why so many guns

I dont even know why I made this. 🤹🏼‍♀️

I’m not even into Jake. 🐺

But this is what he looks like in my mind whenever everyone goes gaga over him. 😽


why do so many ppl love guns so much…………they sucking your dick????????? paying your bills?????????????????????????? raising your children???????

stricter gun control is not enough

america also glorifies gun ownership. romanticizes it. you see people who love guns, collect guns, fire guns at ranges, consider it a hobby. a gun is not just a tool to them, and they obviously don’t just see guns as self-defense weapons. guns are directly associated in their subconscious with power and masculinity as well. to own a gun is to be in control. this is why you have so many gun fanatics toting that everyone should own a gun and that you can deter shooters or muggers with your own. this is actually not true, and it actually makes you at higher risk. 

i believe that even with stricter gun control, gun culture in america is still going to thrive. maybe we can make it more difficult for criminals to get their hands on guns. but it is often not enough, as more often than not, mass shooters pass background checks.

most mass shooters obtain their guns legally

here’s a more in depth look at where mass shooters get their guns

it’s important to talk about gun control but i think it’s just as important to talk about dismantling gun culture. i’ve seen a lot of talk of the former but none of the latter. so let’s talk about gun culture.

the last time i wrote a post about gun control was after the movie theater shooting in aurora. it was immediately swarmed by conservatives who tracked the gun control tag. i’m not tagging this post because of that but i hope people reblog.

edit: this is most certainly intended to be built upon and start a conversation! i want to hear people go in on this. i am terrible at words and articulating my thoughts so it would be nice to hear what others think.

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.

One of the many reasons we need campaign finance reform is to keep big companies and lobbies from buying our elected officials.

Want to know why so many Senators are voting for Betsy DeVos?
Want to know why so many oppose common sense gun reform?
What to know why pharmaceutical companies can rip you off?
Want to know why Senators oppose funding green energy?

Take a look at who is funding their campaigns.

anonymous asked:

To mod Hell: I'm so sorry but I have to ask why do you know so much about and have so many guns and weapons. Do you live in a war zone or the US or isn't that basicly the same thing? I'm sorry but I have so many questions. I love this blog and I'm really worried for you.

Normally I don’t answer anon questions that require me to step out of character, but if I keep referencing weird shit in my personal life I should probably explain that I am not a serial killer. So if you wanna know why I’m so well-armed, you can go ahead and click the readmore. 

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I have so many questions: 1) Will Dipper and Bill ever wear rings? 2) Random question, I know, but what would Gideon's familiar be? (Personally I think it'd be a widdle old asshole like him) 3) What nicknames does everyone else have for Bill? 4)What happened to Gideon after that drabble? 5) Who's familiar is Gompers?

1) Dipper’s already been marked! He’s got Bill and his wheel on his left palm. Good luck getting Bill to wear anything, though.

2) I have absolutely no idea, but it’s probably something sleazy

3) Stan, quite rightfully, calls Bill ‘creep’, or ‘scumbag’. Ford calls him ‘Cipher’ - which isn’t a nickname - but he has an array of geometry-related insults that confuse everyone except Dipper and Bill himself.

4) Gideon had a bad time.

5) Gompers is just a goat! He wanders around eating random stuff.

CIA!Tom: Chapter One

A/N: new fic I am working on!! hopefully you guys like it! reblog to spread the word!! (-:




Chapter One:

Keep reading


Hey! Can I have a carl imagine where the reader is just a badass (I imagine something like Harley Quinn) during the lineup and she gets taken with Daryl and carl goes to get her(the episode when he has to sing) and he sees her and like busts her out? If you can’t it’s chill❤️

I hope you like it!💕

-I took me a long time to post this because I’m really self-conscious about it, but I hope you enjoy it.

Negan had you all on your knees, shaking and crying, but not you. After he killed Abraham and Glenn, you were the only one who didn’t show him that he had hurt you, you couldn’t give him the satisfaction. That meant you had to bite the insides of your cheeks and sink your nails in the palms of your hands. Negan swung his bat and a string of blood landed on your face.

