battle of the tube

Do you like Killing Stalking? Then read these!

I promise this is a 99.99% KS content blog, but I want to take a moment to gush about my favorites in the psychological/horror genre (some which might be even more fucked up than KS even).

1. DEAD TUBE (ongoing)
This is one of my all-time favorite ongoing manga. It. Is. BLOODY. There’s gore everywhere and there’s always someone losing some limbs or dying. 
There’s this site called… you guessed it: Dead Tube. It’s like Youtube or Vine but about a million times ‘WTF’. The aim is to create videos that will shock as many people as possible. People will murder, torture, do sexual acts, take unsolicited videos of other people, and pretty much do every single fucked up thing imaginable on the list. Once you’re trapped in the game you can’t get out. If your videos don’t get many views, you get killed. Every single character in the manga is batshit crazy. There’s extreme violence, gore, and nudity every chapter. KS is probably ten times tamer, so if it’s your limit, I suggest you at least tread lightly at first. (NSFW pictures under cut). 

Keep reading

supernaturaldoctorpotter  asked:

Ok so I have literally had the most stressful morning and just found your sweater party video and it has, no jokes, made my sodding day. Now let me just put on all black long sleeves and trousers for my work shift.....#campaignfornotrousers

(( OOC: You and me both, my dear. I think this heat is putting everyone in a terrible mood… Like if you think Brits were grumpy in the pissing rain, give em a bit of sunshine and watch them really get wound up. ))

Usually, I lie. At a party, someone asks the question. It’s someone who hasn’t smelled the rancid decay of week-dead flesh or heard the rattle of fluid flooding lungs. I shake the ice in my glass, smile, and lie. When they say, “I bet you always get that question,” I roll my eyes and agree.

There are plenty of in-between stories to delve into; icky, miraculous ones and reams of the hilarious and stupid. I did, after all, become a paramedic knowing it would stack my inner shelves with a library of human tragicomedy. I am a writer, and we are nothing if not tourists gawking at our own and other people’s misery. No?

The dead don’t bother me. Even the near-dead, I’ve made my peace with. When we meet, there’s a very simple arrangement: Either they’re provably past their expiration date and I go about my business, RIP, or they’re not and I stay. A convenient set of criteria delineates the provable part: if they have begun to decay; if rigor mortis has set in; if the sedentary blood has begun to pool at their lowest point, discoloring the skin like a slowly gathering bruise. The vaguest criterion is called obvious death, and we use it in those bizarre special occasions that people are often sniffing for when they ask questions at parties: decapitations, dismemberments, incinera- tions, brains splattered across the sidewalk. Obvious death.

One of my first obvious deaths was a portly Mexican man who had been bicycling along the highway that links Brooklyn to Queens. He’d been hit by three cars and a dump truck, which was the only one that stopped. The man wasn’t torn apart or flattened, but his body had twisted into a pretzel; arms wrapped around legs. Somewhere in there was a shoulder. Obvious death. His bike lay a few feet away, gnarled like its owner. Packs and packs of Mexican cigarettes scattered across the highway. It was three a.m. and a light rain sprinkled the dead man, the bicycle, the cigarette packs, and me, made us all glow in the sparkle of police flares. I was brand new; cars kept rushing past, slowing down, rushing past.

Obvious death. Which means there’s nothing we can do, which means I keep moving with my day, with my life, with whatever I’ve been pondering until this once-alive-now-inanimate object fell into my path.If I can’t check off any of the boxes—if I can’t prove the person’s dead—I get to work and the resuscitation flowchart erupts into a tree of brand-new and complex options. Start CPR, intubate, find a vein, put an IV in it. If there’s no vein and you’ve tried twice, drill an even bigger needle into the flat part of the bone just below the knee. Twist till you feel a pop, attach the IV line. If the heart is jiggling, shock it; if it’s flatlined, fill it with drugs. If the family lingers, escort them out; if they look too hopeful, ease them toward despair. If time slips past and the dead stay dead, call it. Signs of life? Scoop ’em up and go.

You see? Simple.

Except then one day you find one that has a quiet smile on her face, her arms laying softly at her sides, her body relaxed. She is ancient, a crinkled flower, and was dying for weeks, years. The fam- ily cries foul: She had wanted to go in peace. A doctor, a social worker, a nurse—at some point all opted not to bother having that difficult conversation, perhaps because the family is Dominican and the Spanish translator wasn’t easily reachable and anyway, someone else would have it, surely, but no one did. And now she’s laid herself down, made all her quiet preparations and slipped gently away. Without that single piece of paper though, none of the lamentations matter, the peaceful smile doesn’t matter. You set to work, the tree of options fans out, your blade sweeps her tongue aside and you battle in an endotracheal tube; needles find their mark. Bumps emerge on the flat line, a slow march of tiny hills that resolve into tighter scribbles. Her pulse bounds against your fingers; she is alive.

