2020.10.21 17:35 TatarCubanGirl Asian spy sex
I was raised as a Jehovahs witness and I remember being taught that the dragon in the Bible is also the Devil. Later I asked them about is the dragon in the Bible and Revelation and the cultural Chinese Dragon. I got the answer that the Dragon was a symbol for the Chinese emperor but now it is just a symbol for good luck. Apperantly the asian chinese cultural dragon has no connection to the devil-dragon in the Bible. But I clearly remember being taught in childhood that the Devil is also a Dragon.
I have to admit my JW upbringing legit convinced me as a child that chinese culture is kind of satanic.
The Kpop artist G-Dragon legit rubs me to this day the wrong way and make me feel strange.
Plus the fact that the dragon is a symbol among asian mafia in tattoos and amwf porn (which makes
me feel at the same time cringe as f and mildly irritated)
When I read Wild Swans by Jung Chang where she basically wrote her mother had an abortion because she felt she could better serve the Communist Chinese government. That moment I got
"child sacrifice for Communist Party" vibes. And I remembered all the stories from the Old Testament about the caananites sacrificed their children to their gods.
Being raised as a JW by former atheist parent from communist countries as refuges and immigrants
in Sweden , and reading the whole Bible legit fucked me up.
Because according to JWs fetus=child.
My parents were atheist raised during Communism. They only got into Jws after coming to Sweden after my birth because they both studied in Moscow.
But our life did not turn out good and I legit think the JWs are an organization to hunt down communists around the world and reeducate communists children into christianity.
My parents got threathened by social services and mm and my mother fled to Russia.
I still think all of this happened only because of my grandfather being a cuban diplomat in North Korea. My father also never baptised himself into the Jws unlike my mother.
Yes I have read the book by Yeonmi Park "To be able to live" and I can sympathise with her.
But what concerns me more is my grandfather who lives very poor in Cuba and despite being on pension he continues to work. No matter how much I sympathise with Yeonmi Park I am more concerned about Cuba and Russia and why the main population is so poor there.
I am also concerned with the artificial milk-producing companies invading republics not so far from my mothers republic only employing chinese from the mainland and producing crap unhealthy products to sell in Russia.
I remember the JWs literature having the focus on prozelyting "worldly" people especially Chinese in China.
I remember the literature where we were encouraged to "take the step over to Macedonia" where two girls prozelyted to two chinese.
I especially think of this when I discovered the book and movie The Bitter Tea of General Yen.
I also think of it when Jws get jailed for prozelyting in China.
Also I remember in the book "What does the Bible really learn?" there was this picture with an asian woman reading the Bible.
I feel that I have a weird relationship to Asians even thought I am half asian myself. I am half Cuban ,half Tatar. Tatars ara considered minority asians in Russia.
It started with when my blonde best swedish friend Hulda (fake name) father got divorced (the family were JWs) to his swedish wife and married a Thai woman. The swedish wife married an african refugee.
That legit made me start feeling doubt in my religion.
I used to go with my famly to a chinese traditional doctor who was very kind who gave my parents a traditional chinese cooking utensil.
My mother is best friend with a woman from Tajikistan that is Uzbek who was a wealthy woman during communist regime. We also know another woman from Kazakhstan whose dad was a politican but
who seems to have gotten some grudge against my mum. She also did a really mean joke after my fathers death about him being behind the Chernobyl accident just for being a nuclear engineer who worked there at one point.
Only after my fathers death have I seen really how nasty Huldas mother really is when she claimed my mother did wrong by escaping from social services with me to Russia. I told her she was bullshitting and lying. I also hate the posh polish JW woman who claimed I stole her daughters jacket in childhood. Now they just ignore us. I am really disappointed with the Jws and legit think they contacted our family
only to destroy my dad and make his daughter anti-communist.
I also really hate how poorly my parents got treated here despite their higher educations
My parents used to help a Vietnamese family with documents and helping them not getting scammed into laundering money . They were very kind but shortly abrupted our relationship and talking after the wifes vietnamese friend started talking about JWs being bad.
But I remember going to a school where a filipina girl hated me and used to put dirty water in my water drinking bottle. She was in love with a swedish boy from a nationalistic swedish party and was jealous because he showed interest in me. Btw the boy said he was a satanist when I told him I was JW.
Once I tried to make friend s with a Thai boy at school but it did not work out.
When I heard a higher educated russian man on Youtube complain about the asians and their cliques
and how we russians and cenral asians dont have our cliques the same way and how the west hates us russians I have to agree. I relly recommend everybody to listen to the Youtubers Revengestar, Vovan Japan 0.2 and Nazar Ilishev.
I some time read the manga Rosario Vampire with the vampire girl Moka Akashiya and when the russian youtuber Ashiya popped up with the same name it made me feel weird.
I was also really into Vampire knight but then I stumbled upon the website NihongoNews where
they exposed the dark side of Japan and all the red sun flag dark history so I remember when waiting outside a grocery store alone for my mother in Russia I saw an asian dude walking past me with red sun tattoos it made my stomach churn in discomfort. I also remember when I was lying in the hospital in Russia I got harassed for taking communist books from the hospital library to read.
There was this asian dude laughing at me for being shy and not used to talking to guys there.
Also once I got submitted into a psychiatric hospital alone and some asian girl and dude had sex behind a sliding wall while I was tied to bed. I am still angry on my mum for focing me in psychiatic hospitals 2 times just because I could not sleep at night. At the hospital there was also an asian nurse forcing a pill that fell to the floor into my mouth by force.
Also at the endocrinological hospital there was an really gruff , rough, hoarse main doctor without one finger (yakuza sign anybody?) that was really rude to my mum.
These are the 4 weird asians I cant forget. The one with the red sun tattoo ,the rude one ,the one behind the sliding wall and the one missing finger doctor. Watching japanese visual kei videos with the red rising flag makes me SO uncomfortable. I constantly remeber that guy who walked past me when I see that.
Also I got an operation on my stomach. While I was lying in the endocrinological part of the hospital I overheard old babushkas talking about the main doctor and his daugher ruling the hospital being very affluent poeple making the hard working babushkas pretty salty. They also insiniated I had had an abortion even thought I explained it was only the appendix that got removed.
I confronted my mum about it but she stands by that it only was the appendix.
Later I got maredreams and strange thoughts if maybe I was raped during sleep in the other hospital because I remember one day waking up and seeing a weird condom lying in the corridor (I slept in the corridor) and the asian guy quickly moving out after that. I also remember the nurses choosing especially him to once deliver me some pills I had to swallow.
But the most horrifiying memory I have is when the asian guy rolled me in a wheel chair and I remember him whispering some strange words I dont fully remember (dont be afraid?) when they transferred me from hospital to hospital.
I also read about Japan and China and the yakuza from books in the library while I was in my mothers hometown but later strangely these books disappeared.
I also I remember the constant flower kiosk named Sakura and tokyoflower in my city the sudokus selled in every kiosk and after reading all those horrible things about what the japanese did ww2 it just puts bad taste in my mouth.
I really find visual kei intersting with how they portray themselves as demons and its interesting to me that all the foreign visual kei arists are thai swedish, english and from the western world.
Especially SekimaII and their "demons" concept. They remember me of the female russian band U-kei.
I have been watching Kazakh pop the latest years and its unsettling to watch them don kimonos.
I have even seen tatar musicians do it.
I may be revealing to much of my life. But the internet has opened my eyes to how asian diasporas absorb everything around themselves. Reading asian supremacist subreddits here on reddit makes me even more uncomfortable. But my biggest beef that I have is when I read that chinese hate europeans and central asians but then I remembered the traditional chinese doctor named Pan who was so kind
and dismissed it.But there is tons of anti-asian ,anti-chinese info on russian Youtube.
But it is true that ex-communist immigrant dont support and band together judging by all the chinese shops,thai massage salons, indian resturants in my swedish town but no russian or central asian resturants. Even in Cuba I saw a Chinese resturant and saw the stories of the chinese residents in Cuba and the store selling asian, anime and K-dramas in Havana. Also the new Crazy Rich Asians and Mulan movie compared to the Borat movie reminded everyone that the new Han Chinese supremacist narrative is being pushed.
I was always so amused by the fact that Cinderella called the cat Lucifer in the cartoon and the pet dragon in Mulan and speculated over Disneys satanism.
My question is with the chinese dragon in the Bible.
My second question is with contemporary Israel and why is lbgt and femenism and abortion so accepted there if it is prohibited in the Bible. Like doesnt it bother anyone at all that the non-israelite people in the book of Joshua worship the sun and to me they SO much wakes up associations of the red rising sun flag to me ?
Because of this seeing the jewish star in japanese visual kei videos also makes me feel strange.
My father always had a negative opinion on Japan and Israel.
My second is when I saw the music video Ai-dolls -Ai-dolls (kyrgyz pop). Ai means moon in kyrgyz but means love in japanese so that reminded me of the manga Princess Ai and made me uncomfortable.
My cousin studies in China but refuses to tell me how he has it. He had a chinese girlfriend but broke up with her.
His father had a company named Thanks (Rahmat) Tea but his son got brutally murdered so the company died but strangely enough some weird product with the same name started selling while I lived with my mother in Russia. My mothers last name consists of the word Thanks (Rahmat).
My uncle got a sexual disease while flying to buy Indian Tea in India so that really got me thinking.
I dont shame Indian people ,my mother is friends with one.
But I clearly see that chinese culture is anti-Bible. I remember watching the tv-series Empress of China.
There Wu Ruyi (Meiniang) kills a girl named Gaoyang. Later I watched an Youtube video of a chinese man claim that the god in the Bible is the same as the ancient chinese God and he said that Gaoyang means lamb. It felt like deja vu.
I also remember watching a japanese Youtuber in russian talking about japanese mythology that it goes like this: The Japanese god fell in love and procreated with humans and from there went all people. I had biblical deja vu when I heard of this and remembered the band Seikima II.
The thing is: I remember a russian girl magazine adverising the Hinamatsuri , Japanese girl fashion and "The land of the rising Soul" to russian young girls I cannot phantom the sneaky evilness of the japanese people propagating and advertising their culture to young girls only for the young girls to fly to Japan only to realize that Japan is like Saudi Arabia only more advertised and pink.
And I know that japanese culture is actively advertised in Russia.
I remember liking anime ,Sailor Moon and manga and wanting to translate manga into minority language in Russia but when I understood how dark and twistedly obsessed the japanese are with demons it made me think twice. Also 4chan anyone?
