From Jesse James to Charles Manson, the media, since their inception, have turned criminals into folk heroes. They just created two new ones when they plastered those dip-shits Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris’ pictures on the front of every newspaper. Don’t be surprised if every kid who gets pushed around has two new idols. We applaud the creation of a bomb whose sole purpose is to destroy all of mankind, and we grow up watching our president’s brains splattered all over Texas. Times have not become more violent. They have just become more televised.
“You’re forgetting something.” Maxim cut across her.
“Are you going to keep interrupting?” Harper snapped.
“Loric.” Maxim said.
“Oh, yes. I killed the youngest, Loric Alkaev.” Harper said, and Ren clapped her hands to her mouth.
“Shot him straight in the head.” Maxim said, his face betraying a hint of anger.
“We were in a gunfight.” Harper fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“He was hardly 20. He was going to be married. He had a promising future.”
“Harvey was 21,with a promising future on the right side of the law.” Harper retaliated. “That didn’t stop Mikhael shooting her.”
“He had just seen his little brother’s brains splattered all over the wall! He didn’t know who shot him. Of course he wanted revenge on who had shiot his little brother. He didn’t think you had it in you, so he guessed wrong.” Maxim said. “I knew it was you. But I never told him the truth. It would have broken him.”
“Will you drop the ‘he secretly loved me act’? We both know you’re bullshitting, trying to make him seem like a better man than he really was.” Harper said coldly. Maxim silenced himself, and gestured with his hand for Harper to carry on.
“Then I went away and had you. I vowed that I would always keep you safe from your father, and from the entire organisation that threatened us. Because you were threatening us, weren’t you Maxim?” Harper taunted. “I heard you say it to your brother. What were your words… ‘You should have let me kill the baby when I had the chance’?”
Ren gasped, and looked at her Uncle. He looked sympathetically at Ren. “You had to understand, from my point of view, that the birth of a child was a… complication. Being in my violent line of work, that was the only solution I could think of at the time. I was bloodthirsty, angry about the death of Loric, and the endangerment of Mikhael. But he wouldn’t let me touch her- you.” Maxim corrected himself. “An act I greatly appreciate now.”
“Then what happened? How does this relate to my father?”
I’m done with being dramatic, I’m back at it again like an addict. Let’s be honest I’m addicted to the sensation of my brain splattered on this page. I won’t slow down in my old age. It’s time to go, just let me out this cage. If I don’t speak up who will. If I don’t work who’ll pay the bill. No we don’t need anymore cars but I need two bandaids to hide these scars. I’m an adult now, haven’t you heard of me. It’s about time I take some responsibility.
I may be new to this but I think you’re the one who needs to grow up. I’m sorry I let it slip you could say I fucked up. Your judgmental attitude is what Jesus preached about. You Pharisee, why ask questions when you won’t listen. You say you hear me, but I still have to shout. Still need a hearing-aid, won’t take any advice. You get all offended at anything that’s not nice. You still seem sweet but I won’t pick my poison. You used to tell me I’m weak, was that something you enjoyed in. You’ve created two monsters so here’s one more. Don’t you see the biggest disgrace is when you walk through that door.
We could talk about my migraine but that’s all you know so instead, let’s talk about my dreams and how they involve people pointing guns at my head. No, they never wanted my dead, they just wanted to drag out my torture. But that’s something you won’t talk about it doesn’t fit your culture. See lately I’ve been having nightmares about you. Precursors of things that couldn’t be true. It’s been a long time since I’ve trusted my mind. It’s been corrupted by all these things I wish I could leave behind. Maybe if you weren’t so pompous you could’ve been a good example. I’m sorry you lived a lie, but was I a mistake just to prove you were better than the first time. Maybe the real pain is what’s on the inside. But I’ll just tell you it’s the migraine while I hide here and cry.
Don’t be delusional you’re the bigger problem of the two. How will you ever solve things when waiting’s all you do.
You should know that your time’s running out here. You would know but your vision’s never been very clear. How long will it be, till we’re onto number three. How many more till it’s time for number four. The people who really care about me ask me when do I leave, I know I can do what you couldn’t and really cleave. I really wish I could just go on the road trip and be with you. This should be called Dear Father number two. But we both know that’s not true.
