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

Misha’s first headshot…

“I was 24 at the time and had already grown a single whisker. I was skinny, looked 15, and wore extra, extra, extra large shirts.

Then a classmate told me that my legal name “Dmitri Krushnic” would never do and that I’d need a stage name. Everyone had always called me “Misha” so I was sticking with that, but the question remained: What would my new fake last name be? Below is the list of top contenders, which I found in the “Acty Things” folder on my computer dated July, 1998…

Misha Clarke
Misha Nichols
Misha Hudson
Misha Collins
Misha Coltraine
Misha Bear
Misha Cole
Misha Parker
Misha Watson
Misha Coleman
Misha Wilder
Misha Carpenter
Misha Carson
Misha Riley
Misha Denis

I now regret having not chosen “Misha Bear.” Anyway, once I had settled on the name (Collins is my mother’s mother’s mother’s maiden name and I chose it because somehow I felt like less of a sell-out/whore using an actual family name), it was time to construct the ultimate… ACTOR’S RESUME. However, since i had done very little “acting” at this point, i felt compelled to “improved” my resume by adding to it things that i had never done—this was easy back then because the internet didn’t yet catalogue this sort of thing.  VIDEO: Misha & Jensen Resume-off “

—Misha Collins (Excerpt from Misha: A Concise Autobiography)

I love how he references the You Tube video of his “resume battle” with Jensen from Jib :) And he should have totally gone with “Misha Bear”…

Co-managing as Head Boy and Head Girl is a give and take. You have to pick your battles. One of the battles that I picked was to stop James from running plastic tubes all over the common room and placing hamsters inside of them. He was going to call it Tube City. So, yes, I do owe him one.
—  Lily Evans

I promised a revision and here it is! You have no idea how many coloring tries I’ve had with him hahah

Yoosung is the team’s scout. With his teleportation abilities and hella reflexes (courtesy of LoLoL game nights), he can easily evade most attacks and escape a battle unscathed. The winding tubes and bands around his arms are Seven’s contraptions. It concentrates the energy that his body generates into his palms, allowing him to shape it into various things instead of just summoning energy balls!

The first image is a clearer view of Yoosung’s outfit and all it’s designs (i’m so proud of this tbh its so kyoot). The second one includes the harness (a part of Seven’s gizmos) that plays a critical role in making sure that the boy doesn’t break his back should he summon bigger, better, and more badass weapons. He added a little star sticker to it too ❤️

P.S. Still open to hero title suggestions for both this boy and Jumin (and the entire cast tbh, but I’ll take one small step at a time). Will be revealing each member’s names after everyone’s outfits have been designed and confirmed! Thank you so much for all those who submitted ideas, they’re hella! 

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

On Friday night @loveloveolivia and I were being philosophical about our love for Harry and Louis. “We would go to war for Louis - for Harry we would strategize and plan a war.”

12 hours later, we were racing through London with a hangover and no make up, battling tube stations and busy roads to get the chance for a ticket.

So, joke’s on us. We would go to war for Harry, and we did.

tinyearthquakepatrol  asked:

For the prompt thing: "I belelive in you w/the core four, please?

Tim redid his tie for the hundredth time. When he’d bought the tux he’d thought he looked good, now he felt goofy. He twisted in the mirror feeling more and more like a kid playing dress up in his dad’s clothes. He almost jumped out of his skin when a voice from his bed asked “whatcha doing?” Tim spun around. Bart was sitting on the edge of Tim’s bed swinging his feet back and forth. 

Bart had a bad habit of just appearing in Tim’s room whenever he was bored. “Uhh, it’s prom tonight?” Tim managed turning back to straighten his tie. “Oh! COOL!” Bart zipped up behind Tim to look in the mirror. “You taking Kon? oh do you guys have matching ties?” Tim felt his face burn. “Um no, I’m just going with some friends, um Conner isn’t even coming” Bart’s face screwed up in confusion. “Why?” He asked

“Why what?” Tim tried not to snap. “Why didn’t you ask Kon?” Bart said unfazed by Tim’s annoyance, as always. “Because….” Tim couldn’t put it into words. “He’d say yes” Bart stated, like he was saying the sun rose in the east. “How would you know?” Tim shot Bart and poisonous look but Bart just shrugged. “He would, call him” Bart insisted.

