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Messages - The Legendary Shark

Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 ... 625
Off Topic / Re: Friday chat - what's happening with you?
« on: 03 September, 2019, 07:17:26 pm »
As younglings, my brother and I discovered that throwing snowballs into buckets of burning oil produced a very satisfying nuclear mushroom effect - followed by a much less enjoyable but equally nuclear reaction from Dad*. *This is, of course, in the days before The Environment, hence the burning oil. There was also no such thing as bad parenting and Health & Safety were a double-act on Blackpool's Central Pier.

Off Topic / Re: Friday chat - what's happening with you?
« on: 02 September, 2019, 06:13:20 pm »

Best of luck, Hawkie.

Off Topic / Re: Friday chat - what's happening with you?
« on: 02 September, 2019, 08:59:18 am »

Yikes! Glad you came through it so bravely, JBC!

Website and Forum / Re: How to make a healthy vibrant forum?
« on: 02 September, 2019, 06:25:14 am »



Website and Forum / Re: How to make a healthy vibrant forum?
« on: 01 September, 2019, 08:19:06 pm »

"Grammando" sounds more heroical...

Off Topic / Re: Friday chat - what's happening with you?
« on: 01 September, 2019, 06:44:08 am »

So sorry to hear about your dog, Funt, that's never an easy thing.

Sunday morning's back to work for me. Wasted my weekend in front of the laptop, fiddling with a Brigand Doom short story. Somebody gave me one of those modern touch-screen phones (my first), so I wasted a lot of time with that, too - mainly watching little animated circles going round.

Creative Common / Re: Squaxx Telling Stories
« on: 31 August, 2019, 07:13:20 pm »

The Night Shift moves into its sixth hour and the City is running smoothly. All utilities, feeds, and flows are operating efficiently and emissions are stable. Government Productivity Targets are projected to be met and possibly exceeded. Incidents of insomnia amongst Day and Swing Shift workers have fallen, initial reports attribute this to the Government's Healthy Sleep Promise. Night Shift workers everywhere thank the Government and wish their fellow shift workers well - for they too know the dark misery of insomnia.

Births are up to twenty five, natural deaths up to twenty nine. 377 accidents have been reported, slightly below average for the time of year. There have been no crimes. Shift worker job satisfaction metrics have exceeded Government expectations. Detailed Government Statistics and Projections are freely available on any screen.

Loc-Lock puts Inspector Nine in the back of a police car set to main-route autodrive. She's in the back seat, thinking. The car is thinking too, but it's thinking about how to navigate a random route through The City, using only arterial routes and without dropping under 150mph. The car is doing a good job. The Inspector, not so much.

The pad in her hand lights up the back of the car, its screen showing a blank page. Inspector Nine blinks. She taps at the screen and the message 'Report Transferred' flashes up. Belm's death is a Ministry problem now. She curses. Belm served as the Deputy Treasurer's personal secretary. Both killed by Brigand Doom. Both reports transferred to Ministry Authority. Inspector Nine types in searches amongst biographical indexes, Government records, private packets. She learns precious little before the data is transferred to the Ministry. Hints at high level Government connections. The stink of proudly displayed opulence.

She remembers what Doom said. She doesn't want to use it but there's nothing else left. She returns to the pad's search function and types in, 'St Jerome Emiliani's Orphanage.'

There are no orphanages in The City since The Government outlawed orphanhood, rendering such soulless facilities obsolete. Parentally disadvantaged Citizens are these days immediately adopted by The Government and grafted holistically into Loving Homes.

Inspector Nine sighs and opens the City-Net's back door. The Government Page disappears and she re-enters the search. It translates to Building 109, Loc-Sect Twenty, Sub-Sect Seventy One, Sector Fifteen. She relays the address to the car and it starts thinking about getting there in the shortest time. It makes up its mind and accelerates towards a suitable exit, flashing and bellowing importantly. Inspector Nine's comm chirps. Superintendent Seven is calling her. She diverts him to voicemail. He doesn't leave a message.

The police car is a good driver and the traffic is dead-hours thin. The Government's Flow Matrix clears the police car's way. Inspector Nine holds on to the hand grip above the door but it isn't necessary. The ride is impossibly fast and impossibly smooth. In a little over twenty seven minutes, the car slows to a gentle halt outside Building 109. It is an old building, constructed a long time ago in The History, before the cities were The City, before the Government saved the world from itself. Inspector Nine gets out of the car and hovers by the door for a moment, studying the building, before slamming it shut and quickly surveying the deserted old street. Most of the buildings are empty and cursorily maintained by The City as Designated Old Sites, kept around for historical value. When the last of the families leave, the site's status will obviously have to be re-evaluated.