(I’m soooooo sorry that it took me forever! Anyways my cuz helped me out with ideas on this one! Hope you enjoy!)
It’s 1 a.m. and you’re at a local convenience store to buy another pregnancy test to confirm what you already know. Unsure of which test to buy, you grab one of everything off the shelf. The cashier gives you a disapproving look while scanning your purchases. She has no idea what you’re going through. Her ignorance towards your situation aggravates you. Your trigger finger itches to splatter her brains all over the cartons of cigarettes and porno mags behind the counter. There is no way Joker will like this, not in the slightest. You hope that the first test was wrong. You tell yourself, “Maybe it was a false positive, maybe it was a bad test, maybe I read it wrong…” Once you’re home there’s still no sign of him. You lock the bathroom door and quickly open each box. After urinating in a cup you put the sticks in and set the timer on your phone. Now, you wait. Each passing minute feels like forever. You’re suddenly pale and nauseous again, unsure if it’s morning sickness or anxiety. Your timer goes off and instantly you drop to the floor….5 positives. You ask yourself, “What am I going to do?! Do I even want this? How can I bring a baby into this crazy life….a disaster of my own making.” While looking at the results, you’re so confused and ashamed. You’re convinced that you can not keep the baby. How are you ever going to tell Joker? A psychopath is not father material…but there’s more to him than that, isn’t there? You try to envision him at a playground running with the child in his arms and tickling him or her. You paint a pretty picture of what could be. Reality sets in….. This is Joker. All you can do is avoid him for now and hope for a miracle.
After picking a doctors office in Gotham, your appointment is sooner than you think. The anticipation is unbearable. The waiting room is cold and smells of antiseptic while elevator music plays quietly in the background. You find it somewhat calming and your nausea subsides. “(Y/N)(L/N)”, the nurse smiles as she calls you back to an exam room. “Please undress from the waist down, put the gown on, and the doctor will be in shortly to see you.” Feeling nervous and curious you try to guess how far along you are and which dirty deed with Joker sealed the deal. We’re always intimate but it was happening a lot more after you got back together. There’s a knock on the door, “Hello Ms. (Y/N), I’m Dr. Warren. My nurse informed me that you’re here for a prenatal visit?” “Yes sir…”, you reply. “Alright well let’s take a look, shall we?”, he adds. Spreading your legs into the stirrups, he carefully inserts the ultrasound probe. “This right here is your uterus, and this little peanut is your baby. It looks like you’re about 12 weeks along”, he smiles and congratulates you. It’s the first time that someone has done that. You weren’t sure if this baby was a cause for celebration or a curse. You’re tempted to ask about abortion, but you bite your lip, and instead ask the doctor if you can get dressed.
You officially can’t button your pants today and new clothes are a must. Granted, you’re not ready or willing to set foot in the maternity section, but your current wardrobe doesn’t leave much to the imagination. While you’re at the mall with shopping bags in hand, one of jokers minions approaches you, “Joker wants to see you (Y/N)… Right now.” That dread makes your palms sweat but you need to keep your composure. Making your way back to the mansion, you can hear Joker yelling at his goons. They pass you on the stairs bruised and beaten as you make your way to the office upstairs. You take a deep breath and open the double-doors.
(Y/N) :“J, you wanted to see me?”
Joker:“And where have you been, Sugar? You can’t just up and disappear… it’s simply not polite. I deserve…. NO, I demand to know what you’ve been doing!” as he pounds his fist onto the desk.
(Y/N): “Nothing, Joker.”
Joker steps out from behind his desk and circles you like a shark and you’re his prey. He eyes you from head to toe. “Liar liar, pants on fire. I guess I’m just going to have to teach you some manners” , Joker says in a condescending tone.
