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OMG! HCSO have released new report. 2016 Black Niss Frontier!

2023.06.02 03:10 WelshChappie2023 OMG! HCSO have released new report. 2016 Black Niss Frontier!

OMG! HCSO have released new report. 2016 Black Niss Frontier!
I'm not releasing anymore yet! Only just received it!
submitted by WelshChappie2023 to LizBarraza [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 01:01 JoshAsdvgi The four colors of the Medicine Wheel

The four colors of the Medicine Wheel

The four colors of the Medicine Wheel are traditionally Red, Yellow, Black, and White.
These represent four races of humans.
Each tribe places the order, of colors in a direction, according to their tradition.
A few tribes use an alternative color (such as Bluegreen), usually substituting for only one of the directions.
A certain Band of Natives, may pick a set of color correspondences which is different, as a way of showing identity.
Whatever set of colors you use for the Medicine Wheel, doesn't make your prayers any less effective nor are they any more important to the Great Spirit.
At a time when the Native American religion was under attack, some Natives began to walk the Medicine Wheel the opposite direction (instead of Sun-wise).
This explains the order of color placement by some Indians.
The elements (fire energy, water, etc.) might be adjusted accordingly, in the use of directions also.

East Wind-The Teacher
Air, Illumination, Wisdom, Clarity
Smudging: Tobacco
Season: Spring (Associated with morning)
Medicine: Healthy mind
Relationship: Sun
Life Phase: Elder

Colors:
Red (Wi-sun)
Red for the East, and enlightenment
Anishinaabe-Yellow
Lakota-Red (Most common)
Lakota, Black Elk-White (color of renewal and spirit, is linked to the East)
Lakota, Pine Ridge-East is Yellow which symbolizes the rising Sun and it is the beginning
Old Cherokee-Red (symbolized power and healing)
Some Apache-Black
South Wind-The Healer
Fire, Spirit, Trust, Love, Growth
Smudging: Sage
Season: Summer (Associated with daytime)
Medicine: Strong human spirit
Relationship: Mother Earth
Life Phase: Childhood
Colors:
Yellow (Inyan-rock)
Anishinaabe-Red
Lakota-Yellow (Most common)
Some Lakota (less common): White for the South (Black for the West; Red for the North; Yellow for the East)
Lakota, Black Elk-Yellow (associated with unity and quiet)
Lakota, Pine Ridge-White (represents when we complete the circle of life, going to the Spirit World)
Some Plains Indians use Earth as the element, with Black for the color of this direction.

Old Cherokee-White (symbolized blessings, virtue, the rains that fell from the sky, purity and all that was good)
Some Apache-Blue or Dark Green (same term in Apache)
West Wind-The Visionary
Water, Emotions, Dreams, Experience, Introspection
Smudging: Sweet grass
Season: Fall (Associated with sunset)
Medicine: Healthy emotions
Relationship: Moon
Life Phase: Youth
Colors:
Anishinaabe-Black
Lakota-Black (Most common)
Lakota, Black Elk-Black (color representative of war and confrontation)
Lakota, Pine Ridge-West is Black for the setting Sun, signifying death, the end of our life.
Some Plains Indians use Fire as the element, with Red for the color of this direction.
Old Cherokee-Black (symbolized the doorway to the spirit world, death, and the place of the thunder beings)
Some Apache-Yellow
North Wind-The Warrior
Earth, Body, Physical Cleansing, Purity, Renewal
Smudging: Cedar
Season: Winter (Associated with midnight)
Medicine: Physical body
Relationship: Father Sky
Life Phase: Adult
Colors:
Anishinaabe-White
Lakota-White (Most common)
Lakota, Black Elk-Red (color of law and control, is associated with the North)
Lakota, Pine Ridge-North is Red, for the Red Road that Indians want to walk on.
Some Plains Indians use Water as the element, with White for the color of this direction.
Old Cherokee-Blue (symbolized adversity, struggle, and those things that harmed the human people)
Some Apache-White

Between the Directions

These stones go, one on each side (left and to the right) of the direction stones. If evenly spaced, you will have a well formed circle.
EAST-Northeast/Southeast (2 stones): Flying Creatures, Rooted beings
SOUTH-Southeast/Southwest (2 stones): Earth Walkers (4-leggeds), Ancestors
WEST-Southwest/Northwest (2 stones): Stones, Water Creatures
NORTH-Northwest/Northeast (2 stones): Rainbow Spirits, Earth Crawlers

The Spokes

Between the Four Directions and center are placed four stones (at each direction).
The element plus three other stones.
This is called the Spokes.
Additional stones go around the center.
Three stones come between the element stone and the center of the sacred circle.
They each have a meaning and are numbered 1-3 under the direction/element.
Usually a permanent circle is prepared of stones and smudged first before using for ceremonies.
East-Air (Element)
  1. Illumination
  2. Wisdom
  3. Leadership (Clarity)
South-Fire (Element)
  1. Spirit
  2. Gentleness (Trust, Love)
  3. Growth (Healing)

West-Water (Element)
  1. Emotions
  2. Dreams
  3. Introspection

North-Earth (Element)
  1. Physical Body
  2. Cleansing (Purity)
  3. Renewal (Stamina)

Stones of the Inner Circle
Numbered stones are placed in logical order to surround the center stone.
Center-Universe or Creator stone
  1. Father Sky
  2. Grandfather Sun
  3. Grandmother Moon
  4. Mother Earth
  5. Stars
  6. Planets
  7. Milky Way
The Four Directions
Add a stone for to mark each direction (East, South, West, North).
The colors associated with each direction varies among tribes.
You may chose a stone for the color or for the sacred significance.
Maybe a rock from a certain river or stream for the West.
Mountains, desert, valleys, are all good places to look.

Thanks for explain by Lone4eagle
submitted by JoshAsdvgi to Native_Stories [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 00:59 FogHornicus Here is why you should be proud to be dyslexic...

According to the theory of complementary congnition humans evolved to think in specialized ways which make for better team work...I'm running quickly over this but the two big types are those with an "exploitative bias" (nuerotypical people) and those with "explorative bias" (dyslexics and perhaps other groups, ADHD in particular, but mainly dyslexia and the related dyses - I have them all so I know I'm glossing over that). Exploitative bias people evolved to be good at exploiting or making the most of resources early humans already had (think excel and spelling wiz kids I guess). These were the people most suited to stay in the camp and work out the best system of how to make the most of what their group has. The exploitative/stay-in-camp/nuerotypical people have universally been 80-95% of the population. Society is built around them, which is why we dyslexics have such a hard time.
Explorative bias/dyslexic/go-out-behind-the-wire types could never be more than 20% of a a population but there is always at least 5% of us. Why? We are necessary. Why such low numbers? Because no early tribe or society could risk sending more than 20% out on dangerous missions which must have had sky high casualty rates and hope to make it.
One example Dr Helen Taylor at Cambridge U (a dyslexic who according to The Dyslexic Advantage struggles in ways you'd instantly understand I might add) used was this....imagine a pre-history human group that knows that they will run out of enough food during the winter and a lot of people will starve to death. Those with exploitative bias who are great at maximizing what we have, are clear: nothing else we can do, we must send out a search party or people will die. (Note: this is where complementary cognition comes in - we are made to work well together!). So, who do they send?
These early group surely didn't realize why, but some of them were just better at this sort of a task. A smaller, more specialized group. Researchers say these are the ones that these would have likely been the ones sent out with a vague mission (bring us back something to eat, or people we love die). Why? We're literally designed for it (see below links, books, researchers). It would have been dangerous as fuck, terrifying, they would have had no real idea how they would do...they came up with option but had to be flexible and adaptive...explorative. So these people would have zero choice but to be super flexible - "okay, we cannot find alot of plant food, so we have to hunt some big game, despite the risk. So we can pick off some big game and while some drag that back to camp the rest of us will look for some nuts until you return and then we hunt again." And then the plan changes according to someting new - again, explorative, not exploitative.
So imagine this little society of 100 had 10 such dyslexic/explorative bias people (we are always between 5-20% as proven accross numerous societies and time) and they sent them all because the situation was so desperate. Then imagine what the group would think when only 5 return but they have brought enough food so that 50-70% do not have to starve to death over the long winter - no one will starve now. "We succeeded but Steve, Pete, Linda, Sally and Eric didn't make it they say..." The group would be sad but elated that a more devistating loss will now not happen. It's sad we will probably never know all the details (it's pre-history after all) but something along these lines is would have certainly happened.
Do you think those early societies would have considered the exploratives/dyslexics weak or handicapped? How do you think they would have been viewed? Close your eyes and try to picture what they might have looked like just standing there looking back at you across time. Weak, disabled, pathetic, useless are definitely not adjectives any reasonable person would probably have used to describe them. What sort of people have minds specialized for this sort of thing? Special ed? Sounds more like special forces.
That is who you are and what you come from. Don't forget it. Belief is power. "The man who thinks can, and the man who thinks he can't....they're both right!' - Henry Ford (by the way, Ford was also a dyslexic explorer).
Researcher:
Helen Taylor, Brice Ferandes and Sara Whright.
Book: The Dyslexic Advantage (find the latest version as it mentions some of these other topics)
Complementary congnition
https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/cambridge-archaeological-journal/article/evolution-of-complementary-cognition-humans-cooperatively-adapt-and-evolve-through-a-system-of-collective-cognitive-search/F198B30682343E92C7E9C986332D380A
Evolutionary Advantage as opposed to disability or disorder
https://www.cam.ac.uk/research/news/developmental-dyslexia-essential-to-human-adaptive-success-study-argues
https://www.sciencefocus.com/news/dyslexia-isnt-a-disorder-its-part-of-our-species-cultural-evolution-say-researchers/
https://neurosciencenews.com/developmental-dyslexia-exploration-20902/
https://www.newsweek.com/dyslexia-helped-evolutionary-survival-human-species-pyschology-1719364
https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-advantages-of-dyslexia/
„Spies like us”
https://www.gchq.gov.uk/news/dyslexic-thinking-skills
https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/ap29/people-with-dyslexia-have-skills-that-we-need-says-gchq
https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/features/dyslexia-there-are-benefits-worth-waiting-for-9749607.html
https://edition.cnn.com/2019/06/06/health/dyslexia-benefit-curnow/index.html
submitted by FogHornicus to Dyslexia [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 00:53 6ype Fastest routes from Lubbock to Reno vs. Jimmy's route

Fastest routes from Lubbock to Reno vs. Jimmy's route submitted by 6ype to JimmyBroadBent [link] [comments]


2023.06.01 21:24 RandomAppalachian468 Don't fly over Barron County Ohio. [Repost]

