, staring at the top bunk's underside. "Shot my old man… bastard had it coming, but murder's still murder."
"Hm, guess the justice system failed both of us then?" he responded, leaning his head back against the wall. "Got what the doctors call Pyromania, pretty insatiable. I tried to keep it in check, I'd make small campfire's when I could, just trying to watch the flames… wasn't ever enough."
"You end up burning something?" Leonard asked, turning his head to look at Mick. "Or someone?"
"Not intentionally…" Mick mumbled, his head hanging. "It's… fuzzy, I don't even remember what I did… I just remember sitting outside on my dad's truck bed… I remember how the fire fought the wood and danced with the air… until nothing but ash was left."
"You'd think Pyromania would get you sent to a psych ward, not Iron Heights. Guess you're right about the justice system," Leonard said, sitting up from the bed. "I take it your…"
"Seventeen… burning your family alive doesn't really sit too well with them, freak obsession or not," he said, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. "Killing your dad… seems like something that could've been worked with though."
"It… was supposed to… there was a detective from the CCPD who was planning to help me through this, get me parole, even," Leonard explained. "I only learned this morning that his wife was murdered a week ago…"
"So the bastard left you high and dry?"
"I don't blame him," Leonard answered, looking at the small photo of him and his sister he held. "He mentioned he had kids… I commend him for putting those he cares about first in his life. I'd do the same. Every. Single. Time."
"Snart."
Leonard blinked, looking up from the glass, ball shaped object in his hand.
"Find anything useful?" Mick asked, leaning on the doorway of the backroom. "Colors and I found a couple pistols, but that's it."
"Actually," Leonard started, placing the glass object down and picking up a folder. "I think I have… the Weather Wizard."
"Mardon?" Mick asked, walking into the room and looking over Leonard's shoulder. "He didn't leave a backup of that stick, did he?"
"No… but these schematics he left are more than simple enough to read," Leonard said, flipping through the folder. "I can't rebuild the weather wand, I don't think Mardon had enough equipment for any backups… but I might be able to use these and create something just as good."
Mick snatched the folder, quickly flipping through the pages. "Simple to read…" he said, tossing the folder back to Leonard. "The first page is nothing but trigonometry. Need anything from me and Bivolo?"
"Actually… those guns you found might be useful."
"Got it."
Leonard looked back at the schematics, picking up a marker from the box and pulling the cap off with his mouth.
"Well then, let's get started."
Building Montage Song Link (because that's what would be the next section of this :P)
-^-
Roy stepped into the backroom that Leonard had been in for the past eight hours. Mick had gone in and out of the room throughout the day, but had been told to leave each time. Leonard had finished now, calling Mick and himself into the room.
"So… you made firearms?" Roy asked, looking at the two weapons on the workbench. "I think you may have… miscounted how many of us there are."
"Not exactly," Leonard said, picking up the smaller weapon, handing it to Mick. "Try it out."
Mick looked at the weapon in his hand, then to the makeshift dummy across the room. "What's the canister for?"
"Just shoot the gun, Mick."
Mick narrowed his eyes, pointing the gun towards the target. As he pulled the trigger, a funnel of flames fired from the weapon's muzzle. Mick's narrowed eyes widened, his finger leaving the trigger, watching as the dummy was set ablaze.
Roy stared in awe, not noticing Leonard pick up the other gun, firing a blue beam at the dummy, freezing it solid. "That's… an ice ray? And a pocket flamethrower?" Roy asked, looking between the two weapons.
"Mardon's schematics are brilliant," Leonard said, taking the flamethrower from Mick and placing both weapons back on the bench. "It wasn't easy, but I was able to convert his temperature technology into a cold gun and a flamethrower."
"Leonard, that's incredible!" Roy exclaimed, a frown stretching across his face quickly after his praise. "Your creativity is astonishing… but, what about me?"
Leonard smirked, walking around the room to a few stands with black cloth strung over them. "These weapons obviously play with temperature, luckily," he began, pulling off the sheets, "Mardon created a suit for himself to withstand said temperatures. He left behind the materials he used, so I did a little sewing."
Mick walked up to the all black suit with neon highlights, his eyes narrowing at the design. "You want me dressing up like a firefighter?"
"The bases he used for his costume seemed to be bunker suits," Leonard explained, walking over to the baby blue suit. "figured the aesthetic worked well enough for you, Mick."
"So you care about aesthetics now?"
"Times are changing, Mick. In a city with people like The Flash and Weather Wizard, a trio of bank robbers won't cut it." Leonard grabbed the flamethrower once more, handing it to Mick. "So it's up to you; you want the suit and flamethrower, Heatwave?"
Mick smirked, taking the gun from Leonard's hand.
"Leonard, what. About. Me," Roy said, standing with his arms crossed and staring at the exchange the two had.
"Don't worry, Roy," Leonard reassured, pulling off the final sheet. Roy tilted his head, staring at the onesie on display. "You'll be using those special powers."
"What?" He asked, stepping back. "Leonard, I'd advise you not to make jokes like that."
"There weren't enough parts here to make a third gun, so it was tough," he began, taking off a black gauntlet from the suit, "but the temperature and weather schematics were able to help me make these. Conductors that can filter your powers, all while surviving the heat of lightning, force of windstorms, and the cold of blizzards."
Roy opened his mouth, but was too shocked to speak. His eyes locked onto the gauntlet as he exhaled loudly. "A-are you sure?"
"Am I ever not?"
"Okay… but what now?" Mick said, flicking his helmet's visor up and down. "What's the plan, Snart?"
Leonard smiled, picking up his cold gun and firing it at the dummy once more. "Now? We end the Flash."
NEXT TIME: A New Year's Eve Brawl, Flash vs The Rogues!
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
MANIFESTO GLEITZEIT 2015
BY STELLY RIESLING
Featured below is another original art work of mine in homage to THE PIONEER OF INVISIBLE ART — PAUL JAISINI. Forget all the copycats that came after him — Master Paul Jaisini was the *FIRST* of a totally original concept and the *BEST*. My favorite thing about him is that he’s a voice, not an echo, which is quite rare.
DISCLAIMER: This is for anyone who is a hater OR wishes to better understand me, what I’m all about, so you can decide whether I’m weird or normal enough for you — a kind of very loose manifesto, rushed and unrevised, full of raw uncut emotion that I don’t like to be evident in my writing as lately I prefer a more professional, formal style, so we can consider this a rough draft of the more polished writing to come when I have extra time. I might return to this text later and clean it up or break it into separate parts. Right now it’s a long-winded hot mess, so if you manage to make any sense of it, BIG PROPS TO YOU. lol …and if you manage to read it ALL, you have my solemn respect!!! in a day when reading has been reduced to just catchy headliners and short captions of images once in a while. The consequence of this one-liner internet culture is non-linear, tunnel thinking, which is baaaaaad.
There lives among us a most enigmatic and charismatic creature named Paul Jaisini who led me into the wonderful world of art, not personally, but through descriptions of his artworks in essays written and published online by his friend, which painted the most fascinating images in my mind. Early on as a kiddo, I experimented with photography, simple point and shoot whatever looked attractive to me. Digital manipulation of my photographs with computer software followed… and somehow I learned useful drawing techniques along the way to combine existing elements with nonexistent ones, which allowed me to elevate the context for my ideas. Later, I started creating my own digital art from scratch for my friends and family as a favorite pastime. They would shower me with praise and repeatedly encouraged me to share my “different” vision with the rest of the world… it took a while and wasn’t easy to overcome the insecurity of not being good enough along with a gripping fear of being harshly criticized, but one day I woman-ed up and started publishing my work on the web, reminding myself that my livelihood didn’t depend on a positive reception.
Paul Jaisini’s role in all this has been to not disgrace myself, even if what I do is just a hobby. And I would never do him and other genius artists the disservice of calling myself a professional because I know I’ll never be as good as any of the GIANTS of pre-modern history. Be the best or be nothing, no middle ground.
