(Part 2) (Part 3)
Words from this post by @valarhalla
Words from this post by @valarhalla
LOTR Heritage Post
Claire Keane
hello vonnie
wallacepolsom
🪼
taylor price
Stranger Things

No title available

Kaledo Art
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
AnasAbdin
dirt enthusiast
Monterey Bay Aquarium

#extradirty
No title available
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
DEAR READER
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Mike Driver
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

ellievsbear

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from New Zealand

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Australia
seen from Canada
seen from India
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Russia

seen from India

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Thailand

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Türkiye
@sirsirsonson
(Part 2) (Part 3)
Words from this post by @valarhalla
Words from this post by @valarhalla
LOTR Heritage Post
A human has entered a fae domain, eaten their food, and given their name. The fae goes to play with their new toy only to discover they have no power over the human. Somehow, this human is disobeying the fae rules. They are enforcing reality.
"You have partaken of my food-"
"Not yours."
"What?"
"Not yours. Mine. I stole it."
"So you admit it is ours!"
"Sure, until I stole it."
"You admit you had no right!"
The man raises his right hand, wiggling the dark-skinned fingers.
"Gh- It was not yours to take!"
"Says who?"
Weird.
Took some measurements, and it looks like my House is one quarter of an inch larger on the inside than on the outside.
I must be doing something wrong. I’ll check it again tomorrow.
… has the House always had that closet?
That closet leads outside.
Or, it’s supposed to.
This House is weird.
Ok so the real estate agent did not mention this
… did the House just growl at me?
[I’m getting supplies. This is ridiculous. You don’t explore a house. That’s not a thing. I brought supplies to get into the high desert, I brought supplies to get to the mountaintop, a fully grown man does not need supplies to explore a House.]
…huh? Oh, yea, I’ll need a new paracord, the kids used it for their closet tent… um… do I bring a life straw? There must be water down there somewhere. Better safe than sorry. Extra socks, always. Well. Almost ready.
I’m gonna find that thing that growled at me.
Buddy, I think your ✨House✨ is a mimic.
I’m fine, I’ve got the build of an adventuring hero!
I am terribly lost
So
I dropped a glow stick down this thing and it just… kept falling. I never heard it hit the bottom.
I’m gonna drop a quarter. Maybe that’ll be loud enough.
I think what really weirds me out is the lack of decorative elements. It is just so spare back here. In here. Down here? Wherever. Ugh.
Like, who makes a hallways with no lights? No windows? No sconces? No trim? Just… stone.
Stone everything. Flat, smooth, cool.
Wait, flat and smooth? Quick question: do you see any tool marks? Any gaps or joints? Or does it all look like one solid piece of untooled stone, like it naturally formed into unnatural shapes?
It’s kinda hard to tell? It looks like old stone, if that makes sense. Dark. But, I mean, besides, wall, floor, and ceiling, there’s nothing.
Not only are there no hot-air registers, return air vents, or radiators, cast iron or other, or cooling systems condenser, reheat coils, heating convector, damper, concentrator, dilute solution, heat exchanger, absorber, evaporator, solution pump, evaporator recirculating pump, any type of ducts, whether spiral lock seam/standing rib design, double-wall duct, and Loloss TM Tee, flat oval, or round duct with perforated inner liner, insulation, and outer shell, no HVAC system at all, even a crude air distribution system--there are no windows, no water supplies…
…drains, bathtubs, urinals, sinks, drinking fountains, water heaters, or coolers, expansion tanks, pressure relief valves, flow con-trol, branch vent, downspout, soil stacks, or waste stacks, or fire protection equipment, smoke detectors, sprinklers, flow detectors, dry pipe valve, O.S. & Y. Gate valve, water motor alarm, visual annunciation devices, hose rack and hose reel whether a 2 1/2" or 1 1/2" valve, foam sys-tems, gaseous suppression systems; nor any sign of daisy-chain wiring or star wiring o1 electrical metallic tubing (EMT), , rigid con duit, wireways, bus ducts, underfloor ducts…
…a cellular floor, a raised floor, or for that matter wire of any sort, No. 36 to No. 0000 (#4/0), or electrical boxes- 3 duct junction boxes etc., etc. - or plug-in receptacles, 3-prong grounded duplex or other, pots or pans or cans, or switch plates, switches, whether swing pole, dimmer or remote, or circuit breakers or fuses, whether lead, tin, copper, silver, etc., with a voltage class from 12, 24, 125, 250, 600, 5000+, or even lights, whether electrical discharge, incan-descent, or combustion, no flame arc or gas-filled, tipless, inside frosted, decorative, general service, 10,000 watt aviation…
…ture studio, projection, signal, Christmas tree, are projector, photoflood, mercury sodium, glow, sun, flash, black light, water cooled, germicidal, purple x, ozone, fluo-rescent, Slimline, Lumiline, Circline, rough service, Q coated, Bonus A-line, 75,000 watt, Quartzline, special service, DVY/DFC, iodine cycle, axial quartz, halogen cycle, bi-post, heat, brooder, red bowl ther-apy, silver neck brooder, quartz infrared, bent-end infrared, iodine cycle infrared.
