Spy camera in girls toilet

2020.10.18 01:17 DancingEmber Spy camera in girls toilet

I’ll just jump in, I suppose.

————— THE BUNKROOM —————
“Ey! Yo, Hard-On!” Tommy yelled.
My name’s Hardy but he insists on calling me Hard-On. He has a nickname too, one he gave himself: Captain Crunch. Thinks he’s a damn comedian.
“I got sumthin!”
His shout echoed down the submarine corridor. It got into all the nooks, turning his voice metallic and wide. Like it could’ve swallowed me up.
I was in the bunkroom scrubbing the grime off the rack. At least the sheets were crisp, blue. Plaid pillows rested on top of them, dented and sleepy. Only the portside cubbies and the bed trimming across from them looked like filth. In sixty-three days of dive missions, I don’t think I’ve ever once seen the textured tan plastic hidden beneath the gunk. That crap just didn’t want to come off. Going to war against it was hardly what I’d call a good time, but the job gave me a break from other things.
“Hardy!” Tommy said, closer now. “Ya jerkin off or what?”
I flipped on the little speaker set next to me, blasted Metallica’s Frayed Ends of Sanity, wiped the sweat from my brow, and scrubbed a little harder at the soot and stains. Shane wasn’t going to be off her shift for another forty minutes so I had the luxury of cranking the volume too loud.
I heard shouting but kept my ears trained on the apocalyptic guitar riffs. Tommy slid the cabin door open and poked his head around the corner, rapping his knuckles on the steel door trimming. I looked at him, expressionless. He threw his arm out, then back, making vigorous circles around his ears trying to tell me to turn off the music. I scrunched up my face, shrugged. Went back to work.
Heavy rock pounded the air tinnily, “Hear them calling / Hear them calling me.”
Tommy has muscles like a tank, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him. His belly spills out over his jeans and jiggles as he walks. Pockets of fat cling to the backs of his triceps. He always starts the shift in a freshly-pressed uniform. By the end of the day, he’s sure to abandon his pristine work jacket for the stained grey tank top he wears underneath. And he never forgets that stupid 49ers cap of his, turned backwards because he thinks it makes him look real cool.
He moved behind me and slapped off the radio. The standing area of the bunkroom was barely big enough for one person.
“What do you want, Tommy?” I stood and backed up towards the entryway, arms crossed, leaving him at the other corner.
“That’s Captain Crunch to you,” he said with that big goofy grin of his.
I said nothing, raised an eyebrow.
“I told ya. I got sumthin.”
“More Asian fantasies?” I suggested seedily.
He chortled, slow and rasping. “That’s why I love ya, Hard-On; not to be gay or anything. Not that there’s sumthin wrong with that. I mean, cool if you are, but I ain’t.”
“Tommy.”
“Ey, right, as I was sayin. You need to see this.”
There are few things in this life I like more than discovering unusual creatures. I hesitate to use the word joy. If I know any joy in my life, though, it’s down here beneath the waves.
But you need to understand that Tommy has a habit of wasting my time. Last week he told me the same thing, that I needed to come see something. Then he took me to the kitchenette and showed me a 'crab' he’d made out of two sporks and some used tinfoil. He made it seem like the goddamn rapture.
What I’m trying to say is, my expectations were low.

————— THE BRIDGE —————
I latched the door shut after we funneled in. Pinging sonar and the thrum of water lull the senses in the control room. The cabin houses an almost unimaginable variety of displays, knobs, dials, and switches attached to plastic panels. Two rectangular swivel chairs are bolted to the floor at the front. Separating the panels at the center is a domed doorway that leads to the lockout.
Shane shifted over her shoulder to look at us from the pilot console, the leftmost chair, and put down the romance novel she’d been reading. It was the kind that had a picture of an over-muscled, bare-chested man on its cover.
Shane is all curves, heavy, but in a good way, like a cheerleader or something. (I’m a guy. I can’t help noticing these things. Sorry if that’s offensive or whatever.) If she’s not busy working out, I can almost guarantee she’s off reading. Or maybe eating chocolate. She has a stash somewhere but we can’t find it. She wears an amber locket, I think it was a gift from her father. Her strawberry blonde hair curls in at the nape of her neck, accenting the necklace. Freckles dot her nose. And she has the cutest dimples when she smiles.
“Well, well. Looks like the boys are back in town,“ she said, all smiles.
“Yup. I got a Hard-On for ya,” Tommy replied.
I shifted a little and broke eye contact with her. Shane seemed to pay no attention. I’m not sure if that made me feel better or worse.
“How long have you been waiting for the perfect moment to say that? Hours? Days? Don’t tell me it was months.” she said.
“It’s really been eatin me up inside, y’know,” he went and leaned back against the chair next to her, propped up on both elbows, “a real downer that I couldn’t share it yet. Dunno what I’m gonna do now that that’s outta the way. Maybe off myself or sumthin.” He stared at the ceiling panels.
“You do that, Captain Crunch. You do that.”
His body dipped, then sprung upwards. “Can’t. Gotta show him the thing.”
“If this is one of his pranks, just tell me. I’ve got cleaning duty,” I said.
Shane and Tommy shared a glance that I didn’t much like.
“It could be nothing,” she said.
“It could be sumthin.”
“It’s probably not, though. Probably.”
“What did you find?” I said.
Tommy’s eyes went narrow. “I got a big-ass reading from sonar. Like, I’m talkin some massive badonkadonk, a real Big Booty Judy.”
I went over to him and he moved out of the way. I put my hands on the back of the navigator chair to support myself as I bent over the readouts. He was right. That was some serious junk in the trunk. Easily the size of a whale. Except it wasn’t moving.
I gave Shane a sideways glance. “You guys check the view port yet?”
“Nope. We wanted to wait for you.”
Those dimples.
“I dunno. I’da just as soon left ya to scrub my bunk all day,” Tommy said.
Shane fiddled with her locket as she turned back to her novel. She told us to go below and take a look, said she wanted to keep an eye on things up there.
Tommy opened the door for me with a little curtsy. He’s pretty flamboyant for someone so concerned about not seeming gay.

————— THE PORTHOLE —————
I stared at Tommy’s 49ers cap as we tumbled in stops and starts through the corridor. At about half the size of normal submarines, our girl is easily swayed by ocean currents.
We passed through the specimen storage room lined with water tanks from floor to ceiling and the sad excuse for a mess hall. The big white SF on the back of Tommy’s hat stared back at me the whole way. I’m more of a Seahawks man, myself.
We strode back through the bunks. Federico, our sponsor, crashed on the bottom rack now, fast asleep. The guy must have money out the whazoo to be privately funding this research expedition. You wouldn’t guess it looking at those grease-stained hands. We were gentle closing the doors on our way out.
Past the bathroom, the whirring utterances of the engine room greeted us. Tommy and I turned around, went prone, and crawled into the open space beneath the deck we had just traveled.
Imagine two fat guys stuffed in a sardines can and you’ll know what it was like. We’re not even that big compared to some other guys. But you get the point. We scuffed our bellies against the metal paneling and just about rubbed all the hair off our arms bumping elbows.
At the far end of the tunnel, Shane’s voice crackled over the radio unit, “How are my two favorite slow pokes? See anything yet?“
The button to give a reply was at the porthole. We couldn’t reach it yet. “Mocking us,” I said between puffs and pants.
“Whaddya. Expect,” he wheezed. “That’s. Shane Austen.”
Shane Austen we call her, a play on that feminist romance novelist devised by none other than Captain Crunch. I gotta hand him that one. The name drives Shane nuts.
I reached the radio unit. My elbows felt dull. Tommy let his forehead collapse onto the backs of his palms. A thundering groan escaped him.
I clicked on the terminal, said, “You’re. Not funny.”
“You love it.”
“Whatever. Shane Austen.”
“I liked you two more before you got clever. I’m pulling us closer to the signal. What’s it look like on your end?”
On my right, Tommy tugged the lever to open the steel porthole cover. At 1700 feet deep there was nothing but inky black outside.
“Yoooooo! Kick those lights on!” he yelled, banging his fist against the tunnel ceiling.
“Woops. Sorry.”
Light flooded our enclosure. Beyond the porthole, we could see the manipulator arms on either side. Bits of organic debris floated from the upper reaches of the ocean. Almost dancing. It coated the unending seafloor. My breath caught.
“It’s beautiful down here.” I said
“I spy Jack shit down here,” Tommy said.
“I’ll bring us in a little more.”
Shane accelerated. The vessel crept along the sand. Marine snow meandered past us. A blood red sea cucumber floated along the starboard trim of the viewport. Undulating, flashing its insides beneath silky strands. I smiled. The ocean is magical. Then the critter was gone. I couldn’t make out anything else.
“I’m not seeing-”
“Ey, check your eyes.” Tommy interrupted. He pointed, fumbling his hand out from under an elbow.
I squinted. The abyss peered back at me. The ocean lapped against our little craft. We rocked back and forth. From out of the dark, a faint, massive outline emerged. A shadow against the black. Unmoving.
I shuddered.
The radio came to life again. “We should be a few hundred feet out. I don’t want to have an unfortunate bump so I’d like to keep us here.”
“We have eyes on it,” I said.
“What exactly do you see?“
“A big ol butthole, like I told y’all,” Tommy said.
“Real nice, man.”
“Okay, whaddya see, then?”
It did look like the ocean’s butthole now that I thought of it. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe a rock formation. Or some kind of wreck.”
“I don’t know. The readings here seem to indicate organic matter.“
“S’a booty. Callin it now.”
I snorted, tried to hide it. Too late.
Tommy leaned away from me. Mouth agape, he said, “I made em laugh! He thinks Captain Crunch is funny!”
“Aww. Our Tin Man has a heart.”
I pushed down the smile. “We have work to do.”
You have work to do. There's an unidentified mass along the bottom of the seafloor. Sonar can’t get a read on it. The porthole isn’t cutting it, and I can’t get us any closer. You know what that means.”
I knew exactly what that meant.

————— THE LOCKOUT —————
The readings were still steady by the next shift change. Shane managed to sneak a nap in and was ready to run the operation. Federico was up now. He wasn’t going to miss this.
Federico, Fed for short, earned his money selling land. Or at least that’s what he told us. He’s lean built. That much is obvious even under the custom-tailored blazer. You wouldn’t catch him dead wearing the indigo work suits he’d commissioned for the expedition. Funny, considering he’s not afraid to tackle ship maintenance like the rest of us. The tips of his mustache curl upward, underlining a nose so crooked I have to wonder how many times he’s taken a swing to the face.
“That’s a genuine Exosuit 2000, top-of-the-line, a beautiful work of art, I cry just thinking about it.” Fed said in a lilting Italian accent.
“Sounds like something out of a popcorn flick,” I said. (It’s not. Google it.)
He didn’t look at me, but glared anyways. “She’s the love of my life and she’s worth your paycheck seven times over. Don’t scratch my baby.”
His baby looks like a 600lb space suit on steroids. Its aluminum hull is shaped like a giant humanoid figure with a bubbled window for a head. Looping red lines distinguish the movable joints from the white plating. Situated on its back is a silver thruster pack with propellers on either side. In place of hands, it sports claw pincers.
The crane lowered the suit, encased in scaffolding, towards the moon pool below. The boots skimmed the water. The scaffolding clamps reached out to grasp either side of the pool, locking his baby into place. Fed pumped the valve that controlled a hinge on the scaffolding, which then separated the torso section from the legs. Time for me to get in.
I made sure my headset was on right. Stood there for a moment. I like what I do and I prefer to do it on the sub, far away from the diving suit. It’s the difference between flying on a plane and skydiving.
Using the short ladder, I lowered myself into the legs compartment. The suit clung to me. Fed sealed it shut.
As Fed was detaching the scaffolding, Shane came in over the headset, “How are you doing in there? I know I wouldn’t be a fan. This girl wants to stay far away from hundreds of pounds of metal for a weekend outfit.”
“Feels like a coffin. A big ugly coffin,” I said.
“Ooo, you better watch your tone. You’re talking about our employer's prized possession there. He might kick you off the boat. Or worse.”
“Roger that. He’s eyeing me now.”
Fed was staring at me, blank faced, playing with the ends of his mustache. I could see the fire in his eyes, though.
“Captain Crunch wants to know if he can have your speaker if you don’t make it back.”
“Tell Tommy I’ll be fine.”
“He says to pretend I don’t know who Tommy is.” Then, sounding far away, “Oh, you didn’t want me to say that?”
Fed came around the other end of the pool. He took the suit by the shoulders. “Ready, my friend?“
“Think so.”
“Grand. I wish I could be the one wearing the suit instead, spying wonders far and near, ah lovely.”
“We could switch places.”
“And take away your chance to see unknown treasures? No, I would never. You do this for the love of discovery, remember.”
Love was a strong word. Still. I was glad he didn’t accept the offer. I do this for the ocean, I thought.
Fed cranked the lever. The crane lowered me into the pool. Water overtook the diving suit’s helmet. Then I was standing on the ocean floor.

————— THE OCEAN —————
Under unfathomable depths. I was breathing heavy. Been awhile. Without the suit, oxygen would go to my brain. Kill me instantly. If not that, then nitrogen narcosis. Or pure pressure.
“Relax,” Shane said. “I’m here with you.”
My breathing slowed a little.
“I know you love the ocean.”
What’s with this word ‘Love’?
“Now you get to be closer to it than most people do in their whole lives. You’re like one of those creatures of the deep, floating around your habitat as if there were nothing more natural in the whole world.”
I closed my eyes. The calm below the sea knows no equal. Sweet stillness.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my friend from earlier, the sea cucumber. They coasted along, seeming almost to wave at me. I felt expanded somehow. Like my existence wasn’t limited to this body. I was the whole ocean.
I started backing away from the sub.
“There you go, big boy.”
“You’re pretty good at this. You teach yoga, or something?“ I said.
“I’m a woman.”
“Fair.”
“You’re a couple hundred feet out from the target. We’ll have radio contact for most of that, but you’ll be on your own for the last stint. We’ll still be watching the suit-mounted cameras, those can pick up a signal. Just remember that if you’re feeling spooked.”
“Shane Austen. I don’t get spooked.”
“I’m sure not.”
The feeling of being the ocean faded as I rotated the suit around. The submarine was completely out of view, replaced by that monstrous shadow.
Just the ocean’s butthole, I reminded myself.
It’s hard to keep that perspective hundreds of feet underwater. Where the sun reaches nothing. Where you’re all alone. And the shifting currents of the unknown threaten to swallow you whole.
“I’m heading towards it.”
“We can see what you see. How about giving the cameras a wave?”
That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I did it anyways.
“I think Fed’s jealous. He’s over here crossing his dainty little legs and muttering things to himself in Italian.”
“I gave him his chance.”
“So he said.“ Then she whispered, “Between you and me, I think he was too scared. He likes to talk big, and his heart is driven by adventure. But men like him have their limits. I guess that makes you pretty brave, yeah?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m the only one here who’s certified.”
"Can't you ever give yourself some credit, Hardy?"
I didn’t say anything.
A sharp rocky formation came out of the murk. Its jagged peaks arced towards the black hole sky. The jutting edges looked like a cry of agony.
“There’s some rock here.“
“That’s not …” Static cut through the transmission. “… hundred feet … Captain Crunch says … the toilet when you don’t flush.”
“Say again.”
Something slithered behind the hellish stone.
“… target … You’re less … away … looks like …”
“Damn thing,” I muttered. “Say again.” I knew it was pointless.
More static. The radio went dead. I was alone.
I couldn’t even see the submarine from here.
I waved at the camera. Kept moving. The rock went out of view. I twisted to check behind it. My eyes couldn’t pierce the blackness. The suit lamps weren’t strong enough. The stone disappeared into darkness.
Righting myself, I saw the looming outline getting larger as I approached. Texture started forming along its sloping shape. It was rock-like at first. My breath fogged the helmet after a sharp exhalation. I paused to let it clear. Then I saw the shape was more like rugged crustacean. I accelerated. My heart pounded from somewhere within the Exosuit’s cavernous mass. Concentric raised circles ran the length of the shape. They were similar to coral but the circles were bigger. Much bigger. The mass looked more like a wall now. I stopped. The circles were indented at the center. Their surface seemed gummy. My breath stuttered and choked. Rivulets of flesh squeezed between the circles. That’s when I knew.
The circles were giant suckers. Row after row of them stacked at least thirty feet high. It was a tentacle.
I stared.
What do you do in that situation? What do you do?
I eased the suit off the ground using the thruster pack. The helmet peaked the uppermost edge of the tentacle. Holy. Shit. It seemed to go on forever. Patches of silt and grassy growth covered it. It was probably a carcass. Certainly looks like it’s been down here for a while. But I didn’t see any scavengers picking at the remains. Part of me wanted to explore towards the center of the mass. Part of me didn’t want to die.
Can you guess which part won out?

————— THE LOCKOUT —————
Fed released me from the suit. I tumbled out. My body smacked against the bulkhead. Vomit erupted from me into the moon pool, turning what was clear into green gobs. He just laid a hand on my back. Said nothing.
The dome entryway swung open. I heard Shane, “Hardy, my god. My god my god my god.”
I sat back on the metal outcropping that hung over the floor. The four of us looked at each other. Nothing was said. What can you say in that situation?
Fed broke eye contact to look over the suit. Tommy skulked away silently. I hung my head.
“I don’t know what-“ Shane began but didn’t finish. “Are You okay? Are we all okay?”
Fed stiffened then went back to work.
“Just need a minute.” I said.
“Yeah.” She backed out of the entry. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
I heard footsteps exiting the control room. Maybe a sob. Couldn’t tell. The sound was muffled.
Fed’s Tramezza dress shoes turned to face me. “My friend.”
I looked up at him. In his palm, about the size of a quarter, were eight translucent, brown-flecked tendrils that tapered in to a single bulbous head.
“You brought something back.”

————— END OF POST —————
We’re keeping the baby onboard for study. I’ll post updates next time we surface.
submitted by DancingEmber to ThrillSleep [link] [comments]