He grabs you by the throat as he grins maniacally. He drags you to the top of the staircase, he can let go any second. “Please J… Please stop!”, you plead for your safety. “Before me you lived a mundane meaningless little life. So now I ask you…would you die for me?”, Joker asks as his grip tightens. “No!!!”, you scream frantically with what little breath you can gather. “And why is that?”, he asks tilting his head. “I’m carrying your child…”, she utters softly. Joker looks at you in disbelief. His grip softens around your neck as he brings you away from the edge. He falls to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist. Joker places his hand on your growing belly and gently caresses it. No words are spoken. For a brief moment, the derangement left his expression leaving behind a state of calm that he’s never known.
Then a familiar voice that breaks the silence, “Puddin’!!!! Did ya miss me?!”, Harley struts from the darkness behind Joker with her wooden bat in hand. After seeing Joker on his knees at your feet with his hand on your abdomen, it clicks for Harley. She yells, “If anyone is gettin’ knocked up by Mr. J it’s gonna be me!” Harley charges you, getting ready to turn your skull into a home run. Joker jumps to his feet defensively and tackles her as she continues to swing her bat violently in the air. After disarming Harley he holds her tight in a headlock…
Joker: “so nice of you to join us… What a surprise! Back from the dead.”
Harley: “Not even being shot 3 times and nearly dying could keep me away from you!”
Joker: Harley there will be no killing tonight for a change!
Harley: “sorry puddin’ I was just listening to the voices in my head.”
Joker: “The only voice you should be listening to is mine…BOTH of you are mine!”
Harley: “that’s not good enough for me, Mr. J… You know I’ve never been one to share. It’s one of my more charming traits.”
Harley stealthily reaches for the gun tucked in her shorts at the small of her back and aims right at you. She squeezes off a round into your chest. The impact pushes you back as you look into Joker’s piercing eyes before plummeting down. In a flash of rage joker snaps Harley’s neck, throwing her lifeless body to the side. Joker rushes down the stairs to find you face down, silent and still at the bottom of the staircase. He kneels by your side and holds you in his arms to see if you’re still alive. The bullet grazed your heart, and your breathing is shallow. Joker applies pressure to your gunshot wound with his bare hand. During the embrace, he moves his hand down to your belly. You look to him with tears in your eyes and sob, “Noooo!” as you reach your hand down between your legs to discover that you’re bleeding there too. You collect what little strength you have to stroke Joker’s cheek and with your last breath say “I love you my Clown Prince.” Joker bows his head and covers his mouth with his bloodied hand and let’s out a small chuckle. Sorrow becomes outrage. “I was going to be a father!” Joker begins to laugh hysterically, “Long Live My Queen!”
No one knows there’s been an incursion until gunshots ricochet down the corridors.
Toast goes running, of course, a gun in each hand and orders bellowing from her mouth. A dozen War Boys scramble after her whooping and cheering. They race up the stairs, drawn like magnets to the sounds of fighting.
Wheeling round a corner, Toast catches sight of an invader crawling through the window. The black clothing explains why none of the sentries spotted them - black clothes, rare and expensive, this isn’t an opportunistic raid but a financed operation - but there’s kerosene light in the corridor and Toast squeezes off a shot that splatters blood and brain matter across the wall.
Already someone else is trying to creep through the same hole. “Shoot them down!” Toast shouts. Her Boys spring forward.
More shots boom from a room to the left. Toast spins, heart thumping, realizes that that’s Furiosa’s room and she can hear the baby shrieking over the noise of gunfire.
“To the Imperator!” Toast shrieks.
“Imperator!” the Boys echo.
It’s only a few meters to the door, but it seems to take a lifetime. Toast dreads what she will see when she gets there. The baby is alive. That will have to suffice.
She kicks the door open, guns swinging up, and the sight inside is breathtaking.
Furiosa stands in the centre of the room, blood streaking down her head, sobbing baby braced against her shoulder and her half-arm cupping him. In the other, she wields a pump-action shotgun. There is murder on her face.
Toast watches, mesmerized, as Furiosa fires at the person climbing through the window, flips the gun into her hand for a forceful pump, flips it back and fires again at the next intruder.
There are seven dead bodies pooling blood in great shiny puddles. Furiosa is surrounded by a semi-circle of bullet casings and discarded weapons. Her breast hangs outside her shirt from feeding her son.