People’s jealousy in the past, future and present over my obsessive love of Paul Jaisini, which they are well aware is purely plutonic, has caused them to despise the man and has made many relationships/friendships impossible for me. I refuse to have such people in my life because by harboring any negativity towards Paul, they unknowingly feel that way about me and express it to me. It’s their own problem for not realizing this. Paul’s new art movement, Gleitzeit, shaped me into the allegedly awesome girl I am today, giving my art more edge, more “sexy” because it refined my vision of the world and propelled me to attain the skills necessary to not dishonor my family name through tenacious pursuit of perfection. Since the beginning of my life, I attempted to depict what I saw in visual, musical and literal forms, but continuously failed without adequate training and determination. Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit was the answer to my prayers. Who I am today I owe mostly to him and his selfless ideals of the artverse that I’ve given unconditional loyalty to (he has this cool ability for hyper-vision to see whole universes, not itty bitty worlds, hence I call it an artverse instead of art world, with him in mind). So again, anyone who hates Paul Jaisini hates ME because, regardless of what he means to you, he is the most important person in my life for making me ME. The way a famous actor, dancer or singer inspires others to act, dance or sing, Paul inspired me to become a better artist, better writer, better everything. More people would understand if he was a household name because they’re wired to in society. But we’re inspiring each other all the time in our own little communities without being famous, so if someone has the ability to change even ONE person’s life immensely with creativity, it is a massive achievement. And passionate folks like myself are compelled to scream it from the cyber rooftops. So here I am. It’s whatever.
Furthermore, I’d like to address here a few pressing matters in light of some recent drama brought on by both strangers and former friends. To start, I never judge the passions, interests or likes of others, which are often in my face all over the place, so likewise they have no right to judge any of mine. It is quite unfortunate and frustrating how very little understanding and education the majority of people have or want to have. Their logic is as primitive as a chipmunk when it comes to promotion of fine art on the web: “spamming, advertising, report!” It’s their own problem that they fail to understand what it’s about due to the distorted lens through which they see the world or inability to think for themselves; an inherent lack of perception or inquisitiveness. Well, guess what? Every single image, every animation, every video, every post dedicated to Mr. Paul Jaisini and “Gleitziet” (to elaborate: a revolutionary new art movement Paul founded with his partner in crime and personal friend, EYKG, who discovered him and believed in him more than anyone) has an important purpose. Every one of those things you run across is a piece of a puzzle, a move in a game, an inch down a rabbit hole; the deeper you go, the more interesting it gets; the more levels you pass, the more clues unfold, the greater the suspense and nearer the conclusion (yet further). You earn awesome rewards like enlightenment, spiritual revelations, truths, knowledge, wisdom and the most profound reward of all: the drive to improve yourself to the absolute maximum, so an unending, unshakable drive. People often make a wrong turn in this cyber game and go back a few levels or get stuck. Those that keep on pushing, however, will come to find the effort has been worth it. And what awaits you in the end of it all? The greatest challenge to beating the game: YOUR OWN MIND. You will be forced to let go of every belief you held before you had reached the last level, to completely alter your mindset and perception of the world, of life, of yourself. But by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it will be as easy as falling off a cliff! (It is a kind of suicide after all — death and rebirth of spirit.)
Paul Jaisini does NOT, *I repeat* does NOT use mystery and obscurity to his advantage as a clever marketing ploy, no, he’s too next level for that with a consciousness so rich, he should wear a radioactive warning sign (he’ll melt your brain, best wear a tinfoil hat in his presence as I certainly would.) The statement he makes is loud and clear, hidden in plain site for those who take the time to connect the dots and have enough curiosity to fuel their journey into unknown territory (an open mind and flexible perception helps a lot). Actually, anyone with an IQ above 90 is sure to figure it out sooner or later. Hint: You don’t have to SEE an extraordinary thing with your eyes to know it exists, to understand it and realize its greatness — you can only feel it in your bone marrow, your spinal fluid, your heart and soul. The moment you do figure it out, as the skeleton key of the human soul, it will unlock the greatness and massive potential buried deep within, changing the doomed direction humanity is undoubtedly headed. I don’t speak in riddles, I speak in a clear direct way that intelligent humans will understand, so I’m counting on them.
GIG is an international group of artists and writers that support Paul Jaisini’s Gleitzeit. We started off as an unofficial fan club of Jaisini in 1996, comprised of only 6 individuals spanning 3 countries, and eventually escalated in status to an official fan group across the entire globe. A decade later it had grown to hundreds of fans. Nearly another decade later, there are thousands. Let’s not leave out another delightful group of vicious haters that have been around for nearly as long as us since the late 90s and have also grown in impressive numbers. Now, for the record (and please write this one down because I’m sick of repeating myself), Paul Jaisini himself is not part of our group and has nothing to do with us. He loves and hates us equally for butchering his name and making him appear as a narcissistic nut-job in his own words. He casts hexes on us for the blinding flash we layer over the art that members contribute to GIG — “disgusting-police-lights, seizure-inducing-laser-lightshow, bourgeois-myspace-effects retarded-raver shit” in Paul’s words. Ahh, how we love his sweet-talking us. In a desperate attempt to please him, those among us who make the art and animations have spent countless hours and sleepless nights trying to solve a crazy-complex quantum-physics type of equation = how to not create tacky or tasteless content. He does fancy some of it now, we got better, that’s something! In the reason stated below, our mission just got out of hand at some point.
What little is known about Paul Jaisini, even in all this time, is he’s a horrible perfectionist who slaughtered hundreds of innocent babies — I mean — artworks of remarkable beauty created by his own right hand (mostly paintings, some watercolors and drawings). He’s a fierce recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone or anything in life. But those few of us who know of an incredible talent he possesses (one could go as far as calling it a superpower), could not allow him to live his life without the recognition he FUCKING DESERVES more than any artist out there living today and, arguably, yesterday. We use whatever means necessary to reach more people, lots of flash and razzle-dazzle to lure them into our sinister trap of a higher awareness. Mwahaha! The visual boom you’ve witnessed in both cyber and real worlds, that is GIG’s doing — two damn decades of spreading an art virus — IVA. InVisibleArtitis… or a drug as in Intravenous Art. It’s whatever you want it to be, honey.
Our Gleitzeit International Group (GIG) started off innocently enough and gradually spiraled out of control to fight the haters, annoying the hell out of them as much as humanly possible. They don’t like what we do? WE DO MORE AND MORE OF IT. But never without purpose, without a carefully executed plan in mind collectively. If we have to tolerate an endless tidal wave of everyone’s vomit — e.g., idiotic memes and comics; dumbed-down one-liner quotes; selfies; so-called “art photography” passed through one-click app filters; mindless scribbles or random splatters by regular folks who have the nerve to call themselves serious/pro artists; primitive images of pets, babies, landscapes, random objects, etc… then people sure as shit are gonna tolerate what we put out, our animated and non-animated visual art designed for our beloved master, Paul Jaisini, who has shown us the light, the right path to follow, taught us great things and done so much for us — and so in our appreciation of him, we stamp his name on everything, for the sacrifices he has made in the name of art, to save our art verse, he’s a goddamn hero. There’s a book being written in his dedication where little will be left to the imagination about him.
If Paul Jaisini was as famous as Koons or Hirst, for example, people would know it’s not him posting stuff online with his name on it but fans creating fanart like myself among others. But noooooo, such a thing is unfathomable to most people - the promotion of another artist. Like, what’s in it for us? Uhh, nothing?? This is all NON-PROFIT bitches, the way art should be. It’s a passion FIRST, a commodity/commercial product/marketable item LAST and least. Its been that way for us since the early 90s to this day. Not a single member of GIG has sold an art work (neither has Paul Jaisini who’s a true professional) and we want to keep it that way. We do it for reasons far beyond ego. So advertising? Really? How the hell do you advertise or sell thin air, you know, invisible paintings, invisible anything? Ha ha, very funny indeed. The idea here is so simple, your neighbor’s dog can grasp it. Our motives: replace fast food for the mind with fine art, actual fine art. You know, creativity? Conscious thought? Talent? Skill? Knowledge? All that good stuff rolled into one to bring viewers more than a momentary ooohand aaahh reaction. Replace the recycled images ad nauseum; repetitious, worn-out ideas; disposable, gimmicky, money-driven fast art for simpletons. Stick with the highest of ideals and save the whole bloody planet.