He stood right in front of you, you looked straight into his eyes as you wiped the blood off with the back of your hand.

“You’re fucking crazy, darling”, Negan said with a twinge of amazement at how badass you had been compared to the rest of the group, he could tell you were certainly different. “I’m gonna have to take you with me.”

“Why?”, you asked with a frown. He didn’t answer, he called his men to take you to his truck and they kept you there for a while, then you heard the doors open again and they threw Daryl inside, next to you.

The doors closed and you felt the truck moving.

“You’re quiet today”, you said while looking at him. He turned to look at you, with his puffy red eyes.

Daryl didn’t say anything, he just stared at you for a moment.

“I don’t think any of it was your fault”, you said. “If that helps at all.”

The truck stopped suddenly, and you knew you had arrived.

The blonde guy with the burnt face opened the doors and pulled you out.

“Hello, boys!”, you said with a sarcastic laugh; you were just two people, just Daryl and you, you didn’t know why there were so many men waiting for you with their guns in hand.

“Dwight”, Negan called and the blonde guy turned around. “Take Daryl to his cell, I’’ll take her.”

Negan grabbed your arm and started walking towards the front gates.

“Ouch”, you complained as he pulled you, his grip on your arm was really strong.

“Sorry, darling, can’t risk you getting away”, he told you.

“Why not?”, you asked simply.

“I already told you”, he said. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I’ve heard that before”, you said. “I just can’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

“Crazy people are unpredictable.”

“Yeah, I think we are”, you giggled.

Negan stopped in front of a grey door and it creaked when he swung it open, he threw you inside and closed it before you could even turn around.

The only light that entered the room was from under the door, but it didn’t light the room much. It was too dark, and you wondered if you were alone in there. Of course, inside your head, it never got lonely. Because of the voices.


Carl couldn’t sleep that night, he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving you in hands of someone like Negan. But there wasn’t much he could do in the middle of the night, so he decided he would go in the morning, once everyone was out of the community to scavenge for the things Negan had asked.


You couldn’t stop thinking about Carl, you knew he was worried about you because he always was. You missed him terribly, and the worst part was that you didn’t even know when you would see him again.

Carl had always been there for you, ever since you met him you had felt completely enchanted by his shiny eyes and the way his freckles overcrowded his nose and cheeks. All the moments you had shared with him were more special for you than your life before the apocalypse. Like the day you found a gallon of pudding and ate it together, which is where your nickname for him came from: Puddin’.

You sighed deeply and shook you head, you tried to think about something that didn’t make you so sad; like killing everyone at that place and escaping. It wouldn’t be easy, it was pretty much impossible, but you had to think of something.


Carl was already riding in the truck that was supposed to go to the place where Negan lives, he was hiding behind the things the Saviours had picked up from the Hilltop.

There were several guns piled up inside a box, he picked the biggest one and kept it close to him.

He didn’t have a solid plan, he was just going to go with it and kill whomever he had to kill, the only thing he knew he had to do was find you and bring you back home.

The truck pulled over and Carl took a deep breath, and when one of the men went to the back to unload the stuff, Carl shot him. The man fell flat in front of Carl and as his body hit the floor, his keys caught Carl’s attention. He grabbed them quickly and put them on the back pocket of his jeans before anyone saw him.

He heard Negan’s whistling and followed him with the barrel of the gun.

“You are adorable”, he chuckled but there was still a little bit of fear in his voice. “I think I know why you’re here, kid.”

Dwight pushed Carl to the ground and grabbed his gun, but before he could start searching him in case he had more weapons, Negan stopped him.

“Is that any way to treat our new guest?”, he said and Dwight backed off. Negan offered a hand to Carl. “Come on, kid, I’ll show you around.”

Carl stared right into Negan’s eyes, reluctant to take his hand.

“Then I guess you won’t be seeing much of your girl today”, he said. Carl was angry he even knew how he felt about you, but Negan was probably right, the only way he would see you and get you out of there would be by going in there with Negan.