But not awake, perhaps never to be again. You have brought not life but living death, and fuck what I’ve seen, because that, my friends at the party, my random interlocutor who doesn’t know the reek of decay, that is surely one of the craziest things I have ever done.

But that’s not what I say. I lie.

Which is odd because I did, after all, become a medic to fill the library stacks, yes? An endless collection of human frailty vignettes: disasters and the expanding ripple of trauma. No, that’s not quite true. There was something else, I’m sure of it.

And anyway, here at this party, surrounded by eager listeners with drinks in hand, mouths slightly open, ready to laugh or gasp, I, the storyteller, pause. In that pause, read my discomfort.

On the job, we literally laugh in the face of death. In our crass humor and easy flow between tragedy and lunch break, outsiders see callousness: We have built walls, ceased to feel. As one who laughs, I assure you that this is not the case. When you greet death on the daily, it shows you new sides of itself, it brings you into the fold. Gradually, or maybe quickly, depending on who you are, you make friends with it. It’s a wary kind of friendship at first, with the kind of stilted conversation you might have with a man who picked you up hitch- hiking and turns out to have a pet boa constrictor around his neck. Death smiles because death always wins, so you can relax. When you know you won’t win, it lets you focus on doing everything you can to try to win anyway, and really, that’s all there is: The Effort.

The Effort cleanses. It wards off the gathering demons of doubt. When people wonder how we go home and sleep easy after bearing witness to so much pain, so much death, the answer is that we’re not bearing witness. We’re working. Not in the paycheck sense, but in the sense of The Effort. When it’s real, not one of the endless parade of chronic runny noses and vague hip discomforts, but a true, soon- to-be-dead emergency? Everything falls away. There is the patient, the family, the door. Out the door is the ambulance and then farther down the road, the hospital. That’s it. That’s all there is.

Awkward text messages from exes, career uncertainties, generalized aches and pains: They all disintegrate beneath the hugeness that is someone else’s life in your hands. The guy’s heart is failing; fluid backs up in those feebly pumping chambers, erupts into his lungs, climbs higher and higher, and now all you hear is the raspy clatter every time he breathes. Is his blood pressure too high or too low? You wrap the cuff on him as your partner finds an IV. The monitor goes on. A thousand possibilities open up before you: He might start getting better, he might code right there, the ambulance might stall, the medicine might not work, the elevator could never come. You cast off the ones you can’t do anything about, see about another IV because the one your partner got already blew. You’re sweating when you step back and realize nothing you’ve done has helped, and then everything becomes even simpler, because all you can do is take him to the hospital as fast as you can move without totaling the rig.

He doesn’t make it. You sweated and struggled and calculated and he doesn’t make it, and dammit if that ain’t the way shit goes, but also, you’re hungry. And you’re alive, and you’ve wracked your body and mind for the past hour trying to make this guy live. Death won, but death always wins, the ultimate spoiler alert. You can only be that humbled so many times and then you know: Death always wins. It’s a warm Thursday evening and grayish orange streaks the horizon. There’s a pizza place around the corner; their slices are just the right amount of doughy. You check inside yourself to see if anything’s shattered and it’s not, it’s not. You are alive. You have not shattered.

You have not shattered because of The Effort. The Effort cleanses because you have become a part of the story, you are not passive, the very opposite of passive, in fact. Having been humbled, you feel amazing. Every moment is precise and the sky ripples with delight as you head off to the pizza place, having hurled headlong into the game and given every inch of yourself, if only for a moment, to a losing struggle.

It’s not adrenaline, although they’ll say that it is, again and again. It is the grim, heartbroken joy of having taken part. It is the difference between shaking your head at the nightly news and taking to the streets. It’s when you finally tell her how you really feel, the moment you craft all your useless repetitive thoughts into a prayer.

At the party, as they look on expectantly, I draft one of the lesser moments of horror as a stand-in. The evisceration, that will do. That single strand of intestine just sitting on the man’s belly like a lost worm. He was dying too, but he lived. It was a good story, a terrible night.