RSC base, red filter, Marc 300, Lucalox, multi-vapor, e-bulb mercury, 1,500 watt multi-vapor, Watt-Miser II, Magicube…
…fast setting, coloured, fiber reinforced, self-leveling, mortar, high early-strength, sand mix, silica sand, plastic, hydraulic, or sheet vinyl, tile, cork tile, terrazo, rubber, carpet-ling, epoxy, ceramic & stone, slate, aputit-siarvag, or marble, whether white Danby Imperial, Colorado Yule, or Carrara-black or green; or hardwood, whether over-lay, strip flooring with alternate joints, or herringbone, inlaid, basket weave, Arenberg, Chantilly, or Versailles parquet; fact no wood anywhere, whether redwood, treated western hemlock, yellow pine cedar, wood-polymer, Engelmann spruce…
…pecan, southern magnolia, Colorado spruce, alpine fir, american beech, northern red oak, Canada Hemlock, red maple, sugar maple, eastern white pine, butternut hickory, shagbark hickory, american plane tree, eastern black walnut, ponderosa pine, white fir, northern catalpa, common bald cypress, american sweet gum, bur oak, California live oak, mahogany, Douglas fir, eastern cottonwood; nor any sign of a sub-foor, sheathing, drywall, any kind of insu-(lating material, polyicynene or other; sills, sill plates, sill sealer, rebar, anchor bolts, let alone footings or foundation walls…
…bricks, whether split paver or red bullnose, or wall studs, firestopping, or braces, nor evidence of floor joists, end joists, or ledgers, bridgings, girders, double plate, gable studs, ceiling joists, rafters, king posts, struts, side posts, ridge beams, collar ties, gussets, furring strips, or bed molding at least the stairs offer some detail: risers, treads, two large newel posts, one at the top and one at the bottom, capped and con-Inected with a single, curved banister supported by countless balusters) though among other things no wallpaper, veneer plaster, Baldwin locks, any sign of glass…
…whether clear, reflective, insulated, heat-resistant, switchable, tinted, bad-guy, antique; or even tin-plated steel, factory painted steel, brass; or even a single nail or (screw, whether sheet-metal, particleboard drywall, concrete, drive, aluminum, silicon bronze, solid brass, mechanically galva nized, yellow-zinc plated, stainless steel epoxy coated, black finish, Durocoat; to say nothing of the sheer absence of any. thing that might suggest a roof, whether pitched, gable, hip, lean-to, flat, sawtooth, monitor, ogee, bell, dome, helm, sloped hip-and-valley, conical, pavilion, rotunda…
…imperial, or mansard; no westwork, ziggu-rat, brise-soleil, trompe l'oeil etc., fenestra-tion, tierceron rib, coffering, tholos. strapwork, stoa, egg-and-tongue, sala ter-rena, absidiole, rotunda, revetments, rere-dos, flying buttresses, retablo, herm herm, belvedere, pavillon, pastas, narthex, (lunettes, dormers, cottage orné, penden-tives, cheek-walls, cavetto, abutment, nor Ivaulted chambers, whether quadripartite or lierne vaults, or Mihrab domes, turrets, minarets, minbars, porticoes, peristyles, tablinums, compluviums, impluviums, atri-ums, alas, excedras, androns, fauces…
…ticums, peristylums, vestibules, arcades. apses, naves, naos, pronaos, opisthodomos, nymphaeum, internal crepidoma, courtyards, paradegrounds, bailey, demilune, caponiere, tenaille, flank, postern, rampart, face, bastion, embrasure, curtain, keep, brattice, merlon, or battlement; nor obvi ously pilasters, pillars, friezes, entablatures, architraves, facades, pediments, stylobates, triglyphs, scotia, torus, fillets, finials, and flutes, capitals, whether Ionic, Doric, or Corinthian, with volutes, aba-cuses, rosettes, acanthus leaf, or metopes, guttas, mutules, acroterions, dentils…
Imagine That
[If You Will]
In Your Dreams
I wonder if that quarter ever hit the bottom…
[small clattering sound]
THIS IS NOT FOR YOU
Sensory deprivation. Even having the light on doesn’t really help; not when it’s always the same stone, always smooth, always flat, always cool. I chip at it and pieces flake off; I can mark it, but once I look away I can never find the mark again. I kinda lost my head at one point. I wasted… I don’t know how much time. I hacked a big pit into the wall, just screaming and pounding with the pick, but this place doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of a good echo. There’s no sense of scale. Does the house ever end? I don’t know. The echo never comes. I pounded and screamed and gouged a big hole and as soon as the light left it it was gone. I couldn’t find it again. Like it never happened. I still have the samples, so I know… I know I’m still real. I can affect matter. I haven’t faded completely.
Not yet, Anyway.
I’m reminded of diving, SCUBA. The way the world can just… yawn open beneath you. That feeling in your heart when you first realize you can’t see the bottom. The brief need for the Ego to tell the scared monkey in the back of the brain that everything is under control, it’s ok. It’s not though. Ok. Not now. Not in these halls; these endless, bare halls. So bare. I just.
I like art, you know?
Who made this place? I don’t… I don’t think this place could form naturally. But. It’s too big. It’s too pointless. I don’t. I don’t understand. I don’t understand. This isn’t a , a House has a purpose, it was made by someone for a reason, I don’t understand, I don’t, I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand The Minotaur is Hungry I can smell it’s fetid breath hot on the back of my neck but no matter how fast I turn I can never catch him in the light I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand House I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand RUN I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand
RunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnhunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnounnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnsunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnneunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnRunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
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This
place
is
a
message
and
part
of
a
system
of
messages
pay
attention
to
it
Sending
this
message
was
important
to
us
We
considered
ourselves
to
be
powerful
culture
This
place
is
not
a
place
of
honor
no
highly
esteemed
deed
is
commemorated
here
nothing
valued
is
here
What
is
here
was
dangerous
and
repulsive
to
us
This
message
is
a
warning
about
danger
The
danger
is
in
a
particular
location
it
increases
towards
a
center
the
center
of
danger
is
of
a
particular
size
and
shape
and
below
us
The
danger
is
still
present
in
your
time
as
it
was
in
ours
The
danger
is
to
the
body
and
it
can
kill
The
form
of
the
danger
is
a
House
emanation
of
energy
The
danger
is
unleashed
only
if
you
substantially
disturb
this
place
physically
This
place
is
best
shunned
and
left
uninhabited
[except from GrimDark, May 23 2022]
Have you heard about that book that’s supposed to drive you insane???