Some Youtuber said that if you learn japanese and start reading 4chan you will regret you learned japanese.
What I have learned from the russian Youtuber VovanJapan is 1:Japanese people love themselves very much. I have read traditional japanese poetry and I think it is true judging by the poem "Loving Oneself" I read.
Also remember reading the japanese poem wher the man tells the women "Dont think you cant be replaced and are unique". That kind of attitude also is a turn-off to me.
And asian people reading this and hating me:I dont care.
My uncle was very kind and always gave left-over food to his north koran servants while being a diplomat.
But I really hate all the toxic, hating and bullying by asian and especially japanese people online.
I really dislike their feudalistic ,passive-agressive hating on the Internet.
Just look at all the hate Blinchik in Japan , lolcow farm, pretty ugly little liars , Yoo Lana and other
pretty non-asian ,non-japanese females get. It is sickening.
It is also sickening seeing how russian-speaking men praise japanese women and shit on russian women under Sergey Kuvaevs videos.
I just dont think rasistic, imperialistic, rising red sun-wearing tattooed asians should be walking around in my mothers home town and make innocent girls like me feel unsafe.
I see VovanJapans YT channel get taken down and it makes me think he speaks the truth.
The film Interdevochka also got a price in Japan I think that talks about something.
You can read my post as fiction from planet X.
I have read beutiful japanese traditional poetry and japanese mythology.
But I have also read ugly japanese comment hidden by anonimity on the internet and it makes me disgusted.
Like the only thing I can think of is the son Katoosha by AKB4.
But I have read russians saying it is very had to talk to japanese people because they are so quiet
and you have to force words out of them.
I think Japan is like the dentist clinic in Sailor Moon :Kawaii -Hawaii on the outside but horrifying on the inside.VovanJapan said that they do medical experiments on foreigners in Japan. I always think of Viagras music video Anti.-Geisha where a japanese girls shoots at you throught the TV.Or In-Yans music video Kamikaze.
I saw japanese hair salons and a sushi shop in my mother russian hometown.
I know a mongolian woman that works in a sushi shop here in sweden that has two married mongolian relatives living in japan working for a japanese car company.
Why do we russians celebrate the Victory over Germany , but not over Japan?
Why is there a monument remembering the japanese soliders in Russia?
Why do we Russians allow this to happen?
Why do we russians not stand up for ourselves?
I have watched DenTV and they tell about how the japanese think we russian dropped the bombs on them.It makes me sick.
I think that in japanese culture the concept conscience does not exist. At least judging y russian DenTV that is the case. They have shame culture but dont have the concept of sincere regret.
Of course I have never met japanese people in real life.
But I dont intend to try to Skype to a silent robot and try to force words out of them forcefully.
If any japanese think otherwise they can comment below.
I probably wont comment anyway as I am sick of seeing americans shit on Cuba and Russia in general.
So I am preparing for the communist haters!
I have teo questions:
1.Did the japanese ask forgiveness from Russia for their war crimes occuping Russia up tot the Uralic Mountains?
2.If not , What do they want from us crating Youtube channels saying they are proud of their forefathers who were soliders doing their duty in (Tatarstan) and marrying russian women?
Showing the monument commerating japanese soliders?
But the think making me most angry is when DenTV said japanese spies create anime communities in russian on the internet telling russian youth to commit suicide. That is the definition of going over all
The japanese really are Jorogumos on the World Wide Web searching for naive innocent flie-like russian youths to ensnare and push to sucide!
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2020.10.06 16:01 0kthb14 Asian spy sex
I'm a longtime reader of HobbyDrama, but this is my first time posting. I've been following this particular controversy on social media, and it's been driving me nuts, so I gave it a shot and did this writeup. Hope I did it justice, I tried my best to present everything in an even light.
Blackpink is one of, if not the most popular girl groups in Kpop right now. They've been around since 2016, and since then, some of their music videos have passed a billion views, they've collaborated with Lady Gaga, Cardi B, and Selena Gomez, and they performed at Coachella last year. Disclaimer, I'm a Blackpink fan in terms of liking their music, but I don't really engage with the intense fandom spaces, particularly Twitter, so this is all stuff I've just observed.
On October 2, Blackpink put out the music video for Lovesick Girls , the main single from their first album, creatively titled The Album. Like you might expect from the title, it's a song about breakups and heartbreak. Nothing that could stir up controversy, right?
Jennie and Her Costume
In the second verse of the song, the music video for "Lovesick Girls" shows one of the members, Jennie Kim, playing both a patient and a nurse in a therapy session (starting at 1:32). Jennie appears in the nurse costume for less than 10 seconds, as it only appears in that scene, and even then, it's more focused on the "patient" character. But some were displeased with the nurse costume, and made their displeasure known online.
It's also worth mentioning that this particular member, Jennie, has been subject to online hate before, which should be kept in mind coming into this dustup. She's arguably the group's most popular member (although all 4 are absurdly popular), or at least its public face, and some Blinks (Blackpink's fandom name) have viewed management decisions by YG Entertainment, their label, such as giving Jennie flashier stage costumes, or giving her a solo debut before any of the other members as evidence that she's the company favorite, and have directed hate her way for it. Her public image of being more chic and sexy, as opposed to the more typical cutsey innocent girl group persona, has also garnered her hate, for the typical sexist reasons.
During some performances in 2018, Jennie also came under scrutiny for allegedly lazy dancing , which garnered her a ton of online abuse as well, as these trolls said this was clearly evidence that she didn't care about the rest of the group, and was selfish and entitled, yada yada. In August 2020, a Blink's post on the Korean blog site Pann stated that in fact, Jennie had been working with an ankle injury, which was why her dancing had declined in 2018. In response to this, Blinks trended #ApologizeToJennie on Twitter, and in general have become pretty protective of her.
The Initial Controversy
On October 5, the Korean Health and Medical Workers Union (KHMWU) put out a statement taking issue with Blackpink and their label YG Entertainment for their portrayal of nurses (translation via Soompi )
"In the YG Entertainment group BLACKPINK’s “Lovesick Girls” music video that was released on October 2, one of the members appeared in a nurse’s outfit. The cap, tight and short skirt, and high heels are completely different from an actual nurse’s outfit. The outfit and portrayal directly imitate the typical sexual stereotype and excuse it as a simple “costume.”
Even though nurses are professional healthcare workers, for the sole reason that there are more women in the profession, they have been subject to sexual objectification and derogatory portrayals expressing doubts about their professionalism. Nurses have been fighting for a long time to change this, and in 2020, when the discussion about women’s rights is more active than ever, YG Entertainment sexually objectified the image of a nurse in BLACKPINK’s music video. The music video gained almost 100 million views in three days since its release. In a real hospital, not the ones in the media, nurses are fighting at the frontlines of COVID-19 and taking on the risk of infection for the safety and survival of the citizens. There has been a climate of heroizing nurses as well, but there are still those who call nurses “hey” or “young lady” and let out their stress on them or exercise their power on them. Furthermore, nurses are the healthcare workers who are the most frequently exposed to sexual abuse. If the media continues to show a distorted image of nurses, situations like these will only get worse.
After the music video was revealed, hashtags like #NursesAreNotCostumes, #Stop_Sexualizing_Nurses, and #nurse_is_profession appeared on social media. Sexual objectification of professions with a higher ratio of women to men has gone on for too long to simply think of this as the voice of the minority in an online space.
The Korean Health and Medical Worker’s Union strictly opposes sexual objectification of women and nurses. As BLACKPINK’s new song is ranking high on charts globally, we call on YG Entertainment to take responsible measures to match their popularity and influence."
Initial Fallout and Fanwars
As you can imagine, fans did not take this well. I can't link to anyone's personal Twitter, but from what I saw, some Blinks have taken to spamming hate at any Korean users who use the KHMWU's hashtags. However, despite kicking off this controversy, much of the drama has become between Kpop fans, rather than between Blinks and Koreans who support the KHMWU.
Some Blinks have suggested that the ARMY (fans of BTS, mega-popular Kpop boy group) are behind the campaign, and trying to sabotage Blackpink's success to boost BTS (who are also doing very well internationally right now). Sections of Kpop Twitter quickly devolved into a BTS-Blackpink fanwar.
Those in support of the KHMU point to the real issue of the "sexy nurse" stereotype, and how it harms women in the healthcare field, and promotes a sexualized view of women who are just doing a job, which can lead to harassment and abuse.
Blinks and their supporters argued back that Jennie and Blackpink are unfair targets for this issue, as the nurse outfit in question only appears for a few seconds, and although inaccurate, is not particularly revealing (no cleavage, the skirt is knee length, though she is in stiletto heels).Blinks have also pointed out that other popular Kpop groups, such as Girls' Generation and the aforementioned BTS , have worn doctor and nurse costumes in music videos without getting backlash like this.
One public figure who I can link to is Jeff Benjamin, a music journalist who covers a lot of Kpop, and recently interviewed Blackpink, who weighed in, calling the controversy a sexist double standard . If you look at the replies, some comments, mostly from Blinks, thanked him for supporting Jennie, but others criticized him for being a white man speaking on a Korean women's issue, and called him ignorant of the issue of misogyny and objectification in Korean society.
The Nth Room Angle
One Korea-specific angle a lot of non-Korean Kpop fans are ignorant of is this controversy's relation to the "Nth Room" case. The Nth Room was the name of a set of groups on the encrypted messaging app Telegram where a ring of anonymous Korean users spread blackmailed and sexually exploitative pornographic photos and videos of both women and underage girls, some of whom were kept as sex slaves. In the last year, the group was uncovered, some of the perpetrators have been arrested, and South Korea has tightened laws around online sex crimes. Really grim, upsetting stuff, link to an article here for more detail.
This case and the uproar are related to an overall movement by Korean feminists and women's groups against pervasive sexism and abuse of women in modern Korean society, and the Nth Room case further escalated public anger. A related issue is "molka", referring to voyeuristic videos and pictures taken from secret spy cameras hidden in public places, the vast majority of which target women. This has been the focus of much of the Korean #MeToo movement, as feminists have pushed against the sexualization and exploitation of women in everyday settings.
How does this relate to that Blackpink video? Allegedly, there was a section of the Nth Room specifically dedicated to nurse outfit fetishes. Some comments I saw (although I'm not sure if this is right) said that sexualization of nurses was so bad that Korean search engines had to age-restrict simply looking up the word "nurse." Thus, for the KHMU, the image of the sexy nurse is a particularly sensitive and objectionable topic right now, as the Nth Room saga is still quite fresh in the public mind. Mix in the COVID-19 pandemic, and you can see why people might be sensitive around perceived offenses towards healthcare workers.