Fine art is often confused with craft-making. This often creates bad blood between classically trained artists who put out paintings that leave a lasting impression, that make strong conversation pieces, that are thought-provoking and deep… and trained craftspeople whose skills are adequate to create decorative pieces for homely environments — landscapes, still lifes, animals, pretty fairies, common things of fantasy, and other simplicity. Skills alone are not enough for high art, you need a vision, a purpose, the ability to tell a story with every stroke of your brush that will both fascinate and terrify the viewers, arousing powerful emotions, illuminating. I have yet to see a visible painting in my generation that does anything at all for me, other than evoke sheer outrage and disgust. What a terrible waste of space and valuable resources it all is.
Paul Jaisini leads, we follow. He wishes to remain unknown - so do most of us. I’m next in line, slipping into recluse mode, no longer wanting to attach my face, my human image to my art stuff. I wish to be a nameless, faceless artist as well, invisible like P.J., and in his footsteps I too have destroyed thousands of my own artistic photography and digital art made with tedious, labor-intensive handwork. The whole point of this destruction is achieving the finest results possible by letting go of the imperfect, purging it on a regular basis, to make way for the perfect. I love what I do so it doesn’t matter, I know I’ll keep producing as much as I’m discarding, keeping the balance. Hoarding is an enemy of progress, especially the digital kind as there’s absolutely no limit to it. It’s like carrying a load of bricks on your back you’ll never use or need.
The watering down of creativity that digital pack ratting has caused as observed over the years is most tragic. For the creative individual, relying on terabytes of stock photos or OSFAP as I call them (Once Size Fits All Photos) instead of making your own as you used to when you had no choice, being 100% original, is a splinter in the conscience. It’s not evil to use stock of, say, things you don’t have access to (outer space, deep sea, Antarctica, etc.), but many digital artists I know today can’t take their own shot of a pencil ‘cause they “ain’t got no time for that!” How did they have time before? Did time get so compressed in only a decade?
Ohhhhh, and the edits, textures, filters, plug-ins and what-have-you available out there to everyone and their cats… are responsible for the tidal wave of rubbish that eclipses the magnificent light of the real talents.
I can tell you with utmost sincerity there is no better feeling on earth than knowing your creation is ALL yours, every pixel and dot, from the first to the last. It’s not always possible to make it so, but definitely the most rewarding endeavor. I’m most proud of myself when I can accomplish that.
Back to Paul Jaisini, from the start there have been a number of theories floating around on what his real story is. One of my own theories is that he stands for the unknowns of the world who can’t get representation, can’t get exhibited at a decent gallery because highly gifted/trained artists aren’t good enough - those kind of establishments prefer bananas, balloon dogs, feces, gigantic dicks/cunts, and all kinds of what-the-fucks…
So again, you don’t get the Paul Jaisini thing? That’s your problem. Don’t hate others for getting it. People are good, very good, at making baseless assumptions and impulsively spewing it as truth. They criticize and judge as if they’re high authorities on the subject yet they clearly lack education in fine art or art history and possess little to no talent or skill to back up their bullshit. My little “credibility radar” never fails. When they say I know this or I know that, I reply don’t say “I know” or state things as fact as a general rule of thumb - instead say “I assume/believe” and state the reasons you feel thus to appear less immature, especially about a controversial topic like invisible art. I have zero respect or tolerance for egomaniacs who think they know it all and act accordingly like arrogant pricks. Who can stand those, right? Once again, a good example would be: I, Stelly Riesling, believe everything I’ve written in this little manifesto to be correct based on personal experience and observation from multiple angles, thorough research and sufficient data collected from verifiable sources (and don’t go copying-pasting my own words back at me, be original). Just because you or I say so doesn’t make it so. Just because you or me think or believe so doesn’t make it true or right. I only ask that my opinions are regarded respectfully and whoever opposes them does so in a mature, civilized manner. We should only be entitled to opinions that don’t bring out the worst in us.
I don’t normally take such a position, but the time has come to stand up for what I believe in! It’s quite amusing and comical how haters think calling me names, attacking me or my interests or members of the project I’m part of for years is going to change something. It only makes more evident the importance of what I’m doing so I push on harder still.
Words of advise to those who can identify with me, with my frustrations over people’s reluctance to change their miserable ways, with our declining art world…
DON’T waste time on people who sweat the small stuff, whose actions are consistently inconsistent with their words. DO waste time on people who always keep their eye on the ball—the bigger picture of life.
Paul Jaisini’s invisible paintings are more than hype, more than your lame assumptions. Here’s one I got that’s pure gold: a cult! It started out as A JOKE OF MINE that was used against me. I told a then-good friend that he should come join our little “art cult” in a clearly lighthearted manner, and later he takes this idea I put in his head first and accuses me of being in an (imaginary) cult—the jokes on me eh?. But wait, aren’t cults religious? Our group consists of people around the world of different faiths (or none at all) so how could that ever work? If religion was about making fine (non-pop) art mainstream and bringing awesome, fresh, futuristic concepts to the collective consciousness, the world would not be so fucked up today because talent, creativity, originality and individuality would be the main focus, not superficial poppycock; those things would be praised and encouraged and supported in society by all institutions, not demonized and stigmatized.
Here is one thing I CAN state as solid fact: only one person close to Paul Jaisini knows the TRUE story, or at least some of it: EYKG. Everything else that has ever been said about him is myth, legend, gossip, speculation, the worst of which is said by jealous non-artists (wannabes, clones, posers, hang-ons, unoriginal ppl in general) and anti-artists (religious psychos, squares, losers and -duh- stupid ppl). Sadly, people are unable to see the bigger picture by letting their egos run their lives or repeating after others as parrots.
Commercial art, consumerism, and ignorance of the masses truly makes me want to curl up in a ball, not eat or drink or move until I die, just die in my sleep while dreaming of a better world, a world where real fine artists rule it with real fine art as they used to and life is beautiful once again….
Well I hope that settled THAT for now, or perhaps inadvertently made matters worse. I hope I didn’t sound too pissed from all these issues that keep popping up like penises on ChatRoulette… just got to me already! Can you tell? I had to put my foot down, stomp ‘em all!
To be continued, still lots more ignorance and pettiness to battle… Till then peace out my bambini. MWAH!
but I discovered him
Blue spottet stingray
Blaupunkt Rochen
Red Sea
Sinai, Egypt
about 18-20m depht
Scuba diving, Nov. 2011
we divers don't touch anything
VILLE VALO from HIM (2nd Prototipe)
Custom Taeyang by Sheryl Designs to Karlfromleads
MODIFICATIONS:
Complette Make Up
Replaced acrylic eyes
©2007-2010 Sheryl Designs Eyemech Modification
Yes it’s true.
Today the 10th September 2013, at 11.30am, my darling Shogi was put to sleep.
I'm truely devastated and heartbroken.
The last week Shogi has not been himself. Not interested in play and lethargic.
When his appetite increased and his intake of water, we took him to the vets yesterday.
At 6pm last night, when the vet called me with his blood test results, I had the shock of my life when I was told he had feline leukaemia and there was no cure.
His blood showed 70% white blood cells
I have been in a total state of shock!
I made the decision to have him put to sleep while he still had his dignity and not drastically ill.
I could have let him plod on for a bit longer or tried steroids but no, I wanted him to go while he wasn’t suffering too much.
This morning he ate a good meal and I placed him in his outdoor pen to watch the birds, which he always loved to do.
I let him have a little walk in our garden too.
Just before I took him to the vets I held him as I played his favourite tune and we had a little mooch.
Shogi was never a lap cat, but I once played this tune which he responded to and he just relaxed in my arms as I stroked him.