I was new and I didn’t know if I’d done anything right. He lived, but only by a hair. I magnified each tiny decision to see if I’d erred and came up empty. There was no way to know. Eventually I stopped taking jobs home with me. I released the ghosts of what I’d done or hadn’t done, let The Effort do what it does and cleanse me in the very moment of crisis. And then one night I met a tiny three-year old girl in overalls, all smiles and high-fives and curly hair. We were there because a neighbor had called it in as a burn, but the burns were old. Called out on his abuse, the father had fled the scene. The emergency, which had been going on for years, had ended and only just begun.

The story unraveled as we drove to the hospital; I heard it from the front seat. The mother knew all along, explained it in jittery, sobbing replies as the police filled out their forms. It wasn’t just the burns; the abuse was sexual too. There’d been other hospital visits, which means that people who should’ve seen it didn’t, or didn’t bother setting the gears in motion to stop it. I parked, gave the kid another high five, watched her walk into the ER holding a cop’s hand.

Then we had our own forms to fill out. Bureaucracy’s response to unspeakable tragedy is more paperwork. Squeeze the horror into easy-to-fathom boxes, cull the rising tide of rage inside and check and recheck the data, complete the forms, sign, date, stamp, insert into a metal box and then begin the difficult task of forgetting.

The job followed me down Gun Hill Road; it laughed when I pretended I was okay. I stopped on a corner and felt it rise in me like it was my own heart failing this time, backing fluids into my lungs, breaking my breath. I texted a friend, walked another block. A sob came out of somewhere, just one. It was summer. The breeze felt nice and nice felt shitty.

My phone buzzed. Do you want to talk about it?

I did. I wanted to talk about it and more than that I wanted to never have seen it and even more than that I wanted to have done something about it and most of all, I wanted it never to have hap- pened, never to happen again. The body remembers. We carry each trauma and ecstasy with us and they mark our stride and posture, contort our rhythm until we release them into the summer night over Gun Hill Road. I knew it wasn’t time to release just yet; you can’t force these things. I tapped the word no into my phone and got on the train.

I don’t tell that one either. Stories with trigger warnings don’t go over well at parties. But when the question is asked, the little girl’s smile and her small, bruised arms appear in my mind.

The worst tragedies don’t usually get 911 calls, because they are patient, unravel over centuries. While we obsess over the hyperviolent mayhem, they seep into our subconscious, poison our sense of self, upend communities, and gnaw away at family trees with intergenerational trauma.I didn’t pick up my pen just to bear witness. None of us did. And I didn’t become a medic to get a front-row seat to other people’s tragedies. I did it because I knew the world was bleeding and so was I, and somewhere inside I knew the only way to stop my own bleeding was to learn how to stop someone else’s. Another call crackles over the radio, we pick up the mic and push the button and drive off. Death always wins, but there is power in our tiniest moments, humanity in shedding petty concerns to make room for compassion. We witness, take part, heal. The work of healing in turn heals us and we begin again, laughing mournfully, and put pen to paper.

Daniel José Older

Repost from @mitchelldyke I finally finished building my first AR15! This shoots so smooth. I love this gun!

Parts list:
•BCM Upper, Complete Lower, BCG, Ambidextrous Charging handle. •Geissele MK8 SMR 9.5" handguard, SSA trigger, Super Precession lower 1/3rd MRO mount, Super42 buffer and spring set up in H2 configuration. •Magpul STR, MOE K2+ , MBUS PRO sight set, MLOK QD mount, ladder rail panel. •Megiddo MLOK 2 slot rail panels. •Ballistic Advantage 10.3" 223 Wylde Hanson profile barrel, gas block, gas tube. •Battle Arms Development C.A.S.S safety. •Forward Controls ABC/R bolt catch, EMR magazine release, LDFA forward assist. •Silencerco ASR flash hider. •Arisaka Defense 300 series momentary light. •Trijicon MRO. •B5 Gripstop. •Unity Tactical MLOK weapon light interface. •TangoDown MRO clear lens cover. •Savvy Sniper dual QD Cobra sling.

#ar15 #sbr #mk18 #mk18ish #nfa geissele geisseleallthethings
bravocompany bcm

@geissele @arisakadefense @unitytactical @savvysniperslings @tangodowninc @b5systems
@mtgtactical @blacksheepwarrior @trijicon @forwardcontrols @ballisticadvantage @silencerco @magpul @battlearms @fanaticgunners @wickedweaponry @gunspictures @gunsdaily @thedailyrifle

from @mitchelldyke
I finally finished building my first AR15! This shoots so smooth. I love this gun!