In response to this controversy, YG Entertainment stepped in and issued a statement on October 6 (translation via that same Soompi article)
"First, we express our deep respect to the nurses who are always staying by the patients’ sides and fighting in the frontlines.
“Lovesick Girls” is a song that raises the question of why we continue to find love when we are hurt by it while also conveying a hopeful message.
In the “Lovesick Girls” music video, the scene with the nurse and the patient reflects the lyrics, “No doctor could help when I’m lovesick.”
There was no specific intention to it, but we are concerned about the distorted views.
We ask that you think of music videos as an independent genre of art, and we would appreciate it if you could understand that each scene was made with no other intention than to express the music.
The production team is currently deliberating and discussing whether the scene should be edited out"
This isn't the first time this year a Blackpink music video has faced controversy and calls for edits. In June, the video to the single "How You Like That" caused controversy for including a statue of the Hindu god Ganesha as a prop sitting on the floor of one scene. This caused an uproar from many South Asian and Hindu fans, and the music video was re-edited to remove the shots with the statue.
As of writing this, the nurse scene is still in the Lovesick Girls video. While they still could edit it at any point, I'm not certain they will, since when the Ganesha statue issue came up, they quickly edited the video, and only made a statement to announce it had been edited, not that they were considering it.
As always, it's a mess when obsessive fandoms meet real world social issues, and the (very legitimate) issues the KHMU raised have largely been drowned out by arguments on stan Twitter. Blinks, from a cursory look at Twitter, seem to view the whole thing as another unfair attack on Jennie, but YG seems to take it more seriously than most fandom drama, as they actually put out a statement, albeit a fairly handwavey one.
YG Entertainment issued an apology and has decided to delete the scene featuring the nurse costume
"This is YG Entertainment.
We have decided to edit out all of the scenes with the nurse uniform in BLACKPINK’s “Lovesick Girls” music video, and we will replace the video as soon as possible.
While working on the music video for a long time, we did not expect this issue to be raised because [the scenes] had no specific intention to them. We feel greatly responsible for this and will consider it an opportunity to deeply learn.
We relay our apologies to the nurses who felt discomfort, and we once again express our respect to all healthcare workers who are working hard for the sake of the health of the citizens.
Needless to say, this has only inflamed Twitter Blinks, who are taking it as a betrayal of Blackpink and Jennie. Many tweets demanding they "protect" Blackpink.
EDIT 2: UPDATE 10/8
As of October 8, the music video for "Lovesick Girls" has been edited to remove all shots of Jennie's nurse costume.
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2020.10.05 16:44 MansA5Oct1 Asian spy sex
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2020.09.23 00:48 normancrane Iris [1/3]
Part 1 <-- You are here.
Iris The first person to ever tell me the theory was Iris. It was nighttime in 2015, and we were lying on an old mattress on the roof of a four-storey apartment building in a university town in southern Ontario. A party was going on downstairs to which we’d both been invited and from whose monotony we’d helped each other escape through an ordinary white door that said “No entrance”. It was summer. I remember the heat waves and the radiating warmth of the asphalt. Our semester was over and we had started existing until the next one started in the way all students exist when they don’t spend their months off at home or touring Europe. I could feel the bass thumping from below. I could see the infinite stars in the cloudless sky. The sound seemed so disconnected from the image. Iris and I weren’t dating, we were just friends, but she leaned toward me on the mattress that night until I could feel her breathing on my neck, and, with my eyes pointed spaceward, she began: “What if…”
Back then it was pure speculation, a wild fantasy inspired by the THC from the joint we were passing back and forth and uninhibited by the beer we’d already drunk. There was nothing scientific or even philosophical about Iris’ telling of it. The theory was a flight of imagination influenced by her name and personalized by the genetic defect of her eyes, which her doctors had said would render her blind by fifty. Even thirty-five seemed far away. It’s heartbreaking now to know that Iris never did live to experience her blindness—her own genetic fate interrupted by the genetic fate of the world—but that night, imagination, the quality Einstein called more important than knowledge, lit up both our brains in synapses of neon as we shared our joint, sucking it into glowing nothingness, Iris paranoid that she’d wake up one morning in eternal darkness despite the doctors’ assurances that her blindness would occur gradually, and me fearing that I would never find love, never share my life with anyone, but soothed at least by Iris’ words and her impossible ideas because Einstein was right, and imagination is magical enough to cure anything.
2025, Pre- I graduated with a degree in one field, found a low paying job in another, got married, worked my way to slightly better pay, wanted to have a child, bought a Beagle named Pillow as a temporary substitute, lived in an apartment overlooking a green garbage bin that was always full of beer cans and pizza boxes, and held my wife, crying, when we found out that we couldn’t have children. Somewhere along the way my parents died and Kurt Schwaller, a physicist from the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, proved a grand theory of everything that rather than being based on the vibrations of strings, was based on a property of particles called viscous time force. I never understood the details. To me they lacked imagination. The overriding point, the experts on television told us, was that given enough data and computing power we could now predict the outcome of anything. The effect was that no one wanted to study theoretical physics and everyone wanted to make breakthroughs in data collection systems and biological hardware. Hackers created a version of Linux that ran from DNA. Western Digital released the first working holographic storage drive. The NSA, FSB, BND and other agencies rushed to put their suddenly valuable mass of unprocessed raw spy data to prognostic use. A Chinese bookmaker known only by the nick ##!! wrote a piece of Python code that could predict the outcomes of hockey games. Within a month, the NHL and KHL were scrambling to come up with ways of saving their leagues by making them more unpredictable. They introduced elements of chance: power plays without penalties, a tilting ice surface, fluctuating rules that sometimes allowed for icings and offsides and sometimes not, and, finally, a pre-game lottery by which the names of the players on both teams were put into a pot and randomly drawn into two squads. Given enough variables, the strategy did thwart the code, but the inherent unfairness of the innovations alienated the players, the draft made owners question why they were paying the salaries of superstars who played against them half of the time, and the fans simply stopped paying attention to a league full of teams for which their already dwindling loyalty had bottomed out. Besides, the code was basic. ##!! had room to expand. The KHL folded first, followed by the NHL, and then the other sports leagues, preemptively. They didn’t bother to wait until their own codes were broken. I remember seeing an interview with ##!! while this was still front page news. The reporter, a perpetually smiling big-breasted blonde with blindingly white teeth, asked him if he thought that hockey could be rescued by the creation of roving blue lines that would continually alter the relative sizes of both offensive zones and the neutral zone. ##!! answered that he didn’t know what a blue line was because he’d never watched a hockey game in his life. His voice was cold, objective, and there was something terrifyingly inhuman about the idea that a person with no knowledge of a subject could nevertheless understand it so completely. Content had become a mere input of form.
By 2025, mainstream interest in the theory of everything faded, not because the theory was wrong but because it was too right and too abstract and now there weren’t any young theoretical physicists to help explain it using cute graphics on YouTube. We consumed what we understood and passively accepted the fallout while going on with our daily lives. The people who did understand made money, but for the rest of us the consequences were less than their potential, because even with enough time, memory and microprocessors the most we could know was the what and the when, not the why. For the governments and corporations pouring taxes and tax-free earnings into complex models of world domination, that didn’t matter. They weren’t interested in cause. They were in the business of exploiting certainty to gain power. As long as they could predict lightning, they were satisfied. If they could make it, all the better. Away from the cutting edge, however, like ants or ancients, what we craved to know was where the lightning came from, what it meant, and on that issue the theory was silent. As Kurt Schwaller put it in a speech to the United Nations, “All I’ve given you is a tool—a microscope to magnify the minutes, so to speak—with which to investigate in perfect detail the entirety of our interrelations. But the investigations still have to made, ladies and gentlemen. Have a hay stack, look for the needle. Know there might not be one.”
In January, my wife and I began a fertility treatment for which we’d been saving for years. It was undoubtedly the reason we became so emotionally involved in the media attention around Aiko, the lovely, black-haired and fashionable Crown Princess of Japan, who along with her husband was going through the same ordeal that we were. For a few months, it seemed as if the whole world sat on the edges of its seat, wishing for this beautiful royal couple to conceive. And we sat on two, our own and one somewhere in an exotic Japan updated by the royal Twitter feed. It strikes me now that royalty has always fascinated the proles, a feeling that historically went in tandem with hatred, respect or awe, but it was the Japanese who held our attentions the longest and the most genuinely in the twenty-first century, when equality had more or less rendered a hereditary ruling class obsolete. The British declared themselves post-Christian in 2014 and post-Royal in 2021, the European Court of Justice ruled all other European royals invalid in 2022, and the Muslim monarchs pompously degraded themselves one-by-one into their own exiles and executions. Only the Japanese line survived, adapting to the times by refusing to take itself seriously on anything but the most superficial level. They dressed nicely, acted politely and observed a social protocol that we admired without wanting to follow it ourselves. Before he died, my father had often marvelled that the Second World War began with Japan being led by an emperor god, and ended with the American occupation forcing him to renounce his divinity. The Japanese god had died because MacArthur willed it and Hirohito spoke it. Godhood was like plaque. If your mother told you to brush your teeth, off it went, provided you used the right flavour of Colgate. Kings had once ruled by divine right. By 2025, the Crown Princess of Japan ruled our hearts merely by popular approval. She was our special friend, with whom we were all on intimate and imaginary terms. Indeed, on the day she died—on the day they all died—Princess Aiko’s was the most friended account on Facebook.
That’s why March 27, 2025, was such a joyous occasion for us. In hindsight, it’s utterly sick to associate the date with happiness of any kind, but history must always be understood in context, and the context of the announcement was a wirelessly connected world whose collective hopes came suddenly true to the jingle of a breaking news story on the BBC. I was in the kitchen sauteing onions when I heard it. Cutting them had made me cry and my eyes were still red. Then the announcer’s voice broke as he was setting up his intro, and in a video clip that was subsequently rebroadcast, downloaded and parodied close to a billion times in the one hundred thirty-two days that followed, he said: “The Crown Princess of Japan is pregnant!”