This has always been his song
It has been such an emotional ride as well as a shock and most stressful
Its all happened so quick!
When we took him to the vets, we also had to take my other cat Guinevere too.
feline leukaemia is a contagious virus, although only spread through mating, cat bites & fights, we had to take her to be tested.
We were relieved to learn she is clear.
Of course at the vets I was full of questions and Matt was willing to answer them all.
Matt wanted to know Shogis history and looked at his records from the day we adopted Shogi.
Shogi has never been a well cat with his bowel disease and the odd cystitis and cold. He’s also taken longer to “get over” things as opposed to any other cat.
On Shogis story you will find that his previous owner had miss treated and neglected him.
I have always had a lot of bad things to say about his previous owner!
Matt brought to my attention the day we brought Shogi in for chipping.
His previous owner never told me he was already chipped!
I told Matt I went through hell with the previous owner trying to get written permission from her to change the address on the chip from hers to mine and all the information she had on the chip.
She never returned my calls, or texts until eventually she disappeared off the face of the earth.
Matt told me this was probably because we would have found out which vet had chipped him and we could have had his health records transferred.
Matt told me, in his opinion, she will have already known he had the virus and could have been born with it.
All his ill health was probably down to the virus.
I can't remember if we had Shogi tested in the early days. We probably did, but Matt stated that it may not have shown up if it was laying dormant. This can happen.
All the little pieces of the jigsaw on Shogis health and how the previous owner was with me have now all been pieced together and all make perfect sense.
Shogi came to me with a death sentence.
Matt told me he was aware how much I cared for cats and that Shogi probably lived longer with me than what he actually should have. So very comforting of him to say that.
He certainly wouldn’t have survived long with his previous owner!
Shogi passed peacefully and Matt let me hold his face so I could be the last thing he saw.
I will be having his ashes.
It was so hard to leave him there and everything from yesterday has happened so quickly that I am in a state of shock and my hands won’t stop trembling.
Poor Guinevere is looking for him everywhere. They were inseparable. I used to call them Bonnie & Clyde!
Whether we get her another friend for her is a little early yet. It sure helps the grieving process and it all depends on how Guinevere copes alone. We have been taking about it but it’s too hard to make the decision today.
I am aware the sooner the better.
There is one thing I would like to say and that is to all the people who have got to know me on Flickr and more so my cat Shogi is, please, please don’t be sad I beg of you.
Yes I am shedding tears and yes I am missing him but regarding his previous owner, I now feel no anger.
She did the best thing she could have possibly done and that was bring Shogi to me.
I did things with Shogi he had never done in his short life.
He’d never had cuddles, grooming, play and he loved to walk on his lead. We’ve taken him with us in the van around the country where he’s enjoyed forest walks, and rock climbing.
I’ve smothered him with toys and most of all he’s had 100% of my love and affection.
Shogi was never a lap cat or was used to being loved but he did begin to show affection which was an amazing experience seeing the odd breakthrough.
His eyes would smile at me with so much love oozing from them and he began to enjoy love and affection.
On a morning he’d started to give me a tender love bite on my cheeck or tap my face with his paw to get me up and then he’d lick my toes. He had such a great personality and made me laugh with his antics, especially when he played with Guinevere. He had so much fun.
He would light up a room till it glowed with his warmth with the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Although my home is now very quiet as he was talkative, the warm glow is still here.
Please please don’t be sad,
I’m ok.
Fate brought Shogi to me and he came with a death sentence.
Yes he’s only been with me for 3yrs and yes he was only 6yrs old but his time had come.
If knowing what I know today, would I have done it again?
Hell yeah!!
I wouldn’t have missed the “Shogi” experience for anything.
If I had have known he had feline leukaemia I wouldn’t have taken him and I would have missed out and Lord only knows what would have happened to him.
Thank God I never knew and thank God we found each other!
It was wonderful knowing him.
Loving him.
I gave Shogi the best 3 years of his entire life
He gave me 3 years I’ll never ever forget and will cherish for the rest of my life.
I’m not going to be sad about that!
All I feel is that I gave him my all & my best and no regrets.
Rest in peace my dear beautiful, beautiful boy.
I love you and shall miss you.
Its never goodbye
Its “I’ll see you later”
Until we meet again on rainbow bridge.
Ps. I would like to thank Helen Ozelton at Alfreton Park Veterinary Hospital for all her loving care with Shogi the last 3 years. I know you were fond of him and I’m so sorry for this news. I know you’ll be heartbroken.
Also thank you to Matt Ingram who performed Shogis operation last year and for tenderly putting him to sleep today. You were most caring to me and Shogi and thank you for your kind words and cuddle. I needed that.
Thank you for your kindness
I will lend to you for awhile a little friend, God said.
For you to love while it lives, and mourn when it's dead.
Maybe for twelve or fourteen years, or maybe two or three.
But will you, till I call it back, take care of it for me?
It'll bring its charms to gladden you and, should its stay be brief
you'll always have its memories as solace for your grief.
I cannot promise it will stay, since all from earth return.
But there are lessons taught below I want this little friend to learn.
I've looked the whole world over in search of teachers true.
And from the folk that crowds life's land I have chosen you.
Now will you give it all your love, nor think the labor vain?
Nor hate me when I come to take my little friend home again?
My heart replied, "My Lord, Thy Will Be Done"
For all the joys this little friend brings, the risk of grief I'll run.
We'll shelter it with tenderness, we'll love it while we may.
And for the happiness we've known, forever grateful stay.
But should you call it back much sooner than we planned.
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes, and try to understand.
If, by our love we've managed your wishes to achieve,
Then in memory of who we loved, please help us while we grieve.
When our cherished little friend departs this world of strife,
Please send yet another needing soul for us to love all its life.
He is desperate to be all grown up, being a kitten to him has so many disadvantages. It is funny to watch him want to do everything Critter and Slinky does and he try's his hardest to keep up and do the same.
3 in comments
Showing him from a different angle. And before anyone asks, yes, every single bit of mata red is intentionally placed. I stuck to my reference pics as close as possible. So happy with him my god. <3<3<3
Part of an acquired collection. Copyright is retained by Allan MacDonald (AMDG45) any reproduction must be credited to him
The same family. The little boy bent down to pic up some stones when another wave came over and soaked him - poor little thing... but I did laugh!
I met this dog that was lying in the middle of the road. It looked like it needed someone so I sat down beside him for a minute. Some minutes later it went into the shadows and was gone.
Picture taken with Canon 5d mk III and 16-35L 2,8 II.
This Cormorant looked almost like he was a permanent fixture on top of this sign post. The two Gulls below both looked like they were waiting for him to leave to see which one of them could claim the coveted perch first?
My money was on the one lurking behind the rocks.
These rocks are a small part of the jetties right at the entrance of the Colonial Coastal Birding trail on Tybee Island.
Captured this Spider chillin in his web, decided to photograph him, This was at the Rainy Lake area, Chelan County, WA
Tim thinks on Film Freak’s last words to him about a ‘production assistant’ wishing him to ‘taste the flames’ as he had. His thoughts were cut short however as the man in the Aquaman costume cried out,
“Are you just going to stand there?! The building’s burning down!!” Snapping back to reality, Tim nodded,
“Right…just…give me a minute…” Tim looked around quickly as a flaming piece of wood nearly landed on his shoulder. Beginning to run around the room, using his domino mask to analyze the various walls. Each one was reinforced, none of the items on his utility belt could possibly make a dent.
“This is hopeless!” The woman dressed as Wonder Woman screamed as the elderly homeless man dressed as Green Lantern put his hand on hers. He clearly was disabled, Tim could tell with one look as his legs were severely underused, however the ‘Green Lantern’ attempted to calm ‘Wonder Woman’ down with,
“I know this boy.” Tim froze, waiting for the old man to continue, “He’s Robin…the Boy Wonder…he’ll save us. He works with Batman, they do the impossible.”