Carl took his hand and stood up.

“Smart kid”, Negan smirked.

“What are you doing to her?”

“I was planning on doing the same I did to Daryl, but I’m afraid it just won’t work”, Negan told him. “She’s already way too fucked up.”

Negan took him inside and showed him the place. Everyone in there kneeled as Negan walked by and they called him “sir” or “boss”, no one did that for Rick back in Alexandria.

He took Carl to a fancy room, there were a bunch of women wearing black dresses, sitting on the couches and talking to each other.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, dear wife?”, Negan called one of them and with his finger signalled where he wanted them to talk, the woman who had been talking to a crying girl stood up from the couch and walked to the place where Negan had pointed his finger to.

Carl remembered how earlier Negan had said that he wouldn’t have time to screw any of his wives. So all of them were just that, his wives. Carl looked around, looking for you but at the same time hoping not to find your face amongst them.
Negan then walked towards the girl that was crying, she certainly seemed much more fragile once Negan sat in front of her.

They talked about something Carl couldn’t quite understand, but he didn’t care much either if it wasn’t about you. Negan went back to the first woman he had talked to, and started kissing her.

Someone showed up at the door and Negan held a finger up, telling them to wait.
Carl looked at them and saw it was Dwight and Daryl.

“Daryl”, he whispered and both of them immediately turned to see if Negan had heard him. He was still kissing his wife, so Carl and Daryl turned to look at each other again.

“She’s in a cell”, Daryl whispered as well. “The one next to mine.”

“Where is it?”, Carl asked him.

“I’ll show you”, Daryl said. “We’ll have to wait until he gets the iron.”

Carl didn’t understand what that meant, but he didn’t want to wait until that happened.

“There’s no time, I can’t wait”, Carl said and looked back at Negan, then at Dwight. Negan was still kissing her, and Dwight was looking intently at them. It was now or never, so Carl sneaked out of the room and ran through the corridors. He looked around for anything that looked like a cell but all the grey doors looked the same.

He wanted to call your name but he knew that if anyone heard him and he get caught, Negan would kill him. Or worse, he would kill you.

Negan would be done kissing his wife by now, and he probably already realised that Carl was gone, so he couldn’t waste any more time.

Carl heard footsteps approaching on the hall and he immediately entered an empty room.

“I have to take this food for her”, one of the men said.

“Isn’t that Fat Joey’s job?”

“Yeah, but she sent him to Carson’s yesterday”, he said. “She creeps me out.”

“That’s just a whole lot of pretty in a whole lot of crazy”, the other one said.

Carl knew they were talking about you, so he followed them until they reached the cell you were in.

After the men left the tray with food and locked the door, Carl waited until they were out of sight to try and open the door. He took the set of keys he had snatched from the dead man and tried with at least five keys before he found the right one. He opened the door quietly and stepped inside. He closed the door and narrowed his eyes to look for you in the darkness.

“What now?”, you asked, thinking one of the Saviours had come back.

“(Y/N)?”, Carl called. “It’s me.”

“Puddin’!”, you exclaimed and jumped on him. You couldn’t see it, but he was smiling. “How did you find me?”

“It’s a crazy story”, he said.

“Oh goody, ‘cause I love crazy stories”, you giggled and climbed down from him.

A siren went off on the corridors, Negan was clearly aware that Carl was gone and was alarming the rest of the community.  

“We have to get out of here”, Carl told you. “But it won’t be easy.”

“I’m sure finding me wasn’t easy either”, you said. “But you did it!”

“Getting out of here will be much harder than that”, he told you and searched for your face in the darkness, he placed a hand on your cheek and touched it softly, then he kissed it.

“Well, we better do it now then!”, you said and opened the door abruptly.

“No, wait!”, he yelled.

“Let’s go!”, you chuckled. “You’re not scared of shit, you’re not scared right now, are you?”

“No”, Carl shook his head.

“Then let’s go, Puddin’!”, you grabbed his hand and pulled him as you ran through the hall and tried to get out of there.