Like tbh, the 2016 election is some sort of metaphor for the relationship between man and woman across basically everything. Hillary Clinton, the first female presidential nominee of a major party, and who is she running against? Not some opponent who’s actually a decent politician and decent human being. No. Hillary Clinton is running against a corrupt businessman who is racist, classist, xenophobic, science-denying, ignorant, misogynistic, and essentially the living embodiment of white, male, bourgeois privilege. You cannot find a better metaphor for the crud that woman have to deal with on a daily basis than the first female candidate in a major presidential party in the United States being forced to run against and deal with this scum who has less compassion and empathy for other people than the dirt on the bottom of my shoe. I would believe this to be something out of a piece of fiction if I weren’t alive in the year 2016 to witness this wreck of an election.
I’ve done the math and if we assume that Bill is at least 1 trillion years old (source: “For one trillion years I’ve been trapped in my own decaying dimension!” “I know he’s older than our galaxy and far more twisted”) then he set out to conquer and was ultimately defeated by a species that, bare minimum, has existed for his equivalent of 7 minutes.
Humans have only been around for about 200,000 years. Multiply that by 100 to get 200,000,000, divide 200,000,000 by 1 trillion and you get .00002% and (because we don’t know Bill’s exact age and only have the 1 trillion year estimate, which we know underestimates his age) we have the maximum percentage the existence of humans has coincided with Bill’s life.
Humans have, at most, existed for two hundred thousandths of Bill’s lifespan.
So if we convert 1 trillion to the average human lifespan (71 years) and take .00002% of that we get about 7 and a half minutes.
So if you’re ever feeling down just remember that Bill decided to destroy an entire dimension of humans and seven minutes later he got fucking wrecked.
Ransom’s second year of medical school at the U of T and after class he goes to the library to study. Around 3:30pm he texts Holster, Caught up on tomorrow’s work but I want to get ahead.
At 5:06 Holtzy texts back, Come down and get your dinner. ETA 15.
Ransom sighs because that ETA means Adam is already in the car, dinner in a lunchbox on the seat beside him, so he really does have to pack up his shit and go downstairs. He doesn’t dare leave anything alone in his study carrel. Carefully trying not to think about how much of a pain this is, because he does appreciate his boyfriend (and probably needs to eat before midnight), he begins fitting textbooks into his backpack.
While he’s standing next to a loading zone off College Drive and wishing he packed his mittens, a car gets his attention. It’s not the blue Jeep he’s keeping a lookout for; it’s black and low to the ground, expensive-looking, cutting between lanes like a shark. It’s beautiful. When it stops at the red light Ransom honestly considers taking his phone out and and taking a picture.
Then he kind of freaks out when the light changes because it goes straight for him, and he’s worried his staring has offended whoever’s behind that tinted windshield, kind of ducking behind the loading zone sign as it pulls up and rolls down the passenger window–
“Get in, loser,” Alexei Mashkov says. “I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Tater!” Ransom shrieks, and scrambles for the car.
Getting a backpack full of books into the backseat of a two-door coupe takes a little bit of doing–they both work to shove it between the seats, and Ransom keeps a hand on the strap to soften its landing since his tablet is in there–and then he’s in, the door is shut, and he can delightedly let Tater kiss him senseless.
Someone honks, and they have to re-enter traffic.
“Players’ association meeting,” Tater explains as he wrestles the car onto Spadina. “Adam thought you would not notice the schedule. I made reservation. He will meet us there.” He glances sideways and says, “My mother went to medical school. She says you should rest more! Always study, no sleep, does not make good doctor. We kidnap you if we have to.”
Ransom reaches out to take Tater’s hand, leaning his head back against the seat in a dizzy rush of relief and pleasure. He has been pushing himself hard–not all the way into coral reef mode, but he could feel parts of himself beginning to turn fragile. Now he lets Tater drive him in this swawesome car to the kind of restaurant he and Holtzy would have to save for a month to afford.
“Kidnap away,” he says, as Tater reaches up to brush a thumb along his neck, into his hairline. It feels so good. “Kidnap away.”