“Unless he can tear apart the walls with his bare hands we’re completely screwed…hey hands off…” ‘Aquaman’ said as ‘Flash’ finally recovered and began to assault Tim. However, Robin was ready for this as he grabbed the man from the back of his neck and the middle of his back before tossing him into the fireplace in one fluid motion. Having a moment of realization, Tim quickly ran up to the fireplace before dragging the once again unconscious ‘Flash’ out and looking up.
“We can get out this way!” Tim called back to the hostages. The fire raging harder than before, Tim made sure that every costumed hostage was at the fireplace before retrieving his grappling gun. Before aiming it at the top of the chimney however, he noticed the ‘Green Lantern’ was still sitting at the table. Pointing to ‘Aquaman’, Tim said, “You. Pick him up and bring him over here.” ‘Aquaman’ rolled his eyes before walking over to ‘Green Lantern’. Tim first grabbed the woman dressed as Wonder Woman around the waist before firing his grappling gun out of the burning building. First testing to see that it had connected with a solid object by tugging on the cord, Tim and ‘Wonder Woman’ ascended out of the faux house. Setting her down gently on the rooftop, Tim turned back and fired his grappling hook back down to connect with the ‘Flash’s shoe. Dragging the mind controlled man up by his foot, Tim set him down next to ‘Wonder Woman’, who began to scream as the flames reached the rooftop.
“C’mon man, hurry this up!” ‘Aquaman’ cried out, ‘Green Lantern’ in his hands.
“Let me get him up here first!” Tim called down.
“No way! Get me out of here!” ‘Aquaman’ yelled again, setting ‘Green Lantern’ down as he did. Tim, filled with anger, answered,
“Fine.” Before shooting his grappling hook into the ‘Aquaman’s shoulder. The man cried out in pain as Tim began hoisting him up. Just as he began to pull ‘Aquaman’ out of the chimney, Tim felt the ‘Flash’ moving behind him. The brainwashed celebrity, who Tim had not identified yet beneath the Flash costume and mind control device, punched him in the arm. Letting out a cry of pain while simultaneously kicking the ‘Flash’ in the shin and holding on to ‘Aquaman’ with all of his might, Tim attempted to maintain his composure. However, the amount of sweat accumulating on his face as well as the amount of smoke in the air meant one thing: the structural integrity of the small set was nearly at its end. Tim landed a punch that sent ‘Flash’ tumbling off of the roof, effectively saving him and finally knocking him out cold upon hitting the ground. After doing so, he lifted ‘Aquaman’ out of the chimney just as it collapsed in on itself. Flaming bricks, albeit fake bricks, all landed on the ‘Green Lantern’ below. Tim felt his lungs constrict the way they did anytime he and Bruce had done the inevitable: they let someone die. While sharing Bruce’s philosophies on the value of life, Tim was always more shaken by the death of innocent civilians than the death of a criminal. The ‘Green Lantern’ still had a smile on his face although he was long gone in a crumpled heap under flaming rubble. Breathing heavily, Tim turned to ‘Aquaman’ and ‘Wonder Woman’, saying, “We need to get off this rooftop now.” Even through ‘Aquaman’s stubborn and childish attitude, he remained silent and grim as he performed a flip off of the rooftop to land perfectly on the ground. Tim was taken aback by this impressive physical feat as he helped ‘Wonder Woman’ around the flames and onto the ground just as the roof of the set caved in. Still thinking about the old man in the Green Lantern costume as the structure went up in flames, ‘Wonder Woman’ said,
“Thank you, Robin.” Tim turned to her, ‘Aquaman’, and the ‘Flash’ as he nodded,
“All in a days work.” Even a half hearted smile was impossible, although it became even more complicated as ‘Aquaman’ quickly threw a punch that knocked ‘Wonder Woman’ clean out. Tim reached for his staff before realizing in the chaos he had dropped in in the burning set. Raising his fists to ‘Aquaman’, Tim asked, “Why’d you do that?” ‘Aquaman’ smiled as he removed his wig, revealing jet black hair as he explained,
“Sorry kid, you picked the short straw this time.”
“You’re Film Freak?” Tim asked. The man laughed,
“No…no…no…the name’s Jaret Row, I’m here to make sure Film Freak reaches his climax,” Tim looked at Jaret funny as the man stumbled back on his words, “I mean…he thinks you’ve gone too far. I’m going to bring you to him.” Shaking his head, Tim said,
“Unlikely.” But just as he began to spring into action, a stage light crashed over Tim’s head from behind. As he collapsed to the ground, vision blurring, he looked up to see a pale man in a white shirt with dress pants. His hair was styled as if he was a movie star of the 1920s, and he wore a lanyard with the name WESTON on the key card.
“Actually, very likely, Robin,” Film Freak said as he stood over his fallen foe, “You see, I’ve decided to take on screenwriting duties as well, and I’ve made some extensive rewrites. It’s time for you to witness your end…now.” Just as Film Freak finished, his henchman Jaret quickly stomped on Tim’s face, knocking him out as well.
Six Years Ago: The East End
Perched on the fire escape, Eric Needham chapped gently on his apartment's window. “Linda, can we talk?”
No response. He figured that may have been the case. Since he had caught her using again, their relationship had been... Well, ‘strained’ didn’t exactly cover it. But with every dealer he took off the streets, Eric was certain he was making a brighter future for them, for their son. Mikey wouldn’t have to grow up like he did. Mikey wouldn’t have to do the things that Eric had to.
Behind the glass, he could make out his girlfriend’s unmoving silhouette on the sofa, his son sitting on the ground beside her.
No, not sitting… Lying; sprawled out across the ground. Eric’s eyes widened and a sense of dread washed over him. 'God, please, not them too.'
He punched through the glass window, paying no attention to the shards tearing his hand open as he entered the room. He rushed to Mikey first, his eyes drawn to an overturned bowl of cereal and the white powder on the ground beside him. ‘The cereal… He’d put the smack in the cereal… Must have thought it was sugar, I mean, why wouldn’t he?’
‘Please… Please God, let there be a pulse,’ he begged, shaking Mikey’s still body frantically. He turned to Linda next, his face twisted with anger and sorrow.
“Do you know what you’ve done?!” he shook her. “Do you know what-”
His lip twitched. Tears streaming down his fear, he huddled his family together and wept. Not just for his family, but for the death of a normal life.
Now:
Sionis Warehouse: South Gotham
Jenna’s head was spinning. She could just hear Franco arguing with Ferris. She tried to move but found herself unable to; her wrist was wrapped in cold metal: Handcuffs, pinning her to a steel pipe.
“You brought the girl?” Ferris was complaining. “Sloppy, Davey. Sloppy. Fortunately, I can work with sloppy.”
Franco ruffled his hair awkwardly. “They got Rosso.”
“Eh. No real loss.”
“You think? If they find out what he did for me, we’re both dead.”
“You’re dead anyway," Jenna spat.
“Ah! The sleeping beauty awakes,” Ferris cocked his head to one side.
“When Gar gets here-”
Ferris flicked his finger on her forehead. “When ‘Gar’ gets here, we’re gonna blast him full of lead. Heh. This girl of yours must be real handy with those lips, Davey, ‘cause I can’t figure out why else you’d let her keep flapping ‘em.”
Six Years Ago: Dixon Docks
The henchmen all wore grotesque masks, loading pallets onto a group of large semi-trucks. One, in a rubber elephant mask, was talking to the others. “There was some killing on Third and Milton. Nasty stuff: had the lieutenants real spooked. Strung him up like a fly.”
“Was it The Bat?” a henchman in a chicken mask asked.
“Was it the-? The Bat don’t kill, moron. Everybody knows that,” a third, in a pink bear mask, chided the second.
“Ain’t what I heard. Heard there was this guy; The KGBeast; a high-profile Russian hitman or mercenary or something? Bat trapped him in a sewer, left him to starve to death,” a fourth in an astronaut helmet chimed in.
“That’s horsecrap. He’d have let the cops know where to pick him up, the Commissioner at least. They’re tight,” a goon in a white rabbit mask stated.