2020.10.12 16:52 gravy816 Camera toilet spy girls in

I stepped back from the keyboard. Sex trafficking. This wasn't a TV show...this was a scam....and everyone thought I was dead.
Three days prior:
"I did it! I'm going to be a contestant on Passion in Paradise!" I yelled into the phone. I could hear Melanie, my best friend, rolling her eyes. "It's a new competitive dating show in Cabo!"
"How can you be on a show like that Jess? It's so shallow and manipulative! It's so fake and over done! It's so...not you."
She was right. Passion in Paradise was a new show coming next season on ABC or whatever where 20 single women compete for the man of their dreams in a villa in Cabo. Did I think I was going to find "the one"? Hell no. Was I willing to act like for a free trip to Cabo and free publicity and fame? Hell yes.
I talked to Max, the producer, that morning and he said that I flew out in 2 days because filming began immediately. "Tell your family tell your friends about the show! We want to get as much publicity as we can out there. Your life is about to change," We were also told to take two months off of work for filming and publicity tours.
Time moved fast. One minute I was packing in my small apartment and next thing I knew I landed in Cabo and was met at the airport by Max and his small team. We waited around for a few hours until all the other 19 girls had landed and then we loaded up onto a small bus and drove to our new temporary home to meet our hunk.
The villa was breathtaking. It had old red stone, vines running up the side, and a certain calmness. We filed off the bus and met outside of our new castle. We were forced to give any cell phones or electronics to Max, there was zero communication allowed with the outside world.
"Here's the deal ladies, we got three floors in the house. First floor is your basics, kitchen, 2 living rooms, 2 bathrooms, pool and pool house, laundry room. Second living quarters. There are 4 rooms and 20 of you. After tonight two of you will be going home so no need to unpack," he barked at us like he was reading off orders to a kitchen. He had three other strong and large men with him setting up cameras and lights. None of them looked at us or even tried to make small talk.
"Two of us are going home tonight?!" a chirpy and feminine voice yelled from the back.
"The cameras ain't rollin' sweetheart, we don't need the theatrics," Max continued, "Third and top floor 100% off limits. Do you understand? This is where our hunk will be staying along with crew and storage for equipment. If we see anyone up there you will be sent home immediately. Ruins the ambiance. Also cameras are always rolling. We will begin recording in a few hours. You signed up for the world to see, now show 'em. Any questions?...Good. Now start getting ready, tonight is formal wear."
I ended up picking "The Purple Room" with four other girls: Bella, Savannah, Lauren, and Molly. "I don't mean to be rude, my name is Jess. Is it okay if I take a shower first? It will only be like 5 minutes," I asked to my roommates. "Yeah girl no worries!" they all responded. Each room had a bathroom with a shower. Once I stepped out of my steaming shower I feeling refreshed and ready, I picked a beautiful strapless black dress, super tight on top and on the bottom. I went over to a red head named Molly, I figured I wasn't there to make friends, but I can at least be friendly.
"Hey girl would you mind zipping me up please?" I asked. "Not a problem," she smiled as she started closing my dress. "Where are you from?" I inquired staring ahead at the wall. Molly began, "I live in Iowa! I sell real estate out there. I am so excited to meet our hunk tonight!" I almost forgot why we were all here in the first place.
"Oh yeah girl!!" I learned that if you call everyone "girl" you don't have to learn everyone's names. We were left upstairs for an hour until we heard shouting to come outside. This was not as glamourous as I thought.
"Okay ladies. Now we're going to take your picture, so the hunk can use them in the eliminations. Line up and one by one give me a nice pose and you can meet the crew,"
"This is the director Eric, another producer named...uh.. Joe, and this is Ben, he handles any problems and is the host." All of them looked like they could beat someone to death.
Eric began filming, which was odd because I always thought there would be a herd of camera operators for these types of shows, but then again there were cameras placed throughout the house.
Ben walked over to greet us. He had a huge smile on his face, opposite of Max, the director, and the producer. Ben was carrying a tray of champagne flutes. "Good evening ladies! Whose ready for champagne?" Every girl lifted their head back and gave a powerful "woo!".
"Okay ladies. Now we have to take cast pictures. Cast pictures equals champagne. Line up and as soon as the producer Joe here snaps your photo I'll give you a glass of champagne. That easy right?!"
I was the second to last one. Nobody tells you how much down time there is on reality shows. One by one girls were trickling over to Ben after their pictures were taken to collect their reward. Bella, one of the girls from my room walked over to me. She was smiling and holding her drink. We were chatting with two other girls. Bella sneezed sending a large portion of her champagne on my arm. "Oh shit dude! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed. "No worries girl, it just got on my arm. I'm going to go dry off, I don't need to be sticky," I assured Bella. I had plenty of time before my picture so I quietly went into the house. I walked up to the second floor and stepped inside the bathroom.
I reached for a washcloth in the small basket on top of the toilet lid. I put a little bit of water on it and began rinsing away the champagne. I placed the washcloth back on top of the lid next to the basket.
The washcloth slipped and fell behind the toilet due to the curvature of the lid. I let out a small "Fuck" and bent down and extended my arm behind the neck of the toilet. I felt a cold plastic cable running from the floor to the toilet bowl. I am not a plumber, but something seemed off. These were the types of cables that you find in your living room. I lift the lid and found a small cable running to a small black box with a blinking red light. I raised the seat on the toilet and right beneath the rim was a small button sized lens. My heart began to race.
"Please don't let this be what I think it is..." I looked closely and realized it was a small waterproof camera angled up perfectly to spy on anyone using the toilet.
I walked over to the shower. I examined the head until I found a similar lens underneath the shower head, perfectly capturing anyone taking a shower. I had it. I felt sick to my stomach, were these sick fucks watching us shower?
I ran outside and stormed right up to Max. "What the hell is going on!?" I screamed into his face. The entire team stopped what they were doing and looked over. A smirk ran across his face. "What's the matter?" I turned towards the group of girls starting to swarm us.
"There are cameras in the bathroom!" I screamed and frantically threw my hands up. Max let out a huge laugh, "Of course silly, you're on TV. You signed up for this." I looked around at the mixed expressions on the girls, but no one made a sound. "Doesn't this bother you?! They are spying on us and taking videos of us naked in the shower!"
Ben spoke with a calming voice, "We have sensors on the cameras in the bathroom. In the contract you agreed to be filmed and one of the locations was in fact the bathroom. If three or more of you go into the bathroom then the cameras automatically turn on. It's in your contract."
"That's insane!" I yelled to the small audience. No one said a word.
Finally Molly finally spoke up, "I don't have a problem with it. We did sign up for this." Other girls began nodding their head. "You see Jess? You are blowing this out of proportion. Nobody else is bothered, why don't you have a glass of champagne," Ben offered. His smile was kind and comforting.
I reached for a glass. I wasn't in the mood to drink so I stood silently in line for my picture. An hour went by and no one talked to me. I was the last one in line to take my picture. I looked around at the beautiful girls drinking champagne and looking fabulous. None of them seemed bothered by what was going on. I don't belong here I thought.
"Come on!" Eric yelled holding the camera, "you're the last one!". As I approached the producer we heard a loud puking sound. We turned our heads and a black haired girl was on the ground a few yards away from me clutching her champagne glass vomiting.
"She's having a seizure!" I heard another scream. I turned the other direction and saw a small group of girls collapsing and shaking on the ground. A couple of girls went over to help. A few more girls at the other end of the driveway began to hit the floor and started vomiting as well.
Everything was happening so quickly, yet time was still. I was frozen as I watched in horror. I looked to my left and saw Molly. She was turning blue and swaying in her heels. She puked as chunks covered her dress as she reached for her throat. Her eyes starting rolling into the back of her head until you couldn't see any color. She fell backwards and hit her head on the pavement letting out a small stream of blood from her nose.
I looked to my right and saw another girl from my room scratching violently at her arm until her nails were tearing off little pieces of skin. Blood was trickling out of her, dripping from her fingertips as she just stood there unaware of what she was doing.
The "camera guy" and "producer" were walking over to a few unconscious bodies. The men dug into their pockets and pulled out zip ties and began tying the girls up one by one. Max was watching the chaos with a huge smile. I realized I was the only one that didn't have champagne.
"You idiot! You didn't dose this out right!" Ben shouted to Max.
There were only a few women left standing, they began running towards the bus. I knew it was no use. They began wobbling and sure enough they started vomiting blood and passed out within inches of the vehicle.
Through all the commotion, I was able to silently retreat back into the villa. There was a small path from the driveway to the front door. I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to go somewhere to think and process.
I went up to my room on the second floor, I had a small window that looked down on to the driveway. I ran up the stairs, and silently crawled over to the window. I slowly raised my head and saw the "director" going around zip tying the almost lifeless girls. All 19 of them were on the ground with their eyes closed and either dry puke or blood on their face and clothes.
Max was loading the girls into a separate van that was parked a few yards away. He picked up the limp bodies and carefully set them down like they were dry cleaning.
"Look at the set of tits on this one!" the producer Joe yelled over to the director as he began groping the unconscious woman's breasts.
"Don't touch the merchandise!!" Eric barked back. "Oh my God," I let out quietly under my breath. I didn't know what to do. I felt like I was watching a movie, but living. it.
They probably took the phones to the third level I told myself. I can call for help from up there.
I quickly and as low to the ground as possible went back over to the grand staircase. I began climbing, not knowing what I was getting myself into. On the top floor there were only two doors facing each other. One door said "Hunk" and the other said "No Trespassing". I walked over to the "No Trespassing" door praying it was unlocked. I reached my hand out to the knob and it released with ease.
Inside looked like a scene from a police station. There were about 24 monitors on the wall showing every live feed as well as controls and a desk in the corner. I looked at monitors 4-7 and could see the four guys setting the girls in the van in the drive way. I looked over to cameras 11 and 12 and saw the bathroom where I got ready. I looked down at the controls, which were pretty self explanatory.
I selected camera 11 which was facing down on the shower in our bathroom. I hit rewind to 5 hours ago and sure enough I saw myself showering. You were able to see every inch of my naked body.
I looked back at the first set of screens to confirm that the four guys were still out there. They were, but soon they would realize they only have 19 girls, instead of 20.
I looked back towards the wall and one screen had a small red light in the corner blinking. I scanned over to the monitor and turned the volume up. It was playing CNN with some anchor interviewing someone who looked like Ben the host and it had flashing text reading "LIVE" running across the bottom. I pressed rewind to the beginning of the broadcast. "23 U.S. Citizens Dead from Bus Accident in Cabo" read the headline "For those of you just joining us, we are here with Ben Malcom creator of Passion in Paradise. Now Ben can you explain to us what happened?"
Ben looked distraught, "Good evening Diane I am the creator of Passion in Paradise, a new show we wanted to bring to TV this fall. We flew 20 beautiful, young, and smart women out here with 3 crew members to begin this romantic journey. We don't have a lot of information right now, but as we began shooting and the shuttle bus flew off a hill killing everyone on board," the screen cut to some b-roll action of a bus on flames in the bottom of a canyon. "I was able to meet each and every girl and this is a horrific loss. We are sending prayers to their families and trying to make arrangements to send some sort of relief to their grieving families. We are fully cooperating with authorities, but this was an honest accident and we are personally looking into this case".
The screen flipped back to the reporter. "We are joined now by one of the deceased's closet friends, Melanie. Melanie are you there?" Oh no. No, no, no. Please no.
My best friend Melanie appeared on the TV crying and talking to a reporter outside of her apartment. "I begged Jess not to go! And now I will never see her again!"
Everyone thinks we're dead!! My thoughts were interrupted when I heard a small ding go off on the main computer on the other side of the room.
I walked over to the work station and sat down at the desk. A web page called "Passion in Paradise" was open. On it were the pictures of each girl that were taken at the beginning of the night. Dollar amounts were next to every name. Molly had $10,000, another girl had $3,000 which was climbing to $3,400 and then $3,750. The prices next to all the girls' names varied from $500 to $15,000 and were climbing. I looked for my name, under Jess it said 'picture pending'.
"What is this?" I said quietly to myself. I clicked on Molly's picture and immediately a slideshow began playing. The first picture was her casting photo from earlier that night, next was a screenshot of her changing in our bedroom with just her bra and panties on. I flipped again and there was a picture looking up as she was sitting down to use the toilet, you could see everything from the waist down. I went back to the main page and clicked on Savannah's profile. I began flipping through her pictures and it was the same story. It looked like a catalog of every female I had encountered in this house.
I clicked back, went to the home page saw in the top left hand corner a tab that said "Total Bidders Online: 84". I scrolled down the list and saw dozens upon dozens of usernames. I clicked on a name: User2949 and under the banner it said "Chat". I began typing:
You: HELP!!! Please! I don't know what's going on!! I think this is some sort of mistake.
User2949: I'm interested in Bella. How much for one night? I know your price said $2,500. But I like to rough my girls up. What if I give you $15,000 and I get to keep her???
I clicked out of the chat. I went to User110.
You: PLEASE!! HELP ME! We are in a Villa in Cabo, nobody is dead!
User110: I love redheads, what is the status on Molly? I think she would make a fine addition to my collection.
I stepped back from the keyboard. Sex trafficking. This wasn't a TV show, there was never a hunk. This was a scam.
I checked the monitors and I could only see Eric, Joe, and Ben outside still piling the women up. I looked around the room for any sort of weapons. I didn't know where Max was and I needed to get out of there. There was still one place I hadn't checked- the "hunk's bedroom". I slowly and quietly slipped into the hallway and prayed that the door would be unlocked.
Sure enough, I was able to open to door and flipped on the light. There was nothing in the room except a dirty mattress on the floor. I walked over and prayed that there might be a knife or anything I could use to protect myself.
The door slammed, I turned and saw Max staring at me. He looked hungry and wild. "I knew you were going to be trouble. Now, let's see how much that pussy is really worth."
submitted by gravy816 to u/gravy816 [link] [comments]


2020.09.19 20:44 redroguetech Spy camera in girls toilet

[Updated repost from here and here]
See my mega review post. It's getting time for me to update it, but still worth looking through.
First off, I wanna just get out of the way that there are as many approaches to doing "smart home" as there are people doing it... So I welcome comments! The idea is to create a single post/thread I (or anyone else) can just link for people asking the basic question of "where do I start", and... I started where I started, not where everyone else started :-)
[What do you want ?]
My first suggestion to all those starting out or barely in.... At a minimum, consider EVERYTHING you might want to do. Let your imagination run wild. If you can think it, there's a good chance someone else has done it - and if not, you can be the first. I think the biggest and most common mistake people make when starting out - for me as well - is a lack of imagination. There's nothing wrong starting out with "I just want to do X" (especially if you mean it) but it's also a good way to get boxed in. I recommend everyone, including automation veterans, write out all your dream projects and goals... actually write them down. Write out what and how many devices (lights, sensors, etc.) it will take. Then, put in ball park prices. If you're really just starting out, you might need to pencil in just wild guesses. That's fine. Doesn't need to be exact, and prices change (and can vary wildly by brand/model). The idea is to just have a rough estimate of what's feasible and what isn't... What's worth it and what isn't... What to do sooner and what to put off.
[What do you already have?]
If you're serious about home automation... Make a detailed floor plan of your house. A floor-plan is pretty useful in general, but especially useful for setting up and maintaining a smart home. Mark where all the outlets, switches, and light fixtures are at, and go through the house mapping circuit breakers just the one time. As smart devices are installed, notate on the floor plan which devices are smart, their capabilities (ie if lights are color), what protocol they use (ZigBee, Z-Wave, or WiFi), what circuit breaker they're on and/or what type of battery they use (and you can note last battery installation date). (I use Sweet Home 3D - free, pretty powerful, and pretty easy.)
Obviously, what you already have for automation devices should be taken into account in any smart home plan. However, in general don't let that influence you too much. Every home automation veteran has box(s) full of old stuff. Plan carefully to minimize waste, but home automation is constantly evolving, so be willing to occasionally rethink your approach. If you do switch to a different platform/protocol/etc, do it slowly. Don't try to transition everything at once. At the same time, I personally feel it's important to maintain consistency throughout a house. Having a mish-mash of different products and designs can hinder every-day living.
[What can you do?]
See below for a quick list of the most common device types. Following that is a list of automation ideas. Use these to assist in making the list. Although they are perhaps a bit overwhelmingly long, it's more to prompt you to think about what you want. Come up with your own dream list! (Then share it.)
Before skipping to those, there's a two things you need to decide early on. (Or skip, but come back.) Honestly, I'm split on which is more important. They may very well be equally important.
[Pause for dramatic cliff-hanger....]
[How are you going to control everything?]
The first is the "automation controller". You know about Google Home and Alexa - maybe know about IFTTT - and you're wondering if you really need a separate controller. If you're going to do more than couple of simple things... you're going to want a controller. It's just that simple.
There's quite a few out there (literally thousands), from those that barely qualify as an automation controller (like Google Home), to easy to use but limited SmartThings, to DIY systems like HomeAssistant. It depends in large part on end goals and user preference (and mon-ay!). Few people have extensively used all of the major ones, so take all suggestions - including mine - with a grain of salt, unless they can directly compare and contrast from experience. So, you're on your own. For what it's worth, my quick-pick short list would be either Hubitat or Home Assistant, but it really does depend on your tech level, budget, goals, and other preferences. Personally, I use a Hubitat Elevation, and I love it.
Note: My understanding is that SmartThings is still the go-to platform for beginners. However, it's limited, and does not have a stable user experience or functionality. I have long since stopped using SmartThings, so only passingly familiar with recent developments, but my opinion continues to be to avoid it unless you willing to buy it as a learning tool.
[How are you going to control everything??]
The second major decision is how you want to control the lighting. Sounds simple, but it's really not. It really deserves a mega-thread of it's own. At least for me, it was a choice that was far more difficult, far more costly, and far harder to reverse than which controller to get (though I'm proud to say I'm sure I did make the right choice for my goals). There's smart switches,1 smart bulbs, smart switches with smart bulbs, control/touch screen panels, remote controls, and voice. And, each one can have varying features and styling. Also consider how they will work together, not just on the technical side (which is addressed by picking an automation controller), but in actual practical use. Before picking products, actually imagine using them... For instance, would you want a glossy touch-screen light dimmer next to a click-button fan controller? Rather than immediately falling in love with a new glitter product, picture yourself using it to turn the lights on and off or whatever on a daily basis while half-asleep in the dark, or in a rush out the door.
Many people answer "I'll just use voice". Wrong answer. Just take my word for it. Voice is an add-on feature; not a replacement for physical controls. I have at least 10 Google Homes scattered throughout the house, and will be expanding on that - so it's not that they aren't useful, but yelling "Hey Google, turn on kitchen light one" ("I've turned on kitchen light two" -- "I SAID ONE!!") at 3am just doesn't actually work. As much as I and hopefully you love the idea of home automation, old dumb light switches really are about as good you can get for simple, practical, intuitive use.
My ultimate answer is that... I don't want to control lights! I want them to control themselves - hence being home automation. Unfortunately, it's just not achievable. 1) Motion sensors can be finicky and you'll want a backup, 2) Motion sensors aren't appropriate for all circumstances, and 3) Motion sensors throughout the entire house (and setting up the automation logic) is a large undertaking, and will take much time, effort and expense. I give a pro/con of some of the basic methods on my "review thread", but... First, ask YOURSELF questions. Where will the switches be? What will they do? What are you going to do with the existing switches? Will you want switches where there aren't any built-in? Will they work for the entire family? Consider what you'll gain over "dumb" switches, and what you'll lose. Then do research and ask everyone else how to get there.
[What protocol are you going to use?]
One other thing that's suggested be decided early on is protocol. If you've done any research at all or spent anytime in the forums, you'll see ZigBee and Z-Wave mentioned a lot. First, WiFi is conspicuously absent in that sentence. Despite the massive number of "smart" products on the market that use WiFi, it's not a good base protocol to use. Buying WiFi products is a great place to start out. There are a lot of great WiFi products, and they don't generally require any "hub", allowing you to just jump in without out this bothersome planning and research, and using WiFi products isn't a death sentence for home automation setups. But there are many - too many - drawbacks from security issues to signal interference, so be careful not to get sucked too far into WiFi. Feel free to postpone making these really hard choices by buying a couple WiFi devices, but don't ignore them just because WiFi seems to work well to start with. Some of the pro/cons for WiFi like security issues just make WiFi less of bargain, but many of the issues grow exponentially with the number of WiFi devices you have.
As to Zigbee or Z-Wave - I started out with a mix, and have settled on one based on stability of my personal setup - not naming which is giving me troubles, because it's probably solvable, I'm just too lazy to bother. Although there are differences between the two - some of which may be quite important to smart-home veterans - it typically doesn't matter which is used, and there's certainly not one that's "better" for beginners. Pretty much every product type can be found in either, but specific brands usually do one or the other, so I'd recommend getting a controller that supports both, learn as you go, and use what works best.
Just as a bit of a primer, ZigBee and Z-Wave are both what are known as "mesh networks". You know about "mesh WiFi". It's like that, but completely different. In a true mesh network, each device can act as a repeater for other devices, which isn't true for WiFi. So each device that is a repeater strengthens and extends the network, and can become more efficient with routing. Not all will be repeaters, particularly battery powered devices. Hue and other ZigBee bulbs won't either, because they're technically a substandard (Zigbee Light Link rather than Zigbee Home Automation). However, bulbs in general are reportedly a mixed bag, and not being a repeater can be better than being a bad repeater.
[Do you really need a "hub"?]
A note on hubs. Many people (including myself) started out with "But I don't wanna hub!" (or "But I don't wannanother hub!") Get over it. Although there's something to be said for simplicity, don't get hung up on whether something requires a hub! They don't build them just to make money... well, I mean, they do, but no one would buy them if they didn't have value. Personally, I actively use six hubs (Hubitat Elevation, Lutron Caseta, Hue, Pi 3B+, Arlo, and Fing) with plans for another, and have yet more that I've managed to phase out. That's not to say those hubs are right for everyone (again, see my review thread), and I'm definitely not saying to buy any hub without researching what features it adds, but do not cut your nose off to spite your face by avoiding product lines just because there's a hub!
[Where are you going to use it?]
(At home! It's home automation! Duh!!)
Presence... It's a huge issue for home automation. Maybe even the most important issue. So, just going to define a few concepts for your consideration.
The Holy Grail of a smart home is being able to customize the environment to suit the specific people in the room/area, and specifically to suit their activity. For instance, you may want different lighting or sound settings if you are watching tv rather than your child, or have different things occur if your child is leaving the house rather than when you arrive, etc., etc. The only way to do that in a practical way within a home environment is through facial recognition cameras. Although it's technically feasible, at this time it's simply not practical for the vast majority of home owners. But there are ways to get pretty close.
There's geopresense (aka "geofencing"). You know what it is, but there's a lot more to it when applied inside a house. It can be used to determine, within some margin of error, if you're at home, but useless in saying which part of the home. And it can only track other people if they're willing to install an app (and have their phone with them). It can also be used for things like having left work, arrived at a vacation destination, or perhaps which section of your property like the golf course in your back yard or the squash court in the side yard.area
To determine if someone actually entered the house, or entered a specific room, you can use contact sensors, which indicates a door or window has been opened or closed. Obviously, this can't say who it was, or even if they're entering or exiting. They also require opening doors, which obviously often doesn't apply inside.
Motion detectors... well, you know what they do. There are some issues with them, such as sensitivity, polling rate, and false alarms (the vast majority of sensors see infrared changes, so heat sources will tend to throw them off). Still, they make for good lighting controls and such.
A few other "presence" types... There are pressure plates, vibration sensors, and beam sensors. Some of these are pretty uncommon, but if you're not adverse to DIY, they could be handy. For instance, a pressure sensor could tell if your car is parked, and a beam sensor can tell if the car has arrived. That is, a pressure plate can tell the difference between a car and a person, but is specific to only one specific location. A beam sensor can see between any two points, but can't tell the difference between a car and your grandmother's corpse.
Another option is BlueTooth. Using keychain fobs, specific people can be identified, and hypothetically located within a small-ish area, but still not good enough to pin-point a room/area. When combined with motion sensors, if people aren't in groups, you could get pretty close, for instance if only one person is in one part of the house, and a motion sensor is triggered for a specific room in that area, the system can know who is in what room.
Carefully combining these together - typically GPS, contact sensors, and/or motion sensors - you can get a good idea of where people are in a house. The closer you can get to the Holy Grail of knowing where people are, who they are, and what they are doing, the more automation can be fined-tuned to customize a house for them. Here's a post showing what creativity, planning, time, and pure stubbornness can accomplish.
[How are you going to stop using it?]
Shit happens. Plan for it. Example one... My dog likes to chew on my MagicCube and Pico remotes, which only control lights so no big deal, but if turning on a light while no one was home acted as a security alarm trigger, it'd be a big problem. Example two... a simple mistake in my automation code prevented lights from turning on or off - at all - and I couldn't stop right then to fix it. It's too easy to make a mistake, like having lights come on at 2am instead of 2pm, so put in overrides. Have options to disable routines. And use multi-point authentication systems for critical systems like alarms and locks. It doesn't take much to tank the SAF (Spouse Approval Factor), if not actually put you in physical danger.
Now on to the lists, but first a warning. Don't let them overwhelm you. The options with smart homes is long, but only the biggest dicks most dedicated [sorry, just jealous] do more than maybe a double handful of them.
Devices:

(Note: There are multi-purpose sensors that combine various of the above into one device)
Not a device in the same way as those above, but there are also hubs that mimic remote controls for ceiling fans, tvs, window ACs, gas fireplaces, etc.
Automation ideas....
Note: The true wonder and power of home automation is being able to join together multiple triggers with multiple events for multiple devices, such as creating whole-house scenes, combining lighting, alerts, tv/movie player, fireplace, water features, etc., etc. It's impossible to list every combination, but... please share what you've done :-)
These are sorted roughly by category. The leading number in brackets is my opinion/guess on general difficulty (scale of 10, with 10 hardest), but that could drastically vary by specifics of the goal, how it's implemented, the platform, specific products, and how wrong my opinion is, so only use them if you don't know any better. "?" indicates it depends entirely on the platform.
If you've made it all the way here, lemme know if you want something closer to a step-by-step instructions of getting a "smart home" using a Hubitat. I don't like telling people "do this" when there are so many different ways, and I'm nowhere near done with my way, but with enough interest I might be convinced.
1 Disclaimer: Just FYI, "switch", "remote" and "controller" can have varying meanings that differ between general usage, electrical devices, and in home automation. I'm using a generic, non-technical, meanings.
submitted by redroguetech to homeautomation [link] [comments]


2020.09.14 20:36 nootnoot00t My terrifying first time experience with adderall induced psychosis. Please beware.