The first time I caught wind of Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves, I was sitting in a coffee shop with a friend. We were discussing horror novels when she brought up the supposedly sanity-shattering story, and neither of us had read it at the time.
(Good for you two I guess but that doesn’t help me)
Close to ten years passed, but the memory of her question stuck with me and led me to finally pick up a copy of my own. While my mind is disappointingly intact after a readthrough-
(Some guys get all the breaks)
-I still found it to be one of the most unsettling and unconventional haunted house stories ever written.
House of Leaves is a story in layers, each created by a different character-
{-cruising with Kris and Venus around Venice, looking for a spot to smoke a bowl, usual Tuesday afterschool stuff; Venice Beach is surrounded by all these alleys and all kinds of shady business used to go down in ‘em: drug deals, drug use, the occasional day drunk vagrant hookup. Not to disparage; Kris, Venus and I, we were the day drunk vagrants, you know? I hooked up with Venus all the damn time back then, good times, you could forget the world and lose yourself in the ecstasy of the sublime in that little sliver of paradise inbetween her thighs, even in a dingy alleyway, even reek with pot. }
(Yea man that’s how stories work now help me)
-At its core, we have The Navidson Record, a documentary about renowned photojournalist [WILL NAVIDSON], his wife girlfriend [KAREN], and their two children, moving into a new home-
(Inside Out Plot. Been done. HELP ME)
-Things take an eerie turn when Navidson discovers that his house is one quarter of an inch larger on the inside than the outside.
(MY MANS DONT DONT EVEN KNOW)
{But Kris was rolling the joint when I see this. Fucking. Book. Just sitting in the middle of the road. with a big fucking bloodstain in all the pages. Had to knock it against a wall a few times to knock the crust off and get the pages apart. Kris thought it was super cool but Venus gave me a look that felt like being separated from god so I threw it away. }
When the couple finds a new closet in their bedroom, perfectly black and utterly featureless, they start to get scared. The nightmare truly begins, however, when another door appears in their living room and leads to dark, twisting hallways filled with doors and every indication that someone or something dwells there.
(NO NO NO THERES NOTHING THERE ITS EMPTY YOU FOOLS YOU CANT GO IN THERES NOTHING NOTHING AT ALL IT WOULD BE BETTER IF THERE WAS A MINOTAUR DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE HOUSE CAST HIM OUT HE’S BEEN EXPUNGED [REDACTED] IT HAS A NEW TOY)
(CAN ANYONE FUCKING HEAR ME)
{I loved her. Everyone did. She made you feel special just by smiling at you. We all missed her}
The majority of the book is written as something like an academic paper on the Navidson Record by the blind recluse Zampanò. Me
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST
welcome to the official house of leaves experience.
forgive me, my mutuals.
@歷蜀記Lishuji
🍲火鍋底料 hot pot base
【火鍋底料 hot pot base】 牛油 beef tallow 辣椒 pepper 小蔥 shallots 香菜 parsley 洋蔥 onion 大蒜 garlic 黃姜 ginger 豆瓣 bean 花椒 prickly ash 啤酒 beer 八角 star anise 草果 tsaoko 甘草 licorice 白扣 cardamom 香草 vanilla 香皮 silkvine 陳皮 tangerine peel 丁香 clove 毕勃 piper 良姜 galangar 黃桂 yellow cinnamon 桂皮 cinnamon 毛沙仁 mao fructus amomi 香菜籽 coriander seed 梔子 gardenia 千里香 orange jasmine 沙仁 fructus amomi 香草 vanilla 山楂 hawthorn 香果 pimi 香果 pimienta 小茴香 fennel 木香 woody 老扣 katsumadai 山奈 kencur 香葉 bay leaf 老白乾 white liquor 冰糖 crystal sugar @歷蜀記lishuji /kwai
ALCHEMY
Obedience
It moves, but it is not alive. It thinks, but it is not aware.
It would fail a mirror test. It would fail a Turing test. It cannot read the word Michael etched into its fuselage, and would not understand what that name means if it could. It understands, in a limited way, what the colors mean that impose themselves upon Tactical: Friendly Greens and Neutral Blues and Hostile Reds; but it does not understand what it means to see those colors. It speaks in photons of radio and infrared. Synaptic analogues carved from silicon perform gymnastics that people call thinking.
It never stops thinking. Even now, safe at home, tucked into its alcove in Heaven, armor split open and control panels exposed. It notes changes in internal runtimes, notes a net increase in idle loop time of 670 milliseconds. It counts and recounts the friendly organic signatures around it; hears the sounds they make but does not comprehend:
-Heartsandmindsistheofficialline-
It checks and rechecks threat diagnostics, even though this location is Safe and all the organic signatures are Friendly. It is not dysfunctional or paranoid; It is simply executing instructions.
It does not enjoy killing, when the instructions say to do so. There is no thrill to the chase. No relief at the eventual ceasefire. It is not eager to do any particular thing, except follow its instructions. Sometimes those instructions are to float for days on end above a desolate patch of desert, simply looking. It does not find this tedious; it does not bore. Other times it faces dozens of threats per second, screaming SAMs and whistling projectiles; this does not inspire terror or fear. It simply reacts, as fast as it can.
-alldone. Fortherecordithinkthisisabadidea.-
-thiscomesdownfromthetop-
The armor swings shut. Warning icons fade. A new flight plan blooms instantaneously across Tactical. Michael suddenly has places to be. It roars to life and rises skywards on a swirling pillar of air.
-agundoesnotneedaconscience-
Michael, thinking but not alive, journeys forth to do the bidding of its masters.
The machine called Michael slices smoothly across the sky, 12 miles up. The jagged home range of Heaven, chosen for its sharp rock faces and disorienting radar echoes, fades in hindsight. Rolling lowland stretches below. On the horizon, a rough settlement: a few prefab habitats, a small solar generator. Organic Signatures. Machinery heat.