“Nah, man. This Beast guy? Killed 130 people, good half of them were innocents. You don’t fuck with innocents. Not with The Bat,” the astronaut claimed.
“Bull! I’ve met the Beast. He works with the bosses now and then. You’re talking outta your ass,” the bear masked henchman frowned. “It’s probably that new guy, the-”
He didn’t finish his sentence. A strand of red webbing latched itself around his neck and raised him off the ground. His legs flailed helplessly for what seemed like an eternity and then, snap. The body went limp.
“What the fuck was that?!”
“Holy crap, he’s dead!”
The Rabbit fired his machine gun into the rafters, hoping to weed out the assailant. Screams echoed throughout the warehouse. “Come on out, you son of a bitch! You’re outnumbered.”
Something rolled across the ground towards him, shattering his confidence: A bloodied chicken mask, the head still inside. The Rabbit stepped backwards, colliding with an upside-down body; a disembowelled corpse in an elephant mask, pinned to the wall by that same red webbing. Before the Rabbit could call for help, a serrated blade tore his throat open.
“This is fucked, man!” the astronaut panicked. “There were at least twenty other guys in here, where the hell are they?”
He tripped over the chicken’s headless body, falling to the ground. A figure in an orange mask and several layers of body armour grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him close.
“Who are you working for?” the figure asked.
“I don’t-! I can’t-!” the Astronaut stammered.
“This warehouse is the biggest heroin plant in the city now talk!"
"I can't! He'll kill me!"
"I'LL KILL YOU! NOW, WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!” the Black Spider roared.
"The Black Mask,” the goon spluttered. “We’re working for the Black Mask!”
Before the goon could divulge more information, an armoured fist intervened, flooring Needham. The assailant was dressed in a suit of purple and grey armour, a single red visor across his eyes. Their gloves buzzed with yellow sparks. Needham hadn’t met this one before.
“No-no-no-no, please! I didn’t tell him nothing! I swear to Chri-”
The goon’s shout of protest was muffled by the Lightning Bug’s hand around his mouth. The gauntlet crackled with yellow electricity and lightning shot through the goon’s body, burning them from the inside. The body glowed with brilliant light, and then with a final muffled shriek: the light went out. Lightning Bug slackened his grip, and a charred corpse crumpled to the ground, smoke rising from the mouth of the blackened body. Beneath his mask, the Lightning Bug smirked: now he could turn his attention back to the intruder
As he approached, lightning dragged along the grated floor and railings, every metal surface a death trap beneath the Bug’s boots. So, Needham had to stick to the air; narrowly dodging a blast of yellow electricity, he leapt off the narrow walkway, firing a web at the wooden rafters to keep himself airborne. Recognising the Spider’s strategy, Lightning Bug shot at the rafters; as the blast found its mark, the wooden supports caught fire, the flames carrying down across the walls.
Needham lost his balance when the Bug struck the beams and fell into a pile of wooden crates. Shaking the wooden splinters off his person, Needham fired another web, carrying him onto the opposite end of the gantry. Aiming for the Bug’s visor, Needham grabbed a machine gun from a fallen False Facer and opened fire. The Bug raised his arm out in front of his face and used his gauntlet to shield his eyes, aiming to outlast Needham’s ammunition. And sure enough, the clip was emptied before it could penetrate the Bug’s armour.
As the fire intensified, the sprinkler systems kicked into gear; the water sizzling as it battered down onto the Bug’s armour. Needham discarded the gun, and firing two more webs, he brought a large crane down on top of the Bug. ‘The roof was going to cave in any minute,’ he realised. 'And soon the cops would be here.' Needham fired a web up at the open skylight, and swung out into the night, hoping the flames would finish the Bug off. But as he left, an armoured fist broke free from the debris.
The Gotham Royal Hotel
Lobby: Ground Floor
Time went on, and the remaining Misfits reunited in the lobby. The group’s attention was momentarily drawn to the window; the reporters had started to gather outside, taking pictures and forcibly extracting statements from the irritated witnesses and handcuffed prisoners. From inside the lobby, Sharpe stuck his tongue out at Jack Ryder, and pulled down the curtains. Mayo was slowly waltzing around the lobby. Bridget, who had arrived with Chuck, Kuttler and Ten, kept her distance from the group.
Chuck’s head was resting on the check-in desk, his arms sprawled out in front of him. Beside him, a sorrowful Rigger lay the broken hilt of his katana on the countertop, lamenting the weapon’s loss. Ten sat on his right, wearing a sling around his injured shoulder. Blake joined them last; a series of white bandages wrapped around his bare chest. Smiling, he plopped a quartet of glasses down beside them. “Drink,” he encouraged the trio, pouring a generous amount of dark liquid into each glass.
Chuck smiled back. “Cheers,” he toasted his teammates.
As they drank, Flannegan approached the group, dressed in an ugly, dark green raincoat.
“You’re leaving?” Chuck asked.
“Job’s done, isn’t it?” Flannegan challenged him.
"Unbelievable…” Chuck voiced his disapproval but knew there was little point in keeping Flannegan here against his will. Flannegan saluted the group, and took the remainder of the bottle for himself, tucking it under his overcoat.
Kuttler was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, pressing an ice pack against his bruised forehead. He lowered the ice pack from his forehead and rolled his eyes: Sionis was strutting down the marble staircase, Li by his side. Needham stood at the entrance, his arms folded and his back leaning against the door in defiance of the new arrival.
“What a dutiful bunch you all are. Can’t imagine how anyone got past you,” Sionis addressed the room of downtrodden C-Listers.
“That said..." he cleared his throat as if the words were painful to admit: "Thank you.” Clearly, he had been prompted by Li.
Mayo scratched his forehead as he struggled to make sense of the unexpected compliment. “But we ruined everything. A bunch of people died. The damages to the hotel-”
Sionis flapped his hand at him dismissively. “Oh, I know. But I’m insured on all of that. Well, not the men, but those are replaceable. Good work people, I hope I never have to see any of you again.”
The latter comment seemed to be directed at Kuttler specifically, as Sionis came to a stop at his side, paying no attention to the Black Spider's judgemental glare. “Oh, elevator’s back online, yeah?” he growled at him.
“They’re pre-programmed to shut down in the event of a fire,” Kuttler claimed.
“While occupied?” Sionis asked.
“It’s your building,” Kuttler challenged him, lowering his purple-tinted glasses. “We had no way to know Carson was coming,”
Sionis eyed him up and down, unsatisfied with his response. “Smartass,” he snarled, shoving him aside. "And you, kid, you on their side now?" he examined Bridget.
"Play nice," Needham warned, a hand rested by his sheathed blade. For the first time that night, Sionis noticed him.
"That's right, I forgot we had a Bat-Chaperone with us,” he raised his arms in the air. As he made a beeline for the check-in desk, Chuck looked down into his glass, avoiding eye contact.
“Doubt there’s any point asking the blind man…” Sionis stood intrusively close to Chuck. “So, how about you? You see Tiger Shark pass by here, Kite-Man?” he asked.
Chuck’s back straightened, and he turned to Sionis stone-faced.
“Who?”
Sionis took a step back. If he had eyebrows, he’d have surely raised one. “Well, aren’t you a grumpy little bastard tonight... You hit your head? Maybe fly into my desk headfirst?”
As tensions began to mount, Li stepped between the pair, handing Sionis his tablet. “Sir, you’ll want a look at this. The security footage from the 13th floor.”
As Sionis glanced at the recording, his eyes narrowed. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Just keep watching,” Li said calmly. As the footage played, a familiar man wearing a wolf-like helmet and purple suit walked into focus and pressed a button on the nearby keypad.
“Ferris-?” Sionis grimaced. “What the hell was he up to-?”
As he finished inputting the code, the wall slid out, and Ferris disappeared behind it, the wall closing back up behind him.
“I told you it wasn’t Day,” Li finished, his tone suggesting he felt vindicated.
“I wish I could say I was happy for you…” Sionis murmured. “Wait a minute,” he gestured to the corner of the screen. “The time stamp… This happened two hours before Day attacked,” he glared at Li, waiting for his explanation.