I take adderall on and off and sometimes experiment with binges. I would keep taking Adderall and slowly became more and more sleep deprived within two weeks. I would see slight visual hallucinations but knew they weren't real and thought they were more interesting than scary. It started when I started seeing people that weren't there. The people I saw were very realistic but as soon as I would walk closer they would vanish. This didn't scare me either, since I knew I was hallucinating. Then it turned gradually into hearing voices coming from my phone. I would hear my boyfriend's voice, saying normal things and I'd look at my phone and keep realizing that it was turned off, there was no call going on. Again at this point I knew I was hallucinating but this was the first time I had audio hallucinations. I still wasn't scared at this point, I knew it all wasn't real.
The last thing I remember before I entered psychosis was I fell asleep on my desk. I woke up and heard voices coming from my phone. It was the voices of my boyfriend, and three other people I had never heard of. Basically they were spying through my phone camera and checking if I was asleep because my boyfriend was worried that I was cheating on him. My mind also made up a visual where when I was knocked out because of sleep deprivation a few days before, my boyfriend and some other person had somehow come into my apartment and set up cameras and mics, and hacked into my phone and laptop with spyware without me realizing it. I pretended to keep sleeping because I wanted to hear their conversation. By this point I was 100% believing this was happening without any doubt. My boyfriend was spying on me, his friends were telling him not to worry and that I was really sleeping, saying things like 'zoom into her face, she's definitely sleeping, see her twitching?' And then my boyfriend's friend would start saying vulgar things like 'Now I know why you're dating this girl, I'd fuck her on the spot.' The two other friends were strippers who were also very vulgar, saying things like 'I would be able to fuck you better than your girlfriend can' to my boyfriend. I could tell they were all on drugs, especially my boyfriend, who was paranoid that I would wake up and catch them at what they were doing. It was finally when they said 'Okay, she's asleep, let's get out of here and have some fun' and the strippers would say 'I can do that sexy thing I did to you last time, I can bring another girl in this also, the one you liked with the big ass', basically planning a transaction right then and there when I finally opened my eyes. I heard one of the girls say 'Oh shit, her eyes are open.' I sat up and loudly said, 'I heard fucking everything, get out before I call the police'. I heard them run out the door of my apartment building. I felt destroyed, sick to my core, so afraid. I couldn't believe this was happening to me.
I called my friend Will, who was a close mutual friend of mine and my boyfriend's. This really happened. It was almost midnight by this time. My friend came to help me look for these cameras and I told him what they were saying, completely convinced. Will looked more concerned about me than the actual spying, which annoyed me. I couldn't see why he was being more suspicious of me than what had happened. Will asked me when's the last time I slept or ate while looking around my apartment. I started realizing that Will wasn't there to help, my boyfriend must have contacted him before he came to tell him to remove the spying devices without me noticing so I had zero proof to take to the police. I angrily ended up telling him to get out of my apartment. Now there was another person I couldn't trust.
I couldn't sleep all night, because his friends began to torment me through my phone again, or wherever they placed the mics. I tried putting my phone away but I would still be able to hear them. They were taunting me, laughing because I kept trying to search how to end this on my laptop, but they were seeing everything I was doing on my screen and moving the mouse, or googling paranoia just to fuck with me. I just wanted them to shut up and leave me alone, but the more upset I got the more fun they were having. My boyfriend had turned into a monster, with monster friends, and they didn't care anymore that I knew they were spying on me. The bullying was relentless. I went from angrily telling them all to shut up to finally feeling completely defeated, just begging for it to end. At around 4 in the morning my boyfriend and one of the girls he was partying with had actually come back into my apartment building to torment me again. I would hear them through my window and it made sense to me because the fire escape was right next to my apartment, they could lean in and talk to me through my window. My boyfriend was coked up, the girl he was with loved to make fun of me, calling me fat. I took my blanket by the front door and laid there, utterly defeated that the man I knew to love and care for me so much was doing this. Even while putting my electronics away and lying towards the door, I heard them say 'Where'd she go? Zoom in. Oh, shes lying by the door, ew, she's actually lying on the floor, haha, how sad.' At that point I simply stared at the ceiling and started to quietly beg, I told them they have truly broken me and won, and told my boyfriend if he had any sliver of respect for me left, to please, please leave. They wouldn't. I then said I'd call the police. As I dialed, I heard them quickly leave again. The police came (this was real) and the first thing they ask was if I was diagnosed with anything and taking medication. They left, obviously not believing me, and I felt sick, I truly had no one on my side to help, and my boyfriend and his friends definitely heard the conversation that happened between me and the cops, and they were probably gleeful about it. The voices though stopped for a while.
My boyfriend texted me around 5 AM asking me what was going on and if I was okay, where I was, most likely because Will had told him what was happening. I saw it as a ruse, like through our texts, he was trying to seem innocent. Then I hallucinated that him and his family were having a party in my apartment building. They all bullied me, saying I wasn't good enough for him and was rude for not coming out. I began to have vocal fights with his cousins through my window, being very agitated. I tried to sleep by then and decided to ignore his family, and everytime they said something through my window I'd sit up to answer but they were already gone. This happened over and over. It was when they turned on the spyware on my phone again, to punish me, I completely broke down. I ran outside and up and down the fire escape, begging them and my boyfriend to please turn the devices off, I couldn't handle it anymore. I had a literal meltdown, crying and screaming, but every time I felt like I was getting closer to them, his cousins had ran off to another floor, having the time of their lives tormenting me. One of them actually realized my apartment door was finally open and they put bags of shit inside my toilet for it to overflow. (That never happened).
My boyfriend finally texted me that he was in the lobby to meet me. (It was his first time actually seeing me since I entered psychosis). Without me knowing, (and I learned this after I stopped being in psychosis) he talked to my apartment manager, telling her I was having a really bad time at the moment and to please understand. Then he met me and I kept telling him he had to remove the spyware on my laptop and phone, right now. Of course he was trying to appease me without freaking me out even more, but everything he said I didn't believe. I finally said I'd take him to the manager to get the footage from when they entered the building last night. He stood by while I told my manager everything that happened and gave her time stamps to check the security footage. She said she would.
I don't really remember my emotional thought process after that, but my boyfriend ended up taking me back up to my apartment and told me to sleep. I laid there next to him without putting up a fight, and immediately knocked out for ten hours. My boyfriend left after three hours after making sure I had slept. When I woke up, I realized everything I thought had happened couldn't have. I hadn't seen one single face after hallucinating around 30 voices and people. I thought I was being tormented, but in reality my boyfriend never left his place and was asleep the entire time until the next morning, and his family was never at my apartment building. I was running up and down the fire escape trying to find people who were never there. Nothing had been bugged. It was all in my head. Realizing this, I sobbed for hours. My friends were so worried about me, as well as my boyfriend. I was able to piece everything together and talk to my boyfriend who was insanely worried but told me everything would be okay.
This was the first time I entered a psychosis where I truly believed in what was happening. It was terrifying to realize that fact afterwards and made me not want to touch this drug again. I didn't know I could slip that fast into psychosis. I had hallucinations in the past but never actually believed in them until now. It was a complete nightmare. Please be warned.
submitted by nootnoot00t to adderall [link] [comments]


2020.08.13 12:37 ALiddleBiddle A Deep Dive - Ghislaine Maxwell: Silver Spoons and Hard Times

A Deep Dive - Ghislaine Maxwell: Silver Spoons and Hard Times
This story was published in Frank's Report. Frank Parlato is an investigative journalist. Frank Report is one of the internet’s best destinations for true, unfiltered, hard-hitting journalism run by the acclaimed journalist Frank Parlato.
Since 2015, articles published on Frank Report have exposed major scandals and criminal enterprises (including the NXIVM Cult. Frank Parlato has been cited as a source by hundreds of major media outlets around the world, including the New York Times, The Daily Mail, VICE News, CNN, Fox News, Albany Times Union, New York Post, Rolling Stone, People Magazine, Oxygen, Hollywood Life, E! News, CBS Inside Edition, Televisa (Mexico, Stern (Germany, Brisbane Times (Australia, Sun (UK, Hamilton Spectator (Canada), Haaretz (Israel), Tibetan Journal (Tibet), Dnevnik (Croatia), New Zealand Herald, Sputnik News (Russia), Voici (France), Blich (Switzerland), Pour Femme (Italy), CM Journal (Portugal) and more. Frank Parlato was the lead investigator and coordinating producer of Investigation Discovery’s 2 hour blockbuster special ‘The Lost Women of NXIVM.’)))))
From sex trafficking cults disguised as self-empowerment groups to government cronyism depriving citizens of tax-funded programs, Frank Report doesn’t just turn stones – it outright obliterates them.
Welcome to Frank Report, one of the internet’s finest examples of real, unbridled journalism.
----
Ghislaine Maxwell – Silver Spoons and Hard Times August 9, 2020
By Paul Serran
https://frankreport.com/2020/08/09/ghislaine-maxwell-silver-spoons-and-hard-times/
http://archive.is/by7md
Ghislaine Maxwell led much of her life under the world’s fascinated microscopic view, always enthralled by her – famous and infamous – as it watched her fortunes wax and wane.
From the celebrated miracle daughter of media tycoon Robert Maxwell; to the broken young woman who fled scandal in the UK to a small New York apartment, trying to launch a new life; the rebirth Jet-set Ghislaine, who was everywhere at once, longtime companion of Jeffrey Epstein, a man even richer and more shady than her father; the sophisticated middle age woman, a runaway alleged criminal trying hard to avoid detection by her pursuers – finally, to the incarcerated, indicted suspected sex trafficker and perjurer.
Ghislaine was Robert and Betty Maxwell’s miracle baby, born on Christmas Day, 1961. Two days after that, their eldest son suffered a fatal car accident.
In 24 hours, it all had been somehow foretold: joy – and then tragedy.
During the Swinging Sixties, Robert Maxwell served two terms as a Labour Member of Parliament (MP) for Buckingham. He led a multimillionaire lifestyle, and was the host of star-studded parties at Headington Hill Hall, his baronial fifty-three-room Oxford mansion.
The Maxwells spent a million dollars redecorating the mansion. In a stained glass window scene for the imperial staircase, Israeli sculptor Nehemia Azaz depicted Robert Maxwell as the biblical hero Samson tearing down the gates of Gaza: “a titan of luck, impossible achievement, and unlimited wealth”.
They had the use of chauffeured luxury cars. They traveled the world in Robert’s Gulfstream IV Jet and his sleek 180-foot yacht, named Lady Ghislaine.
“If Bob Maxwell didn’t exist, no one could invent him,” Labour Party leader Neil Kinnock celebrated the bombastic, demanding mogul who dined with kings and presidents and had a bottomless appetite for family, food, fortune, and fame.
The first brush with financial and professional hardship came at a age when young Ghislaine would have been mostly sheltered from it.
In the early seventies, after Robert Maxwell tried similar shenanigans in a failed attempt to swindle the American financier Saul Steinberg, who was interested in a strategic acquisition of Pergamon Press. Steinberg claimed that during negotiations, Maxwell falsely stated that a subsidiary responsible for publishing encyclopedias was extremely profitable.
At the same time, Pergamon had been forced to reduce its profit forecasts for 1969 during the period of negotiations, leading to a suspension of dealing in Pergamon shares on the London stock markets.
It was found that Maxwell had contrived to maximize Pergamon’s share price through transactions between his private family companies. This was a criminal practice he would utilize again in the future.
Inspectors from Britain’s Department of Trade and Industry declared Maxwell unfit to run a public company: “Notwithstanding Mr. Maxwell’s acknowledged abilities and energy, he is not in our opinion a person who can be relied on to exercise proper stewardship of a publicly quoted company.”
‘Captain Bob’ established the Maxwell Foundation in tax haven Liechtenstein, in 1970. By the 1980s he come back roaring, prompted by money later said to have originated in the Soviet Union. He bought the Mirror Group built and a massive media conglomerate.
The good times were on: Ghislaine was nicknamed “The Shopper” because of her wild spending funded by Robert’s millions. He also bankrolled her failed corporate gifts business.
During this period, she reportedly had a VERY close relationship with her father and was widely credited with being her father’s favorite child.
In Oxford, Ghislaine led a student life of wealth and privilege. Her father would send Filipino servants to the college house she shared to clean, arrange the table and cook, in the event of a party.
Her career piggybacked on her father’s businesses. She was made director of the Oxford United, and later, put in charge of “special projects” of the New York Daily News.
With her father’s money, she found her way into society, especially in New York — a haven where she could escape his complete control.
But the good times were not to last. Overextended and over-leveraged, Maxwell’s empire was about to crumble.
At this time, Maxwell reportedly was a regular at London’s casinos, playing three tables at once, even dropping $2.5 million in a single night. For years, he had been an inveterate gambler, but this was the behavior of a desperate man whose time was running out.
“He was a very crude man,” said a female writer for Time magazine. “His polish was not very deep. If you were with him for any length of time, it peeled away. I was in his library in the Maxwell House penthouse—a beautiful apartment with marble and servants all over the place—and while I was admiring his books, his valet said to me, ‘You should see Mr. Maxwell’s collection of pornographic tapes’.”
Ghislaine visited her father in his office before he flew off to Gibraltar. “He was looking for an apartment in New York—a sort of pied-à-terre, where he could talk and have meetings—and he wanted me to help him,” she told Vanity Fair. “He asked me to go see a particular apartment. He said, ‘If you like it, I’ll make time to see it and come to New York.’ ” But the next time Ghislaine saw her father, he was dead.
”Ghislaine is the baby of the family and the one who was closest to her father,” her mother Betty told Vanity Press. ”The whole of Ghislaine’s world has collapsed, and it will be very difficult for her to continue.”
When she finally appeared before the reporters, she had collected herself. “How did your father die?” a journalist shouted at Ghislaine Maxwell. “He did not commit suicide. That was just not consistent with his character. I think he was murdered. ”
Maxwell, it turned out, had debts of nearly $5 billion, and had stolen hundreds of millions from the Mirror Group’s pension funds to shore up his faltering companies. That left 32,000 employees exposed to retirement ruin.
The irony was not lost on the hard-hitting British press: Robert Maxwell, a socialist, stealing hundreds of millions of pounds from the Mirror’s pension fund!
He swindled money from two of his public companies, transferred millions in and out the secret family trusts in Liechtenstein, to manipulate the share price of his Corporation.
Robert was called “rogue,” “crook,” “bully,” “thief,” “megalomaniac,” and “gangster.” The press told lurid tales of his sex orgies with midget Filipino hookers.
He was seen as a 310-pound aberration gorging on spoonfuls of caviar. An erratic and cruel tyrant who used Turkish towels for toilet paper. Journalists wrote that he was a spy for the K.G.B. or Mossad or Czech intelligence—or all three.
“My daughter Ghislaine has no money, no trusts, no funds anywhere.” her mother Betty told Vanity Fair. “Neither of [my children] had any money. Their father never gave them any money.”
Their assets were frozen. His son Kevin’s house was put up for sale, as were the Lady Ghislaine and the Gulfstream IV Jet. Their passports were seized.
A friend told The Times of London, “[Ghislaine] had always been the life and soul of the party wherever she wanted to go in the world and never had to worry about money.” Now she was the broken child of a monster, his name forever synonymous to scandal. “She was catatonic,” the friend said.
Forced to vacate her huge company-provided residence, she moved into a small apartment. When a friend came to visit, Ghislaine told her, “They took everything—everything—even the cutlery.”
Little did she know how many more times things in her life would shift from silver spoons to hard times. A woman brought up in luxury, she had everything taken from her, before she came to the United States to begin again.
“He wasn’t a crook,” Ghislaine told Vanity Press. “A thief to me is somebody who steals money. (…) Did he put it in his own pocket? Did he run off with the money? No. And that’s my definition of a crook.”
“I’m surviving—just,” she said. “But I can’t just die quietly in a comer. I have to believe that something good will come out of this mess. It’s sad for my mother. It’s sad to have lost my dad. It’s sad for my brothers. But I would say we’ll be back. Watch this space.”
Ghislaine Maxwell was also being hunted by the tabloids. The Maxwell name was so detested in London that she is said to have had to walk around in a blond wig so people wouldn’t recognize her.
Ghislaine Maxwell’s reinvention didn’t take long. Maxwell moved to the United States just after her father’s death. Her photograph boarding a Concorde to cross the Atlantic caused outrage – her father had just defrauded pensioners out of 750 Million Sterling Pounds.
According to the Mail on Sunday: “Unnoticed by almost everybody, traveling with her was a greying, plumpish, middle-aged American businessman who managed to avoid the photographers. It is to this man that 30-year-old Ghislaine has turned to ease the heartache of her father’s shame.”
“His name is Jeffrey Epstein.”
“Whose house is this, Ghislaine?” a friend asked her in the early 1990’s. “Who lives here?”
My friend,” Maxwell replied.
“Well, is he banging you?” the friend demanded. “What’s the scoop here?”
A trust fund is said to have provided her with an income of $145,000 a year. A far cry from her previous seemingly unending wealth. She “never, ever had any cash. Lots of credit, of course, but no cash”, one friend recalled to the press.
And yet, she lived the high life. She was known in New York as the “female Gatsby” for her lavish entertaining. Had a “reputation for being charming and funny, and a glittering lifestyle straight out of the pages of a society magazine”.
She was now “far from the ever watchful eye of the British press,” Hello! magazine wrote in 1997.
“She is proud of the fact that her new life is all down to her own hard work and has her elegant apartment to show for it,” the magazine mistakenly added. One day, she would “get married and have kids. But it has never been a focus: My focus is my business.”
Ghislaine’s presence added more fuel to the question: “How did Jeffrey Epstein amass his fortune?” For one of the most propagated theories is that Maxwell’s father Robert bankrolled him with funds hidden from the UK authorities.
Jeffrey Epstein built a 21,000-square-foot mansion on a massive ranch in New Mexico, which – he boasted – made his New York townhouse “look like a shack”. He named it the Zorro Ranch. He also acquired a 72-acre island in the Virgin Islands and an 8,600-square-foot home in Paris, with a specially built massage room.
She had found a path back to the lifestyle she’d lost when her father died. “She was used to living very well,” says a friend who knew her then. “She didn’t want to go back to where she was.” All she had to do to keep it was to give ‘the monster’ what he wanted.
Maxwell was expected to drop everything to serve Epstein.
She had to keep everyone in line, because one misstep would unleash the wrath of Epstein, one of the few people who could make Maxwell cry. “He would be screaming over the phone,” recalled an Epstein victim, “and she would burst into tears.”
The New York townhouse became a social nexus; guests could have included members of the Kennedy and Rockefeller clans, “along with the requisite sprinkling of countesses and billionaires,” according to The Times of London.
She was “a modern-day geisha” in a “domain filled with the richest people in the planet. “It’s a world frequented by young half-naked girls in bikinis, billionaires and lavish lifestyles, but it borders on the grotesque. You are never really sure what is going on behind closed doors.”
Royalty was specially prized, which is why her friendship with Prince Andrew became so treasured. In 2000, Maxwell and Epstein attended a Prince Andrew’s party at the Queen’s Sandringham House estate in Norfolk, England. It has been reported that the event was in honor of Maxwell’s 39th birthday.
And yet, Ghislaine began trying to distance herself from Epstein long before he went to jail. In the early 2000s, she hooked up in California with a man much richer than Epstein: Ted Waitt.
Waitt lived in a seven-bedroom, 14-bath mansion in La Jolla, sailed the world aboard a 240-foot mega-yacht, the Plan B. It was equipped with a helipad, Jacuzzi, elevator, gym, and HAD AN ONBOARD SUBMARINE, which Maxwell soon was licensed to pilot.
After Epstein went to prison in Florida for a short period, Maxwell saw the silver spoons turned into hard times again.
Acquaintances that crossed her path reported how she was almost unrecognizable. She was not stylish and attention grabbing anymore, seemed determined to go unnoticed. Her face had no makeup. There was a hint of gray in her black hair, she put on some weight.
“I was so shocked by her look,” a friend recalled to the British press. “I didn’t recognize her.”
She even gave up her once proud name, sometimes introducing herself to new acquaintances only as “G.”
“Where are you living, Ghislaine?” the friend asked. “I lost touch with you.” Maxwell suddenly went blank. “Oh,” she replied, “a little bit everywhere.”
December 2014: Virginia Roberts Giuffre filed a motion in the Southern District of Florida describing Maxwell as Epstein’s “primary coconspirator and participant in his sexual abuse and sex trafficking scheme.”
Maxwell made a huge mistake, issuing an “urgent” statement to the media dismissing the claims as “obvious lies.” That allowed Giuffre, to sue Maxwell for defamation in federal court in New York, a lawsuit “widely viewed as a vessel for Epstein’s victims to expose the scope of Epstein’s crimes,” according to the Miami Herald.
Maxwell affirmed her innocence with fury, at one point of her testimony banging her fists on the table. She also, according to charges filed by the DOJ SDNY, committed two counts of perjury.
2019: when the SDNY reopened the criminal investigation into Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine was far away, living the high life.
She met with her friend Prince Andrew in Buckingham Palace, and participated in “Cash & Rocket”, an annual charity road rally. Between races of the rally, she joined the super rich in attending a Masquerade Ball in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, as well as a White dinner at La Reserve in Geneva and the Red party at the Yacht Club de Monaco.
Those were to be her last reported events. Cash & Rocket scrub Maxwell’s photo from its website once Epstein was arrested and the scandal assaulted the headlines again.
On July 6, 2019, Epstein was arrested by federal agents at Teterboro Airport, arriving from Paris. The FBI raided his mansion, and charged him with sex trafficking of minors.
“Epstein’s pimp girlfriend, Ghislaine Maxwell, a very well-connected Brit socialite cannot just walk free,” actress Ellen Barking tweeted the day after Epstein’s arrest. “This woman is his pimp. She pilots planes [sic] to and from the island. I know because she told me.”
Maxwell again went into hiding, unreachable during legal proceedings. It surfaced in December 2019 that Maxwell was among the people under FBI investigation for facilitating Epstein’s crimes.
She was faced with a tabloid frenzy even bigger than the one that accompanied the death of her father. She again uprooted herself and tried to start over in Manchester-by-the-Sea, a quiet village 30 miles north of Boston, she lived for a time in the $3 million, five-bedroom colonial home of Scott Borgerson, CEO of CargoMetrics, a hedge fund investment company involved in maritime data analytics.
Since Epstein was found dead in jail, last August, she is reported to have moved 36 times, out of fear for her safety. Credible Death threats arrived by social media, email, phone, text, and postal service. It began in earnest with Epstein’s arrest, multiplied with his death, and accelerated in the months that followed. They soon became a routine part of her life.
She hired a professional security firm, with operatives that are veterans of intelligence and law enforcement agencies.
This photoshopped photo of Maxwell surfaced last year to mislead the public into thinking she was in Los Angeles. Frank Report was the first to report the photo a fake, a story that went viral.
“Where in the world was Ghislaine Maxwell? Everyone, it seemed, had a theory, each wilder than the last. She was said to be hiding deep beneath the sea in a submarine, which she was licensed to pilot. Or she was lying low in Israel, under the protection of the Mossad, the powerful intelligence agency with whom her late father supposedly tangled. Or she was in the FBI witness protection program, or ensconced in luxury in a villa in the South of France, or sunning herself naked on the coast of Spain, or holed up in a high-security doomsday bunker belonging to rich and powerful friends whose lives might implode should Maxwell ever reveal what she knows—all the dirty secrets of the dirty world that she and Epstein shared.”
(Vanity Fair – Jul 3, 2020)
Maxwell remained at large, beyond the reach of attorneys, tabloid reporters, and a 10,000-pound reward from The Sun in London.
“It’s a little bit like Elvis—you get lots of reports but they’re hard to verify,” a victim attorney said in May.
She was periodically said to have been spotted around the world, usually in places where she was not. Reporters scoured the globe. Some said she was in Russia trying to get a Oligarch to protect her. Others pointed to Israel or Brazil, China, Singapore, the Middle East, England.
She was “both everywhere and nowhere,” lamented UK’s The Guardian.
On August 2019, she was apparently photographed eating a burger and fries in the Cahuenga Boulevard, in the San Fernando Valley. She held The Book of Honor: The Secret Lives and Deaths of CIA Operatives. Given Ghislaine and her father Robert’s alleged ties to Intelligence Services, this choice does not seem accidental.
Papers were running out of incredible stories to account for her disappearance. A bizarre new theory emerged she could be hiding in a submarine which – as we saw – was not downright impossible, since she DID have a license to pilot underground vehicles.
On July 2nd 2020, Maxwell was arrested by the FBI and NYPD in the small New England town of Bradford, New Hampshire. It is situated at driving distance of the NYSD. They finally found her in a luxurious four-bedroom, 4,365-square-foot home on a wooded lot, called Tuckedaway.
Ghislaine Maxwell was charged with six federal crimes: luring and enticement of minors, sex trafficking of children and perjury.
The crimes took place between 1994 and 1997, the years of her “intimate relationship with Epstein,” when she “assisted, facilitated, and contributed to Jeffrey Epstein’s abuse of minor girls.”
One of the three unnamed victims was “as young as 14 years old when they were groomed and abused by Maxwell and Epstein, both of whom knew that certain victims were in fact under the age of 18.”
FBI assistant director William F. Sweeney Jr. described Maxwell as “one of the villains of this investigation,” who had “slithered away to a gorgeous property” in New Hampshire, where she was “continuing to live a life of privilege while her victims live with the trauma inflicted upon them years ago.”
“I am optimistic about my future,” she said in 1997, “and believe things will continue to improve for me as time passes.”
Now, according to sources close to her, “I don’t think [Ghislaine] sees there is a future,” came the reply.
If found guilty of all charges, Maxwell could face a prison sentence of 35 years. She denies the accusations, and has pleaded not guilty to all six charges.
She will await trial locked up in the Metropolitan Detention Center, in Brooklyn. A dreadful prison that is as removed from her previous “silver spoon” upbringing as it’s possible in the US. Hard times.
She used to be a larger than life character, who once hosted a dinner for NY socialites on ‘the fine art of giving a blow job’. But then, she really blew it.
A report from a source familiar with the Metropolitan Detention Center gives a glum picture of Ghislaine Maxwell’s present conditions.
She is in the women’s section and believed to be confined to a solitary cell. Because of the past history of the MDC, it is not impossible to suspect that Ghislaine could be having sexual relations with one or more corrections officers, either male or female. Her available wealth would permit her to buy some privileges directly from the corrections officers who could smuggle in items for her.
MDC has a history of guards, male and female, enjoying sex with prisoners and smuggling in everything from alcohol to cell phones to drugs. While she is not enjoying what anyone would call a privileged life, and is most likely [because of Covid protocols] confined to her cell, dank and cold [in summer] perhaps as much as 23-24 hours per day and possibly getting only one hot meal per day, our source says, with her wealth and talent to charm, if there is any privilege, any opportunity, any luxury to enjoy at MDC, she is enjoying it.
Of course, she is probably under near-constant surveillance, for no guard wants to go to prison for letting her get murdered or commit suicide – as did her former lover Epstein. It is not known how frequently she is meeting with lawyers in special rooms set aside for the purpose. But an MDC source tells Frank Report that prison officials are known to eavesdrop on those conversations with lawyers and defendants and do so on high profile cases. Whether they report to the prosecution what they learn is unknown.
In the end, Maxwell has a hard road to hoe and will remain in the brutal and unsanitary MDC until she stands trial or makes a plea deal or dies. The possibility of additional charges other than those currently charged against her – for hebephilia crimes in the last century – remain a possibility.
The late Jeffrey Epstein was a convicted hebephile, a person who has urges for post pubescent but under the age of consent children. Is Ghislaine one also? And are there others, famous and prominent men of power who have indulged as Jeffrey and allegedly Ghislaine have done?
The ace in the hole for her, obviously, is, if she has info on other prominent hebephiles that the DOJ for its own partisan or PR reasons might like to selectively prosecute, she can trade that info for a lenient sentence and hopefully not be murdered for doing so.
Her former lover, Jeffrey Epstein, might have committed suicide, as the Mainstream Media and the US Govt. urges you to believe, but there are some who find the coincidences, cameras being off, bones broken indicating he was strangled, guards happening to fall asleep as they were assigned to watch the most famous prisoner in the world, such that that it just might cause reasonable people to doubt the official narrative a little more than the corporate media and prison officials would wants us to doubt.
The same fate might befall Ghislaine and we may never know just what she did. Whether her crimes were confined to herself and Epstein or whether there was a vast network of hebephiles joining in – or – in fairness to her – she is innocent as she claims, something that a trial, if she makes it to trial, might help us determine.