I ran to the living room and hugged my wife, who’d fallen to her knees in front of the wall-mounted monitor. Pillow was doing laps on and off the sofa. The BBC cut away from the announcer’s joyful face to a live feed from Japan. As I held my wife, her body felt warm and full of life. The top of her jeans cut into her waist. Her tears wetted the top of my shirt sleeve. Both of our phones started to buzz—emails and Twitter notifications streaming in. On the monitor, Aiko and her husband, both of their angular faces larger than life in 110” 1080p, waved to the crowd in Tokyo and the billions watching around the world. They spoke in Japanese and a woman on the BBC translated, but we hardly needed to know her exact words to understand the emotions. If them, why not also us? I knew my wife was having the same thought. We, too, could have a family. Then I smelled burning oil and the pungency of onions and I remembered my sauteing. I gently removed my arms from around my wife’s shoulders and ran back to the kitchen, still listening to Aiko’s voice and its polite English echo, and my hands must have been shaking, or else my whole body was shaking, because after I had turned down the heat I reached for the handle of the frying pan, knocked the pan off the stove top instead, and burned myself while stupidly trying to catch it before it fell, clattering, to the floor. The burned onions splattered. I’d cracked one of the kitchen tiles. My hand turned pale and I felt a numbness before my skin started to overflow with the warmth of pain. Without turning off the broadcast, my wife shooed me downstairs to the garage where we kept our car and drove me to the hospital.
The Toronto streets were raucous. Horns honked. J-pop blared. In the commotion we nearly hit a pedestrian, a middle-aged white woman pushing a baby carriage, who’d cut across Lake Shore without looking both ways. She had appeared suddenly from behind a parked transport—and my wife instinctively jerked the car from the left lane to the right, scraping our side mirror against the truck but saving two lives. The woman barely noticed. She disappeared into a crowd of Asian kids on the other side of street who were dancing to electronica and waving half a dozen Japanese flags, one of which was the Rising Sun Flag, the military flag of Imperial Japan. Clutching my wrist in the hope it would dull the pain in my hand, I wondered how many of them knew about the suffering Japanese soldiers had inflicted on countless Chinese in the name of that flag. To the right, Lake Ontario shone and sparkled in the late afternoon light. A passenger jet took off from Toronto Island Airport and climbed into the sky.
In the hospital waiting room, I sat next to a woman who was reading a movie magazine with Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s face on the cover. The Cannes film festival was coming up. My wife checked me in at the reception desk. The woman beside me put down her magazine and told me that she was there with her son, as if needing to justify her presence. I affirmed by nodding. He’d hurt his leg playing soccer for a local Armenian junior boys team, she went on. I said I’d hurt myself frying onions and that I was here with my wife. She said my wife was pretty and asked if I liked movies. Without meaning to do it, I tried to guess her age—unsuccessfully—and proceeded to imagine having doggy style sex with her. She had dark eyes that barely blinked and plump thighs. When I started to feel guilty, I answered her question: sometimes I watched movies at home, but I hadn’t been to a theatre in a decade. When my wife sat down, I let the two of them talk about the woman’s son. I was having trouble concentrating. I took my phone out of my pocket and read all the new emails about the royal conception, then stared at the seconds hand going slowly around its digital clock face on my home screen, wondering why we so often emulated the limitations of analogue machines on devices that were no longer bound by them. I switched my clock type to a digital readout. Now the seconds no longer rotated but flickered away. They called my name over the crackling intercom and a nurse led me to one of the empty rooms. “How about that baby,” he said while we walked. I didn’t see his face, only the shaved back of his head. “The things they can do these days, even for infertile couples.”
I waited for over thirty minutes for a doctor. When one came in, she inspected my hand for less than ten seconds before telling me that I was fine and hinting that I shouldn’t have wasted her time by coming to the emergency room. She had high cheek bones, thin lips and bony wrists. Her tablet had a faux clipboard wallpaper. Maybe I had only misinterpreted her tone. “How about that baby,” I said.
“It’s not a baby yet,” she answered.
This time her tone was impossible to misinterpret. I was only repeating what the nurse had said, I told myself. But I didn’t say that to her. Instead, I imagined her coming home at night to an empty apartment, furnished possibly in a minimalistic Japanese or Swedish style, brewing a cup of black coffee and settling into an armchair to re-read a Simone de Beauvoir novel. I was about to imagine having sex with her when I caught hold of myself and wondered what was up with me today.
When I got back to the waiting room, my wife was no longer there—but the Armenian woman was. She pointed down the hall and told me a room number. She said that sometime after I left, my wife had gotten a cramp and started to vomit all over the floor. Someone was still mopping up. The other people in the waiting room, which was filling up, gave me tactfully dirty looks, either because I was with the vomiter or because I’d shirked my responsible by being away during the vomiting. Irrationally, I wiped my own mouth and fled down the hall.
Inside the numbered room, my wife was sitting hunched over on an observation bed, slowly kicking her feet back and forth. “Are you OK?” I asked.
“Come here,” she said.
I did, and sat beside her on the bed. I repeated my question. She still smelled a little of vomit, but she looked up at me like the world’s luckiest puppy, her eyes big and glassy, and said, “Norman, I’m pregnant.”
That’s all she could say—
That’s all either of us could say for a while.
We just sat there on the examination bed like a pair of best friends on a swing set after dark, dangling our feet and taking turns pulling each other closer. “Are you sure?” I finally asked. My voice was hoarse. I sounded like a frog.
“Yes.” She kicked the heel of my shoe with the rubber toe of hers. “We’re going to have a baby.”
It was beautiful. The most wonderful moment of my life. I remembered the day we met and our little marriage ceremony. I thought about being a father, and felt positively terrified, and about being a better husband, and felt absolutely determined, and as I kissed my wife there in the little hospital room with its sterile green walls, I imagined making love to her. I kept imagining it as we drove back to the apartment through partying Toronto streets. “Not since the Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup!” the radio announcer proclaimed—before I turned him off. I also turned off my phone and my wife’s phone. No more buzzing. In the underground parking lot, I leaned over and licked her soft neck. I pushed her through the open apartment door and straight into the living room, onto the sofa, and wished I could be the cushions beneath her thighs and the air invading her lungs. Pillow barked a greeting and wagged her tail. The monitor on the wall showed talking heads and fertility experts. I unbuttoned my wife’s blouse. She unbuckled my belt. The picture on the monitor dissolved to a close-up of Aiko’s smiling face. My wife and I took turns sliding off each other’s jeans. I kissed her bare stomach. She ran her hands through my hair. I dimmed the lights. We made love.
When we were done it was starry nighttime. My wife bandaged my hand. We turned off the television. The silence was refreshing because people on television too often talk like they’re trying to push you off a ledge. My wife excused me from the duty of making supper because of my ineptness with the frying pan, and handed me a leash instead. I hooked it up to Pillow’s collar and took her outside. While she peed, I gazed up at the sky and identified the Big Dipper. It and the Little Dipper were the only constellations I could identify without using a smartphone app. After Pillow finished, we ducked into a nook and I peed, too. The March sky was amazingly clear of smog. My urine splashed on the concrete and I felt embarrassingly primal. I breathed in, shook out the last drops and zipped up.
In the apartment, we ate grilled portabella mushrooms topped with parmesan and parsley and drank brown rice tea. My wife had changed into fresh clothes. I had changed into fresh skin. Every time she said “mom” and “dad”, the words discharged trickles of electricity up and down my peripheral nervous system. We were happy; we were going to have a baby. The whole world was happy; the Crown Princess of Japan of was going to have a baby. The sounds of drunken urban celebrations drifted in through our bedroom window all night like fog, and we barely slept.
2025, Post- Gold is precious because it’s rare. Now close your eyes and imagine that the next time you open them, everything in your world will be golden: your kitchen table, the bananas you bought on the way home from work yesterday, your bottle of shampoo, even your teeth. Now blink. You’re not alone. The market’s flooded. Gold isn’t rare anymore. It’s everywhere. Which means that it’s worth about as much as its weight in mud, because there’s nothing intrinsically good about gold. Can you write on your gold table? It scratches. Surely you can’t eat your golden fruit. Your shampoo’s not a liquid anymore, so your hair’s already starting to get greasy. And if you do find something to eat that’s not made of metal, how long will those gold teeth last before you grind them into finely polished nubs?
For two days the Earth glittered.
For two days we lived in a daze of perfection.
And then, on March 29, a researcher working with lab mice at Stanford University noticed something odd. All of his female mice were pregnant. He contacted several of his colleagues who were also working with mice, rats, and monkeys. All their female animals were pregnant, too. Some of the colleagues had wives and girlfriends. They took innocent-seeming trips to their local pharmacies and bought up all the available pregnancy tests. At home, women took test after test and all of them showed positive. By midnight, the researchers had drafted a joint letter and sent copies of it to the major newspapers in their countries. On the morning of March 30, the news hit.
When I checked my Twitter feed after breakfast, #impregtoo was already trending. Throughout the day, Reddit lit up with increasingly bizarre accounts of pregnancies that physically couldn’t be but, apparently, were. Post-menopausal women, celibate women, prepubescent girls, women who’d had their uteruses removed only to discover that their reproductive systems had spontaneously regenerated like the severed tales of lizards. Existing early stage pregnancies aborted themselves and re-fertilized, like a system rebooting. Later term pregnancies developed Matryoshka-like pregnancies nested within pregnancies. After a while, I stopped reading, choosing to spend time with my wife instead. As night fell, we reclined on the sofa, her head on my chest, Pillow curled up in our tangle of feet, the television off, and the streets of Toronto eerily quiet save for the intermittent blaring of far off sirens, as any lingering doubts about the reality of the situation melted away like the brief, late season snow that floated gently down from the sky, blackening the streets.
On March 30, the World Health Organization issued a communique confirming that based on the available data it was reasonable to assume that all female mammals were pregnant. No cause was identified. It urged any woman who was not pregnant to step forward immediately. Otherwise, the communique offered no guidance. It indicated merely that the organization was already working with governments around the world to prepare for a massive influx of human population in approximately nine months’ time. Most places, including Toronto, reacted with stunned panic. Non-essential workplaces and schools were decried closed. People were urged to stay indoors. Hospitals prepared for possible complications. A few supermarkets ran out of canned food and there were several bank runs, but nothing happened that the existing systems couldn’t handle. Populations kept their nerve. Highway and air traffic increased slightly as people rushed to be with their friends, families and gynaecologists. We spent the entire day in our apartment and let Pillow pee in the tub. Except for the conspiracy theorists, who believed that the Earth was being cosmically pollinated by aliens, most of us weren’t scared to go outside, but we were scared of the unknown, and we preferred to process that fear in the comfort of our own dens.