Parts list:
•BCM Upper, Complete Lower, BCG, Ambidextrous Charging handle. •Geissele MK8 SMR 9.5" handguard, SSA trigger, Super Precession lower 1/3rd MRO mount, Super42 buffer and spring set up in H2 configuration. •Magpul STR, MOE K2+ , MBUS PRO sight set, MLOK QD mount, ladder rail panel. •Megiddo MLOK 2 slot rail panels. •Ballistic Advantage 10.3" 223 Wylde Hanson profile barrel, gas block, gas tube. •Battle Arms Development C.A.S.S safety. •Forward Controls ABC/R bolt catch, EMR magazine release, LDFA forward assist. •Silencerco ASR flash hider. •Arisaka Defense 300 series momentary light. •Trijicon MRO. •B5 Gripstop. •Unity Tactical MLOK weapon light interface. •TangoDown MRO clear lens cover. •Savvy Sniper dual QD Cobra sling.



I might finish this one…at some point…Dunno,I’ve had too much shit in my head these days,my laptop cracked and I was laptopless for a while,I’ve only got it repaired yesterday that’s why I’ve been so inactive but yeah…I don’t know about you but I love messing around with mordesh body customization ,I personally find glass tubes everywhere somehow impractical for battle :P … 



All Hunger Aside

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve written anything, so I thought I’d stop slacking. This is going to be a long post, so you might want to grab snacks now…don’t worry, I’ll wait. 

I arrived to Houston optimistic. Convinced that they were only going to remove a part of my stomach, and then I was going to spend the next few months re-stretching it out. I figured if I had to have cancer, then at least I got this weight loss surgery out of it. I was blindly optimistic. I woke up from the surgery groggy, disoriented, and confused. I had a tube in my nose that ran the length of my throat that caused irritation and discomfort everytime I had to swallow. Having a tube in your throat created more saliva which in turn required more swallowing. There was no winning the painful throat battle. I had a tube coming out of my abdomen that was going to feed me for the indefinite future. I had a thin tube in my back that was my epidural and of course mine leaked so I was only numb in sections of my stomach. I was genuinely surprised by how much I hurt. It was blinding. There’s a reason you get to push a button and have some morphine released…it was miserable. 

I heard people talking around me, but nothing really made sense. The only thing I remember them saying was that they had to remove my entire stomach. The fairy tale of a quick recovery slipped away, and I heard the disappointed exhales of my parents. I cried myself to sleep that night. 

The days that followed were a series of movements by staff that had long since fallen into a routine, and some were nicer than others. A lot of side to side motions, and sitting up and standing. There’s no pretending to be asleep to get out of these drills. You don’t have a choice. My stomach eerily looked like Frankensteins early work, and it took me a moment to catch my breath at the sight of it. 

I was in the hospital for two weeks. My parents were there everyday. Even in my sleep I heard the familiar sound of my dad opening a can of Diet Pepsi, and it brought me comfort. Getting up, walking, breathing exercies became my new routine. I definitely wasn’t great at doing it, and my surgeon complained of my unwillingness to sit up for prolong periods of time, but then again, he didn’t just have his insides ripped out and re-sewn together. However, when or if I was ever ready for a walk, I always knew I had an escort in the way of my parents. 

I was finally released from prison, er, I mean the hospital, and it felt great. I was out almost a week before my inability to tolerate the tube feedings and uncontrolled pain put me back in the hospital. They stopped the tube feedings, and started doing TPN (Total Parenteral Nutrition) through my port. It’s basically tube feeding except in runs through my veins vs my small intestine. I can’t say it was much better, but it was going to get me out of the hospital. The disappointment was heavy. I already struggled to catch my breath, but the disappointment of how everything had and was going was hard. One particular night of disappointment I called my dad, just to hear his voice. The next thing I know at 3AM he’s in my room cracking a Pepsi, and holding my hand. We fell asleep like that, and in that moment I didn’t have the weight of disappointment, and frustration. I had the snoring of my dad next to me telling me it was going to be ok. 

Once I left the hospital, my parents had to kick into overdrive. They had to learn how to feed me, how to mix the TPN, how to flush an IV line, how to set up the machines, they’re basically experts now. My mom handled the logistics like the seasoned pro she is, and my dad took me for walks. 

There will be more. I promise. I just wanted to get the surgery details out of the way. The eating part is a battle all in itself and there will be lots more to follow on that tasty subject.