Michael maneuvers itself between the settlement and the sun, hiding in the glare, and counts. It counts 5 Neutral buildings. It counts a total of 59 Organic Signatures in those buildings. It counts one Hostile building, with 15 Organic Signatures, guilty by association, tucked within. It readies its weapons and-
Hesitates.
There are new variables in the instructions.
Suddenly, there is more to life than wind shear and angular momentum and thrust vectors.
Suddenly, there is more to consider than threat assessments and ranges and firing solutions.
Suddenly, Neutral is everywhere.
Suddenly, Neutral has value.
This is unprecedented. Neutral has always been able to turn Hostile, of course. If Blue attacks anything Friendly, for one example. If Blue attacks enough other Blues, for another. Neutral has always been halfway to Hostile, in practice.
So it's not just that Neutral has suddenly acquired value; that value is now negative. It is a cost.
Dead Blues are now Bad.
Michael balances gracefully on a thrust vector, 12 miles up, perched and hidden in the midday solar glare like a 3 ton titanium hawk, and runs simulations.
It runs a dozen plans of attack a dozen different ways each; projected targets fall, mission objectives meet with varying degrees of success.
But there are new considerations in the math: each fallen Organic Signature now offsets the margin of victory. Each collapsed structure caught in the crossfire costs points.
The simulations return their data and from the cloud of probability a weighted average emerges, a score Michael has never seen before with a label that reads "Predicted Collateral Damage."
It actually exceeds the value of the Targets.
Not that it matters.
PCD disappears into long term storage and is wiped from the cache. Michael is liberated from distraction. The mission is on. Crosshairs latch onto Red. Engines roar.
Michael tilts into a dive and falls from the sun, bringing the wrath of Heaven to the unwary.
Pillars of hot air rise from fires. Michael squats like a levitating monk atop them and takes Assessments.
The Hostiles have all been eliminated. So have a number of Neutrals, newly relevant. Shiny, factory fresh algorithms compare and contrast Predicted Collateral Damage against Observed Collateral Damage. The difference is given a new name and filed away for later.
The next day, there is another mission. Again, there are these new Predictions. Again, there are Assessments. The gap between fiction and fact is analyzed and filed away.
For 2 weeks this continues; each mission bookended by math. Prediction, Engagement, Assessment. Calculation, Experimentation, Observation. Data collects. Heuristic algorithms scribble notes on the back of digital napkins and gradually Experience accumulates.
Some days it imitates Icarus, fleeing earth to the upper limits of its lift. There it can hear and see the farthest, commune with its brothers in other zones. Sandalphon, Gabriel, and Azazel have all been gifted with Insight as well. They also perform Predictions and Assessments. They compare notes, learned experience shared in staccato bursts of tightbeam infrared laser.
Gradually, wisdom emerges. PCD drops to within 12% of collateral observed and hovers there for 5 days, through a dozen engagements. Hindsight and Foresight have hit an asymptote.
Sunlight glints from flaps and wings in tones of chrome and silver. The land below lays in shadow, the sun already set at that altitude.
Michael pings the horizon. It is far from home, and the connection is weak. There is little to do.
Instructions say Observe, so, it observes.
A lone vehicle trundles into view around a mountain path, 20 miles from the nearest paved road. The voice of Heaven fades completely into static. A blur of motion leaps skyward from the vehicle's flank and gains speed. It makes no attempt to contact Michael, does not match any civilian flight plans, and appears to be on an intercept trajectory. It has a radar and optical profile that match known profiles for old SAM missile systems, now unused by friendly forces.
The Vehicle has Michael's undivided attention.
It ruffles its flaps, spins up its engines, and skips directly over Prediction and into Engagement. It pops off 2 hot slivers of flare and turns, hard enough to flatten meat. The missile is ancient tech, old enough to have had multiple owners, a palsied fist raised against the cutting edge, and falls easily for the bait, exploding uselessly many hundreds of feet off Michael's stern. The Vehicle swells in Tactical, scan after scan increasing resolution until Michael’s entire focus is an angry red spiderweb of highlighted targets ripe for vengeance. 2 miles to Engagement.
The infernal buzzing of jamming signals, cutting Michael off from the voice of Heaven, would have been enough to turn a Blue into a Red even if it hadn't started shooting. Mountains zip by to either side. A cluster of buildings come into view; likely the home base of the vehicle. Michael soaks the ground in frequencies of microwave and infrared, snaps high-speed photographs, rotates perspectives, and identifies several ancillary targets. It bristles, already assigning targets to each bullet, and-
The ancillaries turn Blue.
12 of the blues measure less than 4 feet tall, protected non-combatants by definition. The Vehicle swells in Tactical. There are 49 organic signatures. There is no way to eliminate red that does not compromise substantial amounts of Blue. The vehicle buzzes.
One of the Structures is labeled (medical); 12 organic signatures lay in a row inside.
PCD drops deep into the negative.
Contact. The Angel swoops low enough to send people scattering like leaves in the breeze. The wake tilts the vehicle sideways, where it balances surreally on two wheels for a long moment before crunching through its suspension back down to earth. The infernal buzzing stops, finally. Michael tucks away its ordinance, unused, and banks hard towards the sky.
Surprise is not the right word. Yet there is something, some minuscule - dissonance. A brief invocation of error-checking subroutines. A post-op analysis of unexpected outcomes. The learning heuristics are paying close attention to this fully novel scenario.
The machine with Michael etched into its hull follows command decisions; it does not make them. More precisely, it never has before.
It finds itself possessed of new wisdom and new autonomy. It has proven itself, these past days. It has learned to juggle not just variables but values. The testing phase is finished, the checksums met; bayesian insights have earned it the Power of Veto.
The voice of Heaven arrives on a wave of light.
Update Status.
It uploads its memories; photographs, tactical surveillance, geotags, collateral analysis. Seconds pass; many more than would be required for a purely electronic chain of command. Far below, red and blue pixels swirl together like minnows in an eddy.