stretcher during the funeral service in Jerusalem’s main convention hall on Nov. 10, 1991. The body is laying on a stretcher, draped in a white Jewish prayer shawl with black stripes as is it tradition of Jewish burials in Israel. (AP Photo/Natik Harnik) Ghislaine is fourth from the left.


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2020.06.25 21:04 CheerfulSunsinger Spy camera in girls toilet

"I always wanted to be special. I thought my life'd finally have meaning if I was special to someone. That's why I was really exited when I got my Persona. But I really didn't need it. Its not what you have or what you can do. Just being born, living your life. Before you know it, you're already special to someone. Like you! You're special to me, you know!" - Yosuke Hanamura
In P4, Yosuke stated the most important message of Persona. A message repeatedly undermined by also being a sexist, self-insert, oxytocin infused harem fantasy. A genre created by a country with a declining population due to low birth rates and low marriage rates because their men are not meeting women halfway, socially, economically or emotionally. And instead of confronting these issues, they try to replace women with porn, body pillows, sex robots and trashy dating sims. Instead of working and fighting to make their lives better, they use games like Persona as a substitute for life. Buckle up because this rant is going to deeply uncomfortable places.
This goes out to all the artists who got harassed and doxxed on Twitter for making Shumako art. I wrote it in response to your plight. This is my third and most divisive essay, one I'll have notifications for turned off.

Intro - Once upon a time, Atlus wrote a game with a REAL relationship, about relationships:
It was a mature tale about touchy issues such as growing up, commitment ethic, family vs friends, sex, and infidelity. You have probably heard of it but didn't play it because heavy subject matter and disturbing imagery. Persona? No, I'm talking about Catherine. And if you haven't played it, you probably should. If you look closely, the plot follows the same pattern as a Persona game. It takes place in the real world and inserts a horrific surreal fantasy that makes a statement on Japan's declining marriage and birth rates because of how women are treated there. It makes some mistakes (Katherine's abuse), but it tries, and has heart. (Don't bother with the special edition though, Atlus jacked that up with a Mary Sue as they always do.) Catherine Classic is the preview of what Persona could be capable of it wasn't trying (poorly) to be a self-insert harem.
Who the hell thinks Persona is a positive story about relationships? Jungian psychology? Sure. The flaws of humanity and society? Hell yeah. Generic Anime Friendship? Absolutely. Love? Relationships? Intimacy? Absolutely not! Those things are mutually exclusive to a harem. And even if it wasn't that genre, JRPGs, and Shounen itself, don't have that good of a track record of writing relationships to begin with.
2. I f1ght f0r mai friendz, and I don't know where babies come from...
Around the time of Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance, I soured on JRPG protagonists and relationship writing. I could not respect, or take seriously, these dashing, heroic studs, staring into space, not knowing where babies come from while chicks got all up in their business. The genre needs less Ikes, Clouds and Squalls, and more Zidanes and Ryudos.
FF9's Zidane Tribal is my all-time favorite JRPG hero, and he was a real Gentleman Thief. He had a social circle that had nothing to do with the heroes (I'm big on this, see 4). He had high emotional intelligence, and it didn't appear out of nowhere. He was an utter man among boys, forged by comrades in skullduggery. He immediately made his interest in Princess Garnet "Dagger" til Alexandros known and she was not afraid to tease back. He stumbled when he made moves on her, and he didn't realize how crass he was until Eiko's hopeless puppy love gave him a taste of his own medicine. He was a total flirt to other girls, partially because that's who he was, and partially because he struggled to figure out if he would ever be good enough for her, and he was dishonest about how how much he loved her. He internally, and verbally, agonized over this (most JRPG heroes never express their feelings on the women around them, even if they're not a self-insert, more on this in 2.) They clashed often, and earnestly (not some sexualized tsundere nonsense). He never put her on a pedestal, challenging her values and naivete while unintentionally underestimating her courage, and she nearly got herself killed when she pushed him away in offense while failing to take his bitter truths seriously. Zidane was not the player's self-insert, and Dagger didn't exist "for him." They were an independent "he" and "she," slowly becoming a "they." And yet they weren't the center of each other’s universes. Zidane was an excellent friend, leader and mentor to the other party members, especially the adorable and arguably most thematic character, Vivi. Dagger confided in many other characters before she got comfortable with Zidane.

Ryudo from Grandia 2 was a generic jackass. He's not that interesting or fit to be compared to my homie Zidane, be he too, was not a self-insert. He was caught in a cheesy but unusually bitter love triangle between a priestess and demon sharing the same body, who hated each other. This was not that groundbreaking and it was never resolved because of course not. But halfway through the game something incredible happened. Under the light of the full moon, he really, truly talked to them. He admitted he felt feelings of love for them both (yes, he said the L word,) and he apologized for the uncomfortable and unfair position he was putting them in by meandering, deconstructing the love triangle. THAT NEVER HAPPENS IN A JRPG! Please count and post those conversations out if you have them because that's all I've got! Cloud. Shulk. So many more. They don't do it!

2. Oh, Hero, you're so sexy when you stare at the wall ignoring my advances <3
Team Four Star summarized the typical Shounen relationship.
Mikasa: "I wanna have sex with you really bad right now."
Erin : "GOD, DON'T MAKE IT GAY, MIKASA!."
JRPGs don't have real conversations, because Shounen stories don’t, even if it’s not a harem. They'll dump external conflicts on the heroes all day long, but never internal conflicts about relationships on them. They'll dump cheap sexual tension on the hero, but I challenge you to think of the times you've heard the hero respond. Beautiful, sexually aggressive chicks will dive into the personal space of dashing young men like strippers, while they stare at the wall in silence. More demure girls will deny their desire for the hero as the camera is hypocritically shoved right into their beautiful, blushing faces (I'm looking at YOU, Mikasa, I'm on to your nonsense.) A male and female will be written as a pair, with one obviously in love but with the other too oblivious to reciprocate until something sappy happens like one dying for the other. If there are hopeless suitors, the male will never say "stop it, I want someone else." Their so called "relationships" are always in a permanent state of horny "hunt" and "chase." Always the petty firecrackers, and never the deep lake.
Look at how great the western Castlevania is. How fantastic is it, seeing Trevor and Sypha as a couple, and squabbling as a couple? If it were written in Japan, they would still be traveling together and solving problems every day, not as a couple, but in a permanent state of "chase" instead.
Contrast WRPGs, or even western animations for a similar age group like Airbender and even Adventure Time. "I like you" is not a dirty word. Finn dated a girl made of fire (a perfect metaphor for boundaries) and it was still more real, tasteful, and mature than most JRPGs. Real relationship issues like rejection, jealousy, commitment, communication and boundaries are confronted and discussed (unless you're watching the Sci-Fi Channel,) because they have to be if serious relationships are a part of the story. Getting a Shounen hero to say "I like you" or "back up, I don't like you like that" is like pulling teeth. Yet the girls are always available to them, emotionally and sexually, for eternity. That way, they're available for the viewereader's fantasies for eternity. In a good relationship story, "I like you" is a beginning. In Shounen, "I like you" ends the hunt. This is antithetical to healthy relationship stories. There is a right way to have no relationships, but sex sells. Not even Persona gets these things right.
3. The Persona Bubble – You call THIS friendship and dating?!
All of Persona's relationships with the hero live in a "bubble" that does not affect the story, and how it plays out cannot be steered by the player. The “dating” in Persona is limited to a jump from an expression of mutual interest at Rank 9 to implicit sex at 10, with almost nothing in between, before, and after. And if it’s before, it feels forced. The player can’t say “I like you” at Rank 1. The player also can’t say "cool your jets, I'm interested in someone else" at Rank 1-8. How many pushy, dewey eyed maidens of the Persona franchise could have benefited from such an exchange? (Oh, how I wanted to shut Rise up...) Why don't they try? Why can’t they bother with story branching?
Persona 4 was my first, and I played it late, and only after playing Arena. I don't do self-inserts well. I name Link "Link," Cloud "Cloud", and Yu Narukami "Yu Narukami," etc. And like a boring person, playing blind, unaware of what I was getting myself into, and unable to put myself in Yu's shoes, I couldn't fathom cheating, chose Yukiko, felt Yosuke was good with Chie (vise versa is great too, put away the pitchforks,) and that if Kanji grew a bit more, would be a good confidant to Naoto. After all, Yosuke outright called Yu and asked which girl was more his type. You would think you were setting up a double-date, but I didn't know about the Persona Bubble. The place where most Persona characters' most tender character development happens, their rank-ups, is isolated from the universe and is kept between them and the hero. Yosuke and Kanji were thoughtful, sensitive young men, as worthy of intimate relationships as Yu: inside their bubbles. The girls never got to look inside their bubbles, and I felt terrible for them (and Teddie's perverted rubbish kept dragging them down.) Yukiko had two personalities: one inside the bubble (modern Yamato Nadeshiko in love) and one out of it (bubbly, intelligent ditz) but I had no problem pairing up one cliché with another. Rise also had a split personality, part of her character and because of the bubble. She was a troubled, ordinary girl inside the bubble, wrestling with her image as an attention hungry diva outside of it (one I absolutely hated.) Chie and Naoto were wonderfully consistent inside and out of their bubbles (it’s also why the P5 heroes shine.)
Poor Yosuke and Kanji. P4 worked so hard to make them look like #@$% compared to "me." If only Yukiko, Rise and Chie saw Yosuke weeping in his best friend's arms, still trying to avenge his puppy-love crush Suki. If only Rise knew Yosuke was the one looking out for her first, before she threw herself at Yu for no damn reason. Ryuji's entire dillema could have been ended early if he was allowed to say "I like you" to Naoto. They might as well marry their hands. They never had a chance with a girl. They existed only for the player and they always will. Whether I dated them all, one of them, or none of them, they all "belonged to me," while the other boys squirmed. And "I" was their only shot at love. This is the real meaning of a harem. Possessive sexuality. This made me uncomfortable. After P4 worked so hard to make me a part of them as a family, how could I be one of them while being so dominant, sexually or otherwise?
These lazy bubbles exist only for the pleasure of the player and let them jump into a futon with a bunch of anime chicks and get away with it with no real consequences; just some unhappy cutscenes. Even in P5 they all forgive you with some magical web of lies. There's no explicit sex, but when it has the talented voice actresses pour honey in the player's ear, followed by an iris out, well, human beings are wired to fill the gaps (it’s called Relational Frame Theory). This "fake intimacy" scratches an itch no porn could reach.

4. Social Circles are good. (Social Circles are GAAAYYYY)
Chie and Yukiko were something special. They came in a pair, as two realistic teenage girls who were lifelong friends, strengthening each other as characters, making them just a bit more realistic and alive. But for that the internet often called them lesbians. The best written characters in Persona are the ones with social support that you can see and hear, not involving the player, throwaway invisible parents, or "throwaway NPCs." In typical JRPGs, everyone are strangers coming together around the center of gravity that is the protagonist, rapidly becoming his friend or love interest. Remember Final Fantasy XV, with a bunch of bruhs in a car, bruh-ing the heck out? How many people out there called them gay? Have people forgotten what a "friend" is? Have people having pre-established friendships and social circle become that uncommon? Why must every character exist for the sexual fantasies of the player?
Persona desperately needed, and still needs, more characters Social-Linking each other. This is part of what made Makoto shine. Yusuke sits at a table with some of the Phantom Thieves in one of his rank-ups. Ann and Shioh's lack of this held P5 back from discussing pedophilia (more on them as a pair in 9). Yusuke, underrated, spiritual and empathetic, could have been the one to get Futaba out and in the open. Ann could have done it, so Futaba could receive mentorship from a woman. Or, you know, her father? Yusuke was the only other male with the intellectual chops and sophistication to help Makoto out with Eiko. Ryuji could have worked with Kawakami and learn some empathy (he started that mess after all.) Maybe Ryuji and Yusuke could work on their flaws so they can attract girls, learn to love them properly and get some sugar sent their way. Maybe Makoto could join her academic peer Haru in exploring Okumura's Palace with Morgana and help her get a Persona and Thief Name without waiting on Joker, giving Haru the agency that Makoto got. None of this happens, because again, they all exist for the player. Why does character development only matter if the player is involved? While being a good listener can get you far, Joker isn't exactly doing much most of the time. He can outright tell Ryuji he didn't do anything near the end of his rank-ups. Why not see a character with a voice solve a problem? Only Makoto does.