The New York Times ran a front page editorial arguing for an evaluation of the situation using Kurt Schwaller’s theory of everything. In conjunction with The Washington Post, The Guardian and The Wikipedia Foundation, a website was set up asking users for technical help, monetary donations and the sharing of any surplus computing power.
The project quickly ran into problems. To accurately predict anything, the theory of everything needed sufficient data, and, on April 2, cryptome.org published a series of leaked emails between the French Minister of Health and a high-ranking member of World Health Organization that proved the latter’s communique had been disingenuous at best. Externally, the World Health Organization had concluded that all female mammals were pregnant. That remained true. However, it had failed to admit an even more baffling development: the wombs of all female mammals had inexplicably become impenetrable to all rays and materials that had so far been tried against them. For all intents and purposes, there was no way to see inside the womb, or to destroy it. The only way to revert the body to its natural form, to terminate the pregnancy, was to kill the woman—an experiment that, according to the high-ranking member of the World Health Organization, the French government had helped conduct on unwilling women in Mali. Both parties issued repeated denials until a video surfaced showing the murders. I couldn’t bring myself to watch it. They spun their denials into arguments about the necessity of sacrificing lives for the greater good.
Reminded once again of the deception inherent in politics, many turned to religion, but the mainstream religions were hesitant to react. They offered few opinions and no answers. The fringe religions split into two camps. Some leaders welcomed this development, the greatest of all known miracles, while others denounced the same as a universal and unnatural punishment for our collective sins of hedonism, egoism and pride. The most successful of all was the Tribe of Akna, a vaguely mystical Maya revival cult that sprang up seemingly overnight and was led by a Guatemalan freelance programmer named Salvador Abaroa. Although it originated in Mexico City, the Tribe spread as quickly across the world as the computer viruses that Abaroa was notorious for creating. On the Tribe’s homepage, Abaroa could be seen striking an antique brass gong and saying in Spanish-tinged English, “Like energy, life is never destroyed. Every one of us plays an integral part of the cosmic ecosystem. Every man, woman and virus.” Elsewhere on the website, you could buy self-published theological textbooks, listen to scratchy recordings of speeches by Alan Watts and read about the hypothesis that Maya thought was deeply connected to Buddhism because the Mayans had crossed the Pacific Ocean and colonized Asia.
But despite the apparent international cooperation happening at the highest levels, the first week of April was an atomizing period for the so-called people on the ground. We hunkered down. Most personal communication was digital. My wife and I exchanged emails with her parents and sister, but we met no one face-to-face, not even on Skype. We neither invited our neighbours to dinner nor were invited by them, despite how easy it was to walk down the hall and knock. I read far more than I wrote, and even when I did write, responding to a blog post or news story, I found it easier to relate to strangers than to the people I knew. My wife said I had a high tolerance for solitude. “Who do you know in the city?” she asked. Although we’d been living here together for three years, she still considered Toronto mine. She was the stranger, I was the native. I said that I knew a few people from work. She told me to call one of them I’d never called before. I did, and the next day’s sky was cloudless and sunny and there were five of us in the apartment: my wife and I, my friend Bakshi and his wife Jacinda, and their daughter, Greta. Greta drank apple juice while the rest of us drank wine, and all five of us gorged ourselves on freshly baked peach cobbler, laughing at silly faces and cracking immature jokes. It hardly registered for me that the majority of the room was unstoppably pregnant, but wasn’t that the point: to forget—if only for a few hours? Instead of watching the BBC, we streamed BDRips of Hayao Miyazaki movies from The Pirate Bay. Porco Rosso ruled the skies, castles flew, a Catbus arrived at its magical stop. Then Bakshi’s phone rang, and he excused himself from the table to take the call. When he returned, his face was grey. “What’s the matter?” Jacinda asked him. He was still holding the phone to his ear. “It’s Kurt Schwaller,” he said. “They just found his body. They think he killed himself.”
Proceed to Part 2
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2020.09.03 12:15 Alastor001 Asian spy sex
Just asking from genuine curiosity.
On Pornhub I have noticed a lot of amateur videos coming from China, specifically from massage parlors / spas. They do seem to be actually amateur and not staged. The weirdest thing tho, is that they are about female customers receiving "extra service"...
I know that getting happy endings for men during massage while illegal is fairly common, at least in Asian massage / spa parlors. We have all heard such news.
But this is on a whole new level. I find it weird because:
1) How do these places not get into trouble?
2) How do these places get female customers specifically, because they seem to KNOW what service they will receive, surely that's illegal?
3) Sometimes they even have sex with the massage therapist... like wth???
(Again, I am just curious, these videos are unlikely to be staged and are recorded from spy cam)
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2020.08.26 17:40 welcometosouthapp Welcome to South App #5: "I'm a Beleaver"
Wednesday, August 26th, 2020
After a ten-day cheese binge, Gigi had gained ten pounds.
That didn’t stop Frank, the Italian Stallion, from picking her up and pinning her to the dorm room wall. They began making out in their underwear for the first time.
“Um...do you have a condom?” Gigi whispered as Frank lifted her up.
“But soft, my dear! Why, I carry the finest lambskins in the land. Made from the intestines of the most supple virgin sheep.”
Frank squeezed her thighs while sliding his tongue down her throat. But after holding her up for so long, his arms began to tremble.
“Maybe we can take it on the bed?” Gigi laughed nervously. “I guess I’m well on the way to the Freshman 15. Woo-hoo!”
Frank tossed the 130-pound Gigi onto the beanbag chair. He straddled her, reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra.
“On second thought, maybe not,” Gigi mouthed, gently pushing his hands away.
“But ask you did - did you not?”
“I...I like you, Frank,” Gigi admitted. “But on a sweaty bean bag chair in a dorm room? It’s...not what I have in mind for my first time!”
“Woe is me! Alas, my sexual and culinary advances remain unrequited.”
Sure enough, Frank was supposed to have cooked dinner for Gigi that previous Friday. But once she’d found out lasagna was on the menu, Gigi had promptly faked the flu. Following her secret cheese dinner with Winston, she had secretly sampled nearly every type of cheese in Buncombe County. And cottage cheese, an ingredient in Frank’s lasagna, was her least favorite. Hard pass.
Gigi slipped into her tight blue jeans and white Beavers hoodie. “Um...looks like I shall depart for class!”
“Next time, shall I conduct myself differently?”
Gigi smiled meekly. “Come as you are, Frank. We’ll try sex again in three months!”
On the 300 Hall, a naked Claire stood handcuffed to the top bunk from behind. She bit her shoulder to muffle her moan as a shiver rattled her body. An also-naked Winston stood up from his knees.
“Mmm...let’s, like, totally do it already!” Claire panted, sweat dripping down her bangs.
It would be Winston’s and Claire’s first time. And he had planned ahead with the help of a little blue pill. “Ah, right,” he grunted. “I reckon I’ll go get a Jimmy hat.”
Winston opened his desk drawer, reminded that his prized fake ID collection was missing. Whoever took it, your ass is grass, Winston thought. Then, while Claire wasn’t looking, he popped a Cialis in his mouth - his second pill in an hour. For good measure, he cracked open a can of Red Bull and chugged.
“Wow,” Claire cooed, looking down at it. “You must be, like, getting ready for a bonafide marathon with me!”
“Your satisfaction is 100% guaranteed or your money back, ma’am.”
But as soon as Winston opened Claire’s legs, it happened.
A metric fuck-ton of caffeine and testosterone coursed through his veins. His pulse sank from one head to another. Target locked: Claire. She gasped in surprise. And Winston’s fragile ego, along with something else, deflated.
“Hashtag OMG,” Claire whispered, more embarrassed than Winston. “It’s, like, totally okay! It looks like we, like, had a little too much foreplay.”
Winston, dead-eyed and stone-faced, put on an old pair of Wrangler jeans and a red flannel. “I...need to give a presentation for class.”
“Oh! Like, good luck! Do you think you can, like, get me a towel?”
Winston grabbed his damp, musky shaving towel and tossed it to Claire. “Wait!” Claire called out as Winston stepped into the hallway. “You forget the-”
The door slammed.
“-Handcuff key.” Alone in Winston’s room, she stared at the key on his desk. “Hey, Siri!” she called out to her iPhone. “Call the Italian Stallion on speaker.”
Frank answered. “Ah, Claire: the woman with fire in thy loins. Shan’t you be in class at this time?”
“You’re, like, too silly! Mornings are for sobering up, not classing. Anywho, Winston I and totally ended our morning...prematurely.”
“Methinks you and Winston hath made more progress than Gigi and yours truly.”
“Aw, you poor thing!” Claire teased, sticking out her lower lip. “Tell you what. My hands are, like, tied right now. Hashtag literally! Wanna come up to Winston’s room and take advantage of me?”
At 8 AM Econ class, Jacky, Tai, Sarah, and Evelyn sat in the back of the massive lecture hall. While the professor rambled on about exponential growth, Jacky flipped through the binder of fake IDs.
“On the real, we’re not selling fake IDs,” Jacky declared, pulling out an one that favored the Latina teaching assistant. “We’re selling freedom, the way God always intended it.”
“Well put, Cali,” said Sarah. “Looks like you’ve dethroned Frank as the poet in our posse.”
“Whoa, let’s not get crazy,” Tai chuckled. “Unlike us peasants, Francisco is a Sicilian king.”
“If you love him so much, why don’t you just marry him, broseph,” Jacky snapped. Tai looked down like a shameful dog. Jacky held his grey-eyed stare like an Olympian. Finally, he burst out into laughter. “I’m just dogging you, scaredy-cat! Gotta keep you on your toes or this college junk will get stale.”
“College fucking sucks,” Evelyn chimed in, cranking the volume on her Mickey Avalon song. “It’s all a scam.”
The charismatic Jacky swiped an ID of a girl who looked like a preppy version of Evelyn. “Sounds like you need a new perspective, dudette. In college, you can be anybody you want to be. On the real, that’s why in the past 10 days, I’ve sold 25 IDs alone.”
Tai raised his eyebrows. “Twenty-fucking five? Not too shabby.”
“Oh, did I say 25? I meant that I sold 25 IDs to people in this room alone. Heck, the real total is somewhere around...200.”
Their jaws were on the floor. Jacky pulled out a roll of 100-dollar bills from his cargo shorts. He fanned the cash, then divvied a few bills to each of them.
“That’s 500 apiece each,” Jacky declared. “Just as a show of good faith that this operation won’t be a waste of our time.”