The whirring blades of my MD-902 throbbed against the warm evening air, and I smiled.
From 5,000 feet, the ground flew by in a carpet of dark forests and kelly-green fields. The sun hung low on the horizon in a picturesque array of dazzling orange and gold, and I could make out the narrow strip of the Ohio River to my left, glistening in the fading daylight. This time of year, the trees would be full of the sweet aroma of fresh blossoms, and the frequent rains kept small pockets of fluffy white mist hanging in the treetops. It was a beautiful view, one that reminded me of why being a helicopter pilot trumped flying in a jumbo jet far above the clouds every day of the week.
Fourteen more days, and I’m debt free.
That made me grin even more. I’d been working as a charter pilot ever since I obtained my license at age 19, and after years of keeping my nose to the grindstone, I was closing on the final payment for real-estate in western Pennsylvania. With no debt, a fixer-upper house on 30 rural acres all to myself, and a respectable wage for a 26-year-old pilot, I looked forward to the financial freedom I could now enjoy. Maybe I’d take a vacation, somewhere exotic like Venice Italy, or the Dominican Republic. Or perhaps I’d sock the money back for the day I started a family.
“Remember kleineun, a real man looks after his own.”
My elderly ouma’s voice came back from the depths of my memories, her proud, sun-tanned face rising from the darkness. She and my Rhodesian grandfather had emigrated to the US when they were newlyweds, as the violence against white Boer descendants in South Africa spiraled out of control. My mother and father both died in a car crash when I was six, and it had been my grandparents who raised me. Due to this, I’d grown up with a slight accent that many of my classmates found amusing, and I could speak both English, and Afrikaans, the Boer tongue of our former home.
I shifted in my seat, stretched my back muscles, and glanced at the picture taped to my console. Both my parents flanked a grinning, gap-toothed six-year-old me, at the last Christmas we’d spent together. My mother beamed, her dark hair and Italian features a sharp contrast to my father’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, I liked to imagine they were smiling at me with pride at how well I flew the old silver-colored bird my company had assigned to me, and that made the long, lonely flights easier to bear.
A flicker caught my eye, and I broke my gaze away from the photograph.
Perched in its small cradle above the controls, my little black Garmin fuzzed over for a few seconds, its screen shifting from brightly colored maps to a barrage of grey static.
Did the power chord come loose?
I checked, ensuring the power-cable for the unit’s battery was plugged into the port on the control panel. It was a brand-new GPS unit, and I’d used it a few times already, so I knew it wasn’t defective. Granted, I could fly and navigate without it, but the Garmin made my time as a pilot so much easier that the thought of going blind was dreadful.
My fuel gauge danced, clicked to empty, then to full, in a bizarre jolt.
More of the gauges began to stutter, the entire panel seeming to develop terrets all at once, and my pulse began to race. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the sludge inside my bowels churned with sour fear.
“Come on, come on.” I flicked switches, turned dials, punched buttons, but nothing seemed to fix the spasming electronics. Every gauge failed, and without warning, I found myself plunged into inky darkness.
Outside, the sun surrendered to the pull of night, the sky darker than usual. A distant rumble of thunder reverberated above the roar of my helicopter’s engine, and I thought I glimpsed a streak of yellowish lightning on the far horizon to my left.
Calm down Chris. We’re still flying, so it must just be a blown fuse. Stay in control and find a place to set her down.
My sweaty palm slid on the cyclic stick, and both feet weighed heavy on the yaw pedals. The collective stuck to my other hand with a nervous vibration, and I squinted against the abyss outside.
Beep.
I jumped despite myself, as the little Garmin on my panel flared back to life, the static pulling aside to reveal a twitching display. Each time the screen glitched, it showed the colorful map detailing my flight path over the ground below, but I noticed that some of the lines changed, the names shifting, as if the device couldn’t decide between two different versions of the world.
One name jutted out at me, slate gray like most of the major county names, appearing with ghostly flickers from between two neighboring ones.
Barron County.
I stared, confused. I’d flown over this section of southeastern Ohio plenty of times, and I knew the counties by heart. At this point, I should have been over the southern end of Noble County, and maybe dipping lower into Washington. There was no Barron County Ohio. I was sure of it.
And yet it shown back at me from the digital landscape, a strange, almost cigar-shaped chunk of terrain carved from the surrounding counties like a tumor, sometimes there, sometimes not, as my little Garmin struggled to find the correct map. Rain began to patter against my cockpit window, and the entire aircraft rattled from a strong gust of wind. Thick clouds closed over my field of vision like a sea of gray cotton.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I sucked in a nervous breath.
Land. I had to land. There was nothing else to do, my flight controls weren’t responding, and only my Garmin had managed to come back to life. Perhaps I’d been hit by lightning, and the electronics had been fried? Either way, it was too dark to tell, but a storm seemed to be brewing, and if I didn’t get my feet on the ground soon, I could be in real trouble.
“Better safe than sorry.” I pushed down on the collective to start my slow descent and clicked the talking button for my headset. “Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, over.”
Nothing.
“Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, requesting emergency assistance, over.”
Still nothing.
If the radio’s dead, I’m really up a creek.
With my hand shaking, I clicked on the mic one more time. “Any station, this is—”
Like a curtain pulling back, the fog cleared from around my window, and the words stuck in my throat.
Without my gauges, I couldn’t tell just how far I’d descended, but I was definitely very low. Thick trees poked up from the ground, and the hills rolled into high ridges with flat valley floors, fields and pastures pockmarking them. Rain fell all around in cold, silvery sheets, a normal feature for the mid spring in this part of Ohio.
What wasn’t normal, were the fires.
At first, I thought they were forest fires for the amount of smoke and flames that bellowed from each spot, but as I swooped lower, my eyes widened in horror.
They were houses.
Farms, cottages, little clusters that barely constituted villages, all of them belched orange flames and black pillars of sooty smoke. I couldn’t hear above the helicopter blades, but I could see the flashes on the ground, along the road, in between the trees, and even coming from the burning buildings, little jets of golden light that spat into the darkness with anger.
Gunfire. That’s rifle fire, a whole lot of it.
Tiny black figures darted through the shadows, barely discernable from where I sat, several hundred feet up. I couldn’t see much, but some were definitely running away, the streaks of yellow gunfire chasing them. A few dark gray vehicles rumbled down one of the gravel roads, and sprayed fire into the houses as it went. They were fighting, I realized, the people in the trucks and the locals. It was horrific, like something out of war-torn Afghanistan, but worse.
Then, I caught a glimpse of the others.
They didn’t move like the rest, who either fled from the dark vehicles, or fired back from behind cover. These skinny figures loped along with haphazard gaits, many running on all fours like animals, swarming from the trees by the dozens. They threw themselves into the gales of bullets without flinching, attacking anyone within range, and something about the way they moved, so fluid, so fearless, made my heart skip a beat.
What is that?
“Echo Four Actual to unknown caller, please respond, over.”
Choking back a cry of shock, I fumbled at the control panel with clumsy fingers, the man’s voice sharp and stern. I hadn’t realized that I’d let go of the talking button and clicked it down again. “Hello? Hello, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot out of Pittsburgh, over.”
An excruciating moment passed, and I continued to zoom over the trees, the fires falling away behind me as more silent forest took over.
“Roger that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, we read you loud and clear. Please identify yourself and any passengers or cargo you might be carrying, over.”
Swallowing hard, I eyed the treetops, which looked much closer than they should have been. How far had I descended? “Echo Four Actual, my name is Christopher Dekker, and I am alone. I’m a charter flight from PA, carrying medical equipment for OSU in Columbus. My controls have been damaged, and I am unable to safely carry on due to the storm. Requesting permission to land, over.”
I watched the landscape slide by underneath me, once catching sight of what looked like a little white church surrounded by smaller huts, dozens of figures in the yard staring up at me as I flew over a towering ridgeline.
“Solid copy on that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot. Be advised, your transponder shows you to be inside a restricted zone. Please cease all radio traffic, reduce your speed, climb to 3,000 feet and proceed north. We’ll talk you in from there. How copy, over?”
My heart jumped, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Roger that Echo Four Actual, my altimeter is down, but I’ll do my best to eyeball the altitude, over.”
With that, I pulled the collective upward, and tried my best to gauge how far I was by eyesight in the gathering night, rain still coming down all around me. This had to be some kind of disaster or riot, I decided. After all, the voice over the radio sounded like military, and those vehicles seemed to have heavy weapons. Maybe there was some kind of unrest going on here that I hadn’t heard about yet?
Kind of weird for it to happen in rural areas though. Spoiled college kids I get, but never saw farmers get so worked up before. They usually love the military.
Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I turned out of reflex.
My mouth fell open, and I froze, unable to scream.
In the sky beside me, a huge shadow glided along, and its leathery wings effortlessly carved through the gloom, flapping only on occasion to keep it aloft. It was too dark for me to see what color it was, but from the way it moved, I knew it wasn’t another helicopter. No, this thing was alive, easily the size of a small plane, and more than twice the length of my little McDonald Douglass. A long tail trailed behind it, and bore a distinct arrow-shaped snout, with twig-like spines fanned out around the back of its head. Whatever legs it had were drawn up under it like a bird, yet its skin appeared rough and knobby, almost resembling tree bark. Without pause, the gigantic bat-winged entity flew along beside me, as if my presence was on par with an annoying fly buzzing about its head.
Gripping the microphone switch so tight, I thought I’d crack the plastic, I whispered into my headset, forgetting all radio protocol. “T-There’s something up here.”
Static crackled.
“Douglas Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, say again your last, you’re coming in weak and unreadable, over.”
“There’s something up here.” I snarled into the headset, still glued to the controls of the helicopter, afraid to deviate even an inch from my course in case the monstrosity decided to turn on me. “A freaking huge thing, right beside me. I swear, it looks like a bat or . . . I don’t know.”
“Calm down.” The man on the other end of the radio broke his rigorous discipline as well, his voice deep, but level. “It won’t attack if you don’t move too fast. Slowly ease away from it and follow that course until you’re out of sight.”
I didn’t have time to think about how wrong that sounded, how the man’s strict tone had changed to one of knowledge, how he hadn’t been the least surprised by what I’d said. Instead, I slowly turned the helicopter away from the huge menace and edged the speed higher in tiny increments.
As soon as I was roughly two football fields away, I let myself relax, and clicked the mic switch. “It’s not following.”
“You’re sure?”
Eyeing the huge flapping wings, I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I’m well clear.”
“Good. Thank you, Mr. Dekker.”
Then, the radio went dead.
Something in my chest dropped, a weight that made my stomach roil. This wasn’t right, none of it. Who was that man? Why did he know about the thing I’d just seen? What was I supposed to—
A flash of light exploded from the trees to my right and shot into the air with a long finger of smoke.
What the . . .
On instinct, I jerked the cyclic stick to one side, and the helicopter swung to avoid the rocket.
Boom.
My world shook, metal screeched, and a dozen alarms began to go off inside the cockpit in a cacophony of beeps and sirens. Orange and red flames lit up the night sky just behind me, and the horizon started to spin wildly outside. Heat gushed from the cockpit door, and I smelled the greasy stench of burning oil. The safety belts dug into my shoulders, and with a final slip, the radio headset ripped free from my scalp.
I’m hit.
Desperate, I yanked on the controls, fought the bird even as she spun toward the ground in a wreath of flames, the inky black trees hurtling up to meet me. The helicopter went into full auto-rotation, the sky blurring past outside, and the alarms blared in a screech of doom. Panic slammed through my temples, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and for one brief second, my eyes locked on the little black Garmin still perched atop my control panel.
Its screen stopped twitching and settled on a map of the mysterious Barron County, with a little red arrow at the center of the screen, a few words popping up underneath it.
You are here.
Trees stabbed up into the sky, the belts crushed at my torso, glass shattered all around me, and the world went dark.
Copper, thick, warm, and tangy.
It filled my mouth, stank metallic in my nose, clogged my throat, choking me. In the murkiness, I fought for a surface, for a way out, blind and numb in the dark.
This way, kleineun.
My ouma’s voice echoed from somewhere in the shadows.
This way.
Both eyes flew open, and I gagged, spitting out a stream of red.
Pain throbbed in my ribs, and a heavy pressure sent a tingling numbness through my shoulders. Blood roared inside my temples, and stars danced before my eyes with a dizzying array. Humid night air kissed my skin, and something sticky coated my face, neck, and arms that hung straight up toward the ceiling.
Wait. Not up. Down.
I blinked at the wrinkled, torn ceiling of the cockpit, the glass all gone, the gray aluminum shredded like tissue paper. Just outside the broken windows, thick Appalachian bluegrass and stemmy underbrush swished in a feeble breeze, backlit by flashes of lightning from the thunderstorm overhead. Green and brown leaves covered everything in a wet carpet of triangles, and somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped.
Turning my head from side to side, I realized that I hung upside down inside the ruined helicopter, the top half burrowed into the mud. I could hear the hissing and crackling of flames, the pattering of rain falling on the hot aluminum, and the smaller brush fires around the downed aircraft sizzling out in the damp long grass. Charred steel and burning oil tainted the air, almost as strong as the metallic, coppery stench in my aching nose.
They shot me down. That military dude shot me out of the sky.
It didn’t make sense. I’d followed their orders, done everything they’d said, and yet the instant I veered safely away from whatever that thing in the sky had been, they’d fired, not at it, but at me.
Looking down (or rather, up) at my chest, I sucked in a gasp, which was harder to do that before.
The navy-blue shirt stuck to my torso with several big splotches of dark, rusty red. Most were clean slashes, but two held bits of glass sticking out of them, one alarmingly bigger than the other. They dripped cherry red blood onto my upturned face, and a wave of nausea hit me.
I gotta get down.
I flexed my arms to try and work some feeling back into them, praying nothing was broken. Half-numb from hanging so long, I palmed along my aching body until I felt the buckled for the seat belts.
“Okay.” I hissed between gritted teeth, in an effort to stave off my panic. “You can do this. Just hold on tight. Nice and tight. Here we go . . .”
Click.
Everything seemed to lurch, and I slid off the seat to plummet towards the muck-filled hole in the cockpit ceiling. My fingers were slick with blood and slipped over the smooth faux-leather pilot’s seat with ease. The shoulder belt snagged on the bits of glass that lay just under the left lowest rib, and a flare of white-hot pain ripped through me.
Wham.
I screamed, my right knee caught the edge of the aluminum ceiling, and both hands dove into a mound of leaf-covered glass shards on the opposite side of the hole. My head swam, being right-side-up again enough to make shadows gnaw at the corner of my eyes.
Forcing myself to breath slowly, I fought the urge to faint and slid back to sit on the smooth ceiling. I turned my hands over to see half a dozen bits of clear glass burrowed into my skin like greedy parasites, red blood weeping around the new cuts.
“Screw you.” I spat at the rubbish with angry tears in my eyes. “Screw you, screw you, screw you.”
The shards came out easy enough, and the cuts weren’t that deep, but that wasn’t what worried me. On my chest, the single piece of cockpit glass that remined was almost as big as my palm, and it really hurt. Just touching it felt like self-inflicted torture, but I knew it had to come out sooner or later.
Please don’t nick a vein.
Wiping my hands dry on my jeans, I gripped the shard with both hands, and jerked.
Fire roared over my ribs, and hot blood tickled my already grimy pale skin. I clapped a hand over the wound, pressing down hard, and grunted out a string of hateful expletives that my ouma would have slapped me for.
Lying on my back, I stared around me at the messy cargo compartment of the MD-902. Most of the medical supplies had been in cardboard boxes strapped down with heavy nylon tow-straps, but several cases had ruptured with the force of the impact, spraying bandages, syringes, and pill bottles all over the cluttered interior. Orange flames chewed at the crate furthest to the rear, the tail section long gone, but the foremost part of the hold was intact. Easily a million-dollar mess, it would have made me faint on any other trip, but today it was a godsend.
Half-blind in the darkness, I crawled along with only the firelight and lightning bolts to guide me, my right knee aching. Like a crippled raccoon, I collected things as I went, conscious of the two pallets of intact supplies weighing right over my head. I’d taken several different first-aid courses with some hunting buddies of mine, and the mental reflexes kicked in to help soothe my frazzled mind.
Check for bleeds, stop the worst, then move on.
Aside from my battered chest and stomach, the rest of me remained mostly unharmed. I had nasty bruises from the seatbelts, my right knee swelled, my nose slightly crooked and crusted in blood, but otherwise I was intact. Dowsing every scratch and cut with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol I found, I used butterfly closures on the smaller lacerations that peppered my skin. I wrapped soft white gauze over my abused palms and probed at the big cut where the last shard had been, only stopping when I was sure there were no pieces of glass wedged inside my flesh.
“Not too bad.” I grunted to myself, trying to sound impassive like a doctor might. “Rib must have stopped it. Gonna need stitches though. That’ll be fun.
Pawing through the broken cases, I couldn’t find any suture chord, but just as I was about to give up, I noticed a small box that read ‘medical skin stapler’.
Bingo.
I tore the small white plastic stapler free from its packaging and eyeballed the device. I’d never done this before, only seen it in movies, and even though the cut in my skin hurt, I wondered if this wouldn’t be worse.
You’ve gotta do it. That bleeding needs to stop. Besides, no one’s coming to rescue you, not with those rocket-launching psychos out there.
Taking a deep breath, I pinched the skin around the gash together, and pressed the mouth of the stapler to it.
Click.
A sharp sting, like that of a needle bit at the skin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the cut itself. I worked my way across the two-inch laceration and gave out a sigh of relief when it was done.
“Not going to bleed to death today.” I daubed ointment around the staples before winding more bandages over the wound.
Popping a few low-grade painkillers that tumbled from the cargo, I crawled wriggled through the nearest shattered window into the wet grass.
Raindrops kissed my face, clean and cool on my sweaty skin. Despite the thick cloud cover, there was enough constant lightning strikes within the storm to let me get glimpses of the world around me. My helicopter lay on its back, the blades snapped like pencils, with bits and pieces of it burning in chunks all around the small break in the trees. Chest-high scrub brush grew all around the low-lying ground, with pockets of standing water in places. My ears still rang from the impact of the crash, but I could start to pick up more crickets, frogs, and even some nocturnal birds singing into the darkness, like they didn’t notice the huge the hulk of flaming metal that had fallen from the sky. Overhead, the thunder rumbled onward, the feeble wind whistling, and there were other flashes on the horizon, orange and red ones, with crackles that didn’t sound quite like lightning.
The guns. They’re still fighting.
Instinctively, I pulled out my cellphone, and tapped the screen.
It fluttered to life, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get through to anyone, not even with the emergency function designed to work around having no service. The complicated wonder of our modern world was little better than a glorified paperweight.
Stunned, I sat down with my back to the helicopter and rested my head against the aluminum skin of the craft. How I’d gone from a regular medical supply run to being marooned in this hellish parody of rural America, I didn’t know, but one thig was certain; I needed a plan. Whoever fired the missile could have already contacted my charter company and made up some excuse to keep them from coming to look for me. No one else knew I was here, and even though I now had six staples holding the worst of my injuries shut, I knew I needed proper medical attention. If I wanted to live, I’d have to rescue myself.
My bag. I need to get my go-bag, grab some gear and then . . . head somewhere else.
It took me a while to gather my green canvas paratrooper bag from its place behind the pilot’s seat and fill it with whatever supplies I could scrounge. My knee didn’t seem to be broken, but man did it hurt, and I dreaded the thought of walking on it for miles on end. I focused instead on inventorying my gear and trying to come up with a halfway intelligent plan of action.
I had a stainless-steel canteen with one of those detachable cups on the bottom, a little fishing kit, some duct tape, a lighter, a black LED flashlight with three spare batteries, a few tattered road maps with a compass, a spare pair of socks, medical supplies from the cargo, and a simple forest green plastic rain poncho. I also managed to unearth a functioning digital camcorder my ouma had gotten me for Christmas a few years back, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do any filming in such a miserable state. Lastly, since it was a private supply run from a warehouse area near Pittsburgh to a direct hospital pad in Ohio, I’d been able to bring my K-Bar, a sturdy, and brutally simple knife designed for the Marine Corps that I used every time I went camping. It was pitiful in comparison to the rifle I wished I had with me, but that didn’t matter now. I had what I had, and I doubted my trusty Armalite would have alleviated my sore knee anyway.
Clicking on my flashlight, I huddled with the poncho around my shoulders inside the wreck of the chopper and peered at the dusty roadmaps. A small part of me hoped that a solution would jump out from the faded paper, but none came. These were all maps of western PA and eastern Ohio. None of them had a Barron County on them anywhere.
The man on the radio said to head north, right before they shot me down. That means they must be camped out to the north of here. South had that convoy and those burning houses, so that’s a no-go. Maybe I can backtrack eastward the way I came.
As if on cue, a soft pop echoed from over the eastern horizon, and I craned to look out the helicopter window, spotting more man-made flashes over the tree tops.
“Great.” I hissed between clenched teeth, aware of how the temperature dipped to a chilly 60 degrees, and how despite the conditions, my stomach had begun to growl. “Not going that way, are we? Westward it is.”
Walking away from my poor 902 proved to be harder than I’d anticipated. Despite the glass, the fizzling fires, and the darkness, it still held a familiar, human essence to it. Sitting inside it made me feel secure, safe, even calm about the situation. In any other circumstance, I would have just stayed with the downed aircraft to wait for help, but I knew the men who shot me down would likely find my crash site, and I didn’t want to be around when they did.
Unlike much of central and western Ohio, southeastern Ohio is hilly, brushy, and clogged with thick forests. Thorns snagged at my thin poncho and sliced at my pant legs. My knee throbbed, every step a form of self-inflicted torture. The rain never stopped, a steady drizzle from above just cold enough to be problematic as time went on, making me shiver. Mud slid under my tennis shoes, and every tree looked ten times bigger in the flickering beam of my cheap flashlight. Icy fear prickled at the back of my neck at some of the sounds that greeted me through the gloom. I’d been camping loads of times, both in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, but these noises were something otherworldly to me.
Strange howls, screeches, and calls permeated the rain-soaked sky, some almost roars, while others bordered on human in their intonation. The more I walked, the softer the distant gunfire became, and the more prevalent the odd sounds, until the shadows seemed to fill with them. I didn’t dare turn off my flashlight, or I’d been completely blind in the dark, but a little voice in the back of my head screamed that I was too visible, crunching through the gloomy forest with my long beam of light stabbing into the abyss. It felt as though a million eyes were on me, studying me, hunting me from the surrounding brush, and I bitterly recalled how much I’d loved the old Survivor Man TV series as a kid.
Not so fun being out in the woods at night. Especially alone.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me, and I whirled on the spot, one trembling hand resting on the hilt of my K-Bar.
Nothing. Nothing but trees, bushes, and rain dripping down in the darkness.
“This is stupid.” I whispered to myself to keep my nerves in check as I slowly spun on the spot. “I should have went eastward anyway. God knows how long I’m going to have to—”
Creak.
A groan of metal-on-metal echoed from somewhere to my right, and I spun to face it, yanking the knife on my belt free from its scabbard. It felt so small and useless in my hand, and I choked down a wave of nauseas fear.
Ka-whump. Creak. K-whump. Creak.
Underbrush cracked and crunched, a few smaller saplings thrashed, and from deep within the gloom, two yellow orbs flared to life. They poked through the mist in the trees, forming into slender fingers of golden light that swept back and forth in the dark.
The soldiers . . . they must be looking for me.
I swallowed hard and turned to slink away.
Ice jammed through my blood, and I froze on the spot, biting my tongue to stop the scream.
It stood not yards away, a huge form that towered a good twelve feet tall in the swirling shadows. Unpolished chrome blended with flash-rusted spots in the faded red paint, and grime-smeared glass shone with dull hues in the flashes of lightning. Where the wheels should have been, the rounded steel axels curved like some enormous hand had bent them, and the tires lay face-down on the muddy ground like big round feet, their hubcaps buried in the dirt. Dents, scrapes, and chips covered the battered thing, and its crooked little radio antenna pointed straight up from the old metal fender like a mast. I could barely make out the mud-coated VW on the rounded hood, and my mind reeled in shock.
Is . . . is that a car?
Both yellow headlights bathed me in a circle of bright, blinding light, and neither I nor the strange vehicle moved.
Seconds ticked by, the screech-thumping in the background only growing closer. I realized that I couldn’t hear any engine noises and had yet to see any soldiers or guns pointed my way. This car looked old, really old, like one of those classic Volkswagen Beetles that collectors fought over at auctions. Try as I might, I couldn’t see a driver inside the murky, mold-smeared windows.
Because there wasn’t one.
Lightning arched across the sky overhead, and the car standing in front of me blinked.
Its headlights slid shut, as if little metal shades had crawled over the bulbs for a moment and flicked open again. Something about that movement was so primal, so real, so lifelike, that every ounce of self-control I had melted in an instant.
Cursing under my breath, I lunged into the shrubs, and the world erupted around me.
Under my shoes, the ground shook, and the car surged after me in a cacophony of ka-thumps that made my already racing heart skip several beats. A weather-beaten brown tow truck from the 50’s charged through the thorns to my left, it’s headlights ablaze, and a dilapidated yellow school bus rose from its hiding place in the weeds to stand tall on four down-turned axel-legs. They all flicked their headlights on like giants waking from their slumber, and as I dodged past them, they each blared their horn into the night in alarm.
My breaths came short and tight, my knee burned, and I crashed through thorns and briars without thought to how badly I was getting cut up.
The cheap poncho tore, and I ripped it away as it caught on a tree branch.
A purple 70’s Mustang shook off its blanket of creeping vines and bounded from a stand of trees just ahead, forcing me to swerve to avoid being run over, my adrenaline at all-time highs.
This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.
Slipping and sliding, I pushed through a stand of multiflora rose, and stumbled out into a flat, dark expanse.
I almost skidded to a stop.
What had once been a rather large field stood no taller than my shoestrings, the grass charred, and burnt. The storm above illuminated huge pieces of wreckage that lay scattered over the nearly 40-acre plot, and I could just make out the fire-blackened hulk of a fuselage resting a hundred yards away. The plane had been brought down a while ago it seemed, as there weren’t any flames left burning, and I threw myself toward it in frenzied desperation.
Burned grass and greasy brown topsoil slushed underfoot, and I could hear the squelching of the cars pursing me. Rain soaked me to the bone, and my lungs ached from sucking down the damp night air. A painful stich crept into my side, and I cursed myself for not putting in more time for cardio at the gym.
Something caught my left shoelace, and I hurtled to the ground, tasting mud and blood in between my teeth.
They’ve got me now.
I clawed at the mud, rolled, and watched a tire slam down mere inches from where my head had been. The Mustang loomed over me and jostled for position with the red Volkswagen and brown tow truck, the school bus still a few yards behind them. They couldn’t seem to decide who would get the pleasure of stomping me to death, and like a herd of stampeding wildebeest, they locked bumpers in an epic shoving match.
On all fours, I scampered out from under the sparring brutes, and dashed for the crumpled airplane, a white-painted DC-3 that looked like it had been cut in half by a gargantuan knife blade. I passed a snapped wing section, the oily remains of a turbo-prop engine, and a mutilated wheel from the landing gear. Climbing over a heap of mud, I squeezed into the back of the ruined flight cabin and dropped down into the dark cargo hold.
Wham.
No sooner had my sneakers hit the cold metal floor, and the entire plane rocked from the impact of something heavy ramming it just outside. I tumbled to my knees, screaming in pain as, once again, I managed to bash the sore one off a bracket in the wall.
My hand smeared in something gooey, and I scrabbled for my flashlight.
It clicked on, a wavering ball of white light in the pitch darkness, and I fought the urge to gag. “Oh man . . .”
Three people, or what was left of them, lay strewn over the narrow cargo area. Claret red blood coated the walls, caked on the floor, and clotted under my mud-spattered shoes. Bits of flesh and viscera were stuck to everything, and tatters of cloth hung from exposed sections of broken bone. An eerie set of bloody handprints adorned the walls, and the only reason I could tell it had been three people were the shoes; all of them bore anklebones sticking out above blood-soaked socks. It smelled sickly sweet, a strange, nauseas odor that crept into my nose and settled on the back of my tongue like an alien parasite.
Something glinted in the beam of my flashlight, and my pulse quickened as I pried the object loose from the severed arm that still clung to it.
“Hail Mary full of Grace.” I would have grinned if it weren’t for the fact that the plane continued to buck and roll under the assault from the cars outside.
The pistol looked old, but well-maintained, aside from the light coating of dark blood that stained its round wooden handle. It felt heavy, but good in my hand, and I turned it over to read the words, Waffenfabrik Mauser stenciled into the frame, with a large red 9 carved into the grip. For some reason, it vaguely reminded me of the blasters from Star Wars.
I fumbled with a little switch that looked like a safety on the back of the gun and stumbled toward a gap in the plane’s dented fuselage to aim out at the surrounding headlights.
Bang.
The old gun bucked reliably in my hand, its long barrel spitting a little jet of flame into the night. I had no idea if I hit anything, but the attacking cars recoiled, their horns blaring in confusion.
They turned, and scuttled for the tree line as fast as their mechanical legs could go, the entire ordeal over as fast as it had begun.
Did I do that?
Perplexed, I stared down at the pistol in my hand.
Whoosh.
A large, inky black shadow glided down from the clouds, and the yellow school bus moved too slow to react in time.
With a crash, the kicking nightmarish vehicle was thrown onto its side, spraying glass and chrome trim across the muddy field. Its electro-synth horn blared with wails of mechanical agony, as two huge talon-like feet clamped down on it, and the enormous head of the flying creature lowered to rip open its engine compartment.
The horn cut out, and the enormous flying entity jerked its head back to gulp down a mass of what looked like sticky black vines from the interior of the shattered bus.
At this range, I could see now that the flying creature bore two legs and had its wings half-tucked like a vulture that had descended to feed on roadkill. Its head turned slightly, and in the glow of another lightning bolt, my jaw went slack at the realization of what it was.
A tree trunk. It’s a rotted tree trunk.
I couldn’t tell where the reptilian beast began, and where the organic tree components ended, the upper part of the head shaped like a log, while the lower jaw resembled something out of a dinosaur movie. Its skin looked identical to the outside of a shagbark hickory but flexed with a supple featheriness that denoted something closer to skin. Sharp branch-like spines ranged down its back, and out to the end of its tail, which bore a massive round club shaped like a diseased tree-knot. Crouched on both hind legs, it braced the hooked ends of its folded wings against the ground like a bat, towering higher than a semi-truck. Under the folds of its armored head, a bulging pair of chameleon-like eyes constantly spun in their sockets, probing the dark for threats while it ate.
One black pupil locked onto the window I peered through, and my heart stopped.
The beast regarded me for a moment, with a curious, sideways sniff.
With a proud, contemptful head-toss, the shadow from the sky parted rows of razor-sharp teeth to let out a roar that shook the earth beneath my feet. It was the triumphant war cry of a creature that sat at the very top of the food chain, one that felt no threat from the fragile two-legged beings that walked the earth all around it. It hunted whenever it wanted, ate whatever it wanted, and flew wherever it wanted. It didn’t need to rip the plane apart to devour me.
Like my hunter-gatherer ancestors from thousands of years ago, I wasn’t even worth the energy it would take to pounce.
I’m hiding in the remains of the cockpit now, which is half-buried under the mud of the field, enough to shield the light from my screen so that thing doesn’t see it. My service only now came back, and it’s been over an hour since the winged beast started in on the dead bus. I don’t know when, or how I’m going to get out of here. I don’t know when anyone will even see this post, or if it will upload at all. My phone battery is almost dead, and at this point, I’m probably going to have to sleep among the corpses until daylight comes.
A dead man sleeping amongst friends.
If you live in the Noble County area in southeastern Ohio, be careful where you drive, fly, and boat. I don’t know if it’s possible to stumble into this strange place by ground, but if so, then these things are definitely headed your way.
If that happens . . . pray that they don’t find you.
submitted by RandomAppalachian468 to u/RandomAppalachian468 [link] [comments]


2023.06.01 20:53 jerry-october Security Fail on Ohio Military Reserve Site

The Ohio Military Reserve website is still not using any SSL/TLS encryption: http://www.ohiomilitaryreserve.com/
This alone is quite silly in the current year, when LetsEncrypt certificates are freely available and easy to configure.
But it's just an informational site, so who cares!? The worst that can happen is someone spoofs this domain for misinformation purposes, right!?
Not so! At the bottom of the page is an Inquiry form that receives the inquirers Name, Email, Phone Number, and Message fields. So people will just put in their PII into this form and then transmit it in the clear.
Common, Ohio. We can do better than this!
submitted by jerry-october to Ohio [link] [comments]


2023.06.01 15:49 thecrowqueen27 How to report abuse (USA)

TW: police, physical violence, drug use
Hi all! I (27f) am a survivor of DV based in the USA. This may not be all of the ways to report abuse, but these are just some that I know of that I have used actually in my own struggle to get free for my abuser. If anyone has more to add, feel free to comment them on this post :)
  1. Save or screenshot any/all text messages,voicemails, social media messages etc that are abusive from your abuser. If your abuser goes through your phone, send them to someone you trust to keep them as evidence.
  2. If the abuse is physical, and there are marks left, go into the bathroom with your phone, after said abuse has taken place and take pictures of every single mark that your abuser has left on you. (Send to someone you trust to keep them safe as evidence if abuser looks through phone)
  3. In the United States of America, you can text 911 so that way your abuser doesn’t hear you on the phone. What I have done is I barricaded myself in the bathroom and texted 911. Make sure you text them the address of where you’re located, the name, age, and description of your abuser as well as if they have weapons or are under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Also, if your abuser has access to a vehicle (their own and/or yours) text them a description of the vehicles makes models color and license plate (if you don’t know the plate numbers, just the state is fine). An example of what you would text 911 (this is just a scenario, use this example only as such, also not all of this has to be sent in 1 message)
  1. Press charges and get a restraining order. Pressing charges will allow you to go in front of a judge and tell them about the abuse. Any evidence you have of the abuse will NEED TO BE PRINTED OUT. There are no phones allowed in a courtroom. Once the judge has heard your testimony as well as seen the evidence, your abuser could be charged and sent to jail. Getting a restraining order doesn’t have to wait until after the case, you can file for a restraining order at any time. You will need to go to the court to get it approved or denied by the judge. If your restraining order is approved, your abuser will be served. In most states (correct me if I’m wrong please 🙏) your abuser can try to appeal (make the R.O nonexistent) the order, at that time you will get another court date. Bring witnesses of abuse or witness statements, any and all evidence, as well as the RO. In most cases, once the judge sees all the evidence again, hears your testimony again ,there will most likely not be an appeal to your restraining order, and a restraining order will still stay in place.
If you are leaving your abuser and you will be homeless by doing so here are some tips:
  1. Call a DV shelter. If you don’t know of any, google should be able to help.
  2. If google doesn’t seem to help you find a shelter call 211. 211 is a helpline that finds you resources in your area. Explain your situation briefly, and ask them for help finding shelters.
  3. FRIENDS! if you have friends that can house you, make sure they know why you’re needing to be housed. If you have a restraining order in place, bring it with you and let your friends know there is one in place. This will make them feel more comfortable about housing you (I know 1st hand)
** DV shelters (at least the ones I’ve tried to get into) require a police report, case number, and/or a restraining order before they can get you a bed there**
Hope this helps at least 1 person get out of DV. We are all strong and beautiful people who deserve better.
submitted by thecrowqueen27 to 2xdomesticviolence [link] [comments]