The front door is unlocked so she pushes it open, gun in hand. It swings inward without a sound. Inside, the building is musty and dead. Filled with unused and unloved relics. Old furniture, old carpets, old books. She sweeps the house. She's quick and efficient, very well trained. The building, once a home with ten bedrooms, is empty. It has been empty for years. She holsters her gun and, torch in hand, begins searching the building. Efficient, and very well trained, her instincts lead her to a desk in a small sitting room on the ground floor. She pries the drawers open with her penknife. They squeal with age and are full of dead pens and live spiders. She yanks the last drawer open and reaches into it, pulling out three leather-bound books. Two are ledgers, one is a diary.

Car headlights flash through the dead windows then fall dark. An engine sighs into silence. Car doors slam. She slips the books into her bag and zips it up, pulling the strap across her body.

"We know you're in here, Inspector," a voice calls. Inspector Nine curses under her breath and pads away, hoping to find a back door. "It's Ministry business now, Inspector. If you've found anything, you're ordered to hand it over."

The kitchen is full of dusty cold pans on dusty cold stoves. She creeps between them and finds a door leading out into a back garden. The door is locked. Efficient, and very well trained, she soon locates a key hidden under a dusty doormat. She slides it into the lock and breathes a sigh of relief when it turns. Too late.

"Hold it, Lady." Two men stand at the other end of the kitchen. Both of them are pointing guns at her. "Drop the piece."

"I am a City Police Department Inspector. I don't take orders from the Ministry."

The shortest of the Ministry men, the one with the best suit and the cleanest shirt, smirks. "Everybody takes orders from the Ministry," he says. "I'm not going to ask you again."

She slumps her shoulders. Drops her head. Holds up her hands. "Okay," she says. "Okay."

"I said..." Shorty says. They're his last words on This Side. The tall one just kind of blabbers. It sounds like he's talking about a pancake but it can't be that. It's something else she'll never know. She empties the spent shells from her pistol, wincing at the barrel's heat, and quickly reloads. She slips into the back garden and climbs over fences and hedges until she finds a road. She hitches up the collar of her trench-coat and starts walking.


The penultimate hour of the Night Shift and the City is operating at optimum efficiency. Several complex water supply repairs and augmentations have been completed without complications or significant delays. Hundreds of thousands of Citizens will feel the benefit of increased water pressure when they awake this morning. The Government's Infrastructure First Obligation in action! Well Done the Night Shift! Sector Eleven Sanitation has been suffering technical problems for most of the shift and has fallen behind schedule. If any workers have fulfilled their quotas and fancy pitching in, they'd appreciate a hand down there. There'll also be overtime available, depending on your Soc-Stats.

Births are up to thirty five, natural deaths up to forty. 412 accidents have been reported, significantly below average for the time of year. There have been no crimes. All Night Shift Workers will receive a 0.25% uplift for this shift, pending Soc-Stats and Econ-Rating.

The books have made her sick. Sick enough to return Superintendent Seven's calls. She tries to tell him, to explain, but he's too angry to listen and orders her back to the station. She turns her Loc-Lock back on and summons the police car, which finds her with flamboyant efficiency. She's soon on the Superintendent's carpet, listening to him roar.

He draws breath and Inspector Nine seizes her chance. "St Jerome Emiliani's Orphanage. You were a part of it."

"That's old news, Inspector, very old news."

"Belm and the Deputy Treasurer, too."

"This is all irrelevant, Inspector!" The Superintendent's mood is deteriorating. "I want Doom, do you hear me?"

"If I read these books right," she says, "and if I read him right, he'll be coming to you."

The Superintendent snorts, confident in his power. The lights flicker, along with Superintendent Seven's confidence, and then go out. Distant, isolated shouts of panic echo from somewhere in the station, sporadic and shifting. Getting closer. The door sweeps open and the Superintendent goes for his gun and fumbles it, but it's just his personal guard checking on him. Satisfied, the guard returns to his post, closing the door behind him. The sounds of panic cease and a weird quiet oozes through the station.


"What was that?" The Superintendent raises his gun, scanning the darkness.

"Some kind of stimulant, I think. He inhales it out of small glass phials." Inspector Nine folds her arms.

"You mean..."

"I'm here."