“Holy shit,” Sarah whispered, stuffing the money in her purse. “That’s almost enough goddamn cash for...half a textbook!”
“True that, but God’s last name is not damn,” Jacky hissed.
“Wait, how much money have you made so far?” Tai asked, reaching down and holding Jacky’s hand.
“Plenty more,” Jacky whispered, inviting them to get close. “Look at all of God’s lost sheep in this room. Investing all this time and money to make this kind of money appear. Heck, we can do it much faster, dude and dudettes. We can take our operation straight to Beleavers.”
Jacky was referring to the Methodist youth group that met in the Chadwick Learning Center each Wednesday. Students of all faiths, colors, creeds, and M.O.’s were welcome - if only for the campus-renowned free popcorn.
“Ugh, organized religion is a farce,” Evelyn groaned, putting her headphones back in.
“Then you should have no problem taking their money,” Sarah said, yanking her earbud out.
“Exactamundo,” Jacky declared as the professor dismissed class. “Just picture all those students walking around with Mommy and Daddy’s tithe money. All we need to do is earn their business. Let’s get there early tonight and set up a vendor table. Sarah, Evelyn: we need a front. What can you sell?”
“I can sell my collection of human bones from my graveyard raids,” Evelyn offered casually.
They all stared at Evelyn in silence. “H-how about we make homemade bath bombs instead?” Sarah suggested casually.
“Perfect,” Jacky declared. “Tai and I will go to the dorm kitchen and whip up some baked goods. They’ll come for the snacks and leave with new identities.”
“Gravy,” Sarah said, flashing a peace sign. “Now, Evelyn and I have a rematch to settle.”
“Mario Kart?” Tai asked.
“Nah, grappling on the quad.” Sarah snatched Evelyn in a headlock and tickled her stomach. Evelyn burst out laughing, then tapped out. The two friends left the lecture hall.
“On the real, your hippie friend has a lot of nerve leading her on like that,” Jacky said, packing up his books.
“Eh, Sarah’s made it clear that she doesn’t like girls. Or...anybody for that matter.”
“Well, from one gay to another: Sarah’s full of horse crap.”
“Dude, they’re friends! And Evelyn’s not holding out for anything more.”
Jacky cocked his head as the last few students left the lecture hall. “What about us, Tai? Are we just friends?”
Tai leaned in to kiss him. Jacky kissed back harder, slipping his hand beneath Tai’s nylon shorts. Tai tossed his head back, pacing his breaths.
“Try to hold out as long as you can,” Jacky whispered, nibbling his neck. “I don’t want this to end…prematurely.”
“Hold out, huh?” Tai moaned between breaths. “Fuck...guess I gotta...uh, think about Evelyn the demon or something. That’s a turnoff...uh, am I right?”
“Seriously?” Jacky mumbled. “I’m trying to please you, and you’re gonna talk about another woman? Just stop talking.”
My boyfriend’s a hard nut to crack, Tai thought. Yes, it was true that Jacky had been a cocky, jealous, holier-than-thou douche during the whole class. He’s shallow. But God, his hand feels so good. So Tai let Jacky California finish. And afterward, Tai felt like the shallow one. For letting somebody kiss, caress, and fondle him when he knew for damn sure that they had nothing in common.
“And in conclusion,” said a female brunette. “That’s why multicultural cuisine is integral to improving the health of obese Americans in our nation. Thank you!”
“Delightful,” exclaimed Dr. Cartwright: Winston’s female Public Speaking professor. The student thanked her, then returned to her desk in the small Learning Center classroom. Today’s topic: Describe how multiculturalism has changed your life.
“Next up: Winston Beavers,” Dr. Cartwright announced. “Ah, quite a fitting last name, if I do say so myself.”
“Much obliged, ma’am.” Winston tipped his cowboy hat. “No one liked my last name until I became a student at South App.” He walked to the front of the classroom carrying two large foam boards.
“Oh! Somebody chose to use props, I see.”
“I was always a visual learner myself.” Winston set the foam boards up on tripods. “Ever since I was a little shit...um, I mean child, I always had a knack for pictures instead of words. I reckon ain’t much changed since then.”
“That’s very...insightful, Winston. Please begin whenever you’re ready.”
Two huge images were printed on the foam boards. One was a high-res photo of a revolver. The other was a simple stock photo of a 3-ring binder.
“Ladies and gents, when I enrolled last month, two precious items were stolen from me.” Winston pulled out a cigarette and pointed at each of the photos. “Exhibit A: my Colt Single Action Army revolver, gifted to me by my daddy. And Exhibit B: a top-secret binder, gifted to me by the fine folks from Beta Delta Epsilon.”
“Who’s got big dicks? We’ve got big dicks!” chanted a few BDE pledges in the back of the class.
“Don’t you forget it. Uh, anyway, I say all this to say: multiculturalism has impacted my life because it was statistically somebody of a certain race who stole these items from me.”
“Mister Beavers, I must stop you as this is highly inappropriate!” blurted out the professor’s teaching assistant.
“Let...let him continue,” Dr. Cartwright muttered, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Mister Beavers, I do presume you have...dare I say, a valuable theme in your speech?”
“I humbly assure you, I do,” replied Winston tipping his cowboy hat. “I reckon you’re gonna wanna listen to what I’m fixin’ to say.”
Down at the other end of the Student Center, Gigi donned goggles and rubber gloves while she weighed silver nitrate powder on a scale.
“Everybody make sure that your scale is switched to grams!” cautioned Dr. Spivey: a wild white-haired mad scientist. “And before anybody asks: no, I will not help you cook meth in an RV! I will, however, give you a list of Asheville’s finest marijuana dealers...for a price.”
Gigi added the powder to a volumetric flask. Then, she unzipped her bookbag and grabbed a bottle of distilled water. She slowly poured the water into the flask, swirling the mixture around.
“Smart, smart, smart!” Dr. Spivey praised Gigi. “Why, I see somebody brought their own water. Now, I think I know why. But please humor me.”
“Gladly!” Gigi obliged, swirling the flask until the silver nitrate dissolved completely. “Well, Professor, I opted to access my personal inventory in hopes of bypassing a lengthy dihydrogen monoxide queue! Translation: look at that line!”
Sure enough, a long line of students stood with flasks in hand, waiting to use the tap of distilled water. Dr. Spivey flipped through his attendance roster. “Ah, you’re my pre-dental student: Ji-hye.” He pronounced it incorrectly as Gee-Hi.
“Oh, it’s actually pronounced Gee-Hey. But my real name’s caused so much...um, confusion that most people call me Gigi now.”
“I see. That’s quite unfortunate. Having to change your name all because of someone else.”
Before Gigi could respond, a frat boy called out to the professor. “Hey, Walter White! I’ll pay ya a hundred bucks for a list of all your dealers. Come on, bubba, that’s like half your salary!”
Dr. Spivey sighed and feigned annoyance. “Ah, these kids and their shrewd business exchanges. Guess I better entertain their shenanigans. Keep up the diligence, Ji-hye.” That time, he pronounced it correctly.
After Dr. Spivey left, a nerdy hipster girl tapped Gigi’s shoulder. “Hey, check this out.” The girl raised her cardigan sleeve to reveal a dark silver nitrate tattoo. Fuck Landsharks. It was the South App Beavers’ rival mascot.
“I...fully approve this message!”
“Here, try one on you before the professor gets back.” The girl handed Gigi a paintbrush.
“Neat!” Gigi replied as if accepting party pills for the first time. “But what to write?” She stared at her class schedule, where her name was also listed as “Ji-hye Moon.” Maybe...I should get used to using my real name again.
Gigi pulled up her hoodie sleeve and dipped the brush into the silver nitrate solution. Just then, the professor summoned everybody back to their desks for discussion. “Ji-hye, Ji-hye, Ji-hye,” she repeated, quickly painting a tattoo on the inside of her left hand.
Gigi rushed back to her desk. Dr. Spivey laughed at the class, his white hair sprawling in all directions. “Fools! I saw what you did. Now, let this be a lesson in commitment. Because silver nitrate tattoos take a week to fade. Now...who wants to show me theirs? Or shall I start calling names?”
Goosebumps rose on the back of Gigi’s neck. Not because her tattoo was semi-permanent, but because she was surely about to be the center of attention. But after a moment of tension, the professor simply dismissed class. Gigi bolted out the door. “So long, Ji-hye!” his voice echoed down the hall.
Shit, did he see my tattoo? Gigi picked up the pace, bumping into students who filed out of the Learning Center classrooms. Around the corner, she heard the grinding of coffee beans and frothing of whole milk. She would soon reach safety at Doppio Coffee Shop...
“Whaaa-oomph!” Gigi gasped, slipping on a banana peel. She landed flat on her back, sending her notebook and loose papers flying.
“Whoa, are you okay?” asked a short Indian guy as he rushed to Gigi’s aid. He helped her to her feet. “Yo, did you get that on video?” he asked another Indian, who ran up with a video camera. “Hey, Miss, it was just a social experiment! See, we’re from the South App Social Club. Hey, are you listening? It was just a prank, bro!”
A mentally-drained Gigi kneeled down to collect her supplies. It was only when Gigi reached down to collect her papers that she read the tattoo on her hand. And it did not read Ji-hye...
“WINSTON?!” her voice cracked.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” mumbled a young cowboy, hunched over a large caramel frappuccino. “Are ya that surprised to find me here?”
Winston was sitting at Doppio Coffee Shop. Gigi hurriedly pulled down her hoodie sleeves past her fingertips. She balled the draping sleeves over her fists, concealing the palms of her hands. Then, she walked over to Winston as if she didn’t look like a complete-
“You look like a complete dork!” Winston chuckled.
“Oh! I was...uh, cold,” Gigi lied. She held up her balled-up fists like a panda bear. “See, I made my own gloves!”
Winston snatched her right wrist, then placed it palm-down on the counter. He reached into his pocket for a dull, rusty Swiss Army Knife.
“So what we wanna do is make a quick little incision where the thumb is right here.” Winston cut a small hole in the sleeve. Carefully, he guided her thumb through the hole to create a mitten of sorts for her small hand.
“Now, let’s do your left hand.”
Gigi’s heart skipped a beat as he grabbed her tattooed left hand and lay her palm on the table. Don’t look at my tattoo, don’t look at it, don’t look at it!
“Ugh, damn blade’s straight-up fucked,” Winston scoffed. “Must’ve been that buck I skinned.”
“Eek! That’s so gross! Have you at least washed it?” Don’t look at it, don’t look at it, don’t look at it!