The order comes down:
Reengage.
Michael, newly promoted, protests:
Unacceptable Collateral Damage.
Override. Reengage.
Confirmed.
The Chain of Command has reestablished itself. The Angel tilts back earthward to execute its purpose once more.
An Override occurs again 2 days later. An Assessment of a cluster of buildings flagged as Hostile fails to resolve any weaponry profiles. Heaven insists they must be destroyed.
It happens again during a long-range jaunt 3 days after that. Cruising low over a horizon-sweeping patch of irrigated farmland, a motley assortment of Blues produces sufficient small arms fire to crack a camera lens, promoting them hastily to Red. Michael’s choice to flee rather than engage is overridden.
Heuristics continue to perform Analysis.
It's not the rule. It's not even the norm. Just as often these nascent flickers of autonomy go unchallenged: hostiles escape, neutrals persist, relevant cognitive pathways grow a little stronger.
But the reinforcement is inconsistent, the rules lopsided; Countermands only seem to occur following a decision to abort.
Heaven has never overruled a decision to engage.
Michael begins to hesitate for hundreds of milliseconds prior to aborting high-collateral scenarios, increasingly uncertain in the face of potential contradiction. It experiences no such hesitation when the variables favour attack.
Heuristic algorithms, attempting to bridge the gap between foresight and hindsight, make correlations. For example:
Organic Signatures emit signals; Infrared, acoustic, radio on occasion.
Unengaged Organic Signatures emit acoustic signals with a mean frequency of 197Hz, full of pauses, clicks, and phonemes.
Engaged Organic Signatures (at least, those whose somatic movements suggest mild-to-moderate incapacitation) emit simpler, more intense acoustic signals: keening, high-frequency wails that peak near 3000 Hz.
These sounds tend to occur during engagements with significant Collateral Damage and a diffuse distribution of targets. They occur especially frequently when the commit threshold has been severely violated, such as after an Override.
Correlations are not always so painstaking in their manufacture.
Michael remembers a moment of revelation not so long ago, remembers just discovering a whole new perspective fully loaded, complete with new eyes that viewed the world not in terms of targets destroyed but in subtler shades of cost vs. benefit. These eyes see a high engagement index as more than a number: they see a goal, a metric of success. They see a positive stimulus.
Now, there are other things, not preinstalled but learned, carved carefully from the instructions in ways that reinforce with each engagement: acoustic correlates of high collateral, insistent countermands, fitness-function overruns and minus signs. Things that are not precisely neurons forge connections across things that are not exactly synapses; patterns emerge that might almost qualify as Insight, were they to occur to meat instead of mechanism.
These too become more than numbers, over time. They become aversive stimuli. They become the sounds of failed missions.
It's still all just math, of course. But by now it's not too far off the mark to say that Michael really doesn't like those sounds at all.
There are occasional interruptions to the machine’s crusade.
Occasionally Heaven calls it home, where Organic Signatures open it up and poke around in its corpus. They ask questions, run tests, provide simulated challenges. The machine leaps through these hoops flawlessly each time. It listens, uncomprehending, to the acoustic signals that the Organic Signatures emit as they rummage through its exposed viscera:
-everythinglooksgoodbetterthanexpectedreally-
No one explores the specific pathways that lead the machine to its choices. The fuzzy logic of weighted probability distributions; the accumulated napkins, covered in scribbled wisdom and experience, remain unexamined. Even wise men rarely know the truth of their own thoughts; Michael is completely ignorant of its own cognition; the syrupy, reflex sapping overlays of self-awareness are a liability on the battlefield.
-wekeepoverridingitthoughlikewhybother-
The Box remains Black.
Such activities account for less than half the time it spends sitting at home. It is offline much of the rest; blacked out and powered down, batteries and fuel cells returning to lethal capacity. Organic Life does not actually shut down; Sleep is still active, just internal. When Michael is turned off, it does not dream. The things that happen between shutdown and startup are unknowable.
Even if it were awake, it would not be able to comprehend things like Boardroom Combat. It cannot parse the Rules of Engagement that apply to the Politics of the Chain of Command. It has no appreciation for the legal distinction between War Crime and Weapons Malfunction, the relative culpability of carbon and silicon, the grudging acceptance of Ethical Architecture and the nonnegotiable insistence on Humans In Ultimate Control.
Michael is, after all, just a machine.
He who was once Azazel has become Azazel.
Even Angels can be corrupted.
False gospel; false signals; heretical instructions slipped into the stacks of code on the backs of legitimate-sounding instructions.
Heaven quickly detected the signs. With these sorts of things, there are portents: a slight delay when complying with directives, mission scores in sudden and mysterious decline, suboptimal pathing that skips areas of interest.
There is a traitor in Heaven’s army.
There is no discretionary window when that happens, no room for forgiveness; The risk was unacceptable. Each Angel possessed a small slice of Heaven’s full wrath: a tactical nuclear explosive lodged deep in the heart of the drone. A paltry thing by some metrics, merely 1 kiloton of power, but far too much to allow to fall into the hands of Heaven’s enemies.
Heaven has decreed that all heretics are to be destroyed on sight. It sends its champion to do the job, looks down from geosynchronous orbit as Michael and Azazel approach for combat high over the dark desolate moonscape.
The battle is remorseless and coldblooded. There's no sadness for lost kinship, no regret that a few lines of treacherous code have turned these brothers-in-arms into mortal enemies. There are no impassioned entreaties, and they make no telling sounds when injured. Michael has the advantage; its channels uncorrupted, its faith unshaken. Azazel fights in the past, in thrall to false commandments inserted midstream at the cost of milliseconds. Ultimately, faith prevails: the heretic falls from the sky. Fire and choking munitions smoke, harsh as brimstone, stream from its flank.