The Superintendent whirls, bringing his gun up, but Doom is too fast. Too strong. Doom grips the Superintendent's gun hand until his bones begin to splinter and locks his other hand around his throat.

"Please don't kill him." Inspector Nine says the words but, even to her, they sound empty. "Damn you, that you reduce me to this."

Brigand Doom keeps his shining eyes locked on the Superintendent's as he chokes the life out of him. "You know what he did. What they did. It's in the books. I know you know."

"That doesn't, it can't, justify murder. Please don't. Not again."

Brigand Doom looks up from the fading Superintendent and fixes his bright gaze on Inspector Nine. "Then do what they do. Use their magic against them."

Inspector Nine sighs. She could shoot him again but that had never worked yet. She could raise the alarm and watch everyone entering the room get shot to bits. Or she could stand here and watch Brigand Doom, the most dangerous terrorist in the world, strangle a rancid piece of scum to death. "Magic, now," she says. "You are utterly insane."

Doom returns his blazing gaze to the Superintendent but the moment has passed. Doom's fingers contract and his wrist jerks, triggering a cold, efficient crack. "Their words." He drops the corpse to the floor. He does not watch it fall. "Don't call it murder. Call it execution. Call it retribution. Call it revenge. Call it Justice."

She wipes her eyes. "Semantics," she says, her voice weary.

"Yes," he says.

"You're going to blast your way out of here, aren't you? Kill more cops."

"Most likely."

"So long as you do that, I'm not going to help you." She checks her pistol.

Doom chuckles and the sound is like old sewage flowing through a cracked drain. "You will help me, because what was happening in those old books is still happening today. You see the evil in that as clearly as I do. See the evil burning out the infection of discovery every way it can. It will eat at you, this horror. It will defeat you. Then you'll help me."

Doom strides towards the door. Inspector Nine, efficient and very well trained, raises her gun and empties it into Brigand Doom's face, aiming for his eyes. Doom howls and throws up his arm. The gunshots call the guards, who burst in and open fire. Doom's shotgun blasts them out of the world before the Inspector can shout a warning. One of Doom's eyes is flickering and his manic smile seems smaller than usual. Inspector Nine drops her emptied pistol and snatches a letter knife off the Superintendent's desk. She lunges for his flickering eye but he moves too fast and she misses, stabbing the knife into his neck. She grits her teeth and pushes as hard as she can. The knife begins to bend, as if she were trying to force it into a tree. Doom pushes her to the floor, ignoring the knife still sticking out of his neck, and raises his shotgun. More officers are coming. He steps out to meet them.

"Aim for his eyes," she shouts, again and again, but her voice is lost in the gunfire and screams.


Last hour of the Night Shift and The City's been in safe hands. 99.5% of Government Targets have been met, marginally above expectations. The Energy Balance remains neutral and the economy continues to be robust. Reserve stock levels dictate that all Night Shift Workers will receive two additional ration coupons per week from this shift onwards, subject to Soc-Stats and Econ-Rating. The City continues to grow from strength to strength, thanks to the loyalty and hard work of the Citizens, and the wisdom and leadership of The Government. All society in harmony for the Common Good.

Births are up to forty three, natural deaths down to thirty eight due to exemplary Night Shift surgeons. 467 accidents have been reported, marginally below average for the time of year. There have been no crimes. Detailed Government Statistics and Projections are freely available on any screen.

Don't forget to clock out - incorrect data can lead to false conclusions.


Creative Common / Re: Squaxx Telling Stories
« on: 31 August, 2019, 07:12:23 pm »
Brigand Doom - Swimming in Evil.

by Mark Howard

Four hours into the Night Shift and The City's running smoothly. Power cycle is balanced, water flow is optimal, productivity is steady and citizen satisfaction levels are polling slightly above Government Projections. So far this shift there have been thirteen natural deaths and fourteen births. The City's population levels remain at or close to ideal. The economy continues to be strong. 249 accidents have been reported. There have been no crimes. Detailed Government Statistics and Projections are freely available on any screen.

In Sector Nineteen, Sub-Sect Thirty Four, Loc-Sect Eighty Eight (cleared for The Government's Phase III-57-D City Enhancement Undertaking), the screams were desperate but brief, and ended some time ago. Now there are just little sounds. The chittering claws of rats. The muffled hiss of police boots on detritus-strewn concrete. Soft murmurs and suppressed radio crackles. Inspector Nine is hanging back until her men are in position. This stinks of a trap. Corpse. Anonymous tip-off. Remote and deserted location. Derelict warehouse. No surveillance cover. She shivers, listening to her men reporting in with terse, tense words. Yes, stinks just about covers it. Stinks...