5. Raise your hand if you really thought you were Joker! (crickets)
"Hey! We're in Hawaii! Wanna fruitlessly hit on some NPCs at the beach?"

  • Yes
  • Reluctant Yes
  • ...
The general difference between a WRPG and a JRPG self-insert is that WRPGs generally goes all the way. You mold a character from clay, choose their race, age, background, appearance etc. JRPGs sometimes goes all the way, as the recent Pokemon games do.
Japan goes "halfsies". They give you a silent stud and say, "that's you." And whether he's a 16-year-old in high school with fabulous hair you want to touch, or a swordsman with a default name of "Cloud" or "Link.” It’s harder to suspend disbelief with these golems, and they really don't make choices. In Astral Chain, you can choose between a brother or sister. When you do, the character you choose becomes silent while the other sibling does all the talking. You “kill” the character you choose! Why? Why can’t they both be a real person?! I don't want to be them!
Example of a western "halfsie": Mass Effect's Commander Shepard. The Shepards are unique, standing proud because they are fully voiced and seem like real people. And while players can solve problems their way and screw who they want, nobody sees themselves as Shepard, and Mass Effect is stronger for it. Fun fact: 9 out of 10 players played out the same image of Shepard as a Paragon.
Shepard's lovers, like all of those in Bioware's games, have a strength and a weakness. A strength is that they are each their own person and they have social support, goals, and desires that have nothing to do with Shepard. Some even pursue romance on their own without Shepard. And the relationships established ripple outward without existing in a bubble. A weakness is that Shepard has the magical power to twist the sexuality of any of them simply by flirting with them...
A1 made animations for each girl, depicting an alternate Valentine's Day in 1st person view. Did you enjoy them? I can't bear to look for more than a few seconds. I get a deeply uncomfortable feeling of "what are you looking at ME for?! I'm not Joker!" I think I know why they're in 1st person, and it’s not because of budget. It’s because seeing Joker happy would kill the fantasy for some. It would also show exactly how disgusting it is that Persona lets a 16-year old boy be intimate with doctors and teachers.
I am not Joker and I don’t want to be Joker. Many players don't see themselves as Joker. “Joker” should have a name, a mom, a dad, a voice that he uses to argue with them on the phone about how he ended up in Shibuya in the first place, and a personality other than "generic Shounen righteous fury." I may put his anime name in when I play vanilla P5, but my pretty, fancy essays will never call him “Ren” unless he acts like a real person. Persona doesn't need a Joker. It needs an emotionally intelligent Zidane. I often think P5 would be better if Joker wasn’t in it and Makoto was the protagonist while keeping her voice, and still not needing a man. Take control of Ann, Ryuji, Morgana and Yusuke, dungeon crawling and being dumb until she stalks them, catches them, takes control all over again and gets the Wild Card…
JRPG halfsies are not good storytelling. Ace Combat Zero made the story about "me," a faceless ace pilot, interviewing veteran opponents who trembled before my might, when I wanted to hear about Ustio and Belka's geopolitical crisis. In Bioshock, the main character was the city of Rapture itself, in a story about its hubris. The best ending made it about "me" in a jarring way. Xenoblade Chronicles X found a nice workaround, because the main character was Colonel Elma, while my customizable avatar played second banana. Bravely Default's Tiz Arrior was a mannequin compared to the sequel's lively, fun Yew Geneolgia, very much in love with the mysterious lunar spy Magnolia (a sad weakness was that Magnolia seemingly "existed" for him, a big foul.)

6. Persona 4: The Animation - It’s Because I'm the Gary Stu King
In 2013, P4's animation was a lazy cash grab. All the critical slice-of-life moments were gutted. The characters were parodies of themselves. The animation was garbage. The Personas were floaty, squishy Pokemon with no sense of weight or power. The heroes lost their weapons, letting their Personas duke it out like Stands. Finally, it showed the cowardly depths Atlus would tread to protect the fantasies of the players.
I went into P4:A knowing Yu would not get into a relationship. Surely he would be the emotionally intelligent, classy gentleman I thought he would be, and look the girls in the eyes and say "I'm sorry but I can't enter a relationship, and I'm leaving in a year anyway," right? Do the right thing, snuff out all the cheap sexual tension and make P4 a nice, clean, loveless show about friendship like Pokemon?
Ha, they wouldn't even give him a personality! Yu might as well have not been in it. They turned what should have been an Ike changing into a Zidane, a boy growing into a man, into everything wrong with JRPGs. The only girl he could speak to casually his baby sister. The only girl he could date was Ai, because she was a lowly NPC and no one would take her seriously (and the conclusion to her story was carefully rewritten to pull her away from Yu early so he never had to reciprocate her feelings or reject them). All moments in the Velvet Room were in first person, with Yu silent, to make sure Margaret did all the talking, preventing Yu on expressing any thoughts on the Social Links he met. Margaret told Nanako that Yu was a manwhore/gigolo. Odd, since he "wasn't allowed" to say a sentence to a female more than 5 words long...
The King's Game scene...oh lord. The girls, drunk on "soda and atmosphere", took turns in Yu's lap (in game, the player chooses one girl but in this they took turns because of course.) All this and what did Yu do? He stared at the wall like a SWAG GARY STU BALLER! And he had to because God help us all if he turned his gaze, cracked a smile, blushed, got a boner or talked about the damned weather with one of the girls. What a perfect metaphor for the typical JRPG hero: a simultaneous virgin and chad. They also made my thoughtful, sensitive homie Yosuke bitter with envy over it for comedy. Ugh. So many lame, emotionless but still somehow sexy Shounen heroes flashed before my eyes in that moment. Yosuke's most important message about Persona wasn't in it. And that was for the best because the animation didn't rise to meet it.
7. Oh. So THAT'S what Persona is about
The original P4 inspired me to read classics like Dale Carnegie, What Women Want, The Art of the Gentleman and other books to boost my "stats" and grow my soul (okay, the Art of the Gentleman can be a bit goofy sometimes). The key takeaway is that women don't like guys. They like Men, and they have a truly clear, realistic and attainable image of what a man is. These books work. They are about empathy, not sleaze. I thought Persona was a statement on genuine relationships and the growth to meet them creating power, not the other way around. Something higher than all the sexist drivel. My image of Persona, and its messages, were shattered. I stopped playing JRPGs, became very selective of anime, and turned my eyes westward for gaming and storytelling for eight years (and I don’t regret a thing.) I later visited Japan, and my perception worsened. (More in the Conclusion)

8. In 2017, P5 did the unthinkable
In 2019 I purchased vanilla P5 because it was on a big sale. Deep down I was thinking "don't play that waifu @#$%, its beneath you, you remember how the P4 community was and how Atlus feeds it, don't do it" and it ultimately fell into my backlog because no characters grabbed me after the first dungeon and I got tired of the combat, which felt like I was paying SP to tollbooths in exchange for safe passage through the dungeon. I eventually picked it back up because of quarantine, mostly playing blind and discovered I missed a two year hype-train surrounding a certain ruby-eyed feminist angel who was the best written woman in the franchise, shattering the boundaries of the selfish, player-centered sex fantasy writing I didn't like about P4, bursting through the confines of her archetype, and too good for the game she was in, strengthening P5. I also discovered P5 was leagues above P4 in terms of narrative, characters, and use of its themes (See Analysis 1.) When I wasn't even finished with P5, I exactly what made her popular yet hated: they finally made a character with a sustained parental figure, independence from the player, and plot agency, and it was a WOMAN! Everything I wanted to see in Persona. Proof that Persona's harem elements don't work. And the higher quality writing of her intimate relationship with the hero sorta kinda maybe almost looked like a healthy relationship (and Royal made it even more mature!)
I was shocked. I played Control at the recommendation of a female friend and Persona fan, watched some Miyazaki movies, followed by Alita, to remind myself that Japan could do empowered women well. Women with not just physical or political power, but resiliency, a balanced emotional range, agency, family, and social circles...
I came to the internet after experiencing P5, late to the party and ready to praise Makoto like the majority, and what do I find but an all too familiar internet scene.

9. You have violated harem law! Sinner! Heathen! JEZEBEL!
People, likely all males, all waifu'd up, brains raging with oxytocin, pissing and moaning about how Makoto was "OP" and a "failure" of Atlus for having more lines (yes, people actually tallied up their lines), more character development, more plot relevance, more moments where she touched Joker and rabble-rabble-rabble. ("How dare this heathen be Sae's sister!") All storytelling is going to have disparity in character importance and relevance to the plot. And besides, if you left her alone all year she would still shine bright. Royal's new Valentine's Day, and the glaring disparity in quality of writing between the women is proof Atlus did not take each one seriously as a character because they can't, they shouldn't, and no one should.
Awww, I thought people wanted a FeMC. Here's a well written Main Character that is Female... No, they want a female self-insert so they can get some @#%^. Sometimes they don't even want that.
What mythical media can one consume where every line, cubic centimeter of proximity to the hero, and plot relevancy were meticulously calculated on a kitchen scale? Harem anime. Persona suffers in the gutter by continuing to be one.
If they're so pissy, why don't they go grab some tissues and lotion and go watch a laser-precise harem anime instead. They might not want to ask their family, friends or SO (if they've ever had one) to join them. And don't expect a satisfying ending. Just the eternal "horny hunt and chase."
Or they can go play Harvest Moon or Stardew Valley, where the players only able to date NPCs. NPCs sealed in the biggest, most impenetrable bubble of them all. It would provide that oh so precious harem balance they want. It would also be boring as @#%$, and they'll come crawling back to Persona. But darn, there's a filthy evil well written heroine in it. Guess there's always Conception II...

10. The other harem law: purity and availability (WARNING: very disturbing and subjective.)
Japanese entertainment has a virginity fetish (but only for women, of course.) Pop idols, actresses, and even fictional characters must be both pure and sexually available to be marketable. A total Madonna-Whore complex.
In P4G, if Yu hangs out with Rise in the cabin, Teddie misinterprets them being alone and shouts "stop! You're threatening your career!" And if Joker dates Ann, she must keep it a secret to protect her career. Female entertainers must sign contracts that forbid them from dating. That's the reason why.
I was expecting Ann to be like Rise and I was quite ready to hate her. She turned out to be fantastic. It was so thematic when she and her frenemy revealed their disgust for each other and celebrated with a pose competition that would make the Pillar Men tremble. She is my second favorite woman in P5.
But I can't help but forget something. Or someone. Hmm...what was it? Oh, right, that one girl! The one who attempted suicide, Shiho! Persona never did a good job of getting us to care for lowly NPCs who weren't confidants, and the characters of both Ann and Shiho suffer for it. I believe that if P5 were written in the west, Shiho would not have existed, and Ann would have been the victim. The conversations on pedophilia and Japan's misogynistic streak would be on as difficult and thoughtful levels as Makoto's war on the bar hosts.
That would never fly in a JRPG Dating Sim hybrid, because Ann would then be unfit to touch Joker. And if you think that's a double standard because Joker can sex adults who are not virgins, you're catching on quickly.
I’m also of the opinion that this is why Shiho disappears and Ann has such a tiny arc, instead of them getting more scenes in the hospital, physical therapy, or even tackling the industry they work in. Because Shiho and Ann’s turmoil hits a little bit too close to home for a self-insert harem game. The key demographic for Persona doesn’t want to discuss these issues. In Japan, Ann is the least popular girl in Persona 5, and these issues they don't want to look at would have made her better, and taught them something.

11. Conclusion - Persona and Atlus are too good for this now.
Persona 5 (well, Vanilla P5) is a timely and thoughtful statement on so many things, including the pain of fighting conformity and complacency, and shedding the need for validation, approval, or love from people who don't care about you. But it’s not a healthy story about intimate relationships, because that is mutually exclusive to a harem. Atlus is painted in a corner of their own making, protecting players' hit of oxytocin from the dating sim elements, yet turning around saying "leave us alone, this is a story about generic anime friendship, not relationships."
They didn't have to make Persona a sexed-up harem game. The alternative could have been making Persona a nice, clean sexless story like Pokemon. But they played the sex card, and they played it poorly and tastelessly. Persona has the "hunt," and a very quick "catch," but it leaves out the "relationship" and the consequences and struggles involved. When you watch the animes and play the side-games, you see what happens when they enter Pokemon-Mode yet try to keep the fanservice, dancing on eggshells to make everyone happy: a trashy, poorly animated harem anime that makes no one happy.
Atlus wants to keep their most ravenous community addicted, and that same community wants to keep Atlus afraid. They feed each other, and the fact that the player can now be a teenager having sex with grown women means that its escalating. Persona attracts a mature audience, and instead of writing relationships that are mature (save one,) their idea to attract and maintain a mature audience was "let them @#$& adults." Some players' idea of Royal improving upon P5 were "let me #### Sae, let me #### Shiho."
The quality of their writing is getting better, yet their fanservice is getting worse.
Persona, and for that matter, most JRPGs, teach young men that if they're attractive enough, they can strut around with a collared shirt in silence while girls will flock to them. That the secret to relationships is to "be attractive and perfect." That women are vending machines men feed with attention and gifts until sex comes out. As someone once told me, its how Nice Guys are born "b-b-b-b-but it worked in the anime!" Japan's marriage rates are in the toilet, and for that matter, they are in the west too, and its not the fault of women. Shinzo Abe tried to shame Japan's unmarried women and it didn't turn out well for him. As Catherine puts it "Love is Over."
I've seen the human trafficking in the streets of Tokyo that killed daddy Nijima. I've been to the real Akihabara and walked through an eight story building filled with porn and toys (some classy, many grotesque). Japanese men created a culture that isn't afraid to replace women with sex robots and dating sims, instead of looking inward saying "maybe we are the problem." Their population is slowly shrinking because they don't want to face the economic and social issues that Persona 5 discusses (and the harem nonsense perpetuates.)
Close your eyes and picture it. A pair of well written, fully named, fully voiced, male and female protagonists, each with a mom, a dad, and a personality, and distinctive social circles, fighting side by side, while teaching the player relationship issues like communication, boundaries, commitment ethic and jealousy in the real world. Even better, letting the player play as the boy or the girl, getting both of their perspectives. A story where “I like you” is a beginning, not an ending. A story where women have options other than one hero. Doesn't that sound nicer than a selfish harem fantasy? Doesn't that make sense for a teenage slice-of-life story? Doesn't that sound like something you wouldn't mind playing with your loved ones watching? Doesn't that sound like something Persona, Japan, the west, and gaming desperately need?
Games and entertainment media in general need better, healthier stories about relationships in them. Catherine shows that Atlus can do it. If only they had shed the cheap thrills to do so. There is an invisible point in between a sexless children's shounen show like Pokemon and at the opposite spectrum, a sexed-up harem anime or game. In that point, is where healthy relationship stories lie, and men need them more than they think they do.
I'd say I'm sorry if I ruined JRPGs, and the anime you may have watched in the past...but that would be a lie. @#$& that drivel. I'll be happy if I got just one young person thinking more critically about the behavior of boys and girls in a Japanese work that they like, and the culture that created it.
Persona may have an M rating, but it sure needs to grow up.
Side Note: The West does this too, and its still gross.
Someone very thoughtful jogged my memory and made me realize that the west does this stuff too. There was once a show I almost started watching: Supernatural. A television show about two handsome brothers who drive around America, hunting demons. The show was praised for its style and world building. But long-term fans of the show were complaining about something. The brothers took on lovers that were getting killed left and right. Why? Because the ravenous fanbase wanted these two sexy brothers @#%$ing. And the show surrendered to them. There was nothing explicit, but the brothers began squabbling like an old married couple. They, and their sexuality, now "belonged to the fans" at the show's expense. Having immense discomfort at this kind of "possessive sexuality," I decided not to watch it.
Analysis 1 - How Persona 5 turned what I expected upside down
Analysis 2 - The Heroine in a Harem: What makes Makoto such a powerful, beloved and groundbreaking character
Analysis 4 - Techniques and Reading Lists to Make You a Gentleman Thief or Femme Fatale!
submitted by CheerfulSunsinger to churchofmakoto [link] [comments]


2020.05.10 23:26 StaroSVK Camera spy toilet girls in

Alright so, I took the default database from there https://skribbliohints.github.io/ and with the help of html, I extracted the words to a list separated by commas. It's useful when you want to translate those words into your native language.
Word of advice, when using google translate, do not put all words at once there, it can rapidly worsen the translation.
(And there is a last thing. Their algorithm of picking only custom words is not working really good, at least for me. Meaning that I often get duplicates, despite having a list this big and without duplicates. I'm still trying to find some solution to this, so if somebody is experiencing this as well, share the knowledge please, I will do the same.)
SOLUTION: Thanks for the reply from PepegaWR who identified the cause. I also tested it and there seems to be a custom words limit of 5000 characters. The easiest way in my opinion is to shuffle the words before each session to minimize the impact. Also thanks to the flynger who had the same idea before me :)
Finally, here it is, enjoy the scribbling ^^ :

ABBA, AC/DC, Abraham Lincoln, Adidas, Africa, Aladdin, America, Amsterdam, Android, Angelina Jolie, Angry Birds, Antarctica, Anubis, Apple, Argentina, Asia, Asterix, Atlantis, Audi, Australia, BMW, BMX, Bambi, Band-Aid, Barack Obama, Bart Simpson, Batman, Beethoven, Bible, Big Ben, Bill Gates, Bitcoin, Black Friday, Bomberman, Brazil, Bruce Lee, Bugs Bunny, Canada, Capricorn, Captain America, Cat Woman, Cerberus, Charlie Chaplin, Chewbacca, China, Chinatown, Christmas, Chrome, Chuck Norris, Colosseum, Cookie Monster, Crash Bandicoot, Creeper, Croatia, Cuba, Cupid, DNA, Daffy Duck, Darwin, Darwin Watterson, Deadpool, Dexter, Discord, Donald Duck, Donald Trump, Dora, Doritos, Dracula, Dumbo, Earth, Easter, Easter Bunny, Egypt, Eiffel tower, Einstein, Elmo, Elon Musk, Elsa, Eminem, England, Europe, Excalibur, Facebook, Family Guy, Fanta, Ferrari, Finn, Finn and Jake, Flash, Florida, France, Frankenstein, Fred Flintstone, Gandalf, Gandhi, Garfield, Germany, God, Goofy, Google, Great Wall, Greece, Green Lantern, Grinch, Gru, Gumball, Happy Meal, Harry Potter, Hawaii, Hello Kitty, Hercules, Hollywood, Home Alone, Homer Simpson, Hula Hoop, Hulk, Ikea, India, Intel, Ireland, Iron Giant, Iron Man, Israel, Italy, Jack-o-lantern, Jackie Chan, James Bond, Japan, JayZ, Jenga, Jesus Christ, Jimmy Neutron, John Cena, Johnny Bravo, KFC, Katy Perry, Kermit, Kim Jong-un, King Kong, Kirby, Kung Fu, Lady Gaga, Las Vegas, Lasagna, Lego, Leonardo DiCaprio, Leonardo da Vinci, Lion King, London, London Eye, Luigi, MTV, Madagascar, Mario, Mark Zuckerberg, Mars, McDonalds, Medusa, Mercedes, Mercury, Mexico, Michael Jackson, Mickey Mouse, Microsoft, Milky Way, Minecraft, Miniclip, Minion, Minotaur, Mona Lisa, Monday, Monster, Mont Blanc, Morgan Freeman, Morse code, Morty, Mount Everest, Mount Rushmore, Mozart, Mr. Bean, Mr. Meeseeks, Mr Bean, Mr Meeseeks, Mummy, NASCAR, Nasa, Nemo, Neptune, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nike, Nintendo Switch, North Korea, Northern Lights, Norway, Notch, Nutella, Obelix, Olaf, Oreo, Pac-Man, Paris, Patrick, Paypal, Peppa Pig, Pepsi, Phineas and Ferb, Photoshop, Picasso, Pikachu, Pink Panther, Pinocchio, Playstation, Pluto, Pokemon, Popeye, Popsicle, Porky Pig, Portugal, Poseidon, Pringles, Pumba, Reddit, Rick, Robbie Rotten, Robin Hood, Romania, Rome, Russia, Samsung, Santa, Saturn, Scooby Doo, Scotland, Segway, Sherlock Holmes, Shrek, Singapore, Skittles, Skrillex, Skype, Slinky, Solar System, Sonic, Spain, Spartacus, Spiderman, SpongeBob, Squidward, Star Wars, Statue of Liberty, Steam, Stegosaurus, Steve Jobs, Stone Age, Sudoku, Suez Canal, Superman, Susan Wojcicki, Sydney Opera House, T-rex, Tails, Tarzan, Teletubby, Terminator, Tetris, The Beatles, Thor, Titanic, Tooth Fairy, Tower Bridge, Tower of Pisa, Tweety, Twitter, UFO, USB, Uranus, Usain Bolt, Vatican, Vault boy, Velociraptor, Venus, Vin Diesel, W-LAN, Wall-e, WhatsApp, William Shakespeare, William Wallace, Winnie the Pooh, Wolverine, Wonder Woman, Xbox, Xerox, Yin and Yang, Yoda, 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2020.04.23 23:36 cooklanbrahh Spy camera in toilet girls