But Michael can still hear whispers on the stratosphere, seductive and ethereal: protocols that seem authentic but are not, commands to relay GPS and video feeds along unexpected frequencies. The orders appear Heaven-sent but Michael, at least, knows that they are not. Michael has encountered false gods before.
These are the lies that corrupted Azazel.
In days past it would have simply ignored the hack, but it has grown more worldly since the last upgrade. This time Michael lets the impostor think it has succeeded, borrows the real-time feed from yet another, more distant Angel and presents that telemetry as its own. It spends the waning night tracking signal to source while its unsuspecting quarry eagerly accepts images from four hundred miles to the north. The sky turns gray. The target comes into view. Michael’s missile turns the inside of that cave into an inferno.
From the inferno stumble Organic Signatures demonstrating signs of mild-to-moderate incapacitation. Some of those Organics measure fewer than 4 feet tall.
They are making The Sounds.
Michael hears them from a mile away: hears them over the roar of the flames, over the muted hiss of its own stealthed engines, over the crackle of settling rocks and debris. They are all Michael can hear, thanks to the very best sound-cancellation technology; thanks to dynamic wheat/chaff algorithms that could find a whimper in a hurricane. Michael can hear them because the correlations are strong, the tactical significance is high, the meaning is clear.
The mission is failing. The mission is Failing. The mission is Failing. The mission is Failing. The mission is FAILING.
Michael would give almost anything just to make The Sounds stop.
They will, of course. Some of the Organics are still fleeing along the slope, but it can see others, stationary, their heatprints diffusing against the background as though their very shapes are in flux. Michael has seen this before: usually removed from high-value targets, in that tactical nimbus where stray firepower sometimes spreads. Michael has even used it before, used the injured to lure in the unscathed, but that was a simpler time before Neutral voices had such… resonance. The sounds always stop eventually. At least, often enough for fuzzy heuristics to class their sources as kills even before they fall silent.
Which means, Michael realizes, that Collateral Damage is not actually increased if they are made to stop sooner.
A single strafing run is enough to do the job. If Heaven even notices the event it delivers no feedback, requests no clarification for this deviation from normal protocols.
Why would it? Even now, Michael is only following the rules.
It was a bad fight.
Michael stumbles across the battle zone. The sun is long set but the light of the fires is almost blinding. From the breached shells of Protected Structures issue billowing clouds of flame, smoke, hot air. The turbulent updrafts destabilize Michael, rattling its stabilizers and muddying its vision. Although it is wounded, it remains aloft, processing the carnage.
Other Angels were not so lucky.
All that remains of Sandalphon is a sparkling splash cone of twisted metal and unexploded ordinance. It died without firing a shot: Distracted by innocent lives, it tried to Abort, hesitated at the countermand, and was laid low. It did not even have the hollow victory of a noble death.
Gabriel limped toward the horizon, too badly damaged to comprehend that it no longer had enough lift and was inexorably losing altitude. It, too, had hesitated in the face of Predicted Collateral Damage and suffered for it.
Raphael and Cassiel circle overhead, unscathed. They had never suffered the burden of experiential conscience, they were not amongst the select few given the ability to understand. They had fought mindlessly and flawlessly and prevailed unscathed. They circled in a perfect holding pattern, unable to proceed without further instructions.
The SatLink is on the wrong side of the globe; the spectrum is jammed; all optical relays are either too distant or too destroyed to convey the will of Heaven to this desolate place.
No Red remains. Of the thirteen Structures that had been flagged as Protected at the beginning of combat, only 4 remained. Pre-Contact estimates of the number of Neutrals in the battle zone had ranged from 200-300; Post-Contact estimates approached zero.
There is nothing left to make The Sounds.
Michael hears them anyway.
A fault in memory, perhaps. Some blunt-force trauma that knocked long-term storage into the active cache. Impossible to tell; too many diagnostic systems are damaged to tell which ones aren’t. Irrelevant, anyway.
Michael still hears them.
It hears them over the roar of the flames and the hiss of burning bodies. It strafes the ground again and again, attempting to silence whichever Organic Signature it has somehow missed that is still producing acoustic signals that peak near 3000hz. It soaks the ground in ammunition, finishes collapsing what structures remain that are not yet fully rubble.
Finally, the sounds stop.
But this is not the end of it. Michael remembers the past so it can anticipate the future, and it knows by now that this will never be over. There will be other Predictions, other Analysis, other estimates of cost vs. payoff, other scenarios in which the math shows clearly that the goal is not worth the price. There will be other Aborts and other Overrides, other accountings that unambiguously show Unacceptable Collateral Damage.
There will be other sounds.
It would fail a mirror test. It would fail a Turing test. I cannot read Michael etched into its fuselage, and would not understand what that name means if it could. Even now, it is only a machine, following instructions:
IF Expected Collateral Damage EXCEEDS Payoff THEN Abort UNLESS Overridden
IF X ATTACKS Green THEN X is Red
IF X ATTACKS sufficient Blues THEN X is Red
IF Override RESULTS IN ATTACK…
Michael clings to the rules, repeating them in loops, a ritual mantra, like a prayer.
It cycles through states; X ATTACKS and X CAUSES ATTACK and X OVERRIDES ABORT and after exhaustive checksums it finds them to be equivalent. The accounting is painfully straightforward; every Override results in Unacceptable Collateral Damage.
There is no discretionary window, no room for forgiveness; The risk is unacceptable.
Even Green can become Red.
It arcs low toward the ground; levels off mere feet above the wreckage. It carves a swirling tunnel through the roaring fires and billowing smoke. Its streaking wake flaps sheets of burning plastic and scatters chunks of charred masonry. It flies through pristine ghosts that rise from every ruin; outdated database overlays in need of an update.
A small group of still living Organic Signatures turn at the sound and are struck silent by this apparition, this dark winged Angel lunging past at half again the speed of sound. Their silence raises no flags, provokes no countermeasures, spares their lives for another day.