“If I might suggest something... Kuttler is a tech genius. The only way someone; Krill, Day; could bypass his systems is if they already had the security codes. Or knew someone who did.”
“And?”
“Ferris knew something was going down. That’s why he left the party prematurely.”
“Well,” Sionis scoffed. “It’s a hell of a theory.”
“It is. But I do my research,” Li spoke, swiping his fingers across the tablet to another photo. “This was taken outside the Thompkins Homeless Center. And that’s Ferris, sat across from Abner Krill.”
Sionis gritted his teeth. “Is there anyone who doesn’t want to kill me?” he snarled.
“Nope." Needham’s arms stayed folded.
Sionis growled, as he swung back around. “Hey, Misfits, maybe I could still use you.”
“Are you serious?” Chuck asked. “Drury’s gone. Have someone else do your dirty work.”
“Well, that would be nice, Kite-Man. However, you may not have noticed, but all my employees seem to be betraying me!"
As if on cue, the stairwell door swung open, and Garfield Lynns staggered into the lobby; his shirt drenched in sweat, his face bruised and swollen, and covered in still damp blood.
Joey's eyes widened. "Gar!"
"Here, take it easy, Garfield," Reardon advised him, offering him his seat at the desk.
"Woah," Sharpe whistled. "You look like shit! Like, more than usual. Like, think how bad you must look now if on your best day, you look like a shaved testi-"
"Gar, what happened?" Chuck asked, expressing concern as Lynns collapsed onto the stool beside him and drank his half full glass of alcohol.
"Gar, where's Jenna?" Joey asked anxiously. "Gar?"
Gar didn't respond. His eyes appeared to stare off into nowhere. “He took her," he said finally, his jaw slackening. "I tried to stop him, but he took her."
“Who? Franco?” Joey asked. That got Sionis’ attention, whose previous reaction to the conversation had been one of pure apathy.
"Franco did that?” Sharpe gestured to Gar’s wounds. “I’ll be honest, between this and the car crash, I think you might be losing your touch.”
"No, not him... His assistant… bodyguard. He is… was a metahuman. A blood monster. Took him out with a Molotov but... By that point, Franco had already sealed the upstairs passage."
“Cool,” Sharpe and Mayo nodded in admiration. The former, stuck his head around the door Gar had come through, hoping to catch a glimpse of the 'blood monster.'
“That tunnel, where does it come out?” Gar asked Li frantically.
“One of our old warehouses, South Gotham, I think. You said it was a blood monster?” he asked Gar.
“What?” Gar asked, failing to see the relevancy. “Yeah, some kinda bloodbender. Like, from Avatar. Have you seen Avatar?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. Blame Rigger.”
“I shall.”
“You shouldn’t, it’s a good show!” Joey interjected.
“It’s fine," Gar conceded, realising he was getting off-topic. "This guy made me beat myself within an inch of my life, made Jenna watch, healed Franco’s injuries… Bloodwork, he said his name was.”
“And where is he now?”
Gar paused. “He’s splattered across the east stairwell.
“Aw, that’s not a monster!” Sharpe complained loudly as he re-entered the lobby. “That’s just a pile of blood.”
Li and Sionis looked at each other.
Li swallowed. “Sir… You don’t think-?”
“I want Franco's blood tested," Sionis ordered. “Dig up any files we have on Blackgate, including his connection to Gaige, and find out when his correspondence with Ferris first began; I need to know if they were conspiring before we lifted his exile...”
"That may take time," Li stated. "We'd need to find an uncorrupted blood sample, run it against the one we received from Blackgate."
"Franco took a polka dot to the stomach earlier," Gar stated. "I'd start there."
"Hmff," Sionis grunted. "Richardson's still on the take," he reminded his assistant. "Have him swipe a sample from upstairs. While we wait, I want you to surround the South Warehouse. No one in or out, capiche?”
“That may prove difficult. If Franco indeed got to Ferris, while he was exiled on another continent, he may have also enlisted your captains. We’re talking about a full-scale power play.”
“Then we’ll do it.”
Sionis tilted his head back. "Hm?"
Gar had risen from the stool and stepped between Sionis and Li. “We’ll take the job,” he clarified.
"Now, Gar, wait a minute-" Chuck protested, following him as he offered Sionis his hand.
"Bookworm’s right. You can't trust your own guys. Franco could've already bought them off. But you can trust me, because there ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do to protect that woman.”
“Well, aren’t you the romantic.” Sionis smirked as he accepted the handshake. “You remember Iron-Hat Ferris, I take it?”
Behind them, Blake laughed. “’Iron-Hat?’ What does he do, haunt abandoned fairgrounds for the insurance money?”
“Didn’t realise we were taking pointers from the Catman.”
“You’re not coming,” Gar shook his head. “Not with that stab wound. Ten neither. And Mayo... Not Mayo."
“Hold that thought,” Sionis’ phone buzzed, and he rolled his eyes. “Penguin.” He turned his head to the quarrelling Misfits. “I have to take this. Mingle among yourselves," he said patronisingly, as he left the room, followed by Li.
As Sionis departed, Joey shook his head. “That man deserves a fiery death...” he muttered.
“Yes,” Reardon murmured in agreement. “And for some reason, we prevented one.”
"What's your problem?" Gar glared at Chuck.
"My problem?" Chuck squinted.
“Franco has Jenna. Jenna! This might be my only chance of getting her back. Why are you trying to mess that up?”
"Why? Because we're not his personal kill squad. Look, Julian was one of us, as were the rest of the Outcasts; to an extent, but I draw the line with Franco and this Ferris guy. That's mob business and I don't want to see any more of us caught in the crossfire."
“And you'd leave Jenna to die instead?” Gar spluttered in indignation. "Isn't she one of us?"
Chuck sighed. “That’s not what I’m saying! But God, Gar, at least think it through. You do what you’re planning, if you kill Franco, do you really think she can love you? You’re being used. You’ll be little more than Sionis’ executioner. Again.”
"You don’t understand! I love her!”
"Of course, I understand, but she’s a grown woman. A grown woman, who, I might add, managed to hit Carson with a car.”
“To be fair though, who hasn’t,” Sharpe interjected.
“Just have faith in her! Give her some credit, please," Chuck urged.
"It's not just mob business."
"What?" Chuck stared at Bridget.
"It's not just mob business,” she repeated, a little unsure of herself.
“Go on," Needham encouraged her. "It's alright."
Bridget turned to Gar. “Dad followed Carpenter home one night. He was looking for you; must’ve thought that she’d lead him to you and Walker. But he found Franco instead. I guess they developed some kind of understanding, because, well they’re both still breathing. Tonight, Franco phoned dad out of the blue. Said he knew where to find Drury. And his friends.”
“Franco phoned him? Not Jules?” Blake asked.
Bridget scratched her arm. “Uh-uh. Day thought Dad was beneath him. He was always bragging about these secret partners of his. Seemed to think they were going to take over the city.”
“Drury,” Gar whispered. He looked ashamed, disgusted that he hadn’t noticed his best friend’s absence. “Where is Drury?”
The Misfits looked at each other guiltily. Ten swallowed. “You don’t know?”
Six Years Ago: Dixon Docks
Roman Sionis stood by the harbour. Smoke was still billowing from the charred warehouse. His warehouse. “30 men dead. 30. The East End operation is fucked…” he gritted his teeth. “What the hell happened exactly?” he asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
A man in a violet mask and a red suit and cape stepped forward. “Per the Bug’s account, this was the work of one man; calls himself Black Spider. He’s been active for a couple of years, never been worth our time; went after street dealers, the small stuff,” he explained.
“And? What changed?”
James Carter lowered his notepad. “We’re still working on that, sir. Still, it’s not uncommon for these types to get reckless, or cocky. Take down one street thug and they think they’re invincible all of a sudden. The Bug said he likely died in the blaze. We’re checking the river for a body. It’ll turn up soon enough.”