2023.06.01 05:42 Guilty_Chemistry9337 Hide Behind the Cypress Tree, pt. 2

They didn’t tell us the name of the next kid that disappeared. They didn’t tell us another kid had disappeared at all. We could all tell by the silence what had happened. It spoke volumes. I’m sure they talked about it in great detail amongst themselves. In PTA meetings and City Councils. My parents made sure to turn off the TV at 5 o’clock before the news came on, at least in my home. They’d turn it back on for the 11 o’clock news, when were were in bed and couldn’t hear the details.
The strange thing is, they never told us to just stop going outside. They told us to go in groups, sure, but they never decided, or as far as I could tell even though, to keep us all indoors. I guess that sort of freedom wasn’t something they were willing to give up. Instead, they did the neighborhood watch thing. For those few months, I remember my folks meeting more of our neighbors than in all the time previously, or since. Retirees would spend their days out in their front lawns, watching kids and everybody else coming and going. They’d even set up lawn furniture, with umbrellas, even all through the rains of spring. Cops stopped sitting in ambushes on the highways waiting for speeders and instead started patrolling the streets, chatting with us as we’d pass by. Weekends would see all the adults out in their yards, working on cars in the driveways, fixing the gutters, and so on. They had this weird way of looking at you as you’d ride by. Not hostile stares, but it was like they were cataloging your presence. Boy, eight years old, red raincoat silver bike, about 11:30 in the morning, heading south on Sorensen. Seemed fine.
The next time we saw it, it wasn’t in our neighborhood, and I was the one who saw it first. We were visiting Russ, a sort of 5th semi-friend from school. We rarely hung out, mostly owing to geography. His house wasn’t far as the crow flies, but it was up a steep hill. We spent a Saturday afternoon returning a cache of comic books we’d borrowed. The distance we covered was substantial, as we had decided to take lots of extra streets as switchbacks, rather than slowly push our bikes up the too-steep hills.
The descent was going to be the highlight of the trip, up until I saw the Hidebehind. We were on a curving road, a steep forested bluff on one side. The uphill slope was mostly ivy-covered raised foundations for the neighborhood’s houses. That side of the road was lined with parked cars, and the residents of the homes had to ascend steep staircases to get to their front doors.
I was ayt the back of the pack when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Movement, something brown squatting between two closely parked cars. My head snapped as I zoomed past, and despite not getting a good look, I knew it was that terrible thing. “It’s behind us!” I shouted and started pedaling hard. The others looked for themselves as I quickly rushed past them, but they soon joined my pace.
Ralph’s earlier idea of directly confronting the thing was set aside. We were moving too fast, and down too narrow a street to turn around. Then we saw it again it was to our left, off-road, between the trees. Suddenly it leaped from behind one tree trunk to the next and disappeared again. That hardly made sense, the base of the trees must have been thirty feet below the deck of the street we rode down. One of us, I think it was India, let out one of those strangled screams.
There it was again, back on the right, disappearing behind a mailbox as we approached. That couldn’t have been, it must have outpaced us and crossed in front of us. Logic would suggest there was more than one, but somehow the four of us knew it was the same thing. More impossible still, the pole holding up the mailbox was too thin, maybe two inches in diameter, yet that thing had disappeared behind it, like a Warner Bros. cartoon character. It was just enough to catch a better glimpse of it though. All brown. A head seemingly too bulbous and large for its body. Its limbs were thin but far longer, like a gibbon’s. Only a gibbon had normal elbows and knees. This thing bent its joints all wrong like it wasn’t part of the natural order. We were all terrified to wit’s end.
“The trail!” Ralph shouted, and the other three of us knew exactly what he meant. The top of it was only just around the curve. It was a dirt footpath for pedestrians ascending and descending South Hill, cutting through the woods on our left. It was too steep for cars, and to be honest, too steep for bikes. We’d played on it before, challenging each other to see how high up they could go, then descend back down without using our brakes. A short paved cul-de-sac at the bottom was enough space to stop before running into a cross street.
Ralph had held the previous group record, having climbed three-quarters of the way before starting his mad drop. India’s best was just short of that, I had only dared about halfway up, Ben only a third. This time, with certain death on our heels, the trail seemed the only way out. Nothing could have outrun a kid on a bike flying down that hill.
We followed Ralph’s lead, swinging to the right gutter of the street, then hanging a fast wide left up onto the curb, over a patch of gravel, between two boulders set up as bollards, lest a car driver mistake the entrance for a driveway, and then, like a roller coaster cresting the first hill, the bottom fell out.
It was the most overwhelming sensation of motion I’ve ever had, before or since. I suppose the danger behind us was the big reason, and being absolutely certain that only our speed was keeping us alive. I remember thinking it was like the speeder bike scene from Return of the Jedi, also a recent movie from the time. Only this was real. I didn’t just see the trees flashing past it, I could hear the motion as well. Cold air attacked my eyes and long streamers of tears rushed over my cheeks and the drops flew past my ears, I didn’t dare blink. Each little stone my tires struck threatened to up-end me and end it all. Yet, and perhaps worse, half the time it felt like I wasn’t in contact with the ground at all. I was going so fast that those same small stones were sending me an inch or two into the air, and the arc of the flights so closely matched the slope that by the time I contacted the trail again, I was significantly further down the hill.
At the same time, I had never felt more relief, as the thing behind us had no way of catching us now. Somehow, maybe the seriousness of the escape gave us both the motive and the seriousness to keep ourselves under control. Looking back, I marvel that at least one of us didn’t lose control and end up splitting our skulls open.
We hit the pavement of the cul-de-sac below, and didn’t bother to slow down. We raced through the cross-street, one angry driver screeching to a halt and laying on his horn. This brought out the neighborhood watch. Just a few of them at first. Still, we didn’t slow down, our momentum carried us back up the much shallower slope of our neighborhood. Witnesses saw us depart at high speed, and this only brought out more of the watch. We heard whistles behind us, just like our P.E. teacher’s whistle. We figured that was the watch’s alarm siren. Regardless of what happened to that thing, it was behind us. We returned to our homes, shaken, but safe and sound, our inertia taking us almost all of the way there.
Another kid disappeared that Sunday, up on South Hill. We’d suspected it because we could see the lights of the police cars on a high road, surrounding the spot where it would turn out later, one of the kid’s shoes had been found. Russ confirmed it at school on Monday. It was a kid he’d known, lived down the road from his place, went to private school which is why we didn’t recognize his name.
I remember seeing Ralph’s face the next day when he arrived at school. He looked angry. Strong. Like he’d been crying really hard, and now it was over and he was resolved. He said he’d felt guilty because the thing we’d escaped from had gotten the other kid instead. He tried to tell his old man about it, then his mom, then any adult he could. He’d tell them about the monster who hides behind things. They needed to focus on finding and stopping that instead of looking for some sort of creeper or serial killer. Of course, nobody had listened to him. They hadn’t listened to the rest of us either when we’d tried to tell.
So he’d devised a plan. He was calling it the “Fight Patrol,” which we didn’t argue with. If the adults wouldn’t do something, we would. We’d patrol our neighborhood on our bikes, the four of us, maybe a couple more if we could talk others into it. We’d chase it off like that first time, maybe for good, or maybe corner it. Clearly, it could not handle being caught.
Naturally, we brought up the scare on South Hill. He argued that was a bad place. Too isolated, couldn’t turn around easily. We needed to stay on our home turf, lots of visibility, and plenty of the Neighborhood Watch within earshot. Maybe we and the adults working together was the key, even if the adults didn’t understand the problem.
Well, that convinced us. Our first patrol was that afternoon, after school. We watched everybody’s back like hawks. Nothing had a chance to sneak up on us. Nothing could step out from behind a bush without getting spotted. By Friday afternoon there were eight of us. The next week we split up to extend our territory to the next neighborhoods over.
Nothing happened. We never saw anything. Ben thought it was because we were scaring it away. Ralph just thought we were failing, and took it personally. I myself thought the thing had just moved to different parts of town, where the new disappearances were taking place. I told him we should keep it up until the thing was caught.
It was all for naught.
One day, India didn’t show up for school. I asked everybody, the teachers, the office staff, the custodian, my parents. All of them said they didn’t know, and it was so easy to tell that they were lying. That would mark the end of the Fight Patrol.
Ben didn’t show up a couple of days after that. When I got home and collapsed into bed, my mother came in to tell me that Ben’s mother had called. She’d taken him out of school and they were moving elsewhere. I called up Ralph to let him know the news, and he was relieved too.
My last day was Friday, and then I was taken out. Again, I called Ralph so he wouldn’t worry. I guess when there were only two weeks left of school, and it was just grade school, a couple missed weeks don’t amount to much. So I ended up spending the bulk of the summer out in the country, with my grandparents, which was why I brought up my grandpa in the first place.
I suppose I did fine out on their farmhouse. I was safe. There was certainly no shortage of things for a kid to do. I think my mom felt a strong sense of relief too. Things slipped through the cracks.
My grandparents didn’t have cable, too far out of town. They just had an old-school antenna and got a couple of TV stations transmitting out of Canada, Vancouver specifically. I remember one July day, sitting in their living room. My grandmother had just fixed lunch for me and my grandfather and had gone out to do some gardening as we watched the news at noon.
My grandfather was already being ravaged by his illnesses. He was able to get around, but couldn’t do any real labor anymore. He’d lounge in front of the TV in a special lounge chair. He hardly talked, and when he did he’d just mumble some discomfort or complaint to my grandma.
The lead story on the news was the current situation in Farmingham, despite being in the neighboring country, it was still big news in Vancouver, and the whole rest of the region. It seemed the disappearances were declining, but the police were still frantically searching for a supposed serial killer. I didn’t pick up much about what they were talking about, I was a kid after all, but my grandfather was watching intently, despite his infirmity.
He mumbled something, I didn’t catch. I asked him was he said, and as I approached I heard him say “fearsome critters.”
He turned his eyes to me and said again, distinct and in a normal tone of voice, “fearsome critters,” then returned his attention to the screen. “I don’t know why they call them that. Fearsome, sure. But ‘critters?” Makes it sound silly. Like it's some sort of fairy tale that it ain’t. Guess it’s like whistling past the graveyard. Well, they don’t have to worry about them no more, guess they can call them what they like.”
Then he turned to me. “Do you know what it is?” he asked. “Squonk? Hodag? Gouger? Hidebehind?”
“Hidebehind,” I whispered, and he turned back to the TV with a sneer. I had no idea what on earth he was talking about. Remember, this would be years before I learned he spent his youth as a lumberjack. And yet, somehow, I knew exactly what we were talking about.
“Hidebehind,” he repeated. “That will do it. They give them such stupid names. The folk back East, that is. Wisconsin. Minnesota. Ohio. Way back in the old days, before my grandfather would have been your age. Back when those places were covered by forests. They didn’t give them silly names back then, no. Back then they were something to worry about. Then they moved on, though. They all went out West, to here, followed the loggers. So as once they didn’t have to worry about them anymore, they started making up silly stories, silly names. “Fearsome critters,” they’d call them. Just tall tales to tell the greenhorns and scare them out of their britches. Then they’d make them even sillier, and tell the stories to little kids to spook them.”
“Not out here they didn’t tell no stories nor make up any names. It was bad enough they followed us out. I had no clue they even existed until I saw one for myself. Bout your age, I suppose. Maybe a little older. Nobody ever talks about them. Not even when they take apart a work crew, one by one. They just pull the crews back. Wait till mid-summer when the land is dry but not too dry. Then they move the crews in, a lot of them. Do some burning, make a lot of smoke. Drives them deeper into the woods, you know. Then you can cut the whole damn place down. But nobody asks why, nobody tells why. The people who know just take care of it.”
“I guess that’s why they’re coming to us now. All the old woods are almost gone. So they’ve got to. Like mountain lions. I supposed it’s going to happen sooner or later.”
We heard my grandma come into the back door to the utility room, and stomp the dirt off her boots. My grandfather turned to me one last time and said, “Whichever way you look at it, somebody’s just got to take care of it.” Then my grandmother came in from the utility room and asked us how our lunch had been.
Now that I look back at it, that might have been the last time my grandfather and I really had a meaningful talk.
We moved back home in late August. I had been having a fantastic summer. Though looking back, I suppose it could be rough for a still-young woman to be living in her aging parents' house when she’s got a perfectly good husband and house of her own in town.
First thing I did was visit Ralph. He’d been busy. He’d fortified his treehouse into a proper, well, tree fort. He’d nailed a lot of reinforcing plywood over everything. He hadn’t gone out on patrols by himself, of course, but the height of the tree fort afforded him a view of the nearest streets. He’d also made some makeshift weapons out of old baseball bats, a hockey stick, and a garden rake. The sharp rocks he’d attached to them with masking tape didn’t look very secure, but it’d only take one or two good blows with that kind of firepower. He also explained he’d been teaching himself kung fu, by copying all the movies he saw on kung fu movies late at night on the unpopular cable channels. That was classic Ralph.
As for the monster, it seemed to be going away. Its last victim had disappeared weeks previously, part of the reason my mom felt it was time to go back. This had been at night too. What’s more, the victim had been a college student, a very petite lady, barely five feet tall, under a hundred pounds. The news had speculated that their presumptive serial killer had assumed she was a child. I remember thinking the Hidebehind didn’t care. Maybe it just thought she couldn’t run fast enough to get away or put up a fight when he caught her. Like a predator.
At any rate, the college students were incensed. Of course, they’d been hyper-alert and concerned when it was just local kids going missing. Now that it was one of their own the camel’s back had broken. They really went hard on the protests, blaming the local police for not doing enough.
They started setting up their own patrols, and at night too. Marches with sometimes dozens of students at a time. They called it “Take Back the Night.” They’d walk the streets, making sure they’d be heard. Some cared drums or tambourines. They’d help escort people home, and sometimes they’d unintentionally stop random crimes they’d happen across. I felt like this was what the Fight Patrol could have been, if we’d just been old enough, or had been listened to. This would be the endgame for the Hidebehind, one way or another.
I stayed indoors the rest of the summer, and really there wasn’t much left. It doesn’t get too hot in the Pacific Northwest, nobody has air conditioners, or at least we didn’t back then. It will get stuffy though, in August, and I liked to sleep with my window open. I could hear the chants and challenges from the student patrols on their various routes. Sometimes I could hear them coming from far away, and every now and then they’d pass down my street. It felt like a wonderful security blanket.
I also liked the honeysuckle my mother had planted around the perimeter of the house. Late at night, if I was struggling to fall asleep, the air in my bedroom would start to circulate. Cold air would start pouring in over my windowsill, bringing the sweet scent of that creepervine with it, and I’d the sensation before finally passing out.
This one night, and I have no knowledge if I was awake, asleep, or drifting off, but the air in the room changed, and cooler air poured over the windowsill and swept over my bed, but it didn’t carry the sweet smell of honeysuckle. Regardless of my initial state, I was alert pretty quickly. It was a singularly unpleasant smell. A bit like death, which at that age I was mostly unfamiliar with, except a time some animal had died underneath the crawlspace of our house. There was more to it, though. The forest, the deep forest. I don’t know and still don’t know, what that meant. Most smells I associate with the forest are pleasant. Cedar, pine needles, thick loam of the forest floor, campfires, even the creosote and turpentine of those old timey-logging camps. This was none of those smells. Maybe… rotting granite, and the spores of slime molds. Mummified hemlocks and beds of needles compressed into something different than soil. It disturbed me.
So I sat up in bed. I hadn’t noticed before, but I’d been sweating, just lightly in the stuffy summer night heat. Now it was turning cold. Before me was my bedroom window. A lit rectangle in a pitch-dark room. To either side were my white, opened curtains, the one on the right, by the open half of the window, stirred just slightly in the barely perceptible breeze.
Most of the rectangle was the black form of the protective cypress tree. Only the slight conical nature of the tree distinguished it from a perfectly vertical column. To either side was a dim soft orange glow coming from the sodium lamps of the street passing by our house. It was perhaps a bit diffuse from the screen set in my window to keep out mosquitos. In the distance was the sound of an approaching troupe of the Take Back the Night patrol. They were neither drumming nor chanting, but still making plenty of noise. They were, perhaps, three or four blocks away, and heading my way.
For some reason that I didn’t understand, I got up, off of the foot of the bed. The window, being closer, appeared bigger. I took a silent step further. The patrol approached closer. Another step. I leaned to my right, just a bit, getting a slightly wider view to the left of the cypress tree. That was the direction the patrol was coming from.
That was when it resolved. The deeper black silhouette within the black silhouette of the cypress tree. A small lithe frame with a too-bulbous head. It too leaned, in its case, to the left, to see around the cypress tree as the patrol approached. They reached our block,on the other side of the street. A dozen rowdy college students, not trying to be quiet. None of them fearing the night. Each feeling safe and determined, and absorbed in their own night out rather than being overtly sensitive to their surroundings. They were distracted, unfocused If they had been peering into the shadows, if just one of them had looked towards my house, behind the cypress tree, they might have seen the Hidebehind, poking its face out and watching them transit past. But they didn’t notice.
It hid behind the cypress tree, and I hid behind it, hoping that the blackness of my bedroom would protect me. I stood absolutely still, as I had done once when a hornet had once landed on the back of my neck. Totally assure that if I made the slightest movement or made the slightest sound that I’d be stung. I hardly even breathed.
The patrol passed, from my perspective, behind the cypress tree and temporarily out of view. The Hidebehind straightened, ready to lean to the right and watch the patrol pass, only it didn’t lean. Even as I watched the patrol pass on to the right, it stood there, stock still, just as I was doing.
It was then I became aware that my room had become stuffy again. The scent was gone. The air had shifted and was now flowing out through the screen again, carrying my own scent with it. I knew what this meant, and yet I was too paralyzed to react. The thing started to turn, very slowly. It was a predator understanding that it might have become victim to its own game. It turned as if it was thinking the same thing I had been thinking, that the slightest movement might give it away.
It turned, and I saw its face. Like some kind of rotting desiccated, shriveling fruit, it was covered in wrinkles. Circles within concentric circles surrounded its two great eyes, eyes which took up so much of its face. I couldn’t, and still struggle, to think of words to describe it. Instead, I still think in terms of analogies. At the time I thought of the creature from the film E.T., only twisted and distorted into a thing of nightmares. Almost all eyelids, and a little drooping sucker mouth. Now that I’m more worldly, it reminds of creatures of ancient artworks. The key defining feature were the long horizontal slits it had for eyes. You see that in old masks carved in West Africa, or by the Inuit long ago. You see it in what’s called the “slit-eyed dogu” of ancient Japan.
As I watched the wrinkles on the face seemed to multiply. Then I realized this was the result of its eyes slowly widening. It’s mouth, too, slowly dilated, revealing innumerable small razor-sharp teeth. A person, standing in its location, shouldn’t have been able to see in. Light from the sodium streetlamps lit the window’s screen, obscuring the interior. It was no person. It could see me, and it was reacting to my presence. Its eyes grew huge, black.
My own eyes would have been just as wide if not for my own anatomical limitations. I was still watching when it disappeared. It didn’t see it move to the right. I didn’t see it move to the left, nor did I see it drop down out of view. It simply disappeared. One fraction of a second it was there, and then it decided to leave, and so it did. It was not a thing of this world.
There were no more disappearances after that poor woman from the university. I don’t think it had anything to do with me. The media and police all speculated their “serial killer” had gone into a “dormant phase”. There was no shortage of people who tried to take credit. Maybe they deserve it. The thing’s hunting had been on the decline. All the neighborhood watches and student patrols, I think that maybe all that commotion was making it too hard for the Hidebehind to go about its business. Maybe it had gone back to the woods.
Then again, maybe Ralph had been right the whole time. Maybe it really, really, really didn’t like to be seen.
So.
Now I’ve got some decisions to make. I think the first thing I should do is look at social media and dig up Ralph. It’s been a good thirty years since I last talked to him. He ought to know the Hidebehind is back. He’s probably made plans.
Then, there’s the issue of my son. He’s up in his bedroom now, probably still mad at me. Probably confused about why I’d be so strict. Maybe he’s inventing explanations as to why.
I’m not sure, but I’m leaning toward telling him everything. He deserves to know. It’d probably be safer if he knows. I think people have this instinct where, when they see or know something that they’re not supposed to know, they just bottle it up. I think that was the problem with grown-ups when I was a kid. It was the issue with my grandfather, telling me so little when it was almost too late. I think people do it because we’re social animals, and we’re afraid of being ostracized. Go along to get along.
Hell, my son is probably going to think I’m crazy. It might even make him more mad at me. And even more confused. He knows about the disappearances. “The Farmingham Fiend” the media would end up dubbing the serial killer that didn’t really exist. It’s become local “true crime” history. Kids tell rumors about it. It was almost forty years ago, so it probably feels safe to wonder about.
So yeah, I suppose when I say I know who the real killer was, a magical monster from the woods that stalks its prey by hiding behind objects, then impossibly disappears- that I’m going to look like a total nut. I’d think that if I were in his shoes.
Except… people are going to start disappearing again, it’s only a matter of time. The media will say that the Farmingham Fiend is back in the game. Will my son buy that? He’ll start thinking about what I told him, and how I predicted it. Then he’ll remember that he saw the thing himself, he and his friends, even if it was just out of the corner of his eye.
I hope, sooner or later, he’ll believe me. I could use his help. Maybe Ralph is way ahead of me, but I’m thinking we should get the Fight Patrol back together. Father and son, this time. Multigenerational, get the retirees involved too.
Old farts of my generation, for reasons I don’t understand, like to wax nostalgic over their own false sense of superiority. We rode our bikes without helmets and had distant if not irresponsible parents. Yeah, yeah, what a load. I think every new generation is better than the last, because every generation is a progression from the last, Kids these days? They’ve got cell phones, with cameras. And helmet cams. GoPros you can attach to bikes. Doorbell cameras.
It seems the Hidebehind loathes being seen. This time around, with my grandfather’s spirit, my own memories, and my boy’s energy? I think this time we’re finally going to beat it.
submitted by Guilty_Chemistry9337 to EBDavis [link] [comments]


2023.06.01 01:33 User_3971 MHA/CCA/PSE/RCA: Skip the line! Career jobs posted within. 5-31 rollup.