Inspector Nine tenses at the small noise from the shadows behind her. She smells it, something like... what? Garlic? Onions? Some variety of banned organic, anyway. Then she smells him, like rotten pork and mouldy fireworks. The two halves of the broken glass phial tinkle to the concrete and a heavy boot grinds them to sand. Inspector Nine forces herself to be calm. For some reason, this lunatic never hurts her. She's thankful for that but fully aware that at least one of the Police Officers under her command tonight is probably lying face down in the weeds with a broken neck. Maybe, soon, her whole team. She swallows.

"What do you want, Doom?"

His voice is like the bass rumble of a thick wind rampaging through an old forest. "Information."

Inspector Nine shakes her head and gestures towards the bloody mess in the middle of the derelict warehouse. "Did you do this?"


"Why? Who is he?"

"Because he was evil. I don't care about his name."

She thrusts her hands into the pockets of her trench-coat and sniffs. "That's bullshit." The gun feels reassuring and substantial in her hand, something real to hold on to.

Brigand Doom, the most dangerous terrorist in the world, strides out of the shadows but, with his long black cloak and black tricorn hat, seems to drag some of them with him. Shadows stick to him like lint, Inspector Nine thinks, frowning at her own frivolous imaginings. She pulls a hand from her pocket and keys her throat mic. "All units, hold position. I repeat, hold."

"Is that..." a voice crackles in her ear. "Oh, shit... that's him, isn't it? That's... oh shit..."

She frowns at the rising panic threatening to flood the comms and cuts through it all with a terse, "Hold! Damn you! Do as you're damn well told and hold your positions. Don't do anything, okay? Just sit very, very still." The chatter drops off to nothing. She nods.

"Have you killed any of my men?"

He turns to face her and she winces. She'll never get used to that face. The manic, too-big smile, the shining eyes, the way shadows cling to it, like rotten curtains blowing in gutted windows. "One."

"Damn you," she frowns, too busy controlling her breathing to say anything more.

"He was..." Brigand Doom says.

"Evil?" The word explodes from her mouth, propelled by anger and fear and resolve. "Well, who decides that? Who decides who's evil and who isn't? You?"

Brigand Doom looks at her for a long moment, his head tipped slightly to one side. "Anyone," he says. "Everyone."

"You're insane," she says. "No. No, I'm not helping you any more. I've had it. I may not be able to take you down, I don't even know what you are, but every time we meet, you kill my men. Police officers, for Gov's sake!" She takes a breath. "I mean, why? Why come to me for help and kill my men? They're just guys in uniforms, with families and..."

He moves so fast she doesn't see it. As swift as thought, Doom has one gloved hand around her throat and the other clamping her gun hand. His breath flows past her like the waft of an open sewer in high summer and she fights to suck in air and bite back vomit. "Little foxes," he says. "The men choose to wear the uniforms. Choose to be instruments of evil. They are of little importance, I grant you, but guilt is guilt and I will not pass it by."

She gasps. He's allowing her just enough air to stay conscious. Her one free hand claws at him with no effect. "Let me go."


"Screw you." The words are rasping and bruised. His grip tightens with a glacial slowness. She shakes her head, face swollen and ugly purple.

A weapon fires. Then another. She tries to say no but can't even gasp. Doom's own shotgun erupts in response, like thunder and meteors, ripping her men to shreds as they try to save her. The firing doesn't last long. Then, suddenly, she's on her knees, free to gasp, free to suck in huge lungfuls of stale night air. She looks around, her vision is crazy with spots and stars but that's fading as her breathing subsides. She can see the bodies of three of her men, chewed up by Doom's shotgun. She hopes the other five, no, four, had possessed the good sense to run away. Officers couldn't take this guy down, not with handguns and taser-batons. "Gov damn you, Doom." The words hurt and make her cough, big rattling coughs like the Un-Vaxxed had back in The History.

"Names." There is infinite patience in Brigand Doom's distant-thunder voice.

She picks up her gun and checks it out. It still contains a full load. She pulls back the hammer. Points it at Doom. Ice in her eyes. "No names. No nothing. Not any more. Leave."

He takes a step towards her. She fires, calmly and without hesitation. He stops, looks down at his chest. His head raises again, still grinning, still with shining eyes and impossible shadows, and Inspector Nine cannot keep her eyes off it. She licks her lips. "Leave," she says, "leave me alone."