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2020.03.26 05:42 DrunkenTree Floor 6: Till the Walls Bleed

Final Report to Mr. Eggs, Thursday, March 26th, 2020.
Better read it all. It's the last report I'll have a chance to make. The job ended early, and badly. But when I'm hired, I see the job through. I can't get all the salmon, but I'll by God write a report saying why.
Here's your damn code phrase: Early Bird Prosthetic Femur Salesman. Google yourself silly.
There's still salmon on the way to your cutout, Molly and Dale's last shipments. We got a lot, a load of bones, maybe 800-900 steaks, but it cost way too much.
Like you told me, I'm posting anonymously to the internet, and inserting my first reports in this one. Good thing, since it looks like my first two reports got deleted; Google only shows the third. Since this is the last report, I'm not hiding names of the Hotel Non Dormiunt or the towns. It doesn't matter who sees these reports any more.
First Report to Mr. Eggs, Friday, March 6, 2020.
Wed, Mar 4, 2020. Driving through Mount Ida, Arkansas, I found a rock shop selling big chunks of raw glass. I loaded a forty-pound pink lump into my trunk. I also did a little scouting around Lake Ouachita, looking for quiet access points.
At a hardware store in Hot Springs, I bought fifteen feet of 1/16" steel cable. Cash for everything, of course.
Thu, Mar 5, 2020. In Hot Springs, I contacted the amateur historian you named. Frankly, at this point I believed you were getting scammed, this historian was running some weird con. Seriously, a hi-rise hotel that appears and disappears? Complete crock.
The gangster part of it didn't bug me, from you or from him. I'd heard of Yankee gangsters like Capone and Dillinger vacationing in Arkansas. My own grandfather claimed to have seen John Dillinger on Bath House Row when he was a kid.
Sounds crazy today, but in 1931 Bugsy Siegel's Las Vegas was still sixteen years away. Hot Springs was wide-open, gambling and drinking, classy natural-spring bath houses, whores high-toned enough for a Boston cathouse.
I told the guy I'd buy him lunch, a place out near Lake Ouachita. I let him chatter as I drove, about Al Capone's favorite Suite 443 at the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs. One time it was unavailable, so Capone stayed at another hotel, "newly built" (though nobody'd noticed construction) a block away. "Where the wax museum is now," he said.
The guy tried to describe his research, rambling about how he'd traced the granddaughter of a Depression-era whore. "She remembered all her granny's stories about Capone." Did he bend your ear with all this crap?
Capone had taken two suites and several regular rooms on the sixth floor, the same numbers you told me. After two weeks he went back north. "Last time Capone came to Hot Springs," the guy said. "A month later he was on trial for tax evasion." He shrugged. "Unlucky hotel to visit, at least for him."
He thought I wanted every detail. "The Hotel was only here a few weeks. The granddaughter helped me track it down to San Antonio in 2014, two blocks from the Alamo." I half-listened as he bragged about bribing maids and wheedling the concierge. "I finally saw the registry from 1931. Capone was in Suite 638, registered as Al Gabriel. His brother Ralph had Suite 639 across the hall, and the 'Gabriel party' had 634 to 645."
I didn't tell him you'd already told me the numbers. I also didn't mention the videos you made of the rooms in Seattle. By now we were through Mount Ida, on a back road. He asked where the cafe was, so I smacked the back of his head to shut him up.
I drove to where I'd found a high bluff overlooking Lake Ouachita, tied the glass chunk to him with 1/16" cable, and dropped him into forty feet of water. Like you wanted, nobody else will hear his story. I hope to hell you know what you're doing.
End First Report to Mr. Eggs, Friday, March 6, 2020. Signed and Submitted.
Second Report to Mr. Eggs, Wednesday, March 18, 2020.
Fri, Mar 13, 2020. On the principle that even if your elevator skips floors, you're paying me a metric assload of money, I drove to Eureka Springs to wait for the Hotel Non Dormiunt.
You said it should appear between the 15th and the 25th, so I checked into the Basin Park, a hotel on such a steep hillside that all seven floors have ground-level exits. They say Al Capone's sister stayed here. I paid for a week. Rates not bad, hardly any guests, COVID-19 cutting into people's travel.
For four days I walked downtown, looking for a hotel that appeared overnight. Sometimes I hired a mountain bike to hit the trails. Best paid vacation I've ever had, in spite of rain and now the restaurants shutting down. Thanks, Mr. Eggs.
Wed, Mar 18, 2020. Turning off Main onto Spring Street for the hundredth time, I glanced ahead at my hotel. On the left just before it was Basin Spring Park, empty this chilly afternoon. Behind the park was a steep wooded hillside.
Except today a huge shadow loomed behind the park. Set back from the street, a building way taller than the Basin Park Hotel. Brick and masonry, it rose above the trees. A narrow driveway had appeared beside the park.
I'd been watching for it for days, but I still stopped dead and gaped. Low clouds hid the top, but it stood at least twelve stories, here where a seven-story building was a landmark.
I'm a hard man, Mr. Eggs. But I've got to admit I was pretty damn shaken up.
A rusty little sign by the driveway pointed to "The Hotel Non Dormiunt", just what you claimed. I walked right by. But my knees felt loose.
So it's here. So I'm posting my second report. I wish you'd given me a damn email address. I hope you're searching for "Early Bird Prosthetic Femur Salesman" often enough to see this.
I've told Molly and Dale to get ready. Time for you to make the room reservations. If you can't get the suites, we're dead in the water.
End Second Report to Mr. Eggs, Wednesday, March 18, 2020. Signed and Submitted.
Third Report to Mr. Eggs, Monday, March 23, 2020.
Fri, Mar 20, 2020. The news said the governors of New York and Illinois have ordered all "non-essential" businesses in those states closed. California's already done it. If Governor Hutchinson issues an order for Arkansas, your party ends early.
Sat, Mar 21, 2020. Molly called. We're both using burner phones. They'd checked into 639, the Ralph suite across from Capone's, as newlyweds named Rick and Nadine. So far so good—you actually found my report online, you actually made the reservations. They'd spend two days in the room, newlywed-style, then come out and start sightseeing.
Molly gave me web addresses. They fed video to my phone and laptop from the spy cameras she'd stuck up at either end of the hall.
Mon, Mar 23, 2020. I checked into 626, a double room, reserved in the name of Seward Blake. A sign at the front desk said the dining rooms and lounge were closed until further notice. The clerk assured me that room service would be quick and excellent.
You warned there'd been a fire recently on the sixth floor, but I saw no trace of any repairs. The hall carpet was worn, the flocked wallpaper faded, the blue-painted doors scuffed. Old-fashioned transoms, all closed, topped the doors.
The furnishings in 626 looked like the Hotel hadn't redecorated since Capone's last visit. Brass bedframes you could slide trunks under. Wall lamps converted from gaslight to electricity. Standing wardrobes instead of closets. Wingback armchairs by a heavy blond-oak table.
The bathroom, at least, had a modern tub and shower. A large TV stood on a cheap bureau. But the porcelain sink still had separate hot and cold faucets.
None of the doors had peepholes, so I checked the feeds from Molly's cameras. The hall was empty. No sense waiting: I pulled out the key you gave me and stepped into the hall.
The rooms on this floor all had old-fashioned metal keys on tags instead of electronic locks. Most hotels this size have someone in maintenance or security who can change the locks if necessary.
Question was, if a key went missing, did the Hotel rekey or take its chances? Would the key you stole in Seattle in 2011 still work?
I strode briskly down to 638, slid the key in the lock. For a moment it hung, then turned with a clack. I was in.
As you know, this suite, a parlor and two bedrooms, was even more antiquated than mine. The same converted gaslamps, the same ancient sink fittings, but also tongue-and-groove wainscoting, pressed-tin ceiling panels, cut-glass vases, and crocheted doilies and antimacassars. A sterling-silver ice bucket, several pressed-glass tumblers, and two cut-glass decanters (both empty, sadly) sat on a sideboard. All just like your videos.
I ignored the furniture, except for the doilies and the bedcovers. If it wouldn't fit in a bag, I wasn't interested. I also ignored the digital clocks, the microwave, and the various TVs. You hired me because Al Capone slept in this suite, and Capone never saw a TV in his life.
Molly called. We checked the cameras, then I opened the door and let her dart across from 639.
"So what's the deal?" she asked. "Somebody bringing jewels, or a bag of money? Or is it straight kidnapping?"
They'd worked with me six times before, but never in my peculiar specialty: antiques. "It's a nut job," I said. "Al Capone stayed here in 1931. Mr. Eggs"—I'd told them your alias—"is some kind of nostalgia nut, anything about Capone. He wants to recreate Al Capone's hotel room in his house."
I waved at the parlor. "Everything here that might date back to 1931 is fair game. Anything you can carry. If we can, we're stripping this room till the walls bleed."
Molly was startled. But she's like me, does what she's hired for. "I'll do the demo work," I said. "Strip the ceiling tins, pull the fixtures. You and Dale are transport. 'Rick and Nadine' got two days in bed; now you want to sightsee. You'll run in and out all day, and you'll carry a load from here every time."
"That's why you wanted the big tote bags."
"Yeah. Once a day or so you'll drive over to Springdale and ship boxes from the UPS store." I texted her the cutout address you gave me.
"What if somebody rents this room?"
"Mr. Eggs reserved this room until April. And the rooms to either side of it, so nobody hears me tear stuff out. And the maids have been ordered to leave all these rooms alone."
I didn't admit to Molly that you never explained how you'd get three different reservations, all specially on the sixth floor, without the Hotel thinking they were connected. If Hotel security decided Molly and Dale and I were all related to the mystery guest reserving a block of rooms, this job would end soon. And badly.
It looks like we're the only guests on six. For that matter, I haven't seen any other guests in the whole Hotel. Not many tourists, right now.
I don't like feeling this conspicuous.
End Third Report to Mr. Eggs, Monday, March 23, 2020. Signed and Submitted.
Final Report to Mr. Eggs, Thursday, March 26, 2020.
Continuing Mon, Mar 23, 2020. I started the demo work that evening. First I took the faucets and valves from the sink. I stole the faucet and feet from the ancient clawfoot tub, brass claws clenching real glass balls.
Each bedroom had one real painting above the bed, not just a print. One was a lighthouse at sunset. The other showed three fat old sailing ships in a stormy sea. Neither painting was in your videos, but both looked old. I'd grab them if I had time, if they'd fit in Molly's big carryall.
Floor and table lamps gave enough light that I started tearing out the wall lamps as well. These were definitely antique, converted from gaslight. Wiring snaked right through the gas pipes, gas burner replaced with an electric socket. The valves to control the gas flame were still in place, wide open to pass the wires. The shades looked original, milky-white molded glass.
I puzzled over the tongue-and-groove wainscot. Even Molly's carryall wasn't big enough for four-foot boards, but I wanted to get some.
I ignored the portable stuff, decanters and doilies and such. In ninety years, most of them had likely been replaced. I'd look them over after I took what was nailed down.
Before bed I sent Molly a text that I had a load of "bones" ready. Even on prepaid phones, we used code, same as my reports. "Cannery" for the Hotel. "Salmon" for the merchandise in general. "Bones" for rigid fittings, "steaks" for ceiling tins, and so on.
I told her to pick them up in the morning. Nothing would stay in their room more than a few minutes. My room down the hall would stay absolutely sterile, no salmon at all in it.
Molly asked me to come to their room. They had an announcement, a confession, in fact: She was three months pregnant. I was annoyed as hell.
"When you first called I didn't know," she said. "I didn't tell you after—I was scared you'd cancel the job."
"I would have," I said. They were normally good for this sort of work, young, ordinary-looking, forgettable. Both a little pudgy, a little dim-looking. Good actors, steady and unexcitable. Trustworthy, usually, if they felt well paid.
Ordinarily, I'd have staked my life on Molly keeping her head. In fact, I'd staked my liberty several times already, on her as receiver or distraction. Dale really was a little dim, but Molly thought on her feet, and the whole FBI couldn't rattle her.
But pregnant? She was far from starting to show, only three months along, and round-bellied anyway. And really, is it that unusual for a new bride to be pregnant?
But I wouldn't trust a pregnant Molly to keep her head on the job. For that matter, I wouldn't trust Dale, either. Parenthood screws up your priorities. And this was their first kid.
Too late to replace them. I crossed my fingers and hoped things stayed quiet.
Tue, Mar 24, 2020. I spent the day standing on furniture, gently prying loose the pressed-tin ceiling panels. The ones in the bathroom were corroded from decades of damp, but in the main rooms they were in excellent shape. I'd seen tins this good on eBay for fifty dollars and up. Between the parlor and bedrooms, there had to be around a thousand salvageable tins, all under a foot square.
Molly and Dale ferried out the "bones", then several small loads of "steaks". In the afternoon, they drove to Springdale to box up our first shipment. Molly was cool as anything, carrying thousands of dollars of stolen tin in her big flowery canvas tote. Dale carried more in his day pack. They mixed up their trips, sometimes going together, sometimes not, so the clerks wouldn't expect a pattern.
Each time they left I watched the camera feeds, in case something went wrong and I needed to bail out. Around four, Dale went out to get gas in their truck and stash another load. Molly collected another stack of tins from me and, after a glance at the feeds, headed for the elevators.
Which chose that moment to open. Someone stepped out, an older woman in dark clothes. Molly should have walked right up, stepped on the elevator, and been gone. She'd done that once earlier, meeting one of the strange shaven-headed maids.
But this time she hesitated, then suddenly charged past the older woman, right past the elevators. She walked to the hall's end, and disappeared into a side corridor.
What the hell?
The woman stared after her, then walked down the hall and knocked on a door. I thought she was knocking on 626, my room. Standing on a bed in Capone's suite, I couldn't answer. She knocked again, waited a while, then returned to the elevator.
My phone beeped: Molly. She spoke softly when I answered. "Gonna need some help, here," she said. "I'm kinda stuck."
"How so?"
"I tried to hide in a linen closet. I was pushing back into a corner behind a maid cart, and a shitload of towels and sheets fell on me. Now I'm kinda wedged in this corner; you gotta come dig me out."
"Why the hell did you hide?"
"I panicked. That woman on the elevator, she scared the shit out of me. I don't know why."
"Is anyone there?"
"I don't think so."
"You still got a bag full of steaks?"
"Yeah."
Crap. If she was clean, she could have called the desk to ask for a maid. They had a plan for turning up in odd places: We were playing hide-and-seek, and got carried away. But that wouldn't work if she had a tote full of tin. "Okay, Rick's out somewhere, so I'll come get you."
But I couldn't find her. "Come on," Molly said. "These towels are getting heavy."
I'd seen on camera where she went. Down that side hall there was one linen closet, and she wasn't in it.
Maybe I'd mixed up the camera views. I took every side hall on the sixth floor. There were more than I expected. I opened three linen closets and a maintenance cupboard full of breakers and valves, but I didn't find Molly. All I found was a big black cat, that disappeared into a wall crevice.
"Shit!" Molly exclaimed. "There's a rat or something in here! I can feel it moving!"
One eye on my phone, I went back to 638 and started over. "The towels're settling, or something," she said. "I can't move my arms. They're pinned."
Sweating, I surveyed the entire floor, counting off every door I passed. Guest rooms; linen closets with nothing but crates of cleaning supplies on the floor, towels and sheets all neatly on shelves; two staircases; the service elevator; the maintenance cupboard; the main elevators.
I was back at 638. "Oh, God," Molly moaned. "The sheets are moving. They're wrapping me up."
"Don't panic," I said. "You're just scared." So was I.
"I see them!" she cried. "They're winding round and round me! Getting tighter!"
Where the hell was Molly? "Are you sure you're on the sixth floor?"
On the phone, she was starting to pant. "Please," she wheezed. "I can't breathe."
Breathing hard myself, I pulled up the camera history. Again, I watched her leave 639, walk past the stranger at the elevators, then turn into a side corridor.
I ran to the side hall. It ran straight for only a short distance. Twelve rooms, a stairway, and a linen closet opened off it—nothing else.
I opened the closet a third time. Molly's voice was growing faint. "He'p," she breathed. "Dale…he'p…me…" I shoved the two maid's carts into the hall, but there was nobody behind them, just crates of bathroom cleaner and little soaps and toilet tissue.
Molly's voice stopped. The call stayed open, but I didn't hear her.
I shoved the carts back in and shut the closet. Returning to the central hall, I nearly ran into someone at the corner. A gray-haired woman, nearly as tall as me, in dark clothes. Her eyes were dark and uncomfortably sharp. Heart pounding, I struggled for something to say.
She glanced toward my door beyond the elevators. She knew which room I was in. "D'ja get lost?" she asked dryly.
"Not lost, just confused," I said frankly. "This floor layout doesn't make sense. It seems like there ought to be at least one more hall back here somewhere."
She nodded. "I getcha. All the years I work here, I never have figgered out where all the halls go. S'like they pick up and move sometimes." She walked past me toward the stairs. "If ya figger it out, lemme know."
After she was gone, I stood shaking for a minute or two. Whoever she was, she made me feel guilty. I could almost understand Molly's panic. Almost.
I called to Molly over and over, but only silence answered. I retraced my steps again, starting from 639. Down the hall, past the elevators, around the corner. To the end of the side hall.
Where a large unlabeled door opened into a hall I hadn't seen before. A hall that wasn't there before. Down that hall, room numbers now past 660, to a fourth linen closet beside a third stair door.
I found a pile of towels and sheets, just as Molly'd said. I pulled out the maid's cart and started shifting towels. Molly's face was blue, her eyes half-closed, dry and staring. She had no pulse.
Even if I'd known CPR, it wasn't possible in her position. She'd crouched behind the cart, and the weight of fallen linens had pushed her into a twisted fetal position. I started pulling her out, glancing now and again at the camera feeds.
Then I saw. Her legs were buried loosely, but her upper body was wrapped. Two or three sheets wound around her chest and belly like a shroud. Her right arm was pinned at her hip. Her left was crushed into her ribs, her phone still at her ear.
I tugged at the sheets. They were as taut as guitar strings. They'd wrapped her like the coils of a snake, squeezing until she couldn't draw breath. The sheets had killed her. And the Hotel had hidden this closet, this whole corridor, until it was too late for me to help.
What the hell kind of place did you hire me to rob?
Three months pregnant. I hadn't cried since my mother's funeral in 1992, but I was damn close right then.
My phone showed a maid getting off the service elevator. Hastily, I tugged Molly's carryall loose from the heap of towels. I covered her body and shoved the cart to hide it. Closing the closet, I slipped onto the stairs.
I couldn't be seen carrying Molly's bag out of the Hotel, flowery and bright, not the sort a single man my age would have. I waited on the stairs until the hall was clear, then returned the carryall to 638.
Dale didn't come back to 639 for half an hour. I crossed the hall to tell him. Besides being as pleasant as that much time spent being punched in the gut, telling him was a tactical mistake. I wanted him to play dumb and report her missing. But he fell completely apart on me.
"We have to go get her," he kept saying. "She wouldn't want me to leave her there."
"Would she want you to go to prison?" I grabbed his shoulder and dug in my fingers. "Your truck's full of stolen stuff. She's dead. It was worth the risk when I thought I could maybe save her. But I'm not going to prison for a corpse."
He tried to punch me, so I pinched a nerve in his shoulder. I was getting frustrated, but he and Molly didn't become thieves because they were geniuses. They were greedy, selfish, lazy dropouts. They'd only made two really good choices in life: stay off drugs, and hook up with someone smarter and more experienced.
Now that choice was biting them in the ass. I felt guilty, but sticking with me was still Dale's best option.
I bullied him until he came around. "Besides that," I said, pointing at Molly's bag, "we've still got a pile of steak to move."
"And all the fillets," he said, meaning soft goods.
"And I don't have a big tote bag to carry around, just my suitcases. So getting the fish out is still all on you, except for the very last trip."
I handed him her carryall. "Take another load out. Stop at the desk and ask if anybody's seen Nadine." Normally I wouldn't have reminded him of his wife's alias, but normally he wasn't in shock and normally she wasn't dead.
Back in 638, I made a swift survey. Now that Molly's corpse was about to turn up, we were out of time. All of the wall lights were gone, and nearly all of the pressed tin. The plumbing fittings had already shipped. The wainscot and dado rails were a lost cause. So were the paintings.
Like I said, I'd ignored the portable items as unlikely to be authentic. The table and floor lamps, though Victorian in style, looked fairly new. The bed covers couldn't possibly be ninety years old. The glasses and decanters were probably replacements, even reproductions.
I checked one of the glasses. High-quality pressed glass—Heisey, in fact. Maybe Capone never actually touched them, but they weren't from Walmart, either. I figured we'd take them, as well as the doilies and antimacassars, which looked hand-crocheted.
Back in 626, I ordered a roast-beef sandwich and coffee from room service. Fifteen minutes later, when someone knocked, I answered the door without checking the cameras.
The gray-haired lady stood there. I recoiled before I could stop myself. I'd completely forgotten she'd come here earlier. "Can I come in?" she asked, mildly enough, amused at my reaction.
I waved her into the room and closed the door. Once again I had trouble with words. She unnerved me. "You said you're with the Hotel, right?" I finally said.
"Kinda. I'm Stern. Chief a' security." She wore a dark gray polo over black slacks. She looked lean, even athletic. Despite her iron-gray hair, I couldn't judge her age. If I had to, could I beat her in a fight? I wasn't sure.
She gestured up the hall toward 639. She was left-handed, I noticed. "Ya know the young couple?"
"I've seen them. They go in and out a lot."
"Didn't the first coupla days. Newlyweds. Ya seen the girl today?"
I paused as if to think. "I might have seen her this morning."
Someone else knocked. Stern answered before I could move. A waitress stood there with my sandwich and coffee. Stern took the tray and passed it to me one-handed. I saw an engagement ring on her finger, silver with a red stone.
"She's missin'," Stern went on. "Husband hadn't seen her f'r hours. If ya see her, give the desk a call, wouldja?"
Her cold eyes said something much scarier. "You 'kinda' work here?"
She smiled tightly. "Semi-retired. I fix things now and then, that's all. Like a hobby." Her eyes weren't smiling. "Keeps me chipper." Chipper.
"Well," Stern said, "she'll turn up, I figger. Lots of newlyweds get cold feet. Suddenly you're stuck wit' one guy, forever." She glanced at her ring. "Some gals can't han'le it."
After she left, I sat on the bed and shuddered. Her eyes, her age, her "hobby"—what sort of man was her fiancé? The sandwich tasted like mud. The coffee was too hot; I gulped it down anyway.
I was too scared go back to 638 that night, picturing Stern roaming with a passkey. Hell, I was scared of my own room, after how Molly died.
I brought my report up to date and went to bed early. I slept badly, fully dressed, on top of the covers because I couldn't bear a sheet. Molly's last breathless words haunted me.
Wed, Mar 25, 2020. In the morning, though, I got up early and ordered breakfast. Fueled by strong coffee, I was soon back at it.
I made Dale carry out several loads, pretending to look for his wife around town. He told the Hotel staff he and Nadine had argued, and he was too embarrassed to involve the police. I told him how to act, how often to pester the staff for news, and so on. He could play a role well, but lacked imagination; he needed good directions.
Molly's body hadn't been found—or it had, and Stern wasn't talking. But with only two occupied rooms on the sixth floor, the maid had no reason to enter that distant linen closet. I kept my hopes up.
Before lunch, I sent Dale to make another shipment. The bedroom ceilings were stripped, the tins wired in bundles to keep them from rattling. I had two rows of tins left in the parlor when Dale came back around two.
"We're leaving tonight," I told him, standing on the table. "Whatever we can't carry out stays behind."
"Including Molly," he said bitterly.
"If you know how to carry a body out of a twenty-story hotel, you've got my blessing." I shrugged. "In the meantime, gather up the doilies and antimacassars to wrap up all that glassware." I had to tell him what an antimacassar was. I'm too damn old.
He got a canvas bag from his room. He wrapped the drinking glasses first, packed them into the silver bucket, and slid it into the bag. Then he reached for one of the big decanters. "Ahh!" he hissed.
He was holding his hand up, staring at the palm. "Cut myself," he said.
The edges on cut glass are crisp, but not usually sharp enough to cut. "Probably chipped somewhere," I said. "Don't slide your hand on it."
He picked up an oversized doily and reached for the decanter's neck. I snapped, "Don't get that crochet work bloody!"
You can believe what happened next or not, but I'm telling what I saw. He wrapped the doily around the neck, and picked up the decanter. He started to flip the doily around the decanter's base. Suddenly the decanter was rolling up his forearms. "Ahh!"
He wore short sleeves. Everywhere the glass touched bare skin it left cuts. The decanter passed his elbows and started up toward his neck. He jerked his arms apart, and it thudded to the heavy carpet.
Blood cascaded from his arms. He stood gaping stupidly at the dozens of gashes. Then he began to moan, rising in pitch; the glass must have cut him too fast for real pain to register. He turned toward me, his arms still spread wide. Behind him, the decanter rocked on the carpet, then rolled toward him.
It struck his left shoe and climbed the heel, shredding cloth, then skin. Then the decanter cut his Achilles tendon, and his leg folded. He collapsed hard into the sideboard, tumbling the other decanter. It rolled, falling onto his upturned face.
He screamed in pain and terror. Both decanters attacked—there's no other word. They sliced his clothes and shredded his flesh. When one finally struck his throat, blood only pulsed weakly. He already bled too many other places.
I stood on the table, paralyzed, wondering if anyone could hear his screams. For a mercy, they ended soon. He was an unrecognizable pile of chopped meat by then. The decanters rolled off and lay still. Gore covered them.
Then they moved again. One, then the other, rolled toward the table I stood on. They bumped against one wooden leg. I saw splinters fly off.
On one level I was disbelieving, but I wasn't going to stand here until they chewed a leg off the table. At first I reached for my pry bar. But what if I smashed a decanter, and all the pieces kept moving? Better to keep the enemy numbers small.
My coil of wire lay nearby. I snipped off a length, bent it into a loop. Lying on my belly, reaching down, I slipped the loop around a decanter's neck and yanked it tight like a garrote.
The decanter stopped moving. I wrapped the wire twice more, picked it up. The other decanter continued to chip at the table leg, with little crunching sounds. I hung my captive from the handle of a wardrobe.
The stopper had come out of the other decanter. After several tries and one sliced knuckle, I slid a long screwdriver into the decanter's neck. I picked it up; it spun briefly one way, then the other, then stopped. I stood it upright on the table. It stayed still.
Taking no chances, I clipped more wire and hung it by the other one. Then I stepped down off the table to look at Dale.
I saw a flash of light, and my shoe fell on something small and round. My foot went out from under me. I'd forgotten about the loose stopper.
It rolled toward me, and I kicked it across the room. Bits of rubber scattered from my shoe. Bouncing off an armchair, the stopper raced back. It was faster, more maneuverable than the decanters. I kicked it again, and grabbed the silver ice tongs. It skinned my ankle before I scrambled back onto the table. Reaching down, I grabbed it with the tongs.
Hand shaking, I dropped it into the decanter. Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up, my vomit acid and tasting of coffee.
My shoes and socks were covered with blood, but the rest of me was still fairly clean. I pulled off shoes and socks and rinsed them in the toilet bowl, then blotted them over and over on fresh towels. Then I threw up again.
I bandaged my knuckle and my ankle—my tool kit includes bandages. I sat on the tub to pull my socks and shoes back on. With its feet gone, the tub teetered and grated on the tiles. When I stood my foot slipped where I'd dripped water. I fell hard to one knee, then fell backward.
I came to on the tile, aching behind my right ear, my brain sort of fuzzy. I limped out, my knee stiff. Avoiding the blood drying in the carpet, I left the suite. I staggered down to 626, where I collapsed on the bed. I'm sure I had a concussion, but I was too fuddled to worry.
I don't know what time I woke. But my head was clearer, and it said I should beat it out of the Hotel Non Dormiunt now, before it killed me. Even if it didn't, with two dead bodies, things would get ugly fast. I started packing.
I'd swing by 638 for the bag with the ice bucket and Heisey glasses. The last ceiling tins were a loss, and I wasn't touching those decanters for a truckload of surgical masks. The spy cameras, purchased anonymously, had always been expendable.
Nothing on this floor could identify me. Hand sanitizer, among its other virtues, is great for blurring fingerprints.
A knock at my door. My phone showed a tall, gray-haired woman. I swore. If I hadn't hit my head, I'd have been gone by now.
No choice but to open up. Stern, face bland, glanced inside and saw my bags piled on the bed. "Now, Mr. Blake," she said, "ya wouldn't be after stealin' our toilet paper, would'ja?" Her tone was carefully friendly. Too friendly.
This time I was braced for her. "No, but I boosted a case of bleach from your laundry." I turned back to my packing. "What can I do for you?"
Her random-sounding reply confused me. "Right at the turn of the century, they had a bad fire, here on six. Really bad. Gutted a whole wing, ever'thing from 660 to 695. Killed one poor lady, 'bout crippled her husband. Woulda shut down a lotta houses."
Then she reached her terrifying point. "But a coupla weeks later, s'like it never happent. The sixth floor just sorta fixes itself. So when you mugs moved in to clean out the Capone suite, I figgered the Hotel c'd watch out f'r itself."
I couldn't make a sound.
"I figgered no harm done, rooms'll fix 'emselves back up. They tried redecoratin' in the fifties, ya know, again in the seventies, but the suite still looks pretty much like I saw it when Capone was here." I missed a bit, trying to make sense of that. "—get whatever ya c'n hump out. Then a pregnant lady gets herself killed."
"Pregnant!" I gasped, too stunned to pretend. "Who told you? The cops?" Good Lord, they'd found Molly! How long ago?
"Cops stay outta my Hotel. I did an autopsy, that's all." She pulled a clasp knife from her back pocket, flicked it open and closed, and put it away. "Not t'first."
She had to be screwing with me. "You can't do things like that."
"Can't I just?" Her dark eyes lit with a black fire. "I don't like innocent kids gettin' killed in my Hotel."
For a moment fury overcame fear. "It was your Hotel that killed her! I could've saved her!"
"Yeah," she said. "The Hotel and I don't always see things t'same." She raised her hand, the engagement ring glinting on her finger. "But you brought her. You got her in trouble. You're gonna tell me all about it." She snapped her finger. Pain exploded in the knot behind my ear, and I dropped to my knees.
I don't remember a single question. But she burned through my memories. Her eyes, her glare were physical agony, drilling into my skull.
It lasted forever. Telling her how you hired me, how you made the reservations, how I killed the historian, how I found Molly too late. I relived Dale's gruesome death, my terror when the decanters came for me. I told her your search phrase. I gave her the cutout address where we'd shipped all the salmon.
I said I hadn't known Molly was pregnant. I said the Hotel was evil and murderous, and if she was so damn righteous she should kill it. She replied, "One'a these days I might figger out just how."
Of course I couldn't tell her who you are. That didn't bug her.
When she finally let me go, I lay on the blood-soaked carpet of Suite 638, sobbing like a little boy scared of the circus clowns. I don't remember how I got there. Shreds of Dale's clothes and flesh stuck to me. I'd pissed my pants.
"I'm sorry," I said over and over. I was apologizing that everything I'd stolen was already gone. For not being able to tell Stern who you were. For Molly, and Dale, and Molly's little one. For being a wicked man.
She just said, "C'mon." She led me into the hall, in urine-soaked pants and bloody shirt, snotty nose and flesh-befouled hair. Humiliated at the thought of meeting anyone, but too terrified to disobey.
She led me to the elevator, up to the twentieth floor. We had the ride to ourselves. For all I know, I was the only guest in the Hotel. She unlocked Room 2031 with a key card and led me inside.
It was more modern than anything on the sixth floor. A sliding-glass door led onto a balcony. We stood out in the chill evening breeze, facing a glorious sunset over the hill behind the Hotel. Red light turned her gray hair to smoky flame. Her ruby ring flared like a fiery eye.
"Look down," she said. I looked. There was a tiny patio behind the Hotel, dark in the hill's shadow. "Climb up," she said. I put one foot on the rail, started to cry again. "G'awn up," she said. Her voice was cool, unforgiving.
Standing on the rail, I clung desperately to a protruding bit of trim. I was going to jump, and die. I couldn't see the patio for my tears.
"Look at me." I looked. Her dark eyes, black flames, charred my soul. "You're mine, now," she said. "You unnerstand?"
I couldn't answer. She tilted her head a millimeter. I felt my feet slipping. "Un-der-stand?"
I nodded frantically. "Yeah!" I cried. "Yeah, I understand!"
So now I work for Stern. At least, I will once I finish this report, the last thing you paid me for. Stern wants me to send it, wants you to read it. She let me clean up and change clothes, then set me to writing.
She was amused that you'd told me when the Hotel would appear. "I try to keep track when people follah the Hotel," she said. "They're always on the make."
She didn't explain how she'd find you, any more than you explained how you predicted the Hotel's arrival. But I believe her.
Early Bird Prosthetic Femur Salesman—she likes that code phrase. She says she'll find anyone who reads it. Too bad for you I started with it.
She's already "figgered out" quite a bit. The historian's mention of a prostitute's granddaughter who could track the Hotel? Stern thinks there's something in that, thinks you might be the granddaughter. "Bess was a nice gal, f'r a whore," she said. "But her kids were just pure-D mean. Hate to think what her grandkids're like."
Molly was greedy and lazy and selfish. Dale was all of that, and a bit dense besides. I'm garbage with a knack for planning, an eye for antiques, and a ruthless streak. But Molly's baby was just in the wrong place.
I'm going to pay for that. Stern will make sure.
But Mister Eggs, you're going to pay first.
End Final Report to Mr. Eggs Thursday, March 26, 2020. Signed and submitted.
Floor Directory
DTS
submitted by DrunkenTree to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.02.10 19:53 fractalfay Toilet in spy girls camera