Damn it, lost a day! Had Memorial Day off but got fucked (mandated to work) on Saturday. Threw off the timing. Super-rare Wednesday edition!
Good afternoon. Brief listing of CAREER JOBS pulled from usps.com/careers/ for your convenience. Tell HR User_3971 sent you, let's see if they pay more than .25¢ per head. NOTE: Maintenance jobs are drying up - the In Service Register may finally be seeing results for our already career people.
Some jobs may be part-time regular however all listed jobs should qualify for federal benefits from day one. To save text I have only listed the location and date of posting for each. Use the posting number for your search term. LC and MM are entry-level Maintenance. Here is a Maint overview and here is Exam 955 info. You can DO it!

NOTE: USPS NEVER charges a fee for entrance exams. If payment is requested during the application process, walk the fuck away, go to usps.com/careers/ and APPLY THERE. We even has a video walkthrough prepared.

Laborer Custodial:
CHARLEVOIX MI NC11370316 05/27/2023
OMAHA NE NC11369343 05/27/2023
SAN JOSE CA NC11365062 05/27/2023
KIRKLAND WA NC11367251 05/27/2023
COLUMBUS OH NC11371903 05/27/2023
FORT WASHAKIE WY NC11369073 05/27/2023
YUBA CITY CA NC11367214 05/25/2023
MOUNT IDA AR NC11361986 05/20/2023
BRATTLEBORO VT NC11374752 05/31/2023
BENTON HARBOR MI NC11371533 05/27/2023
PETALUMA CA NC11371537 05/27/2023
CATASAUQUA PA NC11371600 05/27/2023
EL CENTRO CA NC11371615 05/27/2023
HAMBURG PA NC11371700 05/27/2023
SAINT LOUIS MO NC11371707 05/27/2023
HAZELWOOD MO NC11371718 05/27/2023
WAUKESHA WI NC11371854 05/27/2023
GREEN BAY WI NC11371863 05/27/2023
SAINT LOUIS MO NC11371870 05/27/2023
AUSTIN TX NC11371871 05/27/2023
YUBA CITY CA NC11371908 05/27/2023
EAST HAMPTON NY NC11371909 05/27/2023
PEEKSKILL NY NC11371527 05/27/2023
PEEKSKILL NY NC11371421 05/27/2023
MACHIAS ME NC11371418 05/27/2023
SAN MATEO CA NC11371915 05/27/2023
WILLMAR MN NC11371410 05/27/2023
CUPERTINO CA NC11370120 05/27/2023
WARSAW IN NC11369259 05/27/2023
BISMARCK ND NC11369191 05/27/2023
DES MOINES IA NC11369059 05/27/2023
URBANDALE IA NC11369055 05/27/2023
DES MOINES IA NC11369050 05/27/2023
BUFFALO GROVE IL NC11368995 05/27/2023
SANTA ANA CA NC11365065 05/27/2023
CATASAUQUA PA NC11367255 05/25/2023
HAMBURG PA NC11367254 05/25/2023
WHITE RIVER JUNCTION VT NC11371417 05/27/2023
WEST CHICAGO IL NC11368968 05/27/2023

Maintenance Mechanic:
WEST PALM BEACH FL NC11367250 05/27/2023
PONTIAC MI NC11370630 05/27/2023
MINNEAPOLIS MN NC11371348 05/27/2023
NEW YORK NY NC11370543 05/27/2023
EAGAN MN NC11369434 05/27/2023
BIRMINGHAM AL NC11369105 05/27/2023
DES MOINES IA NC11369114 05/27/2023
WICHITA KS NC11369186 05/27/2023
PHOENIX AZ NC11364942 05/27/2023
JACKSONVILLE FL NC11370197 05/27/2023
HARRISBURG PA NC11369187 05/27/2023
COLUMBUS OH NC11370181 05/27/2023
CAROL STREAM IL NC11363416 05/27/2023
BOSTON MA NC11370175 05/27/2023
BETHPAGE NY NC11371414 05/27/2023
SAINT LOUIS MO NC11371828 05/27/2023
MEMPHIS TN NC11371737 05/27/2023
MELVILLE NY NC11371742 05/27/2023
JERSEY CITY NJ NC11371729 05/27/2023

Special! Interesting Maintenance Jobs: (may be skills required)

Maintenance Mechanic MPE:
FARGO ND NC11371325 05/27/2023
WEST FARGO ND NC11371173 05/27/2023
COLUMBUS OH NC11370161 05/27/2023
WHITE RIVER JUNCTION NC11371671 05/27/2023
EAGAN MN NC11369373 05/27/2023
WICHITA KS NC11369179 05/27/2023
MINNEAPOLIS MN NC11371319 05/27/2023
ELK GROVE VILLAGE IL NC11370043 05/27/2023

Building Equipment Mechanic:
FACILITY MAINTENANCE MECHANIC - MERRIFIELD VA NC11371531 05/27/2023
BELLMAWR NJ NC11368795 05/27/2023
MINNEAPOLIS MN NC11368549 05/27/2023

General Clerk VMF:
TULSA OK NC11367091 05/24/2023
MIAMI FL NC11365300 05/30/2023
WEST PALM BEACH FL NC11365247 05/30/2023

Tool & Parts Clerk:
MIAMI FL NC11365302 05/30/2023

Garage Assistant:
HOUSTON TX NC11368988 05/26/2023
Electronic Technician:
BROCKTON MA NC11370302 05/27/2023
ROCHESTER NY NC11371416 05/27/2023
ELK GROVE VILLAGE IL NC11370150 05/27/2023
JACKSON MS NC11366836 05/27/2023
TRENTON NJ NC11369363 05/27/2023

NON-Maintenance jerbs:

SALES,SVCS/DISTRIBUTION ASSOC:
LINDEN TN NC11359072 05/18/2023
OCEAN BEACH NY NC11370230 05/27/2023
LANAI CITY HI NC11363428 05/20/2023
DAYTON TX NC11362387 05/22/2023
MEMPHIS MO NC11370238 05/29/2023
JACKMAN ME NC11367260 05/25/2023
ILIAMNA AK NC11371701 05/27/2023
CHENOA IL NC11361153 05/19/2023
BUNA TX NC11362381 05/22/2023
BOLINAS CA NC11368368 05/25/2023
PRESIDIO TX NC11360896 05/19/2023
PALACIOS TX NC11362377 05/22/2023
KOTZEBUE AK NC11371704 05/27/2023
ROCKSPRINGS TX NC11361161 05/19/2023
MILLERSBURG PA NC11370506 05/27/2023
EAGLE BUTTE SD NC11367304 05/29/2023
S YARMOUTH MA NC11370685 05/27/2023
CHARLESTON TN NC11371307 05/27/2023
BERRYVILLE AR NC11360673 05/19/2023
RANDLE WA NC11367126 05/24/2023
PECONIC NY NC11370190 05/27/2023
MARSHALL AR NC11360674 05/19/2023
ELK MOUND WI NC11369091 05/25/2023
BOW WA NC11367586 05/25/2023
BASSETT NE NC11366996 05/24/2023
ADDY WA NC11367447 05/25/2023
WEST CHATHAM MA NC11368584 05/27/2023
WEBBERVILLE MI NC11360764 05/19/2023
PONCE DE LEON FL NC11367045 05/24/2023
MARENGO IL NC11369368 05/26/2023
KETCHIKAN AK NC11373327 05/30/2023
HOMEWOOD CA NC11368364 05/25/2023
HIGHLAND MD NC11372890 05/30/2023
FLANDREAU SD NC11367252 05/25/2023
BELGIUM WI NC11366636 05/24/2023
BATH MI NC11360766 05/19/2023
LOS GATOS CA NC11368369 05/26/2023
EDGECOMB ME NC11367253 05/25/2023

City Carrier:
OAKLAND CA NC11365498 05/28/2023
PITTSBURGH PA NC11365454 05/28/2023
AURORA CO NC11365555 05/28/2023
BARRINGTON IL NC11370311 05/29/2023
CAMBRIDGE MA NC11370380 05/27/2023
CINCINNATI OH NC11365482 05/28/2023
COLUMBUS OH NC11365496 05/28/2023
COVINGTON KY NC11371919 05/27/2023
DENVER CO NC11366882 05/28/2023
DULUTH MN NC11362480 05/30/2023
EAST PALO ALTO CA NC11368607 05/26/2023
FREMONT CA NC11370500 05/27/2023
HALF MOON BAY CA NC11367133 05/25/2023
HOPKINS MN NC11367637 05/25/2023
JAMAICA PLAIN MA NC11365301 05/28/2023
KANSAS CITY MO NC11365461 05/28/2023
LONGMONT CO NC11364941 05/30/2023
MENLO PARK CA NC11367127 05/25/2023
MINNEAPOLIS MN NC11365468 05/28/2023
MISSION KS NC11366896 05/28/2023
REDWOOD CITY CA NC11367129 05/25/2023
RICHMOND CA NC11361984 05/24/2023
RICHMOND CA NC11370511 05/27/2023
SAN FRANCISCO CA NC11365552 05/28/2023
SANTA BARBARA CA NC11371344 05/27/2023
WALTHAM MA NC11365314 05/28/2023
WATERTOWN WI NC11367306 05/24/2023
WESTMINSTER CO NC11372881 05/30/2023
WESTMINSTER CO NC11372888 05/31/2023
WHEAT RIDGE CO NC11372884 05/30/2023
WOBURN MA NC11370383 05/27/2023
BURLINGAME CA NC11367093 05/25/2023
DENVER CO NC11365625 05/28/2023
FORT DODGE IA NC11367454 05/31/2023
GLENSHAW PA NC11367256 05/26/2023
SAN BRUNO CA NC11367213 05/25/2023
SCOTTDALE PA NC11367257 05/26/2023
ALBANY NY NC11370227 05/27/2023
BELMONT CA NC11366923 05/25/2023
CONCORD NH NC11370243 05/27/2023
DENVER CO NC11365557 05/28/2023
FLORENCE KY NC11371918 05/27/2023
LAKEWOOD CO NC11366843 05/28/2023
LOS GATOS CA NC11368374 05/26/2023
LOUISVILLE KY NC11365467 05/28/2023
LOWELL MA NC11370408 05/27/2023
MADISON WI NC11365493 05/28/2023
MOUNT HOREB WI NC11368738 05/26/2023
SAINT PAUL MN NC11365480 05/28/2023
SAN MATEO CA NC11367212 05/25/2023
SOUTH BEND IN NC11370168 05/26/2023
UNION GROVE WI NC11368781 05/26/2023
ASPEN CO NC11369062 05/26/2023
BELVEDERE TIBURON CA NC11372865 05/30/2023
BILLERICA MA NC11370249 05/27/2023
BILLINGS MT NC11367481 05/25/2023
BOULDER CO NC11353373 05/28/2023
BOULDER CO NC11365053 05/29/2023
CEDARBURG WI NC11367207 05/24/2023
CHELSEA MA NC11365307 05/28/2023
COHOES NY NC11367097 05/29/2023
CORTE MADERA CA NC11372872 05/30/2023
CRESSON PA NC11367258 05/26/2023
FARGO ND NC11366936 05/29/2023
INDIANAPOLIS IN NC11365459 05/28/2023
LACONIA NH NC11370526 05/27/2023
LAWRENCE MA NC11370401 05/27/2023
LITTLETON CO NC11366840 05/28/2023
MALDEN MA NC11365310 05/28/2023
MILLBRAE CA NC11367211 05/25/2023
NEWPORT KY NC11372004 05/27/2023
NORTHGLENN CO NC11366639 05/28/2023
PACIFICA CA NC11367168 05/25/2023
SAN CARLOS CA NC11367164 05/25/2023
SAN JOSE CA NC11365554 05/28/2023
SANTA CLARA CA NC11368650 05/26/2023
SARATOGA SPRINGS NY NC11367451 05/27/2023
SUNNYVALE CA NC11368652 05/26/2023
WATERTOWN WI NC11367220 05/24/2023
CENTRAL SEATTLE WA NC11366942 05/28/2023
NORTH SEATTLE WA NC11366940 05/28/2023
SOUTH SEATTLE WA NC11366849 05/28/2023

Rural Carrier:
KNOXVILLE TN NC11372862 05/30/2023
GORHAM ME NC11370153 05/26/2023
BARRINGTON NH NC11370412 05/27/2023
BRIGHTON CO NC11372903 05/30/2023
AMERY WI NC11370225 05/26/2023

Motor Vehicle Operator:
ALBANY NY P&DC NC11371435 05/27/2023
DVD BLDG NJ P&DC NC11371439 05/27/2023
OAKLAND CA P&DC NC11371661 05/27/2023
RALEIGH NC P&DC NC11371445 05/27/2023
SEATTLE WA P&DC NC11371654 05/27/2023
MORGAN NY P&DC NC11371442 05/27/2023
PORTLAND OR P&DC NC11371664 05/27/2023
SAN JOSE CA P&DC NC11371658 05/27/2023
SAN JUAN PR P&DC NC11371880 05/27/2023
MARGARET SELLERS P&DC NC11371651 05/27/2023

Tractor Trailer Operator:
LANCASTER PA P&DC NC11371431 05/27/2023
NEW JERSEY NDC NC11358892 05/27/2023
NORTH READING P&DC NC11371432 05/27/2023
SPRINGFIELD NDC NC11371434 05/27/2023
MICHIGAN METROPLEX MI P&DC NC11371623 05/27/2023
SALT LAKE CITY UT P&DC NC11371617 05/27/2023
SAN FRANCISCO CA P&DC NC11371542 05/27/2023
CAROL STREAM IL P&DC NC11371705 05/27/2023
DENVER CO P&DC NC11371611 05/27/2023
KCMO MO P&DC NC11371703 05/27/2023
OAKLAND CA P&DC NC11371538 05/27/2023
SAN FRANCISCO NDC NC11371541 05/27/2023
SEATTLE WA P&DC NC11371547 05/27/2023
SEATTLE WA P&DC NC11371601 05/27/2023
TACOMA WA P&DC NC11371609 05/27/2023
DES MOINES IA P&DC NC11371702 05/27/2023
EVANSVILLE IN P&DC NC11371709 05/27/2023
DVD BLDG NJ P&DC NC11354736 05/27/2023
SYRACUSE NY P&DC NC11371433 05/27/2023
NORTHERN NJ P&DC NC11358893 05/27/2023

No experience necessary for the laborer custodial or maintenance mechanic positions. It helps on the interview but you can surely think of maintenance related experience to relay for an interview. Based on fixing things around your house, the car etc. Always mention working safely.

Pro tip: You can apply for any job that has an exam opening and the test is administered local to yourself. Make sure you're serious and score decently; you can turn down the job offer. Keep a physical copy of your exam score, I believe they are good for two years.
The reason is: These job postings can be posted externally at capacity for testing, meaning they will not allow you to take the exam if they have enough qualified applicants. However, if you have a test score on the books, you are a qualified applicant.

Explanation of MVO/TTO to save time:
MVO= CDL B Can only drive box trucks on public roads, can drive anything for moves on postal property.
TTO= CDL A Can drive anything.

USPS provides the training. (Maintenance jobs at least. TTO and management...GOOD LUCK)

You don't have to be crazy to work here. We'll train you. Everything but proper email usage.
submitted by User_3971 to USPS [link] [comments]


2023.06.01 00:49 jaronmudd Found this at work. I was 7 when it was published. I have also never worked with anything older than slc 500. But some great refresher things! Anyone taken this course?

Found this at work. I was 7 when it was published. I have also never worked with anything older than slc 500. But some great refresher things! Anyone taken this course?
I decided to actually start reading it. And going through the steps on 500 which is shockingly very similar to the og 5. Waste of time? Likely, but learning something new is never bad in my opinion. Even if it is legacy.
submitted by jaronmudd to PLC [link] [comments]


2023.05.31 16:38 Extreme-Medicine4564 Clarity....

I think something needs to be clarified...
Jamie has had ZERO to do with anything that has occurred. PERIOD. And, going after her, or Margaret, or anyone else is simply wrong.
The entire issue began as a result of ODA being contacted about the potential of a visitors permit to Ohio for family needs. From there, ODA did their work, and nothing more.
No one made a claim of a dangerous animal in anyway. In Ohio, according to state laws, banned animals are classifed as DWA, Dangerous Wild Animals. No one spoke of that.
ODA has been watching all of the videos and info since the date they were contacted for the visitors permit.
In Ohio you can get a permit for DWA, however, you cannot get that permit if the animals are in possession prior to issuance. You also are allowed to visit in state for 48 hours, but only if your primary residence is located outside of the state of Ohio, and according to Ohio ordinance that out of state residence must be where your drivers license and taxes are filed. All of this can be verified by simply speaking to any representative at ODA. The only other exception for such animals if for deaf and blind individuals whoo's animals have come from one of a couple of chosen organizations approved by ODA. These are the laws.
Ohio sets the temperature for all of the exotics world, thanks to Jack Hannah, Zanesville and multiple other issues over the years.
Lots of facts are being skewed and misrepresented. There are 47 minutes of unseen footage from that day. Mike King and the other officers present on that day can be reached for verification. However, a report to be obtained by FOIA cannot be completed until the case is closed. That will not occur until the ordinances and laws are in compliance for the parties involved. However, with other misrepresented facts, you can FOIA the report on Eric, aka RICO, and find the facts, which do not match the stories being told. The same is true of the investigation and facts of Union Ridge, of which you can also contact the OSA for further information.
It is easy when emotions are high to jump on a band wagon. I have made it very clear to ODA and the officers, while my name has long been on the list of approved out of state options for primates, I have zero interest in these animals. I do not need or want anyone else's animals. The same was true with Rico. I housed Mike, his vervet, for 3 months until he was able to satisfy the requirements of ODA, during which time I was accountable and in constant contact with ODA to meet their requirements for temporary care. Including working direct with the Tennessee Dept of Ag and USFW for documentation and veterinary care. reported direct to Dr. Alex McCourt during that time, as well as Jason King, the head of Enforcement in Ohio.
All of this can be verified by simply speaking to ODA, and requested a FOIA of Rico. I was also always in contact with ODA during the messy interactions and duration of attempting to help Union Ridge.
In my 3 interactions in Ohio, the only success was helping Rico. Union Ridge was a mess, and Jason King warned me prior to my involvement to stay away. Because I am one to rescue and help no matter what and I saw some potential in the situation, I forged ahead, a mistake that was hard to handle in my reputation and work.
My greatest mistake is always helping no matter the cost. For those picking at SPARTN, the work we have done is as a support to multiple individuals, facilities and more. Those did include Union Ridge and Rico. They have included the Wildlife Way Station, Christina's work in Ecuador, multiple ongoing projects in Texas and Florida. All of the information regarding SPARTN and the audited financials are available upon request from the 990's at the IRS.
All of the documentation of these things is available for anyone.
Melissa, I am sorry for what you have faced and are facing. While I believe many of the purported facts are not aligned with what y understanding is.... I believe you are determined to find a way. My intent has never been to cause such as shit storm, or to hurt a family. However, I am not in control of the
Choosing to report me and my work to any agency or group will prove a headache for sure. But, it will pose a danger, a direct danger to other monkey families who are not in legal areas. The agencies who have been contacted, and some by myself to preclude the possible reports by those in this feed, have been given access to my full records, phone info, texts and more. And the things in those records could be potentially damaging to others, as contrary to popular opinion here, I have not reported or tried to take anyone's animals. When you FOIA, when those documents are available, while I did speak to ODA, you will find in these purported incidents, I am not the person(s) who filed any official report or complaint.
When it comes to the governance of Monkeys, it is State to State and County to County. USDA only regulates the care, breeding and exhibition of the animals in places where the local laws allow and support. The ALDF and PETA are leading the charge to close down more and more of these freedoms. ALDF is the pressure behind USDA to regulate social media, and USDA and USFW, along with state agencies, have entire groups who monitor social media. When they identify individuals who they believe are in violation they track and contact those individuals using the GPS/Geotagging data available in content posted online. In May of 2022, I was contacted directly by the USDA, the were able to find my info and sent a registered letter to notify me that I must come into compliance. The same happened with Rico and many others who have a presence online. This is going to increase.
Attacking and being cruel to those who are my friends is a cheap, low brow display of character. I would ask that any and all of you please step away from any criticism of Jamie, Margaret, BossMom and any others whom I consider friends. If you choose to be upset with me, then have your go, but the others have had literally nothing to do with any of the things to which you have complained. So, be human beings with the amount of charity and compassion you claim I am missing, and offer that to my friends....
While I am addressing all manner of items. I realize how the posts on twitter are misconstrued for what someone feels.... but context is everything. I do not have a single issue with folks who are fat. I have a deep issue with building this culture to celebrate being obese as a beautiful standard... Because it is dangerous and deadly for many. I can't stand that. I cannot stand the Transexual mania cult, the kind that fights to mutilate kids for "affirming care"... Kids, and even those in their early 20's barely have the ability to understand being sterilized and having their bodies changed by surgery and hormones. And I have watched lives wrecked and destroyed, and my trans friends agree with me. It would be smarter for many to have context, but I will take responsibility for making posts that may have felt unkind in your eyes.
Guys, I have not been in here, and refuse to read in here.... So I will not be back to respond... But wanted to speak to things, and mostly make the request that you all stop any attacks and action towards Jamie, Margaret, Bossmom and others. Thanks for reading, have a great Wednesday!
~Michael
submitted by Extreme-Medicine4564 to fullersmonkeybunch [link] [comments]


2023.05.31 15:25 whitespadex How To Get 50+ Hot Leads & Sales Meetings Per Week Using High Intent Customer Targeting (FACEBOOK ADS)

Wanna know how I generate 50+ hot sales calls for multiple business owners & their sales teams every week? Read this 👇
Everything comes down to Targeting.
If you’re running a specialized B2B business, or home remodeling, solar, luxury real estate etc. etc… do you think you can really go broad?
Absolutely not!
The folks that are promoting the “broad targeting” approach in this sub are experts in mass market goods, fashion accessories etc.
But if you want to sell a $20M penthouse… or if you want to sell a 6-figure enterprise software deal… do you really think you can go broad?
There are so many of you running specialized businesses that broad targeting is just not going to work for you…
But interest targeting doesn’t always work great either…
So in this post I’m gonna reveal my secret “custom” targeting mechanism that I’ve been using for over 3 years… and I’ve been getting HIGH QUALITY appointments for $25-$30 per quality sales meeting.
And you can get the same results if you follow everything I've written here.