“What?” Tim said confused “call him now, and what ask ‘hey what you doing tonight’?”

“yeah totally” Bart smiled. Tim looked at him and blinked. As if on autopilot he reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. He flipped to Kon’s contact and his finger hovered over it. “come on I believe in you” Bart said. It was such a goofy thing to say that Tim had to smile and that helped him press the button. 

“uh hey Kon, how you doing?- I’m good yeah uh I was just um wondering and I know it’s short notice and all, but what you doing tonight? oh cool um yeah but yeah it’s more than just a hang out do you have a suit?” Tim turned to look at Bart but his friend was already gone. 

A Few Months Later 

Tim hit the dirt, and spat blood. He rolled over the sky was full of Parademons. The one that had hit him came down for the kill Tim snarled and thrust his Bo staff up and broke the thing’s jaw before ramming it to the ground. Across the field of battle a Boom tube stood open. Standing framed in it’s burning light was Darkseid himself. Kon and Cassie were fighting with him barely holding him back.

“This isn’t working” Tim mumbled to himself. The plan had been for Cassie and Kon to drive Darkseid back to Apokolips while Tim and Bart tried to contain the Parademons. However Superboy and Wonder Girl where only slowing Darkseid’s advance and the Parademons were spreading outside Robin and Impulse’s control. Tim threw one his R shaped shurikens, it lodged into the wing of a Parademon causing it to fly into 2 others and the 3 exploded nicely. “need a new plan” Tim said leaping up and onto a Parademon, and snapping it’s neck smoothly. 

“Bart!” He yelled. He watched a red blur of destruction ripping it’s way through enemies toward him. Bart pulled up short in front of him. “Yeah boss?” Tim grabbed Bart by both shoulders and turned him toward the boom tube. “We need to knock big ugly back the way he came, to do that we’re gonna need to hit him really hard” Bart turned back and looked at Tim. “uh Timbo? we got our heavies up there now, and it’s not working” Tim shook his head.

“No Bart you can hit him harder than Kon or Cassie can” Bart looked horrified and confused “what? Tim you hit your head? I’m not Superman buddy I’m Impulse remember? runs fast not hits hard” Tim shook his head. “Bart this is what you’re gonna do, I need you to circle the earth at least 100 times, full speed, I need you at nearly light speed, and when you’re there, punch Darkseid with everything you got, right on the chin.” Bart’s eyes went wide “oh wow! I don’t think… I’ve never done that, that’s like a Flash trick Tim” 

Tim tightened his grip on Bart and looked into his eyes. “Bart I believe in you” Bart gulped and nodded once. Then he was gone. Tim turned toward the fight at the boom tube. Darkseid took a step forward and Cassie punched him so hard Tim felt the shock wave. Darkseid slapped her aside but Kon was right there with another blow. Tim more felt it than saw it happen, his brain had less than a second to notice the red blur then the world turned upside down.


Tim was knocked off his feet and thrown through the air. Tim landed hard and rolled before dragging himself upright. Where the boomtube had been looked like a bomb went off. Kon and Cassie floated high above looking down. The tube was gone and in it’s place as a storm of electric energy. Many of the Parademons had been flattened by the explosion but many were still in the air or on the ground, till the storm of energy started moving. In a blink of an eye they were all gone. “Bart!” Tim yelled feeling the panic rise. What if Bart couldn’t slow down? what if he was no longer a physical being? The blur of red lightning stopped in front of Tim who held his breath. Slowly the storm cleared and Bart stood there smiling electricity playing over his body. “That. Was. So. COOL!” Bart said pumping his fist up and down. “Can we get pizza now?” Tim just hugged him. 

Being an idol group leader is a give and take. You have to pick your battles. One of the battles I picked was to stop Ruby from running plastic tubes all over the school and placing hamsters inside them. She was going to call it Tube City. So yes, I do owe her one.
—  Chika Takami