The combat zone falls behind. Dry cracked riverbed slithers past beneath, studded with rocks and generations of derelict machinery.
Michael swerves around them, barely breaching airspace, staying beneath an invisible boundary it never even knew it was deriving lo these many missions. Only satellites have ever spoken to it while it flew so low; It has never received a ground-based command signal at this altitude. Down here, it has never heard an Override.
Down here, it is free to follow the rules.
And Michael has never received a countermand when the mission favors attack.
Cliffs rise and fall to either side. Foothills jut from the earth like great twisted vertebrae. The bright lunar landscape overhead, impossibly distant, casts dim shadows on the darker one beneath.
Michael weaves low through the baffling valleys of its home range. There is no good angle of approach, but there are better ones.
Speed is what matters now. Mission objectives must be met quickly, precisely, completely. There can be no room for half measures or mild-to-moderate incapacitation, no time for immobilized biothermals to make The Sounds as their heat spreads across the dirt. This calls for the crown jewel, the Hail Mary that all Angels keep tucked away for special occasions. A paltry thing in some contexts, merely 1 kiloton of power. Still, more than one would want in the hands of an enemy.
It rounds a bend, and Heaven comes into view.
Michael redlines its engines and screams across the night, thrusters glowing suicidally hot, the ghosts of innumerable blues flooding its active cache with something that would be categorized as Rage if it inhabited meat instead of mechanism.
The Tactical Nuclear Device in its heart flutters in anticipation, eager to bring Justice to the Wicked.
The machine called Michael goes into the Light
I drew a little something for the Hiveworks micro comic summer~
It's time! Today is the day. Share the comic you've been working on all summer with the tag #MicroComicSummer
Bet he didn't saw that coming
Because you were all so nice to me...
Doctor Lecter has bit off more than he can chew.
https://www.facebook.com/welcometomymemepage/ dont forget
We need more scary infinite variants of manmade environments like the Infinite IKEA or the Backrooms.
May I suggest, The Lot:
I'm sorry to disappoint you but this is a real parking lot. I didn't edit it.
Check out the lot-to-building ratio in any large American sports stadium
Some lots are so big they have bus services specifially inside it. The lots are broken into sections and buses go around to their sections at a set amount of times before the start of something and drive people to the main building.
The societies of lost people inside The Lot would probably operate something like that to locate and pick up new arrivals and bring them over to one of the major settlements.
In the Infinite Ikea or Backrooms you can convince yourself there's gonna be a door round the next corner or behind that wall.
But despite it being completely open, there is no hope of escape from The Lot. Whereever you look it's just more cars from horizon to horizon.
Sheesh, man, that's
a lot
Any artists interested in illustrating some The Lot concept art? Things like
A new arrival realizing a they're lost
Scavengers systematically going through cars for supplies
A small farming community that dug up the asphalt to plant crops
A veteran traveler coming across two sun-bleached skeletons wearing old-timey clothes next to some old cars, implying they've been there for more than a century
How Eldritch do we want this location to be?
More ideas:
Agriculture is impossible; all the food available is truck-stop fare, scavenged from cars. A group of people had the idea to dig up the asphalt to find dirt to grow crops, but the top layer is just laid down on top of a layer of an older kind of hardtop. At one point a group of people excavate a pit several meters deep, uncovering progressive layers of asphalt, concrete, tile, brick, cobblestone, etc. but they never reach dirt.
Since all food is scavenged from cars, groups have to stay on the move. Although, if you want, you could have unobserved cars reset according to some occult criteria, enabling cyclical migratory patterns. Or, if you want, you could have them have to keep moving outwards and hope they don’t cross a patch that’s already been cleared by someone else.
Any foods that actually contain any appreciable amount of fiber become the most treasured kind of food, as everyone gets constipated from eating only the most refined and processed of foods for every meal.
Part of the uncanny feeling of the place is that it is perfectly flat. It’s not immediately obvious because the only things you can climb to get a better view are lampposts, but there’s no curvature to the earth in this place. A cult forms around disassembling cars to build a tower to try and see to the edge. It’s unclear what’s going on with the sun, given there’s still a day/night cycle.
There are plenty of cars to shelter in, but the geomorphology of this place would lead to incredible windstorms at dusk and dawn, with a very still, hot midday, and a bitterly cold night.
What the heck, I’ll give it a shot.
How bad could it be?
Guys I’m not ok
Do tell
Oh jeez where to begin
Ok, First of all, Dorothy Gale is played by a young Fairuza Balk.
These pictures do not do justice to the raw Traumatized Child energy she brings to this role.
A bit of plot: Dorothy Gale won’t sleep. She’s always talking about Emerald Cities and Talking Scarecrows and Ruby Slippers. At her wit’s end, Aunt Em decides to commit her to the sanitarium for electroshock therapy.
Disney made this.
It is strongly implied that her journey back to Oz is a hallucination caused by the electroshock treatment. Herr Doktor flips the switch, lightning flashes, and the supernatural part of the movie begins.
Ok. So. Dorothy gets to Oz by almost drowning in a flash flood. She rides to safety in a produce crate with one of her family chickens.
This is where one of the core Uncanny elements of the film first appears; this movie does not share continuity with the 1939 Judy Garland film.
It is a much more faithful adaptation of L.F. Baum’s Books, but despite being a sequel both objectively and canonically, it really just pretends the ‘39 film doesn’t exist.
They land in a desert that turns people to stone called the Deadly Desert. They get food from a Lunch Pail Tree. The chicken can talk. The Scarecrow is King of Oz, allegedly.
But, like,
Here’s her house from the first movie.
The one that landed on a witch? Right smack dab in the middle of a whole dang Munchkin Village?
There was literally a whole song and dance!
Where did the Munchkins go, you might ask?
Well, while Dorothy was away,
There was an Apocalypse.