If you’ve been in this sub for a while… you’ll know that a lot of Business owners, Founders & CEOs know me as the force behind generating qualified sales meetings for “big ticket” products & services… all through Facebook Ads.
Which cannot be refuted considering I’ve produced over $55M in sales for my clients in a short period.
Business owners in this sub have reported TRIPLE growth in net profits simply from reading & applying my posts here on Reddit…
One beginner to Facebook Ads sent me a DM the other day telling me how he signed 3 high ticket clients in just 2 weeks after reading my book…
What most people don’t know is HOW I make this happen using a very simple targeting system, a simple funnel & simple advertising formula.
Nothing complicated about it.

Last month, I launched 13 brand new accounts with no prior advertising history - by EOM (end-of-month) each of them reported an avg. 1000% jump in pipeline value…
EACH of these businesses are talking to MORE prospects than ever before - which resulted in significant revenue jump.
So, how do I do it? It’s obviously the TARGETING that I was talking about…
But let’s’ go over some fundamentals first! Because nothing can beat the fundamentals…
Once you have your fundamentals in place… we will use my custom targeting method to get you QUALIFIED sales meetings for cheap!
By fundamentals I mean, you need to focus on building TRUST & AUTHORITY upfront.
… so by the time they’re on a call with you, they’re already sold on your service.
People only buy from people they trust..

So essentially 3 things need to happen:
✔️Weed out bad prospects upfront ✔️Create trust & establish authority to pull good prospects only ✔️Scale this lead flow using ads.
We will go over the custom targeting mechanism in this post, be patient!
Let’s just explore the fundamentals of marketing first.

FUNDAMENTALS FIRST
1) Write long form sales letters:
This has been the number #1 weapon in my arsenal since 2019.
From writing sales letters alone I was able to produce $4M in cash for myself… … and $55M for clients in 3 years.
While the majority of the market uses long-form sales letter to sell low-ticket items… I use them to generate “high-ticket” sales meetings.
And with just $50-$100 per day in ad spend I’m able to pull 2-5 sales meetings per day…
If you can spend $500/day on ads, with my method you’ll be doing 40-50 sales calls per week!
And if you sales process is rock solid with a minimum of 30% closing rate on cold traffic - you could be doing $75,000 a week…

This is the EXACT process I have used to generate numbers like:
… and the list is endless.
I use no webinars, no lead magnets, no long-term email nurtures, no low-ticket items, no lead-form ads… in fact, EVERYTHING I do goes AGAINST conventional advice…
… and the results speak for themselves.
I have ONLY used the Sales Letter Method for every single client (and served over 217+ clients)… in 37+ industries…
And it works every single time.
(In the next few days I’ll be writing out an end-to-end training on exactly HOW to write a sales letter for generates mega-profits)

The only substitute for this is a 5-7 min VSL… but if you don’t have rock solid camera presence it’s hard to make this work.. VSLs also take time to build & test.
That’s why we focus on sales letters - Long form being key.
Use timeless direct response marketing fundamentals to educate your prospects & position your offer as a unique solution in the market.
When you use “educational” marketing, you’re not only weeding out bad prospects (people who never take action) but you’re also showcasing your expertise.. This is the foundation of establishing authority.
We call them sales letters- but there’s nothing “salesy” about them at all.
It’s content marketing redefined for “cold traffic ads”.

2) There are 2 elements I use - HOW & WHY:
The HOW & WHY is typically called “reason-why” marketing.
Some of the most legendary copywriters in the world have taught me how to do this… but basically, when you use “reason-why” marketing in your ads, your campaigns just become a whole lot tighter, more efficient and WAY more high converting.

3) Build trust & authority:
I then back my claims with high impact case studies & testimonials..
Projecting social proof is key.
You need to write out your case studies in a way that backs your claims & helps your ideal clients see how your process has helped tons of other people.
The minute you add substantial proof to your letters you’re going to get SERIOUS interest from qualified prospects.
The reason why most advertising today fails is because there’s just NOT enough trust.
Lastly, once your messaging is validated you need to start scaling your Lead Flow on FB using a custom targeting framework… I’ll show you how to scale to up to 50 hot sales meetings per day.

Shortly in this post I’ll talk about:
Ads are easy. Getting the right offer & message in front of your ideal clients should be your main focus.

And now, for the targeting method…

HERE’S THE SECRET CUSTOM TARGETING METHOD FOR 50+ SALES MEETINGS PER WEEK USING FACEBOOK ADS…
I will go a bit more detailed here just on the Facebook side of things.
In my previous posts I’ve written about how to create & position your offer… I’ve also written a lot about copy & messaging, how to use that to bring your offer to life etc. etc.
Once you have those fundamentals in place, you really need to focus on buying Ads on Facebook properly.

**TARGETING*\*
Now let’s talk about your targeting. How to target your IDEAL customers on Facebook?
Targeting has been a huge issue for advertisers for a very very long time…
Facebook’s greatest asset used to be it’s ease of laser targeting your prospects..
Unfortunately, this didn’t sit well with the FTC and ever since the Cambridge Analytica scandal FB’s targeting capabilities have been on a downward trend.
They started removing Targeting options by the thousands every single day… then they got rid of “Audience Insights” which used to be a great tool to do market research to target your ideal prospects…
AND to finally make matters worse, Apple updated their privacy policy and ever since they did that, the pixel broke. Which means the pixel doesn’t do any of the heavy lifting like it used to before.

SO WHAT DO YOU DO?
You need to understand how targeting works on FB today…
Most people who will tell you to go broad are only advertising mass market goods like fashion accessories and clothing etc.
But what do you do when you have a SPECIFIC B2B business? Can you go broad?
Absolutely NOT!

WELCOME TO HIGH INTENT TARGETING
You need to use targeting, but interest targeting alone will not work… there is another type of targeting that not many ppl know of.
It’s called Advanced custom targeting based on High-Intent… and this is possible on Facebook too (not just Google)… but you need to know how to use code, and you’ll need FB Developer tools and you’ll need to know how to use the API to send a 2-way sync between your code and FB audiences.
FB still has large data sets that are untapped… (and inaccessible via interest targeting)…
There is a way to scrape members from within FB pages and FB Friends lists.. and create custom audience CSV files…
You then run those custom CSV lists through a software like Sniper Leads - and it will fetch you EMAILS & PHONES of those users, you export that to another CSV file…
Now you’ll have a MASTER CSV list of names, phones & emails of your TARGETED high intent prospects (considering you’ve scraped the right profiles) on Facebook…
Through a software like that it will easily match 90-95% of those users… as the software will ONLY scrape public data sets from FB.
So when you upload this CSV file to your Ad account audience you will now have almost a 100% match rate.

Here’s how I do it:
1) Depending on the niche I’m targeting I will make a massive list of minimum 100k user profiles. 2) Now I have a massive CSV file of 100k+ prospects. 3) You run it through a software like Sniper Leads and it will grab at least 80-90% emails & phones. 4) If I’m not satisfied with the result I just repeat the process and add more profiles. 5) Ultimately I am aiming for 100k-200k contacts in CSV list with FB detected emails & phones. 6) You then export this list from the software. 7) Now upload it to your Ad account audiences and you should get a 95-100% match rate. 8) So now you have a TARGETED list of 100k-200k contacts in your audiences that you can target. 9) Next, I create a 1-2% lookalike audience of this highly targeted list. 10) Now we have a PRIME audience to target with our Ads.

Targeting is the MOST important aspect that everybody overlooks.
If you’re just stacking your targeting with multiple interests you’re not going to get great results…
I mean you’ll get leads, but they won’t convert very well…
Also your cost per lead & cost per acquisition will be very high.
You need to make sure your targeting is on point.. and for this you can easily use a software like Sniper OR you can just create one yourself…
If you know how to write some code, it’s not very difficult to create a scraping software like this and you’ll be up and running in under 7 days with your new tool.

FACEBOOK ADS
Once you have your targeting set… and you’ve got a great offer, great copy, great ads etc…
The FB setup itself is very easy… I’ve written a lot on my 1 CBO, 1 Ad Set and 1 Creative system many times before..
Here you’ll see how 1 CBO brings 200+ leads per month!
Good luck!
submitted by whitespadex to FacebookAds [link] [comments]


2023.05.31 00:40 Dry_College_9727 I’m an internet troll. ask me anything!

i regularly troll quora, reddit, instagram, snapchat, tiktok, facebook, and i prank call a lot. ive prank called dozens of tatoo parlors, hundreds of delis in ohio, hundreds of other random restaurants, i also troll my friends by harassing them on other accounts or phone numbers. ask me anything!
submitted by Dry_College_9727 to AMA [link] [comments]


2023.05.30 20:22 seannestor Following departure of controversial pastor, Epworth United Methodist tries to rebuild - Toledo Blade 5/28/23

https://www.toledoblade.com/news/religion/2023/05/28/controversial-pastor-epworth-united-methodist-rebuild/stories/20230514024
A church doesn’t just implode overnight.
At Epworth United Methodist Church, founded in Toledo in 1894, members felt they lost power to their pastor years ago.
The sudden March closure of Epworth Preschool was the boiling point for concerns that had been simmering since the first formal complaint against then-pastor Stephen Swisher was filed in 2021.
Two years and a wave of recent filings later, Mr. Swisher left the church on May 1. Bishop Gregory Palmer of the West Ohio Conference of the United Methodist Church confirmed that Mr. Swisher voluntarily withdrew from ministry in the UMC and is no longer a United Methodist pastor.
The Ottawa Hills church is the largest United Methodist congregation in the Toledo area, though members said regular attendance has declined in light of recent disputes surrounding the preschool and church leadership.
Mr. Swisher said in an April 23 interview that his decision was not related to the divisions within the church surrounding the preschool. He did not return phone calls and emails requesting additional comment.
Parents and congregants, however, say they see a correlation.
“Technically he's voluntarily leaving because the other option is he had to go to trial,” said Chase Peavy, a former Epworth Preschool parent.
Under the UMC Book of Discipline, if a formal complaint is filed for a chargeable offense, the bishop must conduct a review and implement a resolution.
“If a clergy person chooses, at any point, to withdraw from The United Methodist Ministry, the authority of the church ceases,” the bishop said in an email. That means the UMC can no longer adjudicate the complaints.
Formal complaints
In 2021, a group of members sent a formal complaint backed by 98 signatures to Bishop Palmer, alleging “misconduct or unsatisfactory performance of ministerial duties” of Mr. Swisher. He arrived at Epworth in April, 2020, and restructured church leadership that November.
One complaint, sent on Nov. 10, 2021, “challenge[s] the legitimacy” of a Nov. 12, 2020, meeting that served as a charge conference.
The United Methodist Church instructs that churches hold an annual charge conference, which directs the church mission, budgets, and elects council members. Church members are to be notified of the time and place of a charge conference at least 10 days in advance through at least two means of communication, according to the Book of Discipline.
The complaint states that many church members were unaware of the charge conference because it “had not been announced in the Tower [newsletter], weekly bulletin, or by mail.”
Cindy Franklin, a former office staff member of 13 years, was acting communications manager during the fall of 2020.
“I am the sole person that wrote, printed, and published all publications and I was told specifically to REMOVE ANY WORDING of ‘Charge Conference’ from all publications,” Ms. Franklin wrote in an April 10 formal complaint to Bishop Palmer.
The meeting was instead marketed as a Thursday evening service with then-district superintendent Scot Ocke as the guest speaker, according to the November, 2020, issue of the church newsletter. The December issue offers a “charge conference update,” listing issues that were voted on, including “Lay Leadership Teams/Action teams alignment and assignments.”
Ms. Franklin said Mr. Swisher dismantled a few volunteer committees and rebranded the remaining ones as action teams. She was one of an estimated 50 individuals who had been removed from a committee position. Mr. Swisher also handpicked his personal leadership team, narrowing a 54-person administrative council to a 13-person leadership team, Ms. Franklin said, noting that “every change since then is null and void because the way he got his leadership is inappropriate.”
Epworth staff declined to comment on the record.
“The November 2021 complaint was dismissed after a plan was implemented,” Bishop Palmer wrote in a statement. “The concerns in the complaint were addressed. They included but were not limited to deploying Annual Conference staff with particular skills to assist Epworth staff and congregation in dealing effectively with some internal matters.”
Lynne Saunders, who’s been an Epworth member for around 15 years, said the conference’s response was to “send in a team to coach [Mr. Swisher] and leadership on how to treat people.”
In August, 2022, letters were sent to District Superintendent Amy Haines with concerns related to Epworth Preschool finances and leadership.
The silence from UMC leadership in response to these messages, Ms. Saunders wrote in a Nov. 20, 2022, email to Ms. Haines, was “deafening.”
A number of letters and formal complaints, one of which attached 90 additional documents and exhibits, were again sent to the conference in March and April, following the sudden March 9 firing of director Jane Lyon and March 10 closure of Epworth Preschool.
Two complaints have been filed with the Ohio Attorney General, dated March 24 and April 27, alleging potential fraud and potential solicitation, according to the obtained documents. The office could neither confirm nor deny whether an investigation is or could be underway.
The United Methodist Church requires an annual audit of each of its churches. Bishop Palmer said in his joint statement with Ms. Haines that a 2022 audit is in the process of being conducted by an outside firm.
Epworth Preschool
Former members of the preschool board, which was abruptly disbanded in August, 2022, say $110,000 of preschool money is unaccounted for. They shared some financial documents with The Blade.
“It’s always been about the money, control, and power of the money,” said Ms. Saunders, who was preschool board chair.
Multiple members of Epworth’s staff declined to comment on the situation at the preschool.
Records show that the school’s account balance at the end of calendar year 2021 was just more than $63,000. Melinda Davis, former school board treasurer, said statements not provided to the board until the summer showed a starting balance of $0 for January, 2022. The account balance at the end of 2022 was $47,000, she said, with a starting balance of $0 in January, 2023.
Not seeing the money in the preschool account indicated it had been absorbed by the church, Ms. Davis said. For 40 years, the preschool had had a separate bank account from the church.
Surplus money would typically carry over to the next year, Ms. Davis said. The surplus was higher than usual these years because of federal COVID relief grant money that Epworth Preschool received through the Ohio Department of Jobs and Family Services. She said the grants were $22,500 in 2020, $13,000 in 2021, and nearly $23,000 in 2022.
“It is a CRIME to use federal educational grant money (which the director secured for use in the preschool) for anything but education,” a former church member wrote in the March 24 complaint to the attorney general.
In the summer of 2022, board members needed to see the school’s finances in order to make the budget for the coming school year. Ms. Saunders said she “demanded” the church turn over the records, which board members hadn’t received from the church since that January. A staff member informed Ms. Saunders and Ms. Lyon over the phone that the preschool monies were being absorbed into the church money, Ms. Saunders recalled, noting that it was never communicated in writing.
On Aug. 16, preschool board members received an email stating that Epworth’s leadership team had voted the night before “to dissolve and disband the Epworth Preschool Board, effective immediately.”
Because the board was dismantled, the email stated, Ms. Lyon was elevated to report directly to Mr. Swisher. Epworth memos to the parents state Mr. Swisher did not fire Ms. Lyon, and parents have received inconsistent messages regarding why Ms. Lyon was fired.
Ms. Lyon could not be reached for comment.
The church confirmed it is working toward reopening the preschool for the fall.
Parents confirmed they have received refunds for the remainder of the spring as well as their deposits for the coming fall.
Many former Epworth families are turning to Olivet Lutheran Church’s preschool in Sylvania, which is opening a new class for the fall to fill a need it saw in the community.
“We had people on a waitlist and then when [Epworth] families started calling, we saw the greater need for the whole community to open up another class,” said Olivet Christian Nursery School director Jennifer Crooks. “We're here to support them as new Olivet families.”
Epworth Preschool’s closure has allowed familiar faces to become friends, as parents came together both to seek truth and to plan daytime activities for their kids.
“This has been something in the right direction,” parent Christina Gondol said while one of her two sons and several other kids were in a group tutoring session.
Good has also come out of this, she added, in preventing a similar situation from happening in another community.
“If they would have gotten [Mr. Swisher] removed two years ago, they would have pushed him to another church,” Ms. Gondol said. “It had to come to this to get him all the way out.”
Healing and looking ahead
Members who had stepped away from Epworth started to come back on May 7, the first Sunday since Mr. Swisher left, according to the Rev. Stephen Bennett, who will serve as interim pastor through the end of June. He’s been attending and volunteering with the church for four years.
Pastor Bennett said there’s new excitement and positivity.
Epworth will augment its leadership teams with additional members, Pastor Bennett said, and is looking to rebuild some of the “previous committees that had been dissolved.”
He added that transparency is a “major goal” and acknowledged that “it’s been pretty opaque.”
Ms. Saunders said Epworth leadership must disclose information from the past three years in order to regain individuals’ faith in the church.
“The future of Epworth will be determined by what is revealed of the time Epworth was led by [Stephen] Swisher and the actions of those around him who had the power and responsibility to stop his misdeeds,” she wrote in an email. “Anything less will be fateful.”
As communication opens up, Pastor Bennett said, the congregation can begin to heal.
“Healing means coming back together,” Pastor Bennett said. “We’re going to get to work, and I think as people see their church returning to what they experienced previously that brought them there, that healing will begin to take place.”
submitted by seannestor to toledo [link] [comments]


2023.05.30 18:55 121mhz Update 2: My friend asked me to help pickup his plane.... still no news

Update 2
Sorry for being radio silent for the past few weeks, I have been hoping to post the update once the plane was returned to its rightful owner, but that hasn’t happened. My work got busy and this issue is dragging on so there isn’t much to report on. Honestly, if I read a novel where this happened, I wouldn’t have believed it because it’s all just so absurd.
If you haven’t read the past posts, please do. I’ve only posted to Reddit and Beechtalk but others, including the owner, have posted to other sites. As a note, a third party who is NOT involved coincidently has the same name as one of the parties. James Gallagher (Gallagher Aviation) is a Whelen lights dealer in Ohio and NOT the same James Gallagher (Aviation Technologies Inc) in this story. Unfortunately, he’s had some negative emails sent to him and I want to make sure everyone realizes the James Gallagher from this story isn’t the same.
To recap quickly, my buddy hired an avionics shop last year, agreed to an estimated cost, dropped the plane off in early December, accepted delay after delay, paid the $75K avionics bill in early May and asked me to give him a ride to Scranton PA, KAVP, to pickup his airplane after the avionics shop finished their work on his panel. Unfortunately, the mechanic shop in the same hangar hit him with an absurd $18K bill for additional work that they completed without his request and the shop owner went crazy and called the cops and parked a tug in front of the plane. Now my friend seems to be caught up in this argument with the owner of Aviation Technologies, the shop and FBO at AVP, trying to get his plane back. The players in the story are My buddy, the owner of the plane. Matt Jensen, the owner(?) of Airport Radio inc the avionics shop; he’s also the avionics tech and this is the shop that my buddy contracted to do the work; it seems like Airport Radio rents space in the same hangar as Aviation Technologies Inc. Kris Cerretani, the A&P mechanic and employee of Aviation Technologies Inc; he’s the guy who, by his own admission, went overboard in the work he did on the plane. James Gallagher (not the Whelen guy) who owns (?) Aviation Technologies Inc and likes to put his hands on propellers moments before pilots are about to start them.
New to the story are the lawyers… of course. My Buddy’s lawyer is also a pilot and is trying to help get the plane back. Gallagher’s lawyer is Ernest D. Preate, Jr. who, if the Wikipedia article (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernie_Preate) is correct, was the Pennsylvania Attorney General before being convicted of federal racketeering and mail fraud and sentenced to prison. You can’t make this shit up!
Since the last update, my buddy’s lawyer has been trying to work with Preate and/or get the police to take the case, but the local DA / ADA sees the name of the lawyer on the other side and his credentials and “is scared of the next election.” Basically, James Gallagher and his lawyer seem rather well connected with the local establishment and “the good ole boys club” seems to have no interest in helping out my buddy. There have been threats of charges from both sides, but the police seem to not be involved. According to my buddy, Preate doesn’t answer the phone ever and only replies to email between 4 and 6PM so as to avoid having to answer anything the same day. Seems like a tactic to respond so late in the day as the courts have already closed and most people have gone home for the day.
On Monday May 15th, Gallagher accused my buddy of punching him and the tug driver when Gallagher had his hand on the prop. This was, obviously, a stalling tactic because when my buddy asked for the video of the incident, Gallagher’s lawyer produced it. It shows my buddy push Gallagher off the prop and get in the way of the tug driver but both his hands are clearly visible and he never swung a punch. That jives with my recollection of the incident from the pilot’s seat. My buddy is 6 foot tall, 250 pounds and practices martial arts, if he swung at anybody they would’ve been on the ground for a long time and this story would be very different. I would LOVE to post the video, but it’s not mine and I don’t have a copyright release for it so my buddy thinks it’s a bad idea to post it. If Gallagher gives a release, I’ll link it here, but I think everyone agrees that time is better spent on getting the plane back to its rightful owner.
As to the justification for why the mechanic went crazy and did a ton of work, well that’s another part of the story that is just unbelievable. According to Preate “attached are 2 “quote” documents describing deficiencies of the aircraft, … None of these were specifically objected to by [my buddy] and he knew that the work had to be accomplished for safety reasons, and that Kris Cerretani was an FAA Airframe and Power plant mechanic and FAA inspector. Your client would constantly say “I want my aircraft done right.” And “I don’t want to take chances with my life.” … There is no way Kris, FAA certified, and in this business for over 25 years, could interpret those words as anything but approval to do the job correctly.” So, if you say you want the work done right and safely, you’re authorizing an A&P to do everything in his power to bill you??? What’s interesting is that they specifically forgot that a week after dropping off the plane Kris sent my buddy an email saying “I Won’t go any farther until I hear back from you.” And then went a lot farther!
Here's the way my buddy sees it. He dropped off his plane in early December, and Kris saw him getting a new panel and new interior done and thought Kris should have a cut. When Matt had a family issue in late DecembeEarly January, Matt hired Kris to do some of the original work. Kris figured, incorrectly, my buddy would be paying him also. Kris sent over an estimate for extra work to be done and my buddy told him not to do it and Kris said he didn’t have to have it done for the plane to be airworthy. When my buddy discovered that Kris had already done most of the work without approval, he instructed Kris to stop and told Matt to tell him the same thing! Unfortunately, Matt billed for all of this work also and the two of them just expected my buddy to double pay for the labor because “airplane owner=rich guy,” right? Kris also found a few items which he deemed as airworthiness items and so fixed them. Kris was adamant, all through February, March and April about getting the logbooks for the plane and asking for a few more hours here and there all while Matt took extra time to do the work quoted. When we surprised them with a visit to the shop and found the unapproved work already done, Kris changed his tone on what constituted an airworthiness issue and admitted he got ahead of himself because he figured it would be done. After we left the surprise visit in April, Kris sent my buddy this email: “your belly Corrosion was repaired at No Cost to you, I had one of my part time sheet metal guys available when we were discussing your Repairs and took advantage of having him here before you declined the Repairs, That was Totally on me I jumped the Gun and Assumed you would want that Fixed so That Repair is Free.” Although Kris claimed that was “free” when the mechanics’ bill was handed to my buddy, that item wasn’t on there but things like brake pad changes taking 4 hours shows a clear “padding” in the bill to compensate.
One thing that still makes this all seem like a scam is the fact that the plane was put on jacks and the wheels removed. For an avionics upgrade??? How does that seem reasonable to anyone? Ok, you want to swing the gear, sure, I guess, but why would Kris remove the wheels and inspect bearings if he wasn’t looking for work to do? And as to those brake pads, if Kris had the log books (which he did not), he would have known that they had been replaced a few months earlier and my buddy’s mechanic noted no deficiencies in anything related to the brake system.
I’m guessing that Matt and Kris’ original plan in December was to take extra time and let the annual expire. Then try to force my buddy to do the annual at their shop and fix everything figuring they could get an extra 15-20K out of my buddy since he was already doing 75K of avionics work. Since this was the shop’s plan from December, Kris went ahead and did everything involved in an annual inspection and all of the work to correct deficiencies. When my buddy recognized the scam and complained, they tried to squeeze him for as much as they could.
TL;DR: So in short, nothing much to report besides what seems to me like a scam that’s probably been run a number of times on rich guys who just pay the bill, a false claim of being punched, and a lawyer who’s trying to claim that a comment about being safe and doing work right is authorization for an A&P to do whatever he wants with a plane.
submitted by 121mhz to flying [link] [comments]