Brigand Doom stands still for one brief moment and then strides towards her once more. She curses and fires again. He doesn't stop, so neither does she. She fires until the gun is empty and then lets it fall to the ground. If the bullets damaged Doom, he didn't feel it or the damage was light. They both know Inspector Nine can't win this. He stops in front of her, that damned grin looming over her, those damned shining eyes boring into her. "Names."

"You might as well kill me, because I'm done with you. I used to think..." she pauses, then looks away from Doom, her gaze drawn by the bloody corpse in the middle of the detritus-strewn floor. "I don't know what I used to think. But whatever it was," she locks her eyes onto Doom's, just for a second able to dominate him, "I don't think it any more. You're a terrorist and I won't help you any more. I'm done with your bullshit."

She walks over to the body, placing her steps with care and squats beside it. Male. Mid thirties. Smart suit. Gold watch, rings, silk shirt, shiny shoes. She finds his wallet and flips it open. Lots of impressive cards, a respectable array of cash and vouchers. She finds his Cit-Card and suppresses a gasp. She looks up at Doom. "This is Theo Lancing," she says, "the City's Deputy Treasurer."

"Defrauding the City. Stealing its money."

Inspector Nine shakes her head, frowning. "That makes no sense. You hate the City, if this guy's hurting it, he's on your side, surely?"

Doom's voice growls in the dark. "The City's money is the people's money. He stole from the people, but that's not why he died."

"Why you killed him, you mean - because you decided he was evil. Just, arbitrarily decided."

"No. I want the names of his contacts. All of them."

Distant sirens are strobing in and out of earshot. Inspector Nine feels a thrill of righteous optimism and shakes her head. She is surprised how certain she is, how calm she feels. "No," she says. "I guess you'll have to kill me."

Brigand Doom throws back his head and laughs. "I can't kill you."

"Because you've decided I'm not evil?"

His grin widens ever so slightly, the skin around it tensing with an audible rasp, like old leather under immense strain. "Swimming in it," he says, "but not sinking - not yet, at least."

She laughs. The sound is short and mirthless. "And if I do, you'll be around to put me down. Like a rabid dog."


The sirens are growing louder and Inspector Nine stands, still holding the wallet. "Just go," she says, "no more killing. At least, not tonight. And please, don't ask me to help you any more."

Brigand Doom watches as the sky begins to pulsate with colour, illuminated by the flashing beacons on the fast approaching police vehicles. "You will ask for my help," he says. "When you investigate his contacts, when you find out what they do."

"No. I'm not listening to you."

"St Jerome Emiliani's Orphanage."

A police helicopter bursts into the sky, piercing Inspector Nine with a spotlight. She shields her eyes from the glare and doesn't see Doom slip away. The corpse's clothes ripple and whip in the downdraught being forced through the skeletal remains of the condemned warehouse's roof. She waves the helicopter away before it blows this ruin down on top of her. The pilot understands and the helicopter climbs and banks away. Police cars screech to a halt all around and black clad officers, clutching their guns just a little too tightly, begin to emerge, cautiously, from the shadows.

Five hours into the Night Shift, now, and The City's still running smoothly. Power cycle is balanced, water flow is optimal, productivity is steady and citizen satisfaction levels are polling significantly above Government Projections. So far this shift there have been sixteen natural deaths and fifteen births. The City's population levels remain at or close to ideal. The economy continues to be strong. 306 accidents have been reported. There have been no crimes. Detailed Government Statistics and Projections are freely available on any screen.


"Report, Inspector Nine." Superintendent Seven stands relaxed, hands clasped loosely against the small of his back, the silver buttons on his midnight blue uniform glinting in the police beacons.

"Brigand Doom killed Lancing then drew us into an ambush."

"How many of your men did he kill this time?"

"Five, Sir. The other three will probably recover, in time."

Superintendent Seven shakes his head and sighs. "Intolerable," he says softly, and then clears his throat. "Put it all in your Department report. What will your Ministry report say?"

Inspector Nine shrugs and looks up at the bare roof joists, black against a vaguely violet sky. "Alcohol. Irresponsible bet. Slipped and fell. Tragic accident."

Superintendent Seven nods and shows her a satisfied expression before adopting a more serious demeanour. "This Doom situation is out of control, Inspector, it needs to be resolved."

Inspector Nine nods. "I'll get right on it, Sir," she says.

Superintendent Seven rounds on her, his anger barely contained. "Don't sarc me, Inspector - I mean it. I'm authorizing a task force, and you're leading it."