No one else tries to enter through the window. Furiosa drops the shotgun, soothes the crying baby with gentle pats to his shoulder from her gunpowder-stained hand.
“All good?” she asks Toast without looking.
“We’ll see,” Toast answers.
At that moment there is a burst of noise: shattering glass and booming explosives and screaming women.
Furiosa grabs the baby sling draped over the end of the bed, slings it on one-handed and scoots the baby inside. Then she grabs a pistol from its hiding place under the bed.
She meets Toast’s eyes, fervor and fury gleaming like fire out of her own.
“If it gets to me,” Kavinsky says testily, batting Proko’s hand away, “I’ll die. And not in a pretty way either, y’hear? It’s not gonna be a grand exit with a soundtrack and fancy lights. It’ll be my brains splattered on some back road somewhere, or my still-living body cemented into a wall –did you know they did that? Al Capone’s guys used to cement people into the foundations of buildings. I don’t wanna be cemented into some building foundation. I’d be terrible foundation.” “Yeah, you’re too unstable,” Proko muses sarcastically, and Kavinsky elbows him hard in the ribs.
eyyy so it’s looking like this may be the last chapter for a bit because finals are imminently approaching with the intent to kill so
here’s this i’ll see you guys again around may 10th?
Steve Rogers hasn’t opened a Captain America comic book since World War II.
He remembers working with Jack and Joe and was even a ghost artist on a few issues while he was on tour with the girls. He remembers laughing and talking with them while planning comic Cap’s more ridiculous adventures and he still remembers Bucky being the one to suggest having Cap punch an actual Nazi dinosaur at one point.
It was fun.
If they could forget, just for a few minutes, the mud and the blood and the fact that he just had Private McMahon’s brains splattered all over the star of his uniform because he’d thrown his shield to protect Fresno but he couldn’t protect this other soldier, fresh from Basic… if they could remember they had something to go home to….
So Steve found himself offended right down to his very core upon finding out that Marvel Comics decided to make his comic incarnation, the beloved brainchild of his friends Jack and Joe, into a secret HYDRA agent. An actual Nazi.
Never mind if they would probably retcon it or try to actually “justify” it storywise, never mind if it was just some kind of stupid gimmick to sell more books - in fact that alone made it even more offensive - Steve Rogers just saw red. He could easily remember the bodies of his fellow soldiers, his buddies, on the sands of Normandy, buried under snow and battered by continuous fire in Bastogne and the concentration camps in which skeletal figures clutched at wire fences, waiting for deliverance, clinging to desperate life and just….
Steve Rogers wasn’t going to stand for this garbage.
He picked up the phone and said, “Hey, Stan, I’m saying no to this Hydra ridiculousness and we need to stop it in its tracks –”
Say No to Hydra Cap, Because When Canon Fails Us, It’s Time for Fan Fiction to Fix This Shit
I know that I cannot be calling you up at 2 a.m.
Crying because I’ve never felt this empty
It isn’t fair to you
But when I feel like crawling out of my skin and splatter painting my brain on the wall behind me
You’re the only one who can calm me down
You’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel insane
But I know I have to stop crawling to your doorstep begging you to stitch me back up again
Because you are hurting too
And if you keep wasting your thread on me you’ll have none left for yourself
I know I have to stop asking you to clean up the shattered piles of bones from where I stood in the road and let the car hit me
I know I have to stop asking you to piece my thoughts back together when they are frantically searching for a way out
I know that you cannot be my crutch anymore
It’s just I’m not sure I can stand on my own.
SENT: Look I know it’s late but I need you.
RECEIVED: Go to bed. Leave me alone.– Lily Rain
Another educational and scientific video about Undertale that makes you think.
Undertale has violence that matters, not graphical violence, but impactful violence and meaningful violence. You see, gore does not necessarily work as violence. The impact and actual feeling behind the violence matters more than the visceral feeling of committing the violence.
