i would do that job

Be a d*ck to your freelancer? I'll have your job.

(warning: long story)

Backstory:

This happened about 3 years ago. I was still in college for digital marketing (like advertising and graphic design). Since I had no time to work even a part time job, I would do some freelance graphic design in the little time I had. Mainly in the later hours of the night, I would still answer emails during the day though. It was good money, a couple hundred here and there, but it wasn’t enough. The company that ran the cafeteria in my school went through bankruptcy and I was taken off our 21-meals-a-week plan. I had to resort to putting (very) small ads in the newspaper and started looking for more jobs online rather than posting a listing on Craigslist as I previously had. I got a few good jobs, everything seemed great at this point.

Then the fatal night happened. I received an email at about 10:45 at night. It was mid-week so it was a bit odd for someone to be emailing me this late, especially since I had school the next day and they probably had work. Right off the bat I had a sketchy feeling about this, as the subject was “I need an ad made” and the message was “Ok?”. As per usual, I respond right away asking for more details. He said he had ran a custom shower company and he wants me to Photoshop a picture, add text and then format it for billboard printing.

He sends me the image and it’s a “custom” shower with two shower heads that are on. He wants me to remove one of the heads. I tell him that it will be difficult due to the fact the streams are crossing. He replies with “So? Just f*cking do it.” I finish the ad for him and I’m about to watermark it so I can send him a final copy then request payment. Then I realize that it’s already f*cking watermarked, faintly in the corner by another shower company, and it doesn’t match his. This douchebag motherf*cker stole a picture from another local company.

I tell him that I won’t do the ad because he’s using a copyrighted picture, and that I can replace it and keep the text. He “rages” and claims that he took the photo with his phone earlier that week. At this point I have better things to be doing, so I block his emails, as they were getting to be harassment.

Fast forward two weeks.

I get a call from an unknown number saying that I f*cked up and that he just paid another designer “big bucks” for the same job. These calls continue over the next week and I just start ignoring them.

Here’s where something magical happens. He starts texting me, but it’s with his actual f*cking number. I think he tried to *67 me, but it doesn’t work through texting. This will come back to bite him in the ass when we get to the revenge part.

Here’s where the revenge comes in:

After the semester ends, I decide to drive around 2 hours to visit my parents for the week I have between the semesters. While I’m driving on the freeway I see something familiar. It’s the photo the guy wanted me to make into an ad for him on a billboard. Then I realize that the ad on the billboard is for HIS F*CKING COMPANY, although he clearly didn’t hire another designer. It looks as if he made it in MSPaint. I get off at the next exit so I can get a few pictures and write down the location.

When I get back from my parents’ house, I immediately start up my computer and try to get into contact with the company who owns the photo. I send them the pictures and location along with his emails. They thank me and I happily go to bed.

Fast forward a month.

I get a call on a Saturday morning saying that the company who owns the photo needed me to come in to their offices to discuss a few things. Turns out that they ended up filing a lawsuit over the copyright issue as he still claimed it to be his photo.

The judge told me while I was in court (as a witness) that I would be able to file for harassment and get a restraining order. Normally I wouldn’t care, but the harassment would go on his record.

Because of all the legal fees, his company went under. I later found out that he tried to start up another company of similar sorts but he would have to tell his employees of his harassment charge. That company went under as well because he couldn’t find anyone to work for him.

Get f*cked.

moonlitraindrops  asked:

I don't know if you've answered this question already, but are you possibly going to make a short/side story someday about the bro and the super average guy that he's tied to? I know that probably won't happen for a long time, given that working on one web comic is a lot to deal with in general. Btw, you've probably heard this countless of times, but I love your web comic and art, and I think you're doing an amazing job!

Thank you! I really would love to make a side story with those two. In fact, there’s multiple stories i would love to narrate in this universe. i hope to do it eventually, or make some one shots. Thank’s for the love! 

“I wish Star Trek could be more realistic in its vision of a utopian society!”