My recaps often crash land in fan fiction; this one is going to orbit reality like a lost moon. Will we ever connect? I don’t know. Will we ever understand what 90DF cast members do all day that inhibits any type of advanced preparation for nuptials? I don’t know.
Mursel and Anna
What I wish happened: At the airport, homeland security needs to talk to Anna about exposing the airport to a dangerous contagion. She busts out her smart phone, opens a translator app and says, “You mean coronavirus? I have been not to one China.”
“No ma’am. We’ve had several reports that suggest you may have come down with Terminal Boring. Several 90DF producers were exposed to Boring, and their anti-vax beliefs left them vulnerable to the disease. Now they’re spreading Boring to others. We’re not sure you can be saved.” The agent tries to look sympathetic, but she’s concerned for herself, and is already starting to yawn.
Anna app’s: “B-b-but we faked this whole temporary return to Turkey! That’s got to count for something.”
The agent busts out a notepad. “So you admit that the bulk of your storyline was crying and staring at your phone? Viewers can get this on the average city bus during rush hour. We’re going to have to take you in, ma’am.”
“What about Mursel?”
“Mursel surrendered himself to authorities hours ago. He was already committing to a lifetime of light blue polo shirts and staring perplexed at the cover of US Weekly. It might be too late to save him. You should have come to us as soon as he started crying on the hotel room floor. Additionally, we’ve charged him with one count of evading logic, and two counts of sucking the air out of the room. Right this way, please. And give us your phone, ma’am….ma’am, surrender your phone…stop resisting! Stop resisting!”
What really happened: With 7 stupid hours left on her visa, Anna, who is almost as organized as Tania, is still sewing something. She loads the children who will still speak to her into the car to fetch Mursel from the airport, and the whole way there she makes a strong case against chewing gum. Gino, his mother’s child psychologist, explains that his mother is only happy when a man she can’t communicate with is hanging around the house. Leo suspects his growing ability to observe all this means he won’t be his mother’s favorite much longer, so she’ll have to have another kid. Joey left to go hang out with Molly’s daughter, and talk about spending the majority of their younger years propping up his mother emotionally.
They drive back to get ready for the wedding, and Mursel susses out the complexities of grooming all by himself. Gino and Leo walk Anna down the honeycomb aisle, and throw her at Mursel, who is standing under a doily. A vow exchange he doesn’t understand happens, and then there’s cake, and night photos in front of a wooden fence. Leo serves up a toast that definitely wasn’t written by Anna and definitely wasn’t heavily rehearsed, which you can tell by the passion behind the delivery.
Syngin and Fucking Tania What I wish happened: Syngin and Tania, still shitfaced from the night before, fall into a Chevy wearing dark glasses and stained t-shirts, each clutching a half-full bottle of Gatorade and a fistful of SlimJims. They both agree that once Syngin chugs that fucker his empty bottle will evolve into the “piss jug,” so they don’t have to hunt down bathrooms along the way, and can stop at Evelyn’s Awesome Apple Stand for 30 minutes of distracted procrastination instead. Suddenly, a meteor streaks through the sky. Tania insists it’s a comet, and when Syngin disagrees she reminds him he’s not her soulmate, and no one invited science to this party. Syngin can’t help but notice that it appears to be getting closer, and with science uninvited, he might be poised to hitch an anti-vaxer. Tania says she is not going to die in a Chevy, because that’s so white it could be a Bob Seger song.
It dawns on Syngin that this is his last chance to push Tania from the vehicle and floor it to the airport for a one-way ticket to Costa Rica for 30 days, where he will not call Tania drunk or sober, because his schedule will be packed with private salsa dances. Still, he’s not a bad guy, and he does love her, so he pulls over and says he just needs to use the piss jug real fast. The minute the door closes he puts down the bottle and runs like the meteor is chasing him, while Tania wraps herself in a purple shroud to wait for the maybe-comet to call her home, but not before yelling to Syngin’s dust trail that he needs to bring her black Nikes, because she has goals.
What actually happens: After careful consideration, Judge Tania generously rules that Syngin’s sadness over being declared a non-soulmate is valid, thus sparing him another 30 days of solitude in the Shed of Shame. She vampires down his palpable sadness, and her sated state allows the sleeves of her pink shirt to grow. In an effort to mask her glee at his misery, Tania mines her manipulation cave for treasures from their past, and reveals the bouncers defended the club against Tania like the riders of Rohan, and still she breached the wall. Syngin, look to the North for the coming light. At the end of their origin story Syngin is apparently willing to marry her again, or he really, really wants to be an opera singeactostunt man.
Syngin informs us that there hasn’t been a divorce in his family in 500 years, but he’s pretty sure he can break that curse. Neither has prepared any kind of wedding vows, and they arrive at the AirBnB venue a few hours late. There’s also no wedding photographer, so Syngin’s friend volunteers to take on this task. He considers that he could have brought a better camera if he’d received some advanced warning of this, but Tania is way too goal-oriented for such things. Tania reminds us yet again that she’s normally totally organized, and the last 90 days have just been one fluke after the other. They rapidly start constructing the ceremony space and crafting center pieces. Given the limited time, some brides might place a premium on showering and not making their guests wait, over lighting candles during daylight hours and placing rose petals to go with the other rose petals, but not our focused would-be mommy Tania. Finally she starts getting ready, and something happens to her head and face, and they wrap her body in black gauze for safety, and because she’s edgy like that. Not Hot Topic or music with feelings edgy, but that one time your mom smoked weed with you edgy. In other words, normal, but afraid.
The wedding happens, and the space does look beautiful. During the vows Syngin dramatically gets down on one knee and asks God to strike him dead. When that doesn’t happen, he unfurls his scroll of sweetness, while people in the audience cry that they’re letting this happen to Syngin. After he’s done, Tania manages to promise to answer the phone when he calls in the middle of a drunken night on the town, and to let her walls down. In other words, she’s still taking everything and giving nothing. #romance. The officiant works “shit” into his treatise, and expresses disbelief that this could have been a one-night stand and Syngin ruined it. Their rings are tattoos, like Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, and they opt for the Sagittarius symbol, which I’m really hoping this is a shared sign and not Tania’s latest prison-tattoo brand on her bitch. Then they’re all happy, and Tania’s mom even musters some endorsement of their union, and when I can tone down my palpable inner hater, their wedding was kind of…nice.
Jasmin and Blake
What I wish happened: Jasmin puts on a giant cake dress with a skirt that creates three feet of distance from other people. She spins around the park holding a bottle of champagne in each hand, and when her sister tries to intervene she chucks a bottle at her and starts crying. Her mother runs up and starts shaking her, demanding she get her shit together because she did not raise a Finnish girl to act like an American. Jasmin knows mother is right, but can’t resist drawing a wider and wider red lipstick mouth round and round and round her cake hole. Meanwhile, Blake is busy checking in on the stock market. He knew that upfront investment in Tesla would be a wise move, and he’s two years away from early retirement. He puts on a slick wedding get up, and then both get into a Tesla, and drive right off my tv screen.
What really happens: Jasmin thought they were going to have a courthouse wedding. They have a park wedding instead. The main difference between these two things is about 20 people. Blake cries. Jasmin doesn’t. Vows are exchanged, and Jasmin’s parents hope they get to know each other eventually. Mother Blake hopes that Jasmin will get a job, and has questions about Jasmin’s current source of income. They think it will all be okay, so long as Blake is in charge of emotions and Jasmin serves as household accountant. Some photos happen. Jasmin’s parents hope she’ll hold on to her Finnish citizenship, so she has somewhere to flee to when the US goes full Handmaid’s Tale. Do you see how fast the Terminal Boring is spreading? Someone get this season on lockdown.
Robert and Anny
What I wish happened: Anny strolls down the aisle to greet Robert, who is a completely different person. Bryson waits patiently for their shocked, confused greeting to conclude, so he can kick off the ceremony with style. He signals the usher, who comes out with a piece of cardboard, and he’s immediately surrounded by a ring of men with Jheri curls, wearing half-shirts and dog collars and killer high-tops. it’s Breaking 2: Electric Wedding Goo. Guests fight with garbage can lids in the parking lot, making faces under savage eyeliner. Everyone is wearing Tania-pink off-the-shoulder shirts and sweatbands and one damn glove. Leotards are everywhere. Anny used to be a professional dancer, but who is she now? Where does she fit in with this motley crew? They’re never going to save the community center! But they have to!
What actually happens: Robert’s hair is wrangled into corn rows by a committed hair stylist who doesn’t get paid enough, and the entire wedding party dresses in tribute to the Temptations, and I kind of approve, because at least that red color is popping. Robert expresses concerns about this level of commitment, when he’s used to the lukewarm obligation of children. Anny gets ready, and her friend is there, and apparently decided it was a good idea to wear a wedding dress to someone else’s wedding. Anny gives no fucks and is just glad her Porn-In-Law was uninvited. Her hair is sculpted into a style we can’t even buy at wigs.com, and Bryson happily escorts her down the aisle.
The officiant kicks things off by saying (and I checked this three times in disbelief): “Today you become a creation as you two come together as one, that has never ever been before in the earth.” If I ever get married, I need this woman. Anyway, remember how last time 90DF teased that he was going to leave her at the altar? That was your warning the opposite was going to happen. He kicks off with the “I can’t do this” and just before Anny has a nervous breakdown he drops to one knee and produces a ring. Being utterly terrified is what everyone wants when they’re fully done up and standing in front of a room full of people. They’re happily hitched, and it’s actually kind of sweet, and Anny declares she’s going to have five kids to match the five he already has. Robert insists he doesn’t want to have an NBA team that he knows about.
Mike and Natalie
What I wish happened: The cameras show Mike slowly extracting his phone from his pocket, removing the SIM card, then donating it to a shelter. Then he grabs a disposable one at a 7-11, and stops by the barbershop and gets a haircut. Then Darcy pulls up and asks if they have a bathroom where she can shower and meet Jay for some contract negotiation. Spying Mike out of the corner of her eye, she says, “Oh MY GAWD are you my boyfriend now?” Mike wonders what the hell is happening, and explains to Darcy that Oregon is in the United States, so this will never work.
“When did it stop being in Canada? My children are my world. Tom is still my boyfriend anyway, and I think he might know it.” Darcy starts crying, and Tom salsas into the frame, with Tania dancing quickly behind him. He tries to run, but she only salsas faster. In desperation, he turns and confesses he’s not a very good teacher.
“Don’t talk to me softly like that,” Tania declares, before grabbing him by his fragile British hand and insisting that her steps are usually more organized than this, and screaming for her tattoo artists to ready for another brand.
What really happens: 90DF producers decided that one stare-at-your-phone storyline just wouldn’t do, so here is big Mike, sitting in his living room, talking his way around Natalie’s scorn. She mentions that some shit happened off-screen that made her not trust him, and the 90DF producers are reminded that they are never around when something interesting happens. When they ask Mike about his secret, he simply walks off camera. Anyone want to place bets that Mike has a criminal record that is standing in the way of this whole K1 business?
Angela and Michael
What I wish happened: Angela wakes up, and discovers that Michael has left a “treasure map” on the nightstand. Certain that this is evidence of another lie, Angela attempts to follow the map, and demands directions from a hapless shop owner who has made a fortune during her stay by selling her cigarettes. He points vaguely at a distant jungle, and Angela disappears into the trees, pulling at her ponytail and yelling “Michael” over and over again. Meanwhile, Michael realizes that as much as he loves Donald Trump, Donald Trump does not love him, so he decides to stick with Nigerian Prince schemes until the next president assumes office. He hears Angela screaming in the distance and notices his treasure map is gone, and as the screams grow quieter and quieter, Paul duck-runs out of the jungle wearing a belt of human hair and a condom hat, bleating for Karine.
What really happens: Michael can’t get the K1 because of all those Nigerian terrorists that stuff bombs into their shoes at the airport, so they think the spousal visa is the best route. They learn about what’s required for a Nigerian wedding, and Angela needs a witness from the US of A. She knows that no one in her circle can afford it, so she’s going to have to fly back to America alone.
“Tell me,” the would-be officiant says. “Why did they give you another season so soon? Nothing has happened.”
“Two words for you: free plane tickets to Nigeria,” Angela explains. “Now I gotta make like a pudding snack and corn hole to the airport for a Piggly Wiggly.”
At the airport Michael gives her a nameplate necklace with his name, and he wears one that says Angela, because wasn’t high school great you guys? No, it really wasn’t. Still, every couple that watches this shit together will be exchanging these on Valentine’s Day. It’s too late for me to get my dude to watch this, but it’s not too late to not make any sense.
Michael and Juliana and Sister-Wife Sarah.
What I wish happened: Sarah reveals that in order to find the time to study for a forthcoming test, she’s been popping caffeine pills, but then she oversleeps and misses dance rehearsal, thus blowing her big shopping mall break. Michael comes in and wakes her up, and asks her what’s going on with this sleeping nonsense, and she says she can do it, she can have it all, she can do anything. Then she starts screaming I’m SO EXCITED! I’M SO EXCITED! Is this a caffeine pill addiction? Did it really develop in 22 minutes of programming? Madness! Max bursts through the door and snatches the pills from his mother’s hand, screaming, “Dear God, no! NO! Nancy Reagan warned us about this!!” As he races for the toilet, CeCe blocks the doorway screaming, “You could go to prison! Or rehab! Or think you’re an orange and jump off the roof!” Sarah thrashes around on the ground, threatening everyone with shoes. Later she’s in bed wearing her favorite pajamas, knowing that she’ll be fully recovered from this terrifying descent into addiction in the next 22 minute episode. Whew. That was a close one.
What actually happens: Michael brings the kids back to Sarah’s house, and Michael takes the time to thank her for inserting herself into their wedding. Sarah harkens back to the lovely day she married Michael, and how it rained before and after, but it was beautiful on the day of the event. She’s fine. Really. Then Sarah asks Michael about the prenup. He awkwardly says he doesn’t need one anymore, now that he has this hat. Sarah understands how this demand might make Juliana feel unsupported. Because she’s very, very understanding, and understands things, and she’s fine. Really.
Next week promises to be the highlight of the season, as Robert questions Tania about her soulmate fake news, Michael is revealed to be Cheater McCheaterson, Big Mike’s Big Secret finally reaches the airwaves, and in news that shocks no one, Shaun is left speechless.
Thank you Patreon supporters! Find me there for more shenanigans.
submitted by fractalfay to 90DayFiance [link] [comments]