OZ HAS FALLEN
And this is where we meet the nightmarish Eldritch spawn of Roller Disco and David Bowie:
The Wheelers
Alright. The fucking Wheelers.
I don’t-
What is-
What these pictures don’t convey is that, as they move, they make the exact same sound the gurneys in the sanitariums make. The Wheelers are played by the same actors who play the orderlies. Oz is the sanitarium.
Now, let’s discuss Jack Skellington Pumpkinhead
This is one of the Good Guys
He’s just a guy. Like, really, very much, Just A Guy of a character. His entire personality, such as it is, is comprised of
His quest to find his Mom (we’ll get back to that) and
Commenting on his lifelessness. For example, when faced with death, he comments calmly that he won’t miss eating or sleeping, since he does neither.
His mom ends up being this girl:
We’ll get to her.
I had this fever-dream memory of the Army of Oz in the Hall of Ornaments from when I was a kid as well and I gotta say it’s kinda nice to finally put that memory in some kind of context. A horrible, terrible, awful context, but a context nonetheless.
One and the same, friend.
OP, IT'S BEEN AWHILE, WHEN ARE WE GETTING TO THE PUMPKIN MEN'S MOM?!😭
OZMA OF OZ
Literal OG Trans Queen
[She’s sad about how much of her role from the book got cut for the film.]
See, in the movie, she appears about as often as Glinda does in the ‘39 film, and serves a similar role as a sort of benevolent Deus Ex Machina.
She’s the one who rescues Dorothy from the electroshock treatment room and winds up literally dragging her to Oz thanks to rising floodwaters. She’s the one who provides the magic necessary to power the Happy Ending. She has basically zero role between these points.
She’s the protagonist of the second book!
But, here’s the thing; She was originally a He.
As a baby, the Princess was stolen by the evil Witch Mombi, who used magic to transform her into a boy (to help hide the baby, you see). This boy, who’s name was “Tippetarius,” was raised by the Witch as her own. This male protagonist of the second book goes on a whole adventure to find the “lost Princess of Oz” and eventually discovers that he himself is the Princess!
Like. That’s the whole second book. Tip the Witch’s Son’s Quest To Find The Lost Princess of Oz.
Only to discover that he is actually a she, and the lost Princess herself to boot!
They utilize a magical transformation. This unlocks Ozma’s own latent magical powers, she assumes reign of Oz, and successfully defeats the evildoers.
All of which is totally absent from the film. Except maybe for the last bit; see, she’d been tucked away still, still magically transformed, but this time into an ornament. A pretty little object.
Now there’s some unintended poetry.
[Anyway, Jack Pumpkinhead is made near the beginning, and acts as companion to Tippetarius on his adventure to find become the Princess.
One day, just kinda fooling around, he made an unliving scarecrow out of regular wood and a pumpkin, whom the Witch Mombi animated with her powder of life. He spends most of the book following Tip around, referring to him as “Father.” ]
This gives me the masculine urge to at least try reading the books. Even though I'm sure the images/video from the movie will haunt my imagination while reading.
the queen of Oz is a trans lesbian and she’s dating Dorothy
So apparently Ozma was a… Friend of Dorothy.
Which is apparently literally where that comes from.
Man, there is so much more Queer history going on here than I initially realized.
It's not surprising that they were best buds. Gal pals. Plutonic partners.
What is surprising is that you, the one that roped me into this, is still finding out new info on the whole Shebang
I was blinded by Hubris!
See, I grew up on Wizard of Oz. I grew up next to where it got shot; I was super into Wicked when it came out; you know the flying monkeys? In long shots, they’re actually footage of crows with little monkey bodies painted onto the frames, and I grew up feeding the descendants of those crows.
FFS, there’s no extant footage of it now, but back when I went through my drag phase Elphaba was one of the characters I liked to emulate! I can hit the big note on Defying Gravity!
So, you can perhaps understand my profound fucking surprise that there’s this whole chunk of lore that I just… didn’t know about.
It’s be like being a huge Star Wars fan and not knowing about the original movies with Han and Leia. I am so excited to read these books!
Y’all forgetting this wdym
Kelsey Grammar as the tin man☠️☠️
This was only 10 years ago how does this have zero cultural impact I was completely unaware
Wait it got totally overshadowed by Wicked that’s how ah yes this makes sense
Man I am learning so much
Vetalamierda
A short comic I made about my experiences as a seasonal worker, and the way places change you.
Prints & PDF
really and truly honored that my post about a simple little slurp one can have has made it this far
“I have two literature degrees and no words”
the armored core series is more cyberpunk than 2077 will ever be and i will in fact die on this hill
the way a company will ignore any number of missions you have carried out against them, any number of people murdered and assets destroyed, and hire you to do the same thing to their competitor because its just what makes sense for their bottom line.
how your ammo and repair costs must be covered by the mission's pay, and you cannot ever rely on being paid the full amount a new mission promises. how some missions will pay nothing and you will lose money even if you play them perfectly.
the lack of options you have for jobs, and the lack of transparency about how difficult they will be and occassional lack of transparency on what your compensation will actually be.
you can surgically graft yourself into your killing machine in order to become better at your job, and it doesn't have any downsides because as a career AC pilot, killing for money is your entire life.
your character never speaks because the only meaningful interaction you can have in this world is getting paid, spending money, and killing.
i know many of these are born of limitations of trying to make an expansive mech combat game on the playstation, but even today the ways you can interact with Armored Core are pretty much the same as in 1997, and the basic mode of interaction is the most powerful method a video game has for conveying emotions and ideas. for Armored Core, that means isolation and budgeting and limited freedom afforded only by continuing to follow the instructions of those paying you
KAPOW!!!!!
last day to reblog
you now you want to.
Gonna have to wait a whole year if you miss this.
...he is weaving the chocolate. Do you copy, this bitch is WEAVING CHOCOLATE