“I wish there could be a Star Trek show that focused on interspecies alien interactions rather than alien vs. human interactions!”

“I wish Star Trek would do a better job of displaying all the nuances and moral grays that go into maintaining diplomatic relations.”

“I wish Star Trek had a captain that wasn’t just another white dude.”

“I wish Star Trek had at least one canon LGBT character.”

“I wish Star Trek had a well-written female character with flaws and an engaging backstory and good character development for once.”

“I wish science fiction in general would stop assuming everyone will be an atheist in the future.”

“I wish Star Trek could be bolder about calling out real life social issues without their guise of poorly-handled metaphors to protect them.”

“I wish Star Trek would stop assuming that things like intergalactic wars could be resolved or forgotten in just a couple episodes.”

“I want Worf to get more screentime.”

“I want—”

Deep Space Nine. 

You want Deep Space Nine.

I’m a fan of real idols, real Japanese girls who sing and dance and train almost everyday to do their job of making people happy and smile. I hate when I mention that I like idols, then a LL fan goes ‘me too’ and shows me a pic of anime girls. They’re not real, they don’t deserve to be put at the same level as real live actual idols. Even the seiyuu, they’re not idols, they’re SEIYUU. This is why I hate the LL fandom, with them calling themselves “idol fans” they’re discrediting all the work that these girls do almost everyday. They’re constantly scolded, crying, training all the time and you people think it’s fair to compare some anime girls to it. smh

I am So Done with these criticisms I keep seeing like “It was good and all but Diego Luna didn’t work for me casting-wise, he was too wiry and soft-spoken, not action-movie enough” and I’m like??? SPY???? That’s the point???? Honestly people need to stop forcing the Hypermasculine Jason Statham Aesthetic bullshit irrelevantly onto characters that bear literally no comparison.

Originally posted by lunadiego

When they’ve got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it?

They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don’t think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn’t his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn’t his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can’t help themselves from asking.

Was it worth it?



There’s never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there’s no escaping the fact that the Fake’s all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate’s years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they’ll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city’s biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren’t. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they’ve poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they’ve already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren’t meant to go out at all.  

The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew’s trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake’s wind up in a firefight they aren’t winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn’t enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey’d fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they’d live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn’t even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn’t that confirm what everyone’s always thought, doesn’t that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey’s cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.



In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey’s answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he’s bored. As though even now he’s got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.  

Oh baby, who says it’s over?



It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they’ve certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn’t come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they’ve been so far. How most don’t make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn’t be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they’d experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It’s not that they’re bored of this life they’ve built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there’s no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn’t quite thrill them like it used to.

If you’d asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they’d have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they’ll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it’s harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they’ve still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake’s used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn’t quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn’t seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they’d all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They’re all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren’t serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it’s not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn’t do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone’s going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone’s corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they’ve been following all these years. The boss they’d die for. The boss they will die for.

They don’t talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake’s might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay’s spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin’s taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don’t wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It’s all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that’s left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they’ve got left to do is die.



Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey’d never recover from the loss. Any who didn’t just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It’s not a stretch to assume Ramsey’s survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who’d made their lives living hell for years.

There’s paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn’t been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It’s fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake’s were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.



The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn’t much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who’d been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn’t be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn’t toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It’s almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it’s the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city’s most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.



If the Fake’s had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn’t make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they’d built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.



Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn’t armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There’s a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they’re getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.