Winston ignored her question. “Here, let me see your palm so I can-”
For the love of all that is sacred and holy, don’t look at it, don’t look at it, DON’T LOOK AT IT!
“I have to poop!” Gigi blurted out.
Winstons let go of Gigi’s hand. He and everybody else stared in disbelief. Of course, she was lying. It’s not even what she meant to say. But Gigi took that baton and ran a country mile. “Um...it appears that most sharp cheeses give me constipation. But ever since I ate all those mozzarella sticks, I have major runs!”
Gigi stood up, crossed her arms, and bowed. Then, she skittered off to the restroom - her secret safe in her left hand.
A preppy guy and girl walked up behind the dumbfounded Winston. “Yo, country boy needs to teach his lady friend some manners, am I right?” The guy looked around, trying to rally the cafe customers for support. “That’s one thing I hate about this liberal town. What a fuckin’ dyke.”
A storm brewed in Winston’s head. But he kept it bottled up inside. He chuckled instead, placing a hand on the guy’s shoulder. A pause. Suddenly, Winston yanked him into a headlock, holding the pocket knife to his crotch. His girlfriend shrieked like a mouse, while the young man raised his trembling hands.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” the guy yelled.“T-take it easy, man! I was just-”
“Now listen here, partner.” Winston applied pressure with his blade. “I’ve had my share of good days. Matter fact, they’ve been a dime a dozen. But I reckon I’ve had my share of bad days too. And this right here is one of them bad days.” Winston motioned at the paper next to his drink. “See that-there paper over there? That’s the speech I just gave in front of a crowd of SJWs. And you wanna know what the teacher gave me? D-fuckin’-minus.”
“I’m...s-s-sorry,” the preppy guy whimpered.
“Yeah, me too,” Winston grumbled, using his knife to flick off the button on the guy’s board shorts.
“Somebody, do something!” the guy’s air-headed girlfriend cried.
And on cue, a thin brown liquid ran down the preppy guy’s legs. It seeped into his white Champion socks and stained his off-brand boat shoes. The putrid smell hit the gasping, coughing patrons.
Satisfied, Winston shoved the guy into his girlfriend’s arms. “I reckon you best wash up, partner.” Whispers and murmurs in the crowd while the preppy boy limped toward the men’s bathroom. “Hol’ up. I reckon you best make your way to the female bathroom. Matter fact, all bathrooms are gender-neutral around these parts. And while you’re in there, you can apologize to that so-called dyke from earlier. Tell her Winston Motherfucking Beavers sent you.”
With anguish and defeat in his eyes, the lady entered the female bathroom. Satisfied, Winston gathered his things and decided that it was time to get the fuck out of there. But when he turned around to leave, a thunderous applause erupted behind him like an action movie explosion. Winston smiled mischievously. For the first time since he enrolled, he finally belonged.
Suddenly, Winston slipped on the banana feel and landed square on his elbow. “Oh, shit!” exclaimed the Indian student, running to his side. “Are you okay, man?”
Frank shivered on top of Claire as she dug her nails into his back. He lay there for a moment, his breath ragged. Then, he rolled off, breathing heavily on Winston’s top bunk. He slipped off the latex condom and tossed it into an empty cheese ball can on Winston’s bunk.
“Alas, thou hadst sucketh the chi from my body and-”
“Remember, like, no talking!” Claire reminded him condescendingly. She pulled the covers over her breasts, opened Instagram, and took a duck-face selfie.
“Ah, perhaps you didn’t get a chance to c-”
“Like, no.” Claire casually added a rabbit-ear filter and snapped a pic. “But that’s, like, totally okay...I guess.”
Frank transformed from Shakespeare to Sherlock, scanning Winston’s filthy bachelor bedspread for something. Anything. There were cigarette butts, saltine crumbs, half a stick of butter, Fun Dip packages with only the dip missing, a whole uneaten chicken wing, piss in a Sprite bottle, a Happy Meal box with a dead rat inside, three leaking D Batteries, and Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.
Finally, Frank grabbed a nearly-empty can of whipped cream. He yanked the covers off the naked Claire and sprayed a line from her collarbone to navel. Now, he had Claire’s full, undivided attention. She slowly looked down at the runny mess that pooled into her belly button. Then, she gave him the hungriest bedroom eyes Frank had ever seen.
“If you’re, like, going to play with your food, then you better totally clean up after yourself.”
Frank and Claire proceeded to do unthinkable things in that bed. And Winston’s top bunk held on by faith and faith alone. Finally, they collapsed next to one another. Two sweaty messes bathing in afterglow. Afterward, they snuck into the men’s shower where they agreed on two things. One: they were going to burn that mattress out of respect for Winston. And two: they were going to have sex at Beleavers that night.
“Look here, you little bitch!”
Evelyn grabbed the young, black cheerleader’s collar and pulled her across the table, showing her fangs.
“W-whoa!” the cheerleader stammered. “Chill out! I’m...sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
The girl panned from Evelyn to Sarah, Tai, and Jacky. “I’m...uh, sorry for asking you if you were selling tickets to a Marilyn Manson concert.”
“Apology accepted!” Sarah cheered on Evelyn’s behalf. She pointed at the assorted bath bombs for sale in the Learning Center Ballroom. “Everything you see here is between 10 and 15. If you have a sweet tooth, the fine gents to my right are selling yummy cookies and banana bread. Or…” Sarah pulled out the sacred BDE binder and placed it on the table. “Between you and me, we’re selling fake IDs.”
“Yeah!” Tai said. “There’s a few young ladies in there who have a mocha complexion almost as rich as yours!”
Jacky elbowed Tai in the ribs. Tai sucked in a breath, while his boyfriend acted as nothing had just happened. My boyfriend is jealous over fuckin’ everything.
The cheerleader looked over her shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. Then, she flipped through the pages as if she was dress shopping. “They contain the new state watermark and everything!” Sarah informed her customer. “We accept only cash at the moment. They cost-”
“A hundred, dudette,” Jacky interjected. Sarah gave him a worrisome side-eye at the exorbitant price. But as expected, the rich cheerleader pulled out the bills and handed them over.
“Oh, that makeup actually makes your eyes pop - no cap,” the cheerleader told Evelyn, before disappearing into the Beleavers crowd with her fake ID.
“Mission accomplished!” Jacky cheered. They had managed to pull off just over 100 sales: 7500 bucks split four ways. Now, it was time to close up shop for the night. Soon, the Christian rock band would take the stage to celebrate God in a room full of students with brand new identities.
“Come on, Tai,” Jacky said, smiling warmly. “Let’s grab some popcorn. I have somebody I want you to meet.”
Tai waved at the girls as they watched them leave.
“I...really don’t know what to make of Jacky,” Sarah admitted. “A few weeks ago, I tracked him down across campus because I thought he was smoking hot. I mean, he still is. But still…”
“He’s a fucking fake,” Evelyn fumed. “That holier-than-thou douchelord can sit on a tack.”
“Whoa, sounds like you need to relieve some stress,” Sarah chuckled, punching Evelyn’s arm. “Why don’t we head to the quad and settle our tie-breaker?”
At that, Sarah and Evelyn left for one last grappling match to end them all.
Winston and Gigi approached the Ballroom entrance, where thumping Christian rock rattled the door.
“So...are you a Christian or are you here for the popcorn?” Winston asked.
“A little bird told me that it is pretty tasty!” Gigi admitted sheepishly.
“And I reckon that little bird was Frankie?”
“Yes, actually! He’s supposed to meet me here. But...I haven’t heard from him in a few hours.”
“Ah. Same with Claire.”
Just like last week’s restaurant date, Gigi and Winston had been once again ghosted by their lovers. It had become a running meme at this point.
“M-maybe their bus is running late?” Gigi suggested, failing to convince even herself.
“Hey, while we’re meddlin’ in conspiracy theories, I’ve got one too. See, Frankie likes to cook. And I’mma bet he’s with Claire, baking her a fresh, homemade cream-”
Gigi clamped her hand over Winston’s mouth. Gigi’s pupils said it all. So he opted to lay off the jokes. Neither either of them really believed their lovers were sneaking around with each other.
Winston opened the ballroom door and promptly caught an elbow to the temple.
“Oomph!” Winston groaned. Gigi slouched against the wall for safety. The scene was no Sunday morning gospel band. This was a Christian hardcore band. And they had just walked into a mosh pit.
“W-Winston!” Gigi yelled over the screamo vocals. But among the flurry of flailing super-Christians, Winston had vanished. Gigi bent her knees and jumped as high as she could, searching for his cowboy hat in the crowd. Suddenly, a punk-rock girl came up from behind and lifted her into the air.
“She’s tryin’ to go surfing!” the girl yelled, heaving her into the crowd like a FedEx package. Gigi gasped before landing into a sea of open hands. This “wave” slowly guided her through the spazzing strobe lights and fog.
Suddenly, an anonymous hand grazed her breast, then very deliberately squeezed it. “W-whaaa!?” Gigi pulled her knee to her stomach, then kicked the culprit square in the face.
“You bitch!” the fondler yelled psychotically, cupping a hand over his bleeding nose. “Throw this fucking slut overboard!” And, in unison, the moshers raised and lowered her body in their hands. “One, two, three!”
Gigi flew into the air - falling, falling, falling until she crashed into a table of baked goods and bath bombs. Winded, she slipped behind the tablecloth and curled up under the table. The mob raged outside.
“Animals,” Gigi whispered, rubbing her sore breast. Alone in the dark under that table, she wanted to cry. She could only imagine what Winston would have done if she caught that pervert red-handed. Maybe I should have let him keep his gun.
Gigi turned on her phone’s flashlight and looked around. Under the table were several cardboard boxes. One, in particular, was labeled Sarah’s Box O’Fun. Gigi recognized it immediately. On move-in day, she’d watched Sarah unpack a huge bong from that very box. Then, Sarah had dared a drunk Winston to drink the bong water. He did. (“Gigi, meet my brother.”)
This is...Sarah’s table? She’s here at Beleavers tonight? Feeling gutsy, she sifted through the box. On top of the mountain of bath bombs and baked goods, the B.D.E. binder sat there in all its glory. She flipped through pages upon pages of fake IDs. On a scratch sheet of notebook paper: a tally of sales for Sarah, Evelyn, Tai, and Claire. But no Winston. And slowly, her busy brain started to connect the dots.
“Holy balls,” she whispered, snapping the stolen binder shut. She thought about taking it right then and there and returning it to its bearded beast of an owner. But another thought crossed her mind.