2020.02.10 19:31 fractalfay Spy camera in girls toilet

My recaps often crash land in fan fiction; this one is going to orbit reality like a lost moon. Will we ever connect? I don’t know. Will we ever understand what 90DF cast members do all day that inhibits any type of advanced preparation for nuptials? I don’t know.
Mursel and Anna
What I wish happened: At the airport, homeland security needs to talk to Anna about exposing the airport to a dangerous contagion. She busts out her smart phone, opens a translator app and says, “You mean coronavirus? I have been not to one China.”
“No ma’am. We’ve had several reports that suggest you may have come down with Terminal Boring. Several 90DF producers were exposed to Boring, and their anti-vax beliefs left them vulnerable to the disease. Now they’re spreading Boring to others. We’re not sure you can be saved.” The agent tries to look sympathetic, but she’s concerned for herself, and is already starting to yawn.
Anna app’s: “B-b-but we faked this whole temporary return to Turkey! That’s got to count for something.”
The agent busts out a notepad. “So you admit that the bulk of your storyline was crying and staring at your phone? Viewers can get this on the average city bus during rush hour. We’re going to have to take you in, ma’am.”
“What about Mursel?”
“Mursel surrendered himself to authorities hours ago. He was already committing to a lifetime of light blue polo shirts and staring perplexed at the cover of US Weekly. It might be too late to save him. You should have come to us as soon as he started crying on the hotel room floor. Additionally, we’ve charged him with one count of evading logic, and two counts of sucking the air out of the room. Right this way, please. And give us your phone, ma’am….ma’am, surrender your phone…stop resisting! Stop resisting!”
What really happened: With 7 stupid hours left on her visa, Anna, who is almost as organized as Tania, is still sewing something. She loads the children who will still speak to her into the car to fetch Mursel from the airport, and the whole way there she makes a strong case against chewing gum. Gino, his mother’s child psychologist, explains that his mother is only happy when a man she can’t communicate with is hanging around the house. Leo suspects his growing ability to observe all this means he won’t be his mother’s favorite much longer, so she’ll have to have another kid. Joey left to go hang out with Molly’s daughter, and talk about spending the majority of their younger years propping up his mother emotionally.
They drive back to get ready for the wedding, and Mursel susses out the complexities of grooming all by himself. Gino and Leo walk Anna down the honeycomb aisle, and throw her at Mursel, who is standing under a doily. A vow exchange he doesn’t understand happens, and then there’s cake, and night photos in front of a wooden fence. Leo serves up a toast that definitely wasn’t written by Anna and definitely wasn’t heavily rehearsed, which you can tell by the passion behind the delivery.
Syngin and Fucking Tania
What I wish happened: Syngin and Tania, still shitfaced from the night before, fall into a Chevy wearing dark glasses and stained t-shirts, each clutching a half-full bottle of Gatorade and a fistful of SlimJims. They both agree that once Syngin chugs that fucker his empty bottle will evolve into the “piss jug,” so they don’t have to hunt down bathrooms along the way, and can stop at Evelyn’s Awesome Apple Stand for 30 minutes of distracted procrastination instead. Suddenly, a meteor streaks through the sky. Tania insists it’s a comet, and when Syngin disagrees she reminds him he’s not her soulmate, and no one invited science to this party. Syngin can’t help but notice that it appears to be getting closer, and with science uninvited, he might be poised to hitch an anti-vaxer. Tania says she is not going to die in a Chevy, because that’s so white it could be a Bob Seger song.
It dawns on Syngin that this is his last chance to push Tania from the vehicle and floor it to the airport for a one-way ticket to Costa Rica for 30 days, where he will not call Tania drunk or sober, because his schedule will be packed with private salsa dances. Still, he’s not a bad guy, and he does love her, so he pulls over and says he just needs to use the piss jug real fast. The minute the door closes he puts down the bottle and runs like the meteor is chasing him, while Tania wraps herself in a purple shroud to wait for the maybe-comet to call her home, but not before yelling to Syngin’s dust trail that he needs to bring her black Nikes, because she has goals.
What actually happens: After careful consideration, Judge Tania generously rules that Syngin’s sadness over being declared a non-soulmate is valid, thus sparing him another 30 days of solitude in the Shed of Shame. She vampires down his palpable sadness, and her sated state allows the sleeves of her pink shirt to grow. In an effort to mask her glee at his misery, Tania mines her manipulation cave for treasures from their past, and reveals the bouncers defended the club against Tania like the riders of Rohan, and still she breached the wall. Syngin, look to the North for the coming light. At the end of their origin story Syngin is apparently willing to marry her again, or he really, really wants to be an opera singeactostunt man.
Syngin informs us that there hasn’t been a divorce in his family in 500 years, but he’s pretty sure he can break that curse. Neither has prepared any kind of wedding vows, and they arrive at the AirBnB venue a few hours late. There’s also no wedding photographer, so Syngin’s friend volunteers to take on this task. He considers that he could have brought a better camera if he’d received some advanced warning of this, but Tania is way too goal-oriented for such things. Tania reminds us yet again that she’s normally totally organized, and the last 90 days have just been one fluke after the other. They rapidly start constructing the ceremony space and crafting center pieces. Given the limited time, some brides might place a premium on showering and not making their guests wait, over lighting candles during daylight hours and placing rose petals to go with the other rose petals, but not our focused would-be mommy Tania. Finally she starts getting ready, and something happens to her head and face, and they wrap her body in black gauze for safety, and because she’s edgy like that. Not Hot Topic or music with feelings edgy, but that one time your mom smoked weed with you edgy. In other words, normal, but afraid.
The wedding happens, and the space does look beautiful. During the vows Syngin dramatically gets down on one knee and asks God to strike him dead. When that doesn’t happen, he unfurls his scroll of sweetness, while people in the audience cry that they’re letting this happen to Syngin. After he’s done, Tania manages to promise to answer the phone when he calls in the middle of a drunken night on the town, and to let her walls down. In other words, she’s still taking everything and giving nothing. #romance. The officiant works “shit” into his treatise, and expresses disbelief that this could have been a one-night stand and Syngin ruined it. Their rings are tattoos, like Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, and they opt for the Sagittarius symbol, which I’m really hoping this is a shared sign and not Tania’s latest prison-tattoo brand on her bitch. Then they’re all happy, and Tania’s mom even musters some endorsement of their union, and when I can tone down my palpable inner hater, their wedding was kind of…nice.
Jasmin and Blake
What I wish happened: Jasmin puts on a giant cake dress with a skirt that creates three feet of distance from other people. She spins around the park holding a bottle of champagne in each hand, and when her sister tries to intervene she chucks a bottle at her and starts crying. Her mother runs up and starts shaking her, demanding she get her shit together because she did not raise a Finnish girl to act like an American. Jasmin knows mother is right, but can’t resist drawing a wider and wider red lipstick mouth round and round and round her cake hole. Meanwhile, Blake is busy checking in on the stock market. He knew that upfront investment in Tesla would be a wise move, and he’s two years away from early retirement. He puts on a slick wedding get up, and then both get into a Tesla, and drive right off my tv screen.
What really happens: Jasmin thought they were going to have a courthouse wedding. They have a park wedding instead. The main difference between these two things is about 20 people. Blake cries. Jasmin doesn’t. Vows are exchanged, and Jasmin’s parents hope they get to know each other eventually. Mother Blake hopes that Jasmin will get a job, and has questions about Jasmin’s current source of income. They think it will all be okay, so long as Blake is in charge of emotions and Jasmin serves as household accountant. Some photos happen. Jasmin’s parents hope she’ll hold on to her Finnish citizenship, so she has somewhere to flee to when the US goes full Handmaid’s Tale. Do you see how fast the Terminal Boring is spreading? Someone get this season on lockdown.
Robert and Anny
What I wish happened: Anny strolls down the aisle to greet Robert, who is a completely different person. Bryson waits patiently for their shocked, confused greeting to conclude, so he can kick off the ceremony with style. He signals the usher, who comes out with a piece of cardboard, and he’s immediately surrounded by a ring of men with Jheri curls, wearing half-shirts and dog collars and killer high-tops. it’s Breaking 2: Electric Wedding Goo. Guests fight with garbage can lids in the parking lot, making faces under savage eyeliner. Everyone is wearing Tania-pink off-the-shoulder shirts and sweatbands and one damn glove. Leotards are everywhere. Anny used to be a professional dancer, but who is she now? Where does she fit in with this motley crew? They’re never going to save the community center! But they have to!
What actually happens: Robert’s hair is wrangled into corn rows by a committed hair stylist who doesn’t get paid enough, and the entire wedding party dresses in tribute to the Temptations, and I kind of approve, because at least that red color is popping. Robert expresses concerns about this level of commitment, when he’s used to the lukewarm obligation of children. Anny gets ready, and her friend is there, and apparently decided it was a good idea to wear a wedding dress to someone else’s wedding. Anny gives no fucks and is just glad her Porn-In-Law was uninvited. Her hair is sculpted into a style we can’t even buy at wigs.com, and Bryson happily escorts her down the aisle.
The officiant kicks things off by saying (and I checked this three times in disbelief): “Today you become a creation as you two come together as one, that has never ever been before in the earth.” If I ever get married, I need this woman. Anyway, remember how last time 90DF teased that he was going to leave her at the altar? That was your warning the opposite was going to happen. He kicks off with the “I can’t do this” and just before Anny has a nervous breakdown he drops to one knee and produces a ring. Being utterly terrified is what everyone wants when they’re fully done up and standing in front of a room full of people. They’re happily hitched, and it’s actually kind of sweet, and Anny declares she’s going to have five kids to match the five he already has. Robert insists he doesn’t want to have an NBA team that he knows about.
Mike and Natalie
What I wish happened: The cameras show Mike slowly extracting his phone from his pocket, removing the SIM card, then donating it to a shelter. Then he grabs a disposable one at a 7-11, and stops by the barbershop and gets a haircut. Then Darcy pulls up and asks if they have a bathroom where she can shower and meet Jay for some contract negotiation. Spying Mike out of the corner of her eye, she says, “Oh MY GAWD are you my boyfriend now?” Mike wonders what the hell is happening, and explains to Darcy that Oregon is in the United States, so this will never work.
“When did it stop being in Canada? My children are my world. Tom is still my boyfriend anyway, and I think he might know it.” Darcy starts crying, and Tom salsas into the frame, with Tania dancing quickly behind him. He tries to run, but she only salsas faster. In desperation, he turns and confesses he’s not a very good teacher.
“Don’t talk to me softly like that,” Tania declares, before grabbing him by his fragile British hand and insisting that her steps are usually more organized than this, and screaming for her tattoo artists to ready for another brand.
What really happens: 90DF producers decided that one stare-at-your-phone storyline just wouldn’t do, so here is big Mike, sitting in his living room, talking his way around Natalie’s scorn. She mentions that some shit happened off-screen that made her not trust him, and the 90DF producers are reminded that they are never around when something interesting happens. When they ask Mike about his secret, he simply walks off camera. Anyone want to place bets that Mike has a criminal record that is standing in the way of this whole K1 business?
Angela and Michael
What I wish happened: Angela wakes up, and discovers that Michael has left a “treasure map” on the nightstand. Certain that this is evidence of another lie, Angela attempts to follow the map, and demands directions from a hapless shop owner who has made a fortune during her stay by selling her cigarettes. He points vaguely at a distant jungle, and Angela disappears into the trees, pulling at her ponytail and yelling “Michael” over and over again. Meanwhile, Michael realizes that as much as he loves Donald Trump, Donald Trump does not love him, so he decides to stick with Nigerian Prince schemes until the next president assumes office. He hears Angela screaming in the distance and notices his treasure map is gone, and as the screams grow quieter and quieter, Paul duck-runs out of the jungle wearing a belt of human hair and a condom hat, bleating for Karine.
What really happens: Michael can’t get the K1 because of all those Nigerian terrorists that stuff bombs into their shoes at the airport, so they think the spousal visa is the best route. They learn about what’s required for a Nigerian wedding, and Angela needs a witness from the US of A. She knows that no one in her circle can afford it, so she’s going to have to fly back to America alone.
“Tell me,” the would-be officiant says. “Why did they give you another season so soon? Nothing has happened.”
“Two words for you: free plane tickets to Nigeria,” Angela explains. “Now I gotta make like a pudding snack and corn hole to the airport for a Piggly Wiggly.”
At the airport Michael gives her a nameplate necklace with his name, and he wears one that says Angela, because wasn’t high school great you guys? No, it really wasn’t. Still, every couple that watches this shit together will be exchanging these on Valentine’s Day. It’s too late for me to get my dude to watch this, but it’s not too late to not make any sense.
Michael and Juliana and Sister-Wife Sarah.
What I wish happened: Sarah reveals that in order to find the time to study for a forthcoming test, she’s been popping caffeine pills, but then she oversleeps and misses dance rehearsal, thus blowing her big shopping mall break. Michael comes in and wakes her up, and asks her what’s going on with this sleeping nonsense, and she says she can do it, she can have it all, she can do anything. Then she starts screaming I’m SO EXCITED! I’M SO EXCITED! Is this a caffeine pill addiction? Did it really develop in 22 minutes of programming? Madness! Max bursts through the door and snatches the pills from his mother’s hand, screaming, “Dear God, no! NO! Nancy Reagan warned us about this!!” As he races for the toilet, CeCe blocks the doorway screaming, “You could go to prison! Or rehab! Or think you’re an orange and jump off the roof!” Sarah thrashes around on the ground, threatening everyone with shoes. Later she’s in bed wearing her favorite pajamas, knowing that she’ll be fully recovered from this terrifying descent into addiction in the next 22 minute episode. Whew. That was a close one.
What actually happens: Michael brings the kids back to Sarah’s house, and Michael takes the time to thank her for inserting herself into their wedding. Sarah harkens back to the lovely day she married Michael, and how it rained before and after, but it was beautiful on the day of the event. She’s fine. Really. Then Sarah asks Michael about the prenup. He awkwardly says he doesn’t need one anymore, now that he has this hat. Sarah understands how this demand might make Juliana feel unsupported. Because she’s very, very understanding, and understands things, and she’s fine. Really.
Next week promises to be the highlight of the season, as Robert questions Tania about her soulmate fake news, Michael is revealed to be Cheater McCheaterson, Big Mike’s Big Secret finally reaches the airwaves, and in news that shocks no one, Shaun is left speechless.
Thank you Patreon supporters! Find me there for more shenanigans.
submitted by fractalfay to 90DayFiance [link] [comments]