8

PAYBACK

Viktor knows Yuuri gets flustered when he says harsh things with a smile, and even more when he gets flirty in public. (Much to the dismay of the workers who get caught up in their lovey-dovey moments.😆)

2

cold 

cant decide on a bg so just. heres the transparent version so you can slap it on whatever. preferably smthing warm bc its hecking cold over here jfc 

I think the fact that the Canadian Immigration page crashed after the results were released really says alot about how many good Americans there really are out there and how terrified they really are

Language Barriers

Consider if you will, Kaiba staying in Ancient Egypt. Atem doesn’t speak his language any more, because he’s no longer connected in any way with Yugi. Kaiba, learning Atem’s language, from courts and gatherings and conversations in the halls. Atem, a good pharaoh but increasingly restless, who comes up with games for everything, inventing a linguistics game for the two of them, because Kaiba can learn tenses in a moment if it means beating someone. Atem one day getting Kaiba to teach him his language, instead of the other way around. It becoming a back and forth, until they’re using Atem’s language and all the little differences in dialect in court proceedings, and Kaiba’s when they’re together or when they need to speak privately (or when Atem needs to sound particularly intelligent during important meetings with foreign dignitaries). Kaiba becoming proficient enough that the game starts shifting into accents, Kaiba’s is already fairly flawless, if still discernible as foreign (as if his skin didn’t give it away), Atem’s is fine when he concentrates, but drifts when he becomes frustrated, his h’s and r’s rolling, vowels stretched or cut short. Losing does that to him.

Kaiba assuming Atem’s just trying to alleviate his boredom until Atem shifts the game into more difficult areas, now with words that only have meaning for a world he’s no longer part of. ‘What is the word for’ and a description that goes on for minutes, that Kaiba has to pick apart like a riddle, coming back sometimes days later with ‘internet’, ‘milkshake’, ‘migraine’ and ‘RFID chip’.

‘Dimension Cannon’, ‘risk’, ‘explosion’, ‘paradox’, ‘homesick’, ‘please’.

a few good men prompts

  • ❝ I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. ❞
  • ❝ I’d like you to leave the room so we can talk about you behind your back. ❞
  • ❝ Who the hell knows what goes on down there. ❞
  • ❝ You’re stalling on this thing. ❞
  • ❝ Ow, that had to hurt. Walk it off! ❞
  • ❝ I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this. ❞
  • ❝ You just look like you have something to say. ❞
  • ❝ I’m sure you don’t have a good excuse, so I won’t force you to come up with a bad one. ❞
  • ❝ Do various, administrative, you know — things. Backup. Whatever. ❞
  • ❝ I have no responsibilities here whatsoever. ❞
  • ❝ Would you like me to take care of that? ❞
  • ❝ My job is to make sure you do your job. ❞
  • ❝ I think perhaps it would be better to hold this discussion in private. ❞
  • ❝ I want to know what we’re going to do about this. ❞
  • ❝ We’re in the business of saving lives. That’s a responsibility we have to take pretty seriously. ❞
  • ❝ If that’s a source of tension or embarrassment for you, well, I don’t give a shit. ❞
  • ❝ Wow. I’m sexually aroused. ❞
  • ❝ I don’t know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. ❞
  • ❝ While I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can handle things myself. ❞
  • ❝ I’ll be back. You need anything? Books, paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? ❞
  • ❝ I’m the only friend you’ve got. It’s a concept you better start warming up to. ❞
  • ❝ I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? ❞
  • ❝ Whoa! Hold it! We need to take a boat? Nobody said anything about a boat. ❞
  • ❝ Have I done something to offend you? ❞
  • ❝ If you feel there are any details I’m missing, you should feel free to speak up. ❞
  • ❝ They have no point. They often have no point. It’s a part of their charm. ❞
  • ❝ You have to ask me nicely. You see, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don’t want money and I don’t want medals. What I want is for you to stand there and extend me some fucking courtesy.  ❞
  • ❝ I suppose it’s way too much to hope that you’re just making this up to bother me. ❞
  • ❝ You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? ❞
  • ❝ You don’t like me that much, do you? ❞
  • ❝ You can’t handle the truth! ❞
  • ❝ I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. ❞
  • ❝ My existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. ❞
  • ❝ I don’t give a damn what you think you’re entitled to. ❞
  • ❝ What did we do wrong? We did nothing wrong! ❞
  • ❝ I’m going to rip the eyes out of your head and piss into your dead skull! You picked the wrong day to fuck with me! ❞