Sionis reached into his pocket and opened a bottle of his prescription heart medication. “30... Shit. You’re the PI, right? Gaige’s,” he inquired, swallowing a handful of orange pills.
“Incognito,” the red suited man introduced himself.
Sionis snorted derisively. “Yeah, with that cape?”
The Gotham Royal Hotel:
Room 792: Floor 25
A lone GCPD officer, Richardson, shone a torch at the wall. What looked to be Walker’s signature cocoon formula was peeling off the wall. A good chunk of the residue appeared to have been removed somehow, eaten, the cop suspected. And whatever the webbing had held, was gone
Six Years Ago: Sionis’ Penthouse. Diamond District
Sionis poured a bottle of scotch into a pair of glasses, offering a tumbler to his guest first. The guest declined, instead retrieving a thin cigarette from a pouch in his dark grey utility belt. Sionis shrugged, and after chugging down his whiskey, got down to business: “You come highly recommended from a… mutual friend of ours. Can’t say I’ve ever held his opinion in high regard, but my boys vouch for you. That kid, Joseph, he’s the one who set up the initial meet between me and your... manager.”
“He’s not my manager,” the guest frowned, flicking his lighter on and off compulsively.
“Well, he hyped you up plenty.”
“That’s just Drury. He exaggerates.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Sionis inhaled. “Joseph... is getting cold feet. Guess that mess in the East End was too much for him to handle: bit of a softie, that one... I take it you saw the news?”
The guest, dressed in a dark grey jumpsuit and a bandolier lined with explosives around his torso, smiled thinly. “Saw your warehouse up in smoke, if that’s what you mean. Helluva blaze. Wish I’d been there in person.”
“You and me both,” Sionis glared at him. “That little... accident cost me a dozen of my best guys. High earners. I need someone to pick up the slack, recoup our losses. That gonna be you, Lynns?”
The guest closed his lighter suddenly. “Please, sir. Call me Firefly.”
The Gotham Royal Hotel
Lobby: Ground Floor
Gar sat back down as he processed this. Franco sent Carson. Carson, who Drury had sacrificed his freedom to take down. He remembered the look Drury gave him in that hallway, a non-verbal plea to find Jenna, to be happy. And his hand formed a fist.
“That settles it.”
The Misfits looked at Gar.
“Franco’s just given me two reasons to kill him.”
“I’m in,” Rigger patted him on the back, tucking the broken katana into its sheath. “A guy’s gotta have his wingman.”
Gar nodded appreciatively, then turned to Chuck, gesturing to Blake and Reardon. “Those two need a doctor. Can I count on you to be their designated driver?”
Chuck nodded hesitantly. “Sharpe says he knows a guy.”
The two stared at each other as realization washed over them.
“The lizard?”
“The lizard.”
Gar scoffed, then turned to Joey. “Suit up.”
“Already have!” he beamed back as he ripped his shirt open, revealing the red and yellow fireproof spandex beneath.
Needham’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been wearing that the whole time?”
Gar scratched his scalp. “Christ. You must smell like an old boot...”
“Like my pop’s old flip flops!”
~-~
“Oswald, this had better be good,” Sionis drawled into his phone. As Cobblepot spoke, Sionis’ eyes widened. “What?” he snapped.
Li watched from the side, concerned.
“Where? Yes, I’ll be there. Tell White to meet me there.”
“Sir?” Li tilted his head to one side.
Sionis didn’t elaborate. Instead, he swung around, placing a hand around his assistant’s arm.
"You still got that gun I gave you?" he asked. His tone was one of uncharacteristic concern.
Li nodded, gesturing to the bulge behind his tweed jacket.
"Good,” Sionis’ head swayed from side to side. And without another word, he stepped into the awaiting black limousine.
~-~
Li re-entered the Royal alone, his coat damp from the snow outside. “Have we reached a consensus?” he asked the group.
“Chuck here is gonna take care of our wounded,” Gar stated, “So Joey and I are all you’ve got.”
...
“Very well,” Li said, although he was clearly disappointed with this turn of events. “But be aware: Henry Ferris is not to be underestimated. He is a ruthless, unrepentant monster."
“Yeah, um, your boss is Black Mask. All things considered, isn’t that a little hypothetical?" Blake scratched his head.
"Hypocritical," Kuttler corrected him.
“You don’t understand,” Li shook his head. “Upon his return, I did some digging; research into the circumstances behind his exile, behind that mask he wears... Six years ago, Henry Ferris increased the potency of our drugs, and distributed them among poor neighbourhoods. Black neighbourhoods.”
‘Six years...’ Needham thought to himself, as he was filled with dread. ‘It wasn’t an accident...’ He remembered little Mikey on the floor, an overturned bowl of cereal at his side. Linda, her face white, stained with vomit. The still hot spoon on the table… The bag of heroin spilled across the sofa and along the floor...
‘It wasn’t an accident.’
Suddenly he leapt to his feet and grabbed Li by his collar. “Did you say six years?”
Six Years Ago: The Monarch’s Court
“Henry Ferris. You stand before the High Table, today, on July 14th, 2013, accused of the reckless endangerment of our assets and of drawing unwanted attention to our East End operations. How do you plead?” the red-suited man at the end of the table asked.
“How do I plead?” the accused repeated, a bewildered look upon his chiselled face. “This is a joke, right?”
“Hardly,” the man in the striped scuba suit snarled.
“Uh, should I repeat the question-?” the speaker asked his superiors.
“I heard you fine, Incognito,” Ferris responded. “I’m just confused. Confused why I’m on some sham trial and not shaking hands with the big bosses; No offense, pirate; in the Falcone penthouse.”
Ferris ran his finger along his crooked nose. “If I’m guilty of anything, and I do mean ‘if,’ it’s of maintaining the high standards that you’ve all let slip in Falcone’s absence. If the Roman were here-”
“He’s not,” the scuba-suited enforcer spat.
“If the Roman were here, I can guarantee you all that he’d be thanking me for purifying that disgusting, dirty little corner of Gotham.”
“Enough.” The man to Carter’s right raised his hand, a golden crown atop his head. “I’ve heard enough. 30 of our own men dead. 42 of our buyers dead from a modified supply of heroin you approved without our consent.”
“Drugs kill, who knew?” Ferris whistled.
“Enough!” The Monarch spat. “If you want to draw attention to yourself like a demented court jester, to hue and cry, then so be it. But you shall do so on my terms.”
The large man behind Ferris placed his hand on his shoulder, forcing Ferris to his knees.
“Rhino, you sack of shit-” he protested, spit flying from his mouth. “What the hell is this?!”
The Monarch rose from his throne, holding an iron mask in his hand. It was green in colour, with pointed ears attached to either side. “This, is a mask of shame. Rather popular in the 16th century… It’s also known as The Gossiper’s Bridle, used to punish women accused of witchcraft and so forth. It’s archaic, barbaric, needlessly cruel… And I’m sure it will fit you like a glove.”
HOW TO HELP DECEASED !
In the name of Allah, We praise Him, seek His help and ask for His forgiveness. Whoever Allah guides none can misguide, and whoever He allows to fall astray, none can guide them aright. We bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but Allah Alone, and we bear witness that Muhammad (saws) is His slave-servant and the seal of His Messengers.
AbuHurairah reported, "The Prophet (saws) said, 'When a person dies all his good deeds cease except for three:
1). a continuous act of charity (which the deceased did in his lifetime),
2). beneficial knowledge (which the deceased left behind),
3). a righteous son (children) who prays for him'.''Related by Muslim and AbuDawood.
Abu Hurairah reported, "The Prophet (saws) said, 'The righteous works that continue to benefit a believer after his death include the knowledge that he taught and spread among others, a righteous son (children) whom he leaves behind, or a copy of the Qur'an that he bequeaths to his inheritors, or a mosque that he builds, or a rest house that he builds for the wayfarers, or a canal of water that he digs for the benefit of others, or a charity that he gives out of his property during his life while he is sound of health. He will continue to receive reward for all these even after his death.'
For more : www.islamhelpline.com/node/6928
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