2023.05.30 15:19 Guilty_Chemistry9337 Hide Behind the Cypress Tree (Part 2)

They didn’t tell us the name of the next kid that disappeared. They didn’t tell us another kid had disappeared at all. We could all tell by the silence what had happened. It spoke volumes. I’m sure they talked about it in great detail amongst themselves. In PTA meetings and City Councils. My parents made sure to turn off the TV at 5 o’clock before the news came on, at least in my home. They’d turn it back on for the 11 o’clock news, when were were in bed and couldn’t hear the details.
The strange thing is, they never told us to just stop going outside. They told us to go in groups, sure, but they never decided, or as far as I could tell even though, to keep us all indoors. I guess that sort of freedom wasn’t something they were willing to give up. Instead, they did the neighborhood watch thing. For those few months, I remember my folks meeting more of our neighbors than in all the time previously, or since. Retirees would spend their days out in their front lawns, watching kids and everybody else coming and going. They’d even set up lawn furniture, with umbrellas, even all through the rains of spring. Cops stopped sitting in ambushes on the highways waiting for speeders and instead started patrolling the streets, chatting with us as we’d pass by. Weekends would see all the adults out in their yards, working on cars in the driveways, fixing the gutters, and so on. They had this weird way of looking at you as you’d ride by. Not hostile stares, but it was like they were cataloging your presence. Boy, eight years old, red raincoat silver bike, about 11:30 in the morning, heading south on Sorensen. Seemed fine.
The next time we saw it, it wasn’t in our neighborhood, and I was the one who saw it first. We were visiting Russ, a sort of 5th semi-friend from school. We rarely hung out, mostly owing to geography. His house wasn’t far as the crow flies, but it was up a steep hill. We spent a Saturday afternoon returning a cache of comic books we’d borrowed. The distance we covered was substantial, as we had decided to take lots of extra streets as switchbacks, rather than slowly push our bikes up the too-steep hills.
The descent was going to be the highlight of the trip, up until I saw the Hidebehind. We were on a curving road, a steep forested bluff on one side. The uphill slope was mostly ivy-covered raised foundations for the neighborhood’s houses. That side of the road was lined with parked cars, and the residents of the homes had to ascend steep staircases to get to their front doors.
I was ayt the back of the pack when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Movement, something brown squatting between two closely parked cars. My head snapped as I zoomed past, and despite not getting a good look, I knew it was that terrible thing. “It’s behind us!” I shouted and started pedaling hard. The others looked for themselves as I quickly rushed past them, but they soon joined my pace.
Ralph’s earlier idea of directly confronting the thing was set aside. We were moving too fast, and down too narrow a street to turn around. Then we saw it again it was to our left, off-road, between the trees. Suddenly it leaped from behind one tree trunk to the next and disappeared again. That hardly made sense, the base of the trees must have been thirty feet below the deck of the street we rode down. One of us, I think it was India, let out one of those strangled screams.
There it was again, back on the right, disappearing behind a mailbox as we approached. That couldn’t have been, it must have outpaced us and crossed in front of us. Logic would suggest there was more than one, but somehow the four of us knew it was the same thing. More impossible still, the pole holding up the mailbox was too thin, maybe two inches in diameter, yet that thing had disappeared behind it, like a Warner Bros. cartoon character. It was just enough to catch a better glimpse of it though. All brown. A head seemingly too bulbous and large for its body. Its limbs were thin but far longer, like a gibbon’s. Only a gibbon had normal elbows and knees. This thing bent its joints all wrong like it wasn’t part of the natural order. We were all terrified to wit’s end.
“The trail!” Ralph shouted, and the other three of us knew exactly what he meant. The top of it was only just around the curve. It was a dirt footpath for pedestrians ascending and descending South Hill, cutting through the woods on our left. It was too steep for cars, and to be honest, too steep for bikes. We’d played on it before, challenging each other to see how high up they could go, then descend back down without using our brakes. A short paved cul-de-sac at the bottom was enough space to stop before running into a cross street.
Ralph had held the previous group record, having climbed three-quarters of the way before starting his mad drop. India’s best was just short of that, I had only dared about halfway up, Ben only a third. This time, with certain death on our heels, the trail seemed the only way out. Nothing could have outrun a kid on a bike flying down that hill.
We followed Ralph’s lead, swinging to the right gutter of the street, then hanging a fast wide left up onto the curb, over a patch of gravel, between two boulders set up as bollards, lest a car driver mistake the entrance for a driveway, and then, like a roller coaster cresting the first hill, the bottom fell out.
It was the most overwhelming sensation of motion I’ve ever had, before or since. I suppose the danger behind us was the big reason, and being absolutely certain that only our speed was keeping us alive. I remember thinking it was like the speeder bike scene from Return of the Jedi, also a recent movie from the time. Only this was real. I didn’t just see the trees flashing past it, I could hear the motion as well. Cold air attacked my eyes and long streamers of tears rushed over my cheeks and the drops flew past my ears, I didn’t dare blink. Each little stone my tires struck threatened to up-end me and end it all. Yet, and perhaps worse, half the time it felt like I wasn’t in contact with the ground at all. I was going so fast that those same small stones were sending me an inch or two into the air, and the arc of the flights so closely matched the slope that by the time I contacted the trail again, I was significantly further down the hill.
At the same time, I had never felt more relief, as the thing behind us had no way of catching us now. Somehow, maybe the seriousness of the escape gave us both the motive and the seriousness to keep ourselves under control. Looking back, I marvel that at least one of us didn’t lose control and end up splitting our skulls open.
We hit the pavement of the cul-de-sac below, and didn’t bother to slow down. We raced through the cross-street, one angry driver screeching to a halt and laying on his horn. This brought out the neighborhood watch. Just a few of them at first. Still, we didn’t slow down, our momentum carried us back up the much shallower slope of our neighborhood. Witnesses saw us depart at high speed, and this only brought out more of the watch. We heard whistles behind us, just like our P.E. teacher’s whistle. We figured that was the watch’s alarm siren. Regardless of what happened to that thing, it was behind us. We returned to our homes, shaken, but safe and sound, our inertia taking us almost all of the way there.
Another kid disappeared that Sunday, up on South Hill. We’d suspected it because we could see the lights of the police cars on a high road, surrounding the spot where it would turn out later, one of the kid’s shoes had been found. Russ confirmed it at school on Monday. It was a kid he’d known, lived down the road from his place, went to private school which is why we didn’t recognize his name.
I remember seeing Ralph’s face the next day when he arrived at school. He looked angry. Strong. Like he’d been crying really hard, and now it was over and he was resolved. He said he’d felt guilty because the thing we’d escaped from had gotten the other kid instead. He tried to tell his old man about it, then his mom, then any adult he could. He’d tell them about the monster who hides behind things. They needed to focus on finding and stopping that instead of looking for some sort of creeper or serial killer. Of course, nobody had listened to him. They hadn’t listened to the rest of us either when we’d tried to tell.
So he’d devised a plan. He was calling it the “Fight Patrol,” which we didn’t argue with. If the adults wouldn’t do something, we would. We’d patrol our neighborhood on our bikes, the four of us, maybe a couple more if we could talk others into it. We’d chase it off like that first time, maybe for good, or maybe corner it. Clearly, it could not handle being caught.
Naturally, we brought up the scare on South Hill. He argued that was a bad place. Too isolated, couldn’t turn around easily. We needed to stay on our home turf, lots of visibility, and plenty of the Neighborhood Watch within earshot. Maybe we and the adults working together was the key, even if the adults didn’t understand the problem.
Well, that convinced us. Our first patrol was that afternoon, after school. We watched everybody’s back like hawks. Nothing had a chance to sneak up on us. Nothing could step out from behind a bush without getting spotted. By Friday afternoon there were eight of us. The next week we split up to extend our territory to the next neighborhoods over.
Nothing happened. We never saw anything. Ben thought it was because we were scaring it away. Ralph just thought we were failing, and took it personally. I myself thought the thing had just moved to different parts of town, where the new disappearances were taking place. I told him we should keep it up until the thing was caught.
It was all for naught.
One day, India didn’t show up for school. I asked everybody, the teachers, the office staff, the custodian, my parents. All of them said they didn’t know, and it was so easy to tell that they were lying. That would mark the end of the Fight Patrol.
Ben didn’t show up a couple of days after that. When I got home and collapsed into bed, my mother came in to tell me that Ben’s mother had called. She’d taken him out of school and they were moving elsewhere. I called up Ralph to let him know the news, and he was relieved too.
My last day was Friday, and then I was taken out. Again, I called Ralph so he wouldn’t worry. I guess when there were only two weeks left of school, and it was just grade school, a couple missed weeks don’t amount to much. So I ended up spending the bulk of the summer out in the country, with my grandparents, which was why I brought up my grandpa in the first place.
I suppose I did fine out on their farmhouse. I was safe. There was certainly no shortage of things for a kid to do. I think my mom felt a strong sense of relief too. Things slipped through the cracks.
My grandparents didn’t have cable, too far out of town. They just had an old-school antenna and got a couple of TV stations transmitting out of Canada, Vancouver specifically. I remember one July day, sitting in their living room. My grandmother had just fixed lunch for me and my grandfather and had gone out to do some gardening as we watched the news at noon.
My grandfather was already being ravaged by his illnesses. He was able to get around, but couldn’t do any real labor anymore. He’d lounge in front of the TV in a special lounge chair. He hardly talked, and when he did he’d just mumble some discomfort or complaint to my grandma.
The lead story on the news was the current situation in Farmingham, despite being in the neighboring country, it was still big news in Vancouver, and the whole rest of the region. It seemed the disappearances were declining, but the police were still frantically searching for a supposed serial killer. I didn’t pick up much about what they were talking about, I was a kid after all, but my grandfather was watching intently, despite his infirmity.
He mumbled something, I didn’t catch. I asked him was he said, and as I approached I heard him say “fearsome critters.”
He turned his eyes to me and said again, distinct and in a normal tone of voice, “fearsome critters,” then returned his attention to the screen. “I don’t know why they call them that. Fearsome, sure. But ‘critters?” Makes it sound silly. Like it's some sort of fairy tale that it ain’t. Guess it’s like whistling past the graveyard. Well, they don’t have to worry about them no more, guess they can call them what they like.”
Then he turned to me. “Do you know what it is?” he asked. “Squonk? Hodag? Gouger? Hidebehind?”
“Hidebehind,” I whispered, and he turned back to the TV with a sneer. I had no idea what on earth he was talking about. Remember, this would be years before I learned he spent his youth as a lumberjack. And yet, somehow, I knew exactly what we were talking about.
“Hidebehind,” he repeated. “That will do it. They give them such stupid names. The folk back East, that is. Wisconsin. Minnesota. Ohio. Way back in the old days, before my grandfather would have been your age. Back when those places were covered by forests. They didn’t give them silly names back then, no. Back then they were something to worry about. Then they moved on, though. They all went out West, to here, followed the loggers. So as once they didn’t have to worry about them anymore, they started making up silly stories, silly names. “Fearsome critters,” they’d call them. Just tall tales to tell the greenhorns and scare them out of their britches. Then they’d make them even sillier, and tell the stories to little kids to spook them.”
“Not out here they didn’t tell no stories nor make up any names. It was bad enough they followed us out. I had no clue they even existed until I saw one for myself. Bout your age, I suppose. Maybe a little older. Nobody ever talks about them. Not even when they take apart a work crew, one by one. They just pull the crews back. Wait till mid-summer when the land is dry but not too dry. Then they move the crews in, a lot of them. Do some burning, make a lot of smoke. Drives them deeper into the woods, you know. Then you can cut the whole damn place down. But nobody asks why, nobody tells why. The people who know just take care of it.”
“I guess that’s why they’re coming to us now. All the old woods are almost gone. So they’ve got to. Like mountain lions. I supposed it’s going to happen sooner or later.”
We heard my grandma come into the back door to the utility room, and stomp the dirt off her boots. My grandfather turned to me one last time and said, “Whichever way you look at it, somebody’s just got to take care of it.” Then my grandmother came in from the utility room and asked us how our lunch had been.
Now that I look back at it, that might have been the last time my grandfather and I really had a meaningful talk.
We moved back home in late August. I had been having a fantastic summer. Though looking back, I suppose it could be rough for a still-young woman to be living in her aging parents' house when she’s got a perfectly good husband and house of her own in town.
First thing I did was visit Ralph. He’d been busy. He’d fortified his treehouse into a proper, well, tree fort. He’d nailed a lot of reinforcing plywood over everything. He hadn’t gone out on patrols by himself, of course, but the height of the tree fort afforded him a view of the nearest streets. He’d also made some makeshift weapons out of old baseball bats, a hockey stick, and a garden rake. The sharp rocks he’d attached to them with masking tape didn’t look very secure, but it’d only take one or two good blows with that kind of firepower. He also explained he’d been teaching himself kung fu, by copying all the movies he saw on kung fu movies late at night on the unpopular cable channels. That was classic Ralph.
As for the monster, it seemed to be going away. Its last victim had disappeared weeks previously, part of the reason my mom felt it was time to go back. This had been at night too. What’s more, the victim had been a college student, a very petite lady, barely five feet tall, under a hundred pounds. The news had speculated that their presumptive serial killer had assumed she was a child. I remember thinking the Hidebehind didn’t care. Maybe it just thought she couldn’t run fast enough to get away or put up a fight when he caught her. Like a predator.
At any rate, the college students were incensed. Of course, they’d been hyper-alert and concerned when it was just local kids going missing. Now that it was one of their own the camel’s back had broken. They really went hard on the protests, blaming the local police for not doing enough.
They started setting up their own patrols, and at night too. Marches with sometimes dozens of students at a time. They called it “Take Back the Night.” They’d walk the streets, making sure they’d be heard. Some cared drums or tambourines. They’d help escort people home, and sometimes they’d unintentionally stop random crimes they’d happen across. I felt like this was what the Fight Patrol could have been, if we’d just been old enough, or had been listened to. This would be the endgame for the Hidebehind, one way or another.
I stayed indoors the rest of the summer, and really there wasn’t much left. It doesn’t get too hot in the Pacific Northwest, nobody has air conditioners, or at least we didn’t back then. It will get stuffy though, in August, and I liked to sleep with my window open. I could hear the chants and challenges from the student patrols on their various routes. Sometimes I could hear them coming from far away, and every now and then they’d pass down my street. It felt like a wonderful security blanket.
I also liked the honeysuckle my mother had planted around the perimeter of the house. Late at night, if I was struggling to fall asleep, the air in my bedroom would start to circulate. Cold air would start pouring in over my windowsill, bringing the sweet scent of that creepervine with it, and I’d the sensation before finally passing out.
This one night, and I have no knowledge if I was awake, asleep, or drifting off, but the air in the room changed, and cooler air poured over the windowsill and swept over my bed, but it didn’t carry the sweet smell of honeysuckle. Regardless of my initial state, I was alert pretty quickly. It was a singularly unpleasant smell. A bit like death, which at that age I was mostly unfamiliar with, except a time some animal had died underneath the crawlspace of our house. There was more to it, though. The forest, the deep forest. I don’t know and still don’t know, what that meant. Most smells I associate with the forest are pleasant. Cedar, pine needles, thick loam of the forest floor, campfires, even the creosote and turpentine of those old timey-logging camps. This was none of those smells. Maybe… rotting granite, and the spores of slime molds. Mummified hemlocks and beds of needles compressed into something different than soil. It disturbed me.
So I sat up in bed. I hadn’t noticed before, but I’d been sweating, just lightly in the stuffy summer night heat. Now it was turning cold. Before me was my bedroom window. A lit rectangle in a pitch-dark room. To either side were my white, opened curtains, the one on the right, by the open half of the window, stirred just slightly in the barely perceptible breeze.
Most of the rectangle was the black form of the protective cypress tree. Only the slight conical nature of the tree distinguished it from a perfectly vertical column. To either side was a dim soft orange glow coming from the sodium lamps of the street passing by our house. It was perhaps a bit diffuse from the screen set in my window to keep out mosquitos. In the distance was the sound of an approaching troupe of the Take Back the Night patrol. They were neither drumming nor chanting, but still making plenty of noise. They were, perhaps, three or four blocks away, and heading my way.
For some reason that I didn’t understand, I got up, off of the foot of the bed. The window, being closer, appeared bigger. I took a silent step further. The patrol approached closer. Another step. I leaned to my right, just a bit, getting a slightly wider view to the left of the cypress tree. That was the direction the patrol was coming from.
That was when it resolved. The deeper black silhouette within the black silhouette of the cypress tree. A small lithe frame with a too-bulbous head. It too leaned, in its case, to the left, to see around the cypress tree as the patrol approached. They reached our block,on the other side of the street. A dozen rowdy college students, not trying to be quiet. None of them fearing the night. Each feeling safe and determined, and absorbed in their own night out rather than being overtly sensitive to their surroundings. They were distracted, unfocused If they had been peering into the shadows, if just one of them had looked towards my house, behind the cypress tree, they might have seen the Hidebehind, poking its face out and watching them transit past. But they didn’t notice.
It hid behind the cypress tree, and I hid behind it, hoping that the blackness of my bedroom would protect me. I stood absolutely still, as I had done once when a hornet had once landed on the back of my neck. Totally assure that if I made the slightest movement or made the slightest sound that I’d be stung. I hardly even breathed.
The patrol passed, from my perspective, behind the cypress tree and temporarily out of view. The Hidebehind straightened, ready to lean to the right and watch the patrol pass, only it didn’t lean. Even as I watched the patrol pass on to the right, it stood there, stock still, just as I was doing.
It was then I became aware that my room had become stuffy again. The scent was gone. The air had shifted and was now flowing out through the screen again, carrying my own scent with it. I knew what this meant, and yet I was too paralyzed to react. The thing started to turn, very slowly. It was a predator understanding that it might have become victim to its own game. It turned as if it was thinking the same thing I had been thinking, that the slightest movement might give it away.
It turned, and I saw its face. Like some kind of rotting desiccated, shriveling fruit, it was covered in wrinkles. Circles within concentric circles surrounded its two great eyes, eyes which took up so much of its face. I couldn’t, and still struggle, to think of words to describe it. Instead, I still think in terms of analogies. At the time I thought of the creature from the film E.T., only twisted and distorted into a thing of nightmares. Almost all eyelids, and a little drooping sucker mouth. Now that I’m more worldly, it reminds of creatures of ancient artworks. The key defining feature were the long horizontal slits it had for eyes. You see that in old masks carved in West Africa, or by the Inuit long ago. You see it in what’s called the “slit-eyed dogu” of ancient Japan.
As I watched the wrinkles on the face seemed to multiply. Then I realized this was the result of its eyes slowly widening. It’s mouth, too, slowly dilated, revealing innumerable small razor-sharp teeth. A person, standing in its location, shouldn’t have been able to see in. Light from the sodium streetlamps lit the window’s screen, obscuring the interior. It was no person. It could see me, and it was reacting to my presence. Its eyes grew huge, black.
My own eyes would have been just as wide if not for my own anatomical limitations. I was still watching when it disappeared. It didn’t see it move to the right. I didn’t see it move to the left, nor did I see it drop down out of view. It simply disappeared. One fraction of a second it was there, and then it decided to leave, and so it did. It was not a thing of this world.
There were no more disappearances after that poor woman from the university. I don’t think it had anything to do with me. The media and police all speculated their “serial killer” had gone into a “dormant phase”. There was no shortage of people who tried to take credit. Maybe they deserve it. The thing’s hunting had been on the decline. All the neighborhood watches and student patrols, I think that maybe all that commotion was making it too hard for the Hidebehind to go about its business. Maybe it had gone back to the woods.
Then again, maybe Ralph had been right the whole time. Maybe it really, really, really didn’t like to be seen.
So.
Now I’ve got some decisions to make. I think the first thing I should do is look at social media and dig up Ralph. It’s been a good thirty years since I last talked to him. He ought to know the Hidebehind is back. He’s probably made plans.
Then, there’s the issue of my son. He’s up in his bedroom now, probably still mad at me. Probably confused about why I’d be so strict. Maybe he’s inventing explanations as to why.
I’m not sure, but I’m leaning toward telling him everything. He deserves to know. It’d probably be safer if he knows. I think people have this instinct where, when they see or know something that they’re not supposed to know, they just bottle it up. I think that was the problem with grown-ups when I was a kid. It was the issue with my grandfather, telling me so little when it was almost too late. I think people do it because we’re social animals, and we’re afraid of being ostracized. Go along to get along.
Hell, my son is probably going to think I’m crazy. It might even make him more mad at me. And even more confused. He knows about the disappearances. “The Farmingham Fiend” the media would end up dubbing the serial killer that didn’t really exist. It’s become local “true crime” history. Kids tell rumors about it. It was almost forty years ago, so it probably feels safe to wonder about.
So yeah, I suppose when I say I know who the real killer was, a magical monster from the woods that stalks its prey by hiding behind objects, then impossibly disappears- that I’m going to look like a total nut. I’d think that if I were in his shoes.
Except… people are going to start disappearing again, it’s only a matter of time. The media will say that the Farmingham Fiend is back in the game. Will my son buy that? He’ll start thinking about what I told him, and how I predicted it. Then he’ll remember that he saw the thing himself, he and his friends, even if it was just out of the corner of his eye.
I hope, sooner or later, he’ll believe me. I could use his help. Maybe Ralph is way ahead of me, but I’m thinking we should get the Fight Patrol back together. Father and son, this time. Multigenerational, get the retirees involved too.
Old farts of my generation, for reasons I don’t understand, like to wax nostalgic over their own false sense of superiority. We rode our bikes without helmets and had distant if not irresponsible parents. Yeah, yeah, what a load. I think every new generation is better than the last, because every generation is a progression from the last, Kids these days? They’ve got cell phones, with cameras. And helmet cams. GoPros you can attach to bikes. Doorbell cameras.
It seems the Hidebehind loathes being seen. This time around, with my grandfather’s spirit, my own memories, and my boy’s energy? I think this time we’re finally going to beat it.
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2023.05.30 03:52 SnooMarzipans6033 Big O Tires - Cedar Bluff