You can mash a button combo in Mortal K[C]ombat and watch your opponents characters head explode with brain goo splattering, you can rip their head off and watch their eyes dilate and glaze over, but when you hit rematch or play again, that character is still there. no one remembers or responds to you killing them. you can press a button and ragdoll hundreds of innocent civilians and burn them alive in GTA V, you can curbstomp that hooker after having first person sex with them and get your money back. you won’t see that person again until the randomizer makes a model with their details again, they are actually gone, but because you can’t kill characters important to the story without getting a game over, there is no feeling behind it.
There is only 3-5 characters in Undertale that you can’t scare away or kill. 3 of them are store vendors, one of which just is too apathetic, one that has no idea what is going on, and one that actually stands up and calls you out.
Undertale’s most graphically violent scene is either a pixelated smiley face flower being hacked to pixels, or a pixelated skeleton bleeding ketchup/person in a skeleton suit bleeding from a gut slash. you don’t see them die or any gore. some of the most emotional deaths are just anime style slashes through the body with no gore and then melting or turning into a cloud of dust.
think of some of the saddest death scenes in movies, not many show the moment of death or any gore. Meanwhile in movies like Kill Bill or Saw we barely feel anything even when characters die in a bloody gruesome scene.
Thats one of the reasons why I don’t feel Undertale is very overrated and why I feel like the emotions it gets out of players mean so much more because it was able to be done without 3D graphics or voice actors or a team of people on the game.
Made a fool out of myself today during a session where all the counselors had to do improv skits. We all ran to the prop shed to grab something, but I was the last in and the only substantial thing left was a 15 lbs dumbbell that I grabbed without thinking. I didn’t realize I’d have to hold it on stage for ten minutes. Predictably, the prompt I was given was “you’re a weight lifter”.
Fortunately, I managed to salvage my pride a little during a different prompt where I had to pretend to be a dolphin. It’s gratifying to know I can still leap headfirst through a hula hoop and into a more or less graceful roll - I just went for it and prayed that muscle memory would keep me from splattering my brains on the wood stage.
Wrote this for @elletromil, ‘cause I’m having massive attacks of confidence over my shitty shitty writing lately. Yay, emotional meltdowns … :/
She prompted me to “write about Harry coming home to Eggsy watching tv while petting JB on his lap and pushing JB away because he wants Eggsy to be playing in his hair instead.”
And here that is, toothache-inducing fluff and all:
It had been a rough mission. Harry hated
when missions didn’t go well; in this line of business “not going well” meant
innocent people died. He supposed it could have been worse; at least these
bystanders were the ones betting on the fights.
At least he’d gotten the kids out before
any more were harmed, and the fucker running it all had his brains splattered
across the cement.
But he was ready to be home, shoes off and
Eggsy’s arms around him. He needed to decompress.
He was mildly disappointed, then, when he
did arrive home, and Eggsy was there with JB in his lap, getting pet so softly
that the mutt was asleep and snoring.
Harry was not a man to pout, but he could
feel his lips curling a bit with jealousy. Jealous over a fucking dog.
Well, Harry was nothing if not damn good at
reaching his desired outcome—not many people could claim as many successful
missions as him, and fewer still could gloat about surviving a bullet to the
head—and he refused to stand for this indignation. Eggsy smiled at him when he
came in, stretching for a soft kiss before turning back to the telly.
Harry took a seat on the couch, slumping
down, leaning till his head touched Eggsy’s shoulder. Eggsy smiled, his cheek
pressed to Harry’s hair, but he didn’t take the hint.
Fine. It wasn’t going to be easy. Harry
could work with that. He worked his arms around Eggsy, cheek slipping down so
it was against his partner’s chest, slowly inching down. He quashed the desire
to just shove JB out of the way, but he really hoped he woke up and got out of
the way before he did shove him to
“Babe, you’re gonna wake JB,” Eggsy
murmured, and Harry scoffed.
“Good. He’s in my spot.”
Eggsy snorted. “Are you jealous of the dog?”
he teased, laughing just enough that JB did wake up, snuffling and grumbling
before jumping off Eggsy’s lap, leaving Harry free to rest his head there.
Eggsy’s hands moved to play in his hair, and he didn’t ask questions about the
mission. Slowly, the tension seeped out of the man, cared for as he was in his