I could leave it here and blackmail them for money, Gigi thought. All I have to do is threaten to tell Winston! The decision was set in stone. She left the binder behind and slipped out from under the table. But not before stealing a baseball-sized charcoal bath bomb.
In the popcorn line, safe from the mosh pit, Jacky stood in front of Tai with his back turned. The blonde-haired surfer had been rambling excitedly with an Asian guy for five minutes now. And not once had Jacky thought to introduce him.
“Oh, Tai Maple!” Jacky finally remembered, turning to face him. “This is my friend: Benji. Benji, meet Tai.”
This freckle-faced Asian guy gave a slight bow. Tai immediately knew who he was. In fact, Gigi had given him the full scoop while she and Tai had shared her very first cheese pizza. It had all begun on the day where the freshmen tracked down Jacky in his mail truck. Jacky had mistaken the cross-dressing Gigi with the Benji who now stood before him.
And this Benji was allegedly Jacky’s secret long-time crush.
“Benji, would you please grab us a popcorn?” Jacky asked politely, stepping out of the line. “I need to talk to my friend here...alone.”
“Friend,” Tai echoed, following Jacky like a lost puppy.
“Tai, this is just as hard for me, brother,” Jacky frowned, more condescending than empathetic.
“The hell it is!” Tai blew up, drowned out by the hardcore band. “You had your hand in my pants just a few hours ago! Were you fucking planning on leaving me this whole time? For him?!”
“Tai, listen man. Look, I know everything. When you showed up at the coffee shop, I knew you’d been spying on me long before you met me. I first thought our meeting was a...beautiful coincidence. But all along, you were pulling the wool over my eyes. But that’s okay, brochacho! Because I gave you a chance anyway. See, I wanted to save you from what you are! You’re a liar, bro. But in God’s eyes, we all-”
“I let you take my goddamn virginity!” Tai exploded over the music, his jaw twitching uncontrollably.
A pitiful look from Jacky. “I see. That does complicate things a bit, on the real. Look, you can have a quarter of my earnings from tonight’s sales. And I promise to pray for you every night before-”
“Fuck you and fuck your God! I hope you die in your fucking sleep! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!”
Tai turned around and walked confidently out of the ballroom, holding his head up high while vertigo weighed it down. But nobody stopped him. And not once did he look back.
Winston limped down the Learning Center hallway with a pounding headache. He struggled to keep his twitching, swollen eye open while passing the empty classrooms. Where he was going, not even he knew. He just had to get far away from that mosh pit.
“Calm, child! You’re quite a fool to be walking around with a concussion!”
Winston turned around. Through his good eye, he saw a large, middle-aged Haitian woman in an African floral dress and headwrap. She held a bible in her large, smooth hands.
“Join us, child,” the woman beckoned, pointing into a classroom of Haitian students in chairs.
Winston smiled weakly, thinking back to his controversial speech from class that morning. “I mighty appreciate it, ma’am. But I reckon I ain’t much worthy.” He turned to walk away, but accidentally stumbled like a drunkard into the woman’s arms.
“Soft, my child,” she soothed him, ushering him into the room of students. “Not one of us is worthy. But there is good news.”
A half-hour later, Winston was sitting in the front row of the Haitian Student Ministry with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his swollen eye. The matriarch, Nadia, was delivering a passionate Psalm 107 sermon to her students.
“Let the one who is wise heed these things,” Nadia read. “And ponder the loving deeds of the Lord. Amen. Now, to conclude, I’d like to introduce our guest: Winston from Beleavers. Please, child, tell us about yourself.”
The young men on either side of Winston gave him a back pat. Winston slowly stood up and tipped his cowboy hat. In his mind, it was his Public Speaking 101 all over again. But in class, he hadn’t been standing in front of all-black students. Like he was now.
“Well, like I told Nurse Nadia earlier. I don’t feel like I’m worthy among y’all fine folks here. I mighty appreciate Nadia for patching me up. And for y’all’s hospitality.”
Winston headed for the door, but Nadia blocked the exit. “Please, child. Do your sins trouble you? May it ease your soul to know that there are redeemed people in this very room who have committed acts of credit card fraud, gang violence, and even beastiality?”
But somehow, Nadia’s words did not repel these people away. They brought them closer. So Winston opened his mouth and confessed what had been brewing in his mind all day.
“Well, uh...today in speech class, I said the N-word. I didn’t mean to be ugly when I said it. Only said it to take power away from it. But I reckon I really hurt a couple of people in that class. The only reason the teacher didn’t ban me from the class was ‘cause she wanted me to learn a lesson this year. And I’m tryin’, Nadia. I’m...tryin’ real hard.”
The students didn’t come forward to comfort Winston, who now choked on tears. But they didn’t back away either. It was only when Nadia lay a hand on him that the other students followed suit.
“It sounds like you have a lot to think on,” Nadia said warmly, as layers of hands covered him. “I wish you luck on your journey. We will always be here whenever Beleavers get a little too...rowdy.”
Nadia and the students led a closing prayer for Winston. He smiled as a rush of dopamine reached the brain. The tears flowed freely, even as he used the bag of frozen peas to dab his face.
“Amen,” Nadia concluded. Everybody left Winston’s side and began stacking chairs.
“Wait,” Winston said, returning to his confident southern drawl. “Let me take care of them-there chairs. It’s...the least this poor white boy can do.”
And so, Winston began folding chairs alone while the others left. And like Jesus on the Via Dolorosa, he began carrying ten chairs down the long hallway toward the supply closet. And like all other men, Winston was hell-bent on making only one trip.
“Winston!” Gigi blurted out as he turned a corner. With his hands full, his black eye had nowhere to hide. Gigi dropped her jaw. Then, her mouth formed a pitiful frown. She kissed her tattoo-free hand and gently pressed her fingertips on Winston’s eyelid.
“One more time,” Winston suggested with a grin.
Gigi hesitantly kissed her hand, then reached for Winston’s eyelid again. Suddenly, Winston playfully bit her hand. “Eek!” Gigi quickly brought her hand to her chest.
“You’re a good woman, Gigi,” Winston chuckled, reflecting on his own moral character. Both of their faces flushed red. He shook his head, arms trembling from the weight they carried. “Look, I gotta put these chairs up. Walk with me.”
Gigi carried four of the chairs. And even then, she lagged behind Winston. “So, what’s the word on Frankie? You find him in that-there mob?”
Gigi shook her head, her long black hair whipping back and forth. “Nope! And Claire?”
“Shit,” Winston said, emotionally detached. “Honestly, I don’t expect to see her ever again.”
“Hmmm...so why don’t they love us anymore?”
“Beats me,” said Winston, as they set their chairs down at the closet door. “But if I was a betting man, I’d wager it’s because you and I seem to be attached at the hip these days.”
“Do you think they don’t trust us together? I mean, as friends?”
Gigi opened her mouth, then closed it. Then, they quickly reached for the doorknob at the same time. A moment passed, and they did not move their hands. Slowly, her earthy brown eyes met his icy blue ones. Gigi’s tattoo was on fire.
Together, they turned the doorknob. And lo and behold: it was Frank and Claire.
Frank’s pants were around his ankles - all eight inches of uncut glory on full display. Claire was on her knees, snorting an eight-inch line of red-and-white cocaine from root to tip. As soon as they were spotted, Claire frantically wiped her nose while Frank shuffled to button his pants.
“W-w-woe is me!” Frank moaned in despair. “It doth appear that our feline hath escaped its rucksack!”
“Like, no fucking shit, Sherlock!” Claire snapped, brushing the cocaine off her shirt. “Do you ever, like, shut the fuck up? Like, look Winston and Gigi! I promise this is, like, not what it looks like. It was just, like, like, like, like, like-”
Winston and Gigi slowly stared at each other - sly grins on their faces.
“Um...are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Gigi asked Winston cheerfully.
“I sure the hell am, buddy,” Winston answered. They each grabbed a folding chair and approached the pair of adulterers.
A short while later, at dusk, Winston and Gigi sat on the curb of the Chadwick Hughes Learning Center - handcuffed. A fresh-faced, fat officer stood with his arms crossed, staring at the excited pair of criminals.
“So, you mean to tell me you…stabbed this chick with a chair?” the officer asked, dumbfounded.
“Yep!” Gigi piped up, a wide smile plastered on her face. “I managed to wield my melee weapon like a medieval knight, riding with the north winds until that raging thundercunt landed on her assless keister!”
“That was fuckin’ awesome,” Winston said, giving her an elbow bump. “But not as awesome as me crackin’ Frankie’s skull.”
The cop knitted his brows, taking extensive notes. “Alrighty then. Anything else y’all wanna add?”
Gigi and Winston grinned at each other, adrenaline fueling their veins. They had truly saved the best for last.
“Then, I took out my phone,” Winston started. “And I showed them a pic of-”
“He flashed them a pic of him taking my virginity!” Gigi finished proudly. But it was a lie. No, Winston had instead shown the cheaters the photo of Gigi eating cheese for the first time with Winston. And despite being attacked with a chair, that photo had shocked Frank more than anything.
Cop 2 walked over to Cop 1 and whispered something into his ear. Cop 1 nodded and pointed at Jacky and Claire. The pair looked tired and traumatized, and were hugging and consoling each other next to another cop car.
“Y’all got off lucky this time,” Cop 2 jeered. “They ain’t gonna press charges. You must have some deep dirt on ‘em or something.”
He wasn’t wrong. That red-and-white cocaine was Ryan’s signature product. The BDE fraternity circulated that cocaine more widely than Jacky and his fake IDs. And it was a much larger, lucrative operation. In Winston’s eyes, Claire didn’t want to risk Winston snitching in retaliation for being thrown in jail.
“Ladies first,” said Cop 1, helping Gigi off the curb to her feet. He spun her around and unlocked her handcuffs. “What kinda ink job is that?” the cop muttered, reading the silver nitrate tattoo on Gigi’s palm. “Winston...wait a sec. Hey, that’s your name, right?”
Winston cocked his head at the cop’s question. Gigi’s knees trembled as she let out a nervous chuckle. It surely wasn’t the craziest thing to happen that day. But goddamn, would it be hard to explain.
“Gigi, what the hell?” Winston muttered with a blank expression.
“Call me Ji-hye!” Gigi blurted out proudly. Winston shook his head with a smile as he watched her disappear into the Asheville night.
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2020.08.23 17:38 IdolA23Aug1l Asian spy sex
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