Trying to figure out if it’s worth even continuing. A couple of months ago I had a tire patch done by Big O Tires on cedar bluff. Same shop I had used for the past 10 years.
Long story short, had the tire patch done on a Saturday. Two days later on the way to Alcoa for an oil change at the Nissan dealership the patch failed and had to get a brand new tire. I took the original tire to the shop, they admitted to fault, and at first only offered another new tire. This came after a month of following up with the office around once a week because the managers story kept changing of when the owner would be in. This was also magically discussed a day before I called in for a follow up.
When I said it’s a no go because I bought a new tire a month ago, I was told by the manager she would give me a full refund of work by Big O and the new tire of which she asked for a copy of the receipt. That was on 4/12. I tried to get an update on 4/20 and 4/27 (because not once have I been called about this issue ever) and I have now been completely ghosted.
The owners phone numbers are all OOS, the manager is now ignoring all of my calls and voicemails.
At this point I’ve left reviews, I’ve contacted “corporate” to try and get some type of help. I feel lucky I was in a spot to buy a new tire and not have to worry about riding a doughnut for too long. It’s just really disappointing to see this happening and can only imagine what happens to those that don’t have the ability to make up their mistakes.
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2023.05.29 18:37 TwoBuckHowie One Of My Fondest Memories

One Of My Fondest Memories
Reprising A story I wrote back on May 29th, 2015
*****
I want to thank the Marines and Stater Brothers today.
You might be wondering why I would want to thank the U.S. Military and Stater Brothers Groceries. It's because of what just happened to me and one of my grandsons who is here celebrating Memorial Day with me. You see, my grandson and I were jumping on the trampoline in my backyard when we saw two Marine Gunship Helicopters flying over the mountain ridge. I am not a good judge of distances, when it comes to airplanes, or helicopters in the sky, but they had to be close enough overhead to see us on the ground. I told my grandson to wave to them, because it is Memorial Day, the day to celebrate our Military Heroes. He waved vigorously, like a five year old will do. Lo & behold, those Marine Helicopters turned around, and flew directly over our house, doing a complete circle, before heading back in the same direction as before. Of course, when they were overhead, I was so proud, that I started waving just as vigorously as my grandson. Thank you Twenty-Nine Palms & Camp Pendleton Marines Corp for once again being true American Heroes.
https://preview.redd.it/urfq5gj2au2b1.png?width=1280&format=png&auto=webp&s=eb672472d7f2582b7017a345c452617c77b1eca5
Now, about three or four weeks ago, just before the new Avengers movie came out, Pepsi set up a display at Stater Brother's Supermarket featuring cardboard cutouts of Iron Man, Thor, Captain America, and my favorite, The Hulk. I immediately went to customer service and asked if I could have the display after the promotion was over. The Assistant Manager agreed, taking my name and phone number. Last Tuesday I got the call to pick up my Super Heroes. A Super Cool gift for my grandson. This week has really been a treat for this grandson and myself.
Thank you Stater Brothers and the U.S. Marines Corp.
https://preview.redd.it/iaedarqrau2b1.png?width=430&format=png&auto=webp&s=59b86768882bc27e417743cca6ced467d72898e7
This is Celebrating What A Wonderful Life This Truly Is Jim Hauenstein
And
“Till the time Mother Nature takes away what she had bestowed upon us for free - this wonderful gift, of life. Value it, while you have it.” - Fakeer Ishavardas -
That is my story and I am sticking to it! Like what you are reading? Sign up as a Follower or Leave a Comment
I would love to hear from you
Thanks for reading
Be kind to everyone
I'll be seeing you
https://2buckhowie.blogspot.com/
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2023.05.29 18:34 Frank_Leroux Molossus, Chapter Fourteen

First Chapter
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen
Corporal McCoy had figured out the best reason for getting in good with an udhyr. They had four arms, therefore the hugs were twice as nice. They now lay in her room, with him lying on her bed and her lying on top of him, with her ensconced in the aforementioned hug-squared. She’d been able to get ahold of her Switch, and at the moment was in the midst of some happy early-morning gaming. Takh’s head rested upon hers with a gentle and welcome pressure while he watched her play. By now she was so used to him that even the little random clicks of his mandibles didn’t cause her any fear.
She was still trying to figure out if she and the alien XO were an ‘item’ or not. Zawahir had, with his usual enthusiasm, explained to her that both the udhyr and knuall-toua were pretty much like humans, with equal numbers of both males and females who reproduced sexually. He hadn’t gone into details on how exactly Tab A fit into Slot B, but the overall idea was clear. The auhn were a little more complicated; the ratio of females to males was more like seven or eight to one, plus there was the added wrinkle that the males were non-sapient and about as smart as the average pet dog. That had resulted in a very matriarchal society, of course, one based around clans of females protecting their stable of fertile males with appropriately auhn-like ferocity. The spider-like xyrax were…well, both. Completely hermaphroditic; there was quite a complicated social dance before they reproduced as to who was going to bear the resulting egg. McCoy was sure that, however it worked out, it would look adorable.
“So this Kirby can eat anything?” asked Takh, breaking into her ruminations.
McCoy tapped at her controls on autopilot, hoping that the damned thumbsticks wouldn’t break. Again. “Yep. Fun fact, waaay back in the 80s, Nintendo got sued by Universal Studios, who claimed that Donkey Kong was a ripoff of King Kong. John Kirby was the attorney who successfully defended them in court, and in gratitude they named this character Kirby.” She continued her tapping. “I think they gave him a sailboat as well.”
“Mmm, I must admit a sailboat sounds nice right about now. This place is very nice, but it’s a bit too cold.”
She wriggled against him. “You said it. You and me, off the coast near Nice? Floating in the warm azure waters of the Mediterranean? I can wear a nice little bikini I’ve got saved up for just such an occasion.”
“Oh! Uh, well, yes. That does indeed sound quite nice…”
She grinned. Takh was a dork, but a giant lovable dork and it was always great to get a reaction like this out of him. Even if it didn’t lead anywhere there. As far as she knew, the udhyr reproduced like frogs. Maybe she should discreetly quiz Zawahir on the whole Tab-A into Slot-B thing, just to make sure she wasn’t setting herself up for disappointment.
Of course, she’d just managed to get to the final boss of this particular level when the siren howl of the alarm went off. Haley McCoy blinked as she went from supine four-armed cuddling to standing in an instant, placed upon the floor by Takh’s upper arms.
“The unholy hell?” she muttered, but she was already in motion as she sprinted towards her gear, laid out so as to ensure maximum efficiency in getting it all put on. “Takh?” she called out as she started strapping her armored vest on.
“Yes? What do I do?”
“Simple. Anyone comes through that door who you don’t recognize, kill ‘em.”
“I…I don’t know, I’m still understanding how different humans look from each other, I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“You’ll know,” she said with finality as she picked up her carbine and racked the slide. “Okay. Follow me…”
The door to her room smashed in as a figure clad in black armor came through screaming “Earth belongs to HUMANS!...”
That was all he got out before Takh grabbed the man’s head and simply hurled the offending figure over McCoy and into the far wall. The window set in that wall shattered with the resulting impact, making the corporal duck.
“Fuck me, Takh.” She looked at the broken figure of the oh-so-very dead intruder, then back up to the worried-looking XO. “I mean, not literally. Okay, well you can if you want to, and I for sure would like you to…you know what? Let’s put that whole discussion off to the side for now until we can sit down and have ourselves a nice long chat, okay?”
“That sounds like a very wise strategy, Haley. What do you need from me?”
She finished putting on her headset and helmet. “Right now? You need to stick right behind me while I get you to the bunker.”
“You want me behind you?” Takh’s mandibles quirked in a grin. “That sounds like a very nice place to be.”
“Stop distracting me, you giant dork.” McCoy moved towards the door with a grim set to her shoulders, ignoring the lovely fact that her alien maybe-boyfriend was now checking out her ass. She swept the outside hallway….nothing visible. Then she heard some commotion from off towards the kitchen area.
__________
Martinez surged to his feet upon hearing the alarm, his half-eaten horizontal-cut pimento sandwich now forgotten. “What the fuck…?”
Matt was on his feet as well, with a strange look in his eyes that the corporal had never seen before. “You two. Corner. Now.” He pointed at the corner farthest from the two entrances to the kitchen.
The corporal was on the smaller side, even amongst his fellow humans, but something in the Marine’s tone made him turn and tackle the huge alien. Kexal, to his credit, somehow knew that Something Was Up and accepted the tackle, otherwise there was no way in hell that Martinez could have moved the giant creature.
Just as he did so, he caught a glimpse of a dark form, clad in full armor, holding a rifle, gliding around one of the entrances to the kitchen. In a panic, he fumbled for the pistol at his hip.
Martinez prized himself on his reflexes. But still, he had time for one blink of astonishment as Toke all but teleported himself across the ten feet of intervening space, pushing the intruder’s rifle up towards the ceiling and out of battery as his own arm flashed in a wicked arc. The corporal caught the merest glint of a small but cruelly-curved knife, like a predator’s claw, in the Marine’s fist.
There followed quite the epic spray of blood from underneath the attacker’s armpit, followed up by a few more cruel swipes which made sure that the tendons in that shoulder were destroyed and useless. Toke pulled the rifle away from the now-dangling limb.
Somehow, the black-armored attacker managed to speak in spite of what must be massive pain. “Earth will NEVER submit to…”
Toke’s voice was as hard as granite. “Tell your shit to someone who cares.”
Two more vicious swipes across the man’s throat resulted in a cascade of crimson down his black-armored front, and the would-be assassin toppled to the wooden floor.
“Martinez.” Toke’s robotic voice shocked him back into awareness.
“Y…yeah?”
“Got a pistol?”
“Of course.” He checked to make sure that he had it in his hand. Huh, that was strange. He didn’t remember drawing it, but there it was.
“Good.” The lean man tossed the purloined rifle towards Martinez, who caught it automatically in his off-hand. “Take this. Check this dead motherfucker for extra mags, and take ‘em. You’re on Kexal, understand? Get him safe to the bunker. Anyone you don’t know personally comes at you, you shoot ‘em.” His black, mechanical gaze shifted towards the alien. “Kexal? If Martinez goes down and someone attacks you, you have my permission to yank their arms off.”
The giant planetologist stared in horror at the bleeding and probably-dead sapient before him, then shook himself. “Of course. Yes. I’ll protect myself.”
“No need,” said Martinez as he looked back at his newly-christened charge. He racked the action on his just-acquired rifle, which looked to be a standard AR-platform civilian carbine. The corporal wished for something full-auto, but this was at least better than a pistol in terms of range and punch. “I’ll get you to safety, sir.”
He turned back to ask Matt just what the fuck was going on…but he only saw empty air.
__________
Cécile Savoie was not having a good day. She’d accepted the position of overall chief of security at Camp David with delight…at first. Dealing with the day-to-day of protecting one of the most targeted people on the planet, that she could deal with no problem. Because it was one person. It was an unspoken agreement between all of the agents that SAILOR was the priority. Even the First Husband could be sacrificed if need be.
But then she’d had a bunch of damn aliens dropped in her lap, along with an equally weird group of special-forces types. The latter were what really ground her gears; the aliens were genuinely nice and apologetic about being such a bother, but the human soldiers were the types who would crash on your couch, drink all your beer, and then steal your sweetheart when you weren’t looking.
She crouched behind a little berm to the west of Camp David, the other members of her patrol stretched out alongside her in a roughly north-to-south line.
“Moseby! Report!” she yelled.
She heard a few thumps, then a few cracks in her earpiece which were followed up by echoing reports from the building behind her. Thankfully she heard her agent’s voice in her earpiece. “Shit! Wow, um, you’re really good with that knife…”
She then heard a muffled phrase that sounded a bit like ‘give it to me, son’, and the next voice in her ear was one she was unfamiliar with.
“This is Captain Matthew Tocco, USMC, whom am I speaking with?” The voice sounded as if generated by an AI.
“I’m Agent Savoie,” she responded. “I’m in charge of the Camp David security detail, who are you?”
“I just told you who I am, Agent Savoie. And I just saved the life of one of your agents. Now. Let’s cut through any sort of jurisdictional bullshit. We have at least two confirmed active hostiles in the complex, two more are confirmed down. We’re sweeping the compound to make sure there are no others, plus making sure that our esteemed guests are safe inside the bunker. Where are you located? We need to coordinate our defenses.”
The information made her see literal red. The attackers had made it into the compound? How? There must be some angle, some safe passage made by somebody. She was going to find out who had made that safe passage, and those people would burn. Oh yes, they were all going to burn…
“West of the complex,” she snapped. “We’ve set up a perimeter along the ridge there.”
“Got it, Agent Savoie. Oh, and please don’t shoot me when I show up.”
She ran through various scenarios for the next few minutes, trying to figure out who on the team had betrayed them. And there must have been such a betrayal in order to get armed hostiles into the actual buildings. Her further musing upon vengeance was cut short as a tall, lean man seemed to all but materialize next to her. He held a small, curved blade in a reverse grip in his right hand; that blade dripped red blood. She almost pointed her gun at him, then relaxed. “Captain Tocco, I presume?”
“Call me Toke.” The guy sounded like he was out for a day on the beach.
“Who the hell are you…wait, you’re with the group in there, right?”
Matt nodded. “Yep. The rest of us are in there bundling up our guests and making sure they’re all safe and sound. Actually, by now Corporal McCoy should be…”
Agent Savoie flinched again as a small but very stacked woman seemed to suddenly appear like condensing smoke at her other side, out of the brush. “Speak of the Devil, and she shall appear.”
The tall man grinned at her. “You are pretty damn good, corporal.”
“Hell that means a lot coming from you, Toke. By the way, that’s a nice kerambit. Anyways, everybody on Team Alien is tucked in and unharmed. I got Takh in there fine. Martinez even tagged a couple more bad guys while he was escorting Grakosh to the bunker. Fair warning to everybody listening on this channel, he’s gonna be aaaall sorts of smug about that and it’s gonna turn into a story of taking out four dudes before this week is out. But, right now, it looks like only four of the OPFOR made into the complex…however they did that…so the rest must be out there.” She pointed towards the leafless woods beyond the little rise.
“Any word from Shaw?” asked Toke.
Savoie narrowed her eyes. “Something bad happened in DC. Sounds like an artillery or mortar attack.”
“Shit.” McCoy looked troubled. “This is serious business, then. State player?”
“Maybe,” said Toke. “But it could be some private group with some proper funding behind ‘em. Agent Savoie, do you have any word of a helicopter or plane going down nearby?”
“A Chinook,” she replied, “Went down about thirty minutes ago thataways.” She motioned to the west, out into the wintry forest. “Then we had one of our patrols out in that direction go silent. That’s what triggered the alarm.”
Matt grunted. “Yeah, that’s how I’d do it. Make it look like a crash and infiltrate that way. Right.” He touched his ear to make sure his earpiece was seated. “You just keep this channel open, right?”
“Where are you going?” asked McCoy.
“Out there. You need eyes on assholes, and I’m gonna give that to you.”
McCoy tossed him her carbine. “At least have a gun on you, dude.”
He caught it with his off-hand, since his main hand still held the dripping-red kerambit. He grinned at her. “All right. You got a pistol?”
“Of course.” She pulled it out and racked the slide.
He tossed the rifle back to her. “Give me that instead. We’re gonna need to concentrate some proper firepower here. This might be a proper light-infantry invasion in progress. We need to organize ourselves into a skirmish line running along this ridge, south-southwest to north-northeast. Get whoever you can on your team in there out here to bolster our firepower, understand? Dig in.”
“Got it.” The little corporal’s eyes blazed with purpose as she handed her pistol to Matt. “Now go get you some.”
“Believe me, I will.”
Savoie blinked in astonishment as the tall man vanished again.
“Yeah, he kinda does that,” said McCoy. “Dude could give sneaking-around lessons to fucking Batman.” She pulled a map out of one of the pockets on her cargo pants. “Now, Agent Savoie, how many people do we have available? Let’s get ourselves properly set up.”
__________
Wade stepped carefully over a fallen branch, his boots making almost no noise at they met the soft mulch covering the forest floor. From the curt statements in his headset, it sounded like the four heroes who’d been infiltrated into the devil’s nest had been cut down. There was no word yet if any of the alien menace had been eliminated. That was a shame, but hopefully it drew attention away from his own unit. He and his comrades made up the secondary and much more armored thrust, one which not even the vaunted Secret Service could counter. The latter were armored, yes, but only armored against pistols and they only wielded pistols themselves. He and his team had rifles, level-four body armor, helmets, and most importantly proper communications.
A voice crackled in his ear. “Hold position. The security detail is forming into a defensive line. It looks like they know we’re here.”
“Set timer?” Wade whispered into his headset. His team had a set time to accomplish their mission, before the entirety of the United States military-industrial complex landed upon their heads like the proverbial Wrath Of God.
“Yes, set timer. Twenty minutes.”
There was a soft chorus of “Twenty minutes, aye,” in Wade’s ear as he tapped his own smart-watch to start the timer. “Twenty minutes, aye,” he murmured. As he made to step over another downed branch, he paused.
Something was off. He couldn’t say why, but the air itself seemed a little more still than it should be. He turned to his left and saw a blur heading for him…he tried to raise his rifle, but it was too late…
__________
Cécile Savoie’s head snapped up as she heard a few cracks from the treeline which could only be the sound of firearms. “Anyone see anything?” she whispered into her earpiece.
There followed a myriad of “No, ma’ams” in her ear. “Keep a sharp eye,” she murmured. “Don’t fire on anyone not in black. We do have a friendly out there, he’s supposed to be giving us intel…”
Matt’s voice sounded in her ear. “Indeed. Bagged one of ‘em, on the outer edge of the advancing force. Looks like civvie gear, carbine is only semi-auto. This is a well-funded civilian effort, not a state actor.”
She checked her watch. “Got it. Fifteen minutes until we get backup in place, what do you need from us?”
“Hmm, that explains the ‘twenty minutes’ thing. Right, they know they’re on a timetable. You all need to be, and I hate to put it this way, the meat shield. It looks like they’re going for a solid push towards you, no stealth. Fourteen hostiles all told, and if this guy’s gear is any indication they’re all up-armored. Class Four. Center of mass is no good, go for head or limbs.”
Savoie’s mouth was now dry. “Understood.”
“Don’t worry, Agent. I’ll be behind them, and I’ll do what I can to sow some dissention in the ranks.”
__________
“Wade, report!” hissed Horace into his microphone.
No reply.
He took in a breath to issue another demand when a voice sounded in his ear. Horace had once gone swimming in the ocean off of Florida, and had by pure chance come across a great white shark. He still remembered the vacant gaze of the giant predator, who was probably idly wondering if Horace would make a good snack for today.
This voice brought up once again that dread; it was the voice of a pure predator. “Who is this?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“The one who just took down…Wade, was it?”
“Sidney, get eyes on Wade!”
“Will do…” There followed a long, long silence before that shark-like voice spoke again.
“You just got Sidney killed too, asshole. Care to keep going? I got no problem with that. Or do you all want to call this a day? You can do that too, you know.”
“Everybody down!” Horace snapped before going prone himself. That taunting voice still sounded in his ear.
“Okay, now you’re all down and less of a target. What now, genius? You got…hmmm…about twelve more minutes before all of the backup in the world arrives. And they will find you. You know what? You’d better hope they find you instead of me. Because I give less than two shits about that whole ‘Geneva Convention’ crap.”
“Maintain radio silence,” said Horace, as he tried to wriggle his way forward.
“Oh, you’re still trying, Mister Leader? How cute. Let me put it this way to you fourteen…sorry, thirteen, assholes. You’re done. Nailed. The best you can hope for is to get some lawyers who want to make a name for themselves. Worst case? You get put in a room with me, and if you have any sense in what passes for your brains you will spill your guts. If I’m honest, I kinda hope you put up a brave front and don’t say anything. It’s been a very long time since I got to cut loose. Gotta keep up that certain set of skills, yanno what I mean?”
“Maintain radio silence,” grated Horace, as he continued to wriggle forward.
Then, all of a sudden, he realized he was looking at boots. A pair of boots, planted in front of him like a goddamn World War Two commando movie. He glanced upwards, hoping against hope that it would turn out to be a gag like that one comedy where it was just boots…
No.
It wasn’t just boots.
Horace looked up into a man with the eyes of a shark, as well as the quite threatening muzzle of a pistol.
“Hey there, my Little Buddy-O,” said Matt. “Whatcha doin out here?”
__________
Milton came to with a gasp. “Shaw…”
A gentle hand laid upon his shoulder. “Shh, dear. He’s fine, everyone’s fine.”
He gazed up at the white-tiled ceiling above him. “But…” He turned to look into the face of the one person he loved above all else…well, her and Johnny. “He’s okay?”
“He’ll live. Just like you. You big doofus.” Teresa leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “I saw the footage. You threw yourself at all of those senior citizens, which might just count as assault with a deadly weapon. Then you went and managed to get all the way across the stage towards Sadaf. You really don’t know when to give up, do you?”
“Guess I don’t”, he chuckled, then glanced down at his arm. His former arm. “Whoof. That medic was really quick with the tourniquet, I’ll give him that.”
“With you and with Sergeant Shaw,” said Teresa. By now she was pretty much clambered on top of him, tucking his big head into the nape of her neck; it was his favorite place to be. He inhaled her scent with relish, before suddenly realizing someone was missing.
“Johnny?” he asked.
“Oh, right,” she said, before making an imperious snap of her fingers to someone out of his line of sight…right before a little ball of energy burst its way into his room.
“DADDY!” yelled the little firebrand, before smacking into his side. Milton hugged them both to himself, realizing that, no matter what happened next, he was right now in the best place possible.
“Keep it all down to a dull roar, okay?” said a voice off to his left. A very recognizable voice.
He picked his head up to stare in that direction. “Shaw?”
The sergeant gave him a casual wave from his own hospital bed. “Hey, slick. Good ta see ya up and about.”
Milton grinned. “You too, you old fart.”
“Aw hell, I ain’t that old. So. Just out of curiosity. Did that torniquet on your arm hurt like hell?”
The agent cuddled his son closer. “You better believe it.”
“Okay, got it. Just for reference, if you get one on your leg it also hurts like a motherfu…uh, hurts like crazy.”
Milton winked at Shaw. “Don’t worry, my son has heard worse. Why are you here?”
“They put you both in one room,” said Teresa. “Something about it being easier to guard. There was an assault on Camp David too, from what I’ve heard.”
“What?” Milton tried to pry himself up off of the bed before getting a mutual shove-down from his wife and son.
“Relax, my man,” said Shaw. “Toke was there. He and my peeps took care of it.” The sergeant looked at the acoustic tiles above him. “Gonna have to promote McCoy and Martinez. They both really stepped up to the plate.”
__________
President Correa rubbed at her temple. “This ‘Toke’ is a menace.” She was seated behind the famed ‘Resolute’ desk while still trying to show the appropriate deference to the barrel-chested man in front of her, clad in a crisp dark-blue dress uniform.
“Let’s be fair, ma’am,” replied General De Vries, “He helped this situation become less complicated, not more. None of our alien…refugees? I suppose that’s a good a term as anything. None of them got killed, hell none of them even got injured. We collected the thirteen of those remaining while trying to assault Camp David. Overall we have ten dead, including the four who somehow made it into the complex and the Secret Service patrol. The attackers had top-of-the-line gear, civilian but first-rate.”
She slammed her fists into the desk-top, making a nearby mug filled with coffee jump. “I fucking VACATION there, General! Me and my family, understand?”
“I know, ma’am. Do you want me to do this questioning…properly?”
She somehow picked up what he was putting down. “No. You have my permission to go off the chain.”
“Then consider me and Toke off the chain, ma’am.”
“Wait…you’re going to use him?”
“He has had experience in similar matters, ma’am. If you prefer, I don’t need to use him.”
She shook her head. “No. We need intel, and fast, on how the fuck this happened. Plus not to mention we somehow had an artillery attack in the midst of goddam DC.”
“I cannot speak for the FBI,” said De Vries with deceptive calm. “But believe me, we will find out how this all happened. And it will never happen again, of that you have my solemn word.”
The president slumped in her seat. “What about those injured in the DC attack?”
“It was a precision single artillery strike, ma’am. Probably GPS or maybe laser-guided, we’re still trying to figure out which. If Sergeant Shaw hadn’t intervened as he did, Captain Sadaf would be nothing but pulverized meat right now.”
She looked up at him with a cynical quirk to her eyebrow. “Did his saving her get caught on film?”
“Oh hell yes. Footage from several phones, it’s all gone viral.”
“Good, make sure it continues to go viral. How is Shaw? And Agent…um…sorry, my brain is going twelve different ways…sorry, Agent Milton Vila, right?”
“You are right, ma’am. Both are still in the hospital, under guard of course, but both are stable. Milton lost an arm, and Shaw lost one of his legs below the knee.”
“Fuck.” It was one of the rare times that De Vries had heard the president swear. “Both can be helped with prosthetics, right?”
“Not my area of expertise, ma’am, but yes. They’ll both live, and we’ll make sure they have the very best technology available.”
President Correa suddenly grinned with an expression that the general somehow knew was going to lead to Complications in his near future.
“You mean the best human technology, don’t you?” she asked, with deceptive calm.
“Well…yes, of course. I mean, Zawahir Ibn Harith is still trying to make sense of how the aliens heal themselves. It’s true regeneration, if I understand it right. Damage to the central nervous system is still kind of hard for them to deal with, but otherwise they can pretty much heal anything.”
The president examined her fingernails. “So…growing back a limb or two should be the proverbial walk in the park, yes?”
“Um…” The general’s eyes widened. He now realized why this unassuming lady had won two terms to the highest executive office in his particular country. “Oh, yes! Of course!”
“The plans for repair efforts on the Rithro have costs which are already pretty much alongside the Manhattan Project,” said President Correa. “Why don’t you appoint Zawahir as the lead of this particular effort? We’ll call it Manhattan-Light.” She fixed General De Vries with her eyes. “Imagine it. Two people, grievously wounded in the line of duty while protecting one of our alien refugees, an effort which was caught on multiple cameras…imagine them then walking out onto a stage with intact limbs.”
“It will make quite the photo op, ma’am.”
“Indeed. I’m glad we understand each other, General.”
submitted by Frank_Leroux to HFY [link] [comments]