Inspector Nine shakes her head. "That's a very bad idea, Sir, nobody wants..."

"It's an order, Inspector Nine, an order from the top. I'll give you all the tools you need to bring me this stateless rogue's head."

Inspector Nine nods toward the medics, who are lifting the bagged body onto a gurney. "And the Deputy Treasurer?"

The Superintendent pulls a pair of midnight blue leather gloves from a back pocket and wriggles his fingers into them. "Forget him. He's a Ministry problem now."

"But Sir," Inspector Nine says, confusion and anger fighting for control of her face, "I need to investigate Lancing to find out why Doom..."

"Just find Brigand Doom, Inspector," the Superintendent says, thrusting his fingers together and then making fists. "Find him and blast him into as many tiny little pieces as you can, is that clear? I don't want him captured or crippled or killed, do you understand me? I want this monster obliterated. Totally."

Superintendent Seven, his gloves adjusted to perfection, turns on his heel and marches towards his waiting car, concealing his limp with practised simplicity.


Government Philosophers have determined that Hell does not exist. It was a concept invented by primitive in-history religions to frighten people into compliance. The Government does not endorse such barbaric subterfuges. Citizens of The City do not need to have their minds controlled in such primitive and transparent ways. The Citizens of The City are wise and are served by a wise Government. Neither Citizens nor Government need Hell, and so it has been made illegal. According to Government reports, the only hells are those carried in the souls of men.

As there is no Hell but those which individuals possess, the same must be true of Heaven and God, both of which have also been declared illegal. This Government Approved Trinity must be entirely the responsibility of the individual Citizen. The Government does not recognise the Government Approved Trinity and thus cannot misuse it to force the minds of the Citizens. Government Citizens are free of all forms of mind control, or so is the conclusion reached by numerous and ongoing Government Reports.

It is worth noting, then, that when Brigand Doom says to Ministry Ordinary Secretary James Belm, "Burn in Hell," before cutting him in half with a shotgun blast, it has to be assumed that the terrorist is referring to the Illegal Hell. This is a flagrant breach of legislation and cannot be tolerated.



Off Topic / Re: RIPs
« on: 30 August, 2019, 05:23:35 pm »


Off Topic / Re: yoincks! followed closely by bah!
« on: 29 August, 2019, 08:04:11 pm »

Been there, Hawkie - it's a horrible place.

At my lowest ebb, two people, who I'd never met before, brought me supplies from the local food bank. They'd heard about me through the grapevine and just turned up - right when I needed it the most. That was the day I lost my faith in the system and rediscovered my faith in individuals.

Hopefully, though, you get the job. Fingers crossed for ye, fella.

Website and Forum / Re: How to make a healthy vibrant forum?
« on: 29 August, 2019, 03:01:07 pm »

Facetube is the House of Commons, we are the House of Lords. Twitbook is Discworld, we are the Unseen University.

I love this place as it is. Niggles? Sure. I miss the writing comp. Plusses? Absolutely! To wit, the handful of GNs Rebellion gave me for winning the writing comp. Oh yeah, and the company. I love the company. Is that needy? It sounds needy.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Seven Links, damn you! It was Pat Mills what did it, guv!! Carlos, oh God - Carlos!!!

Seriously. Carlos. The way you're feeling now. That's why we're here. That's why we endure. Simple love.

As the Great Poet pointed out, it's all you need.

Off Topic / Re: Threadjacking!
« on: 29 August, 2019, 02:39:20 pm »


Off Topic / Re: The Political Thread
« on: 29 August, 2019, 12:35:54 pm »

We could have Climate Police - "This your bonfire, Creep?"

Sham Slade: Carbo-Hunter.

Aluminium Barium Carbon Warriors.

Mandroid Against Carbon Horrors One.

Flesh: Extinction. (Zarjaz issues 10, 14 and 17 (written by Yours Truly, illustrated and lettered by Chris Geary - Shameless Self Promotion Dept.) because, as bad as things are getting, we're all here for the comics, right?)

Off Topic / Re: The Political Thread
« on: 29 August, 2019, 10:35:53 am »

It's not about wishing, Funt, or about apportioning blame. To me, it's about realising and acknowledging that a big part (to my mind, the biggest part) of our collective problems is that we all have the same basic rights and responsibilities regardless of our station in life.

If and when we realise this will just be the first step. What we do with this knowledge is another question altogether, a question which has myriad consequences, problems and solutions.

And I like your responses and criticisms because they encourage me to try and be clearer when I'm talking about my position.

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