2023.05.29 15:31 Gumbybum Lore Discovery Part 3/3: Fishbones, Flatwoods, and Colonel's Burning Secret

Disclaimer: This post is long, so you may want to save it and read it later. Also, I put a lot of time into both researching this and writing it up. So if all you have is negative feedback, kindly keep it to yourself. Finally, there’s a lot more that I’ve been looking into beyond the scope of this write-up. If you’d like to join my exp-LORE-ation efforts, please let me know.
Recap: Part 1 establishes that Colonel is the same kid who was playing with his “baer frends” at the Palace of the Winding Path. Part 2 establishes that Darius Angler was the author of the 4 Untitled Poems.
Edit: Hyperlinks don't seem to be working so I'm manually pasting my references to parts 1 and 2.
https://www.reddit.com/fo76/comments/1327e9a/lore_discovery_responder_colonel_flatwoods_was/
https://www.reddit.com/fo76/comments/135xf3y/lore_discovery_part_2_responder_colonels_postwa
TLDR (mad spoilers up in here): Fishbones led the raid that killed Colonel and all the Responders in Flatwoods, and he could very well be Darius Angler’s brother. Colonel may have been up to something nefarious with the children of Flatwoods (but not in that way). Ra Ra might be Ward’s granddaughter. And it looks like mole rat teeth are used to craft Day Tripper.

We Begin at the End: November 2096. 13 Bridge Street, Flatwoods, WV. Responder Colonel died in the raider attack on Flatwoods, along with just about every other Responder that resided there. The raiders attacked because a Chem Addict stole all their food and chems and fled to Flatwoods. You can find her body and holotape just West of the river. But before we get to that, we need to look at what Colonel was up to before he died. Most people probably overlooked this detail because they haven’t explored Flatwoods since they were level 3, and at that point they didn’t have a jetpack or the Marsupial mutation. But Colonel’s front AND back porches are completely railed off. If you make it over the front railing, you’ll find the corpses of Colonel and (likely) the raider that killed him, Colonel’s second “Survivor Story,” and a stroller with an intact doll in it. Colonel was the “caregiver for children” in Flatwoods, so the stroller may have once been for an actual baby.
But on the back porch, Colonel was burning books, files, documents, and the contents of a mysterious duffel back on his grill. Colonel definitely had a secret and he was literally trying to burn the evidence. And that secret was his past with the Diehards and Darius Angler. If you follow the road West out of Flatwoods, you’ll eventually arrive at Hillfolk Hotdogs, which is the site of Untitled Poem #3 and the former home of Colonel when he lived with Angler as a child (you can find one of his “baer frends” on the kid-sized bunk bed). But inside the bus(?) at Hillfolk’s, you’ll also find similar documents and a duffel bag, just like the kind Colonel was burning in Flatwoods when he died. As a matter of fact, there are other similarly suspicious duffel bags and file caches along the Ohio River. And this takes us to Ohio River Adventures.
Fishbones is a Dirty Rat Bastard: In the exact same way that the Diehards returned to Crater, a former territory of theirs (and site of Untitled Poem #2), the Diehards also returned to Ohio River Adventures. Now, O.R.A. gets overlooked because there is no main quest line that keeps you returning to this area (maybe the grind for Raider Rep), but this place is former Diehard territory too. Now, it is critically important to know that both Fishbones (Bones) and Blackeye are O.G. Diehards. Blackeye was almost certainly Colonel’s 1st grade teacher back at the Palace of the Winding Path. But what about Bones? Well, my friends, I bet I’m about to tell you something you didn’t already know:
When Margie McClintock died in 2096 (as inferred what Rose tells us during the main quest), Meg Groberg took over and soon thereafter led the Diehards out of Appalachia before returning years later (that, you already knew). You probably also already knew that before Margie died, Meg and the other Diehards went against protocol and “shot first” when robbing people. Meg was a true raider in all the ways that Margie was not. But what you probably didn’t put together is that Margie died around the time that Flatwoods was attacked. According to the Chem Addict from Flatwoods:
“Chems Addict: Well, this is it I guess. Rock bottom I think they call it. I still miss him. Billy. I knew he was too young for me, but he made me feel good. Though it's the old Billy I really miss. The one who used to do nothing all day with me but listen to the radio and drink. I shoulda got out sooner when Billy and his buddies started torturing little cats and dogs. His friends... were no good. But that didn't stop me anyway. I can't believe my wake up call was watching people's heads... get stuck on spikes. So... what is an old gal like me to do? Steal all the food. Steal all the chems. And get the hell out of there. *laughs* I'd trade my last bite of food just to see the look on their faces. Oh, I know it's going to piss off Billy's friends, but I don't give a damn. I tell myself I should feel sorry for the little town across the river. But if I'm being honest, and that's what this tape is for, I don't really care. I call myself an addict, but it ain't the chems that finally got me. It was always Billy.”
I want to emphasize the “heads on spikes” part, because that’s something Margie would never tolerate. But Meg on the other hand let raiders be raiders. The other thing that I want to point out is “Billy.” I’m not saying for certain that this Billy is the same as Darius Angler’s brother, but I am saying that technically no body was ever recovered from the molten steel, and Angler didn’t see the accident happen because he didn’t work at Grafton Steel anymore. It’s possible that “Billy Angler,” who didn’t quit because “he needs the money,” could have taken out some kind of insurance policy, named his chem addict girlfriend as the beneficiary, faked his own death, and skipped town. Do I know for certain that this happened? Of course not. But what I do know is this: FISHBONES’S REAL NAME IS BILLY!!! The reason he’s obsessed with the letter B is because that’s his first initial. You see, at first I thought the raiders that wrecked Flatwoods were Cutthroats because of their whole feud with the Responders. But then I learned that the Flatwoods attack was caused by a bunch of chems that the Addict stole, and the Diehards were Appalachia’s great chems supplier (thanks to Angler). Furthermore, Fishbones’s current operation is spiking Mirelurk meat with an addictive substance (chems). And since Bones is an OG Diehard, it means he was the piece-of-shit raider that attacked Flatwoods and killed Colonel.
https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/Fishbones
A Bit About Bruiser: I found a few interesting details about Bruiser at Ohio River Adventures, but nothing too profound. We know that he used to play football, his mascot was a “battle bear,” and that he spent some time in a vault. The likeliest conclusion from this information is that he’s from Grafton, given that’s the only high school in the region with a football field and it’s next to the makeshift vault that formerly housed a few raiders before the BOS took over. If you look up the IRL Grafton High School, you’ll find that it’s on Yates Ave (likely the namesake of Sofie Yates, a Responder turned Raider in Flatwoods) and their mascot is the “Bearcat.” Also, all the varsity jackets in FO76 have the letter B on them, but that’s more Fishbones’s thing. But none of this has anything to do with Colonel or Angler, so let’s move on.
The Charleston Cartel (2079-2082): From the Charleston Capitol Building terminal entries, we know there was a massive chem trade happening in Charleston at this time:
“Name: Matoukas, George
Date of Crime: 10.09.81
Description:
300 Block of Oak. Based on anonymous tip, Responder Atkins found subject peddling vast amounts of illegal chems out of his home. Over 300lbs of illegal chems found in the subject's basement.
Resolution:
Matoukas sentenced to 5 years hard labor under close supervision, with possibility of parole for good behavior. Chems were seized and destroyed.”
Since the Diehards’ operation at the Palace of the Winding Path effectively ended with the great rapture of ‘79, it only makes sense that the Diehards would have to adapt their drug trade elsewhere. If you actually look for raider activity in Charleston (outside of the courthouse), you won’t find a lot, but what you will find is very telling of their operations. You’ll find a dead raider at the chemistry workbench inside Hornwright Industrial Headquarters. You’ll find a few dead raiders in/above the pharmacy on the south side of town. And you’ll find a dead raider lurking outside the doctors’ offices (which is NOT the hospital) to the north. And this takes us to Dr. Joseph.
https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/Joseph_(Fallout_76))
Dr. Joseph was a psychiatrist in Charleston who practiced both before AND after the Great War. He had the authority to refer patients to Allegheny Asylum and write prescriptions; Prescriptions that would be filled at the pharmacy on the south side of Charleston. To one patient, P. Davis, he prescribed Day Tripper. This insightful detail is why the Diehards were operating in Charleston in the first place. As many seasoned players have observed, Day Tripper is not craftable in this game; You can only find it out in the wild. Consider the following terminal entry from the Palace of the Winding Path:
“Log: 12.29.77 Since the war, incense ingredients have been hard to come by. We started rationing weeks ago, in anticipation of this, and doses are much lower. The sedative effects of the incense are a priority, to keep people from freaking out.
I've begun to improvise with some other ingredients and found some creative ways of stretching the supply, at least until things return to relative normal. Other chem supplies are plentiful.”
So here’s what I think happened. If the Diehards were in dire need of Day Tripper to make their custom chems (see: Making Incense), and the Responders had a healthy supply of Day Tripper locked inside a pharmacy in Charleston, and there was also a doctor who wrote prescriptions for Day Tripper, then all the Diehards needed to do was register a new patient with Dr. Joseph. Enter: Darius Angler.
Darius Angler was batshit crazy (if in doubt, refer to his manifesto). Angler, who now resided at Hillfolk Hotdogs, was also just a short trip up the New River from Charleston. He would periodically visit Dr. Joseph, get his prescription filled like a meth-head scoring Sudafed, and used the trip as a cover to smuggle the refined chems into the city. Essentially, I think he just made a loop around the southwest “island” of the Forest (area surrounded on all sides by 3 rivers, referred to as “Zone D”). The loop around Zone D functioned as a supply chain/assembly line for producing the chems that were being smuggled into Charleston. There’s a lot of suspicious stuff happening around here: Raider activity, duffel bags/files, bridge control, coffin conspiracies, etc. that I had to edit out for length, but I’ll try to summarize it here.
Hillfolk Hotdogs is where Angler and Colonel raised mole rats for reasons I’ll explain later. Follow the Ohio River south and you’ll soon come to a boat that’s not far away from a crashed truck loaded up with industrial chemical barrels (useful for producing industrial quantities of chems). South of that is a tent with a duffel bag. Further south you’ll find a 3-story house with suspicious files and a duffle bag hidden in the attic (just like at Hillfolk’s). South of that are some dry-docked boats with a chem box and a duffel bag. Even further south is Ohio River Adventure (a current Raider base of operation that served a similar purpose back then). Southeast of there, by Lewis & Sons, is a little “boat” with 2 stuffed bears, which I think was left behind by Colonel as he reenacted his river adventures with Angler using his bears. Southeast of there is a floating Nuka-Cola structure with a submerged safe guarded by 2 more bears, one of which has a liquor bottle. I think this is a dead drop and the bears are another work of Colonel’s. Heading East up the River you’ll find a raider-operated “store” at the end of a questionable bridge. Further east is Charleston, where George Matoukas was distributing the chems. And on the return trip down the New River is another dead drop directly beneath the Bridge on the west side. It’s a safe by a couch with a bear and Jangles (I think Jangles is supposed to represent George). Again, I think that this big loop is a supply chain/assembly line for moving chems and the components needed to make chems.
The smuggling operation also deviously involved Colonel and his “Baer Frends.” If you jetpack up to the very top of AVR Medical Center, you’ll find two people who OD’ed on chems, each with a stuffed bear next to them. So I think that either the Diehards were sewing chems inside Colonel’s stuffed bears and using them as drug mules to smuggle chems into Charleston, or that Colonel just climbed to the highest point on the hospital (as he did at the Palace and later in Flatwoods) and left two bears as a memorial. But I’m leaning toward the former because of an unmarked location in the Savage Divide that I found. It’s southeast of Bastion Park right at the bend of the monorail line. It’s essentially a fire pit with a bunch of stuffed bears thrown in it with a few dead party-goers around the area. I think this is the location where the Responders destroyed all of the Chems, bears and all, that they confiscated from George Matoukas. Speaking of George Matoukas….
Curious George and the Rocket: According to the above-mentioned terminal entry, George Matoukas was apparently the only criminal who the Responders sentenced to hard labor rather than exile. If you go to Rollins Labor Camp (formerly Rollins Work Camp), you won’t find a whole lot there other than Blood Eagles. But what you WILL find at the very top of the crane structure are two stuffed bears and a Jangles. Colonel, as a child, had a thing for playing with “baer frends in high places.” I can’t say with any certainty what happened here, but maybe Angler was the one who gave the responders that “anonymous tip” because Matoukas was starting to rub off on Colonel, and Angler didn’t want him growing up to be a Raider. Matoukas gets sentenced to hard labor rather than exile, with a change of parole pending “good behavior,” which means “snitching.” So maybe Angler took Colonel to visit his “friend” at the labor camp (visiting hours are a thing), Angler introduced George to a “rocket,” and Colonel used his toys to recreate the scene. Or not. Who knows? But what I do know is that the shitty poet (Angler) moved on from Hillfolk Hotdogs to go to the Cranberry Bog, and I think the Christmas Flood gave him the perfect reason to leave.
Untitled Poem #3: I’m intentionally skipping Untitled Poem #2, partly because I haven’t found much deeper meaning to it, but mostly because what I think it means is little more than conjecture. #3, on the other hand, I feel like I can make sense of it:
“white cedar leaning against the shadow of our river
peeling like asylum walls
hobbled together around dignity that died long ago
simple things to jumpstart fogged memories
holed as teeth hidden in tin
we leave our things pinned
winning only the stuck wings”
I think the phrase “white cedar leaning against the shadow of our river” is the title of the painting in Dr. Joseph’s office. Or at least that’s how Darius Angler would describe it as if it was some kind of Rorschach test. “Peeling like asylum walls, hobbled together around dignity that died long ago” is a reference to the office wallpaper, and perhaps another one of Dr. Joseph’s clients, Daniel Boone.
“Patient: "Boone, D"
Observations:
Interesting case.
Patient responds only to "Daniel Boone" and indeed seems to believe himself to be the historical figure by the same name. I'd heard that some of the hillfolk can end up a bit off after lack of socialization, but I'd not expected to see such a case.
Advised that he be sent to Allegheny rather than the Penitentiary for further observation.”
There’s only a VERY narrow window of plausibility to suggest that Angler is Daniel Boone, so I won’t. But this entry seems to refer back to Untitled Poem #3, with worlds like “hillfolk” (as in Hillfolk Hotdogs), “Allegheny” (as in asylum), and “the historical figure” (as in dignity that died long ago). I think the line “simple things to jumpstart fogged memories'' refers to the Souvenir Magnet on the fridge at Hillfolk Hotdogs, and I think it came from Lady Janet’s Soft Serve (not Cow Spot Creamery). “Holed as teeth hidden in tin” refers to the mole rats that he was raising with Colonel at Hillfolk’s (the cat bowl on the floor is for the mole rat that walks around the trailer like Fry’s dog from Futurama, just waiting for Colonel to come home). And “we leave our things pinned, winning only the stuck wings,” refers to Angler’s (and Colonel’s) escape from the Diehards. I’m assuming this event took place just after the Christmas flood, once the chem operation in Charleston was destroyed with the rest of the city. But if you remember those dead raiders I mentioned earlier, there are a few more. Outside of Dr. Joseph’s office is a dead raider next to an ammo box. Well, next to him is a makeshift bridge that goes over the highway. And if you keep going in the same direction once you step off the bridge you’ll hit the southwest corner of Wade Airport. Immediately in that corner past the fence is a locked truck-trailer (watch out for the mine) with 2 more dead raiders and a power armor chassis (sometimes). I think the last line of the poem refers to this exact event, leaving his power armor (and compatriots) pinned in the back of the trailer so he can steal yet another Vertibird. Angler flew the automated aircraft to Watoga. Why? I don’t know. But it explains how he got to the Cranberry Bog and why his body can be found just a short distance south of the city.
Untitled Poem #4: Just like #2, I don’t have any deep insight into the specifics so all I can do is speculate. I’ll spare you the details. But what I think it’s about is the very end of his relationship with Colonel. I think the time Angler and Colonel spent together in the unmarked cabin southeast of Sunrise Field was just Angler teaching Colonel to be self-sufficient (hunting, trapping, maintaining weapons and whatnot). I think that when the scorched attacked Harper’s Ferry in 2086 that there was also generally increased scorched activity in the eastern half of Appalachia. The poem describes Angler providing cover fire to, or perhaps just drawing fire away from Colonel as escaped through Big Bend Tunnel, later to be found by the Responders. But again, like with #2, all I can do with this poem is speculate.
The Mysterious Mole Rats: This is a question I’ve had for almost 2 years now, and I think I finally figured it out. Back at the Palace of the Winding Path, there’s a lonely mole rat that lives in the computer room by the garden. There’s also a dead mole rat next to a dead raider pilot by a downed plane that was headed to the Palace from the north. I didn’t know what the Diehards needed mole rats for because I was only looking at the Palace itself. But the answer to this question is found at Lady Janet’s. Everyone thinks that the two bears in gas masks by the chemistry is just a Breaking Bad easter egg. But I think it’s yet another “baer frend” reenactment left behind by Colonel. Do you remember how the cultists at the Palace ran out of ingredients to make the “spiritual incense” and had to improvise? Well, one of the substitute ingredients they used, and the reason they were importing mole rats, and the reason the Diehards took care of the children like they did, is found in the baby carriage at Lady Janet’s.
A basket full of human jaw bones? Yeah…. Teeth. Or more precisely, “baby teeth.” I suppose mole rat teeth would do in a pinch, but as messed up as it sounds human baby teeth were preferred. This is why the Diehards at the Palace were taking care of those first-graders; because six-year-olds shed baby teeth like it’s raining molars! This also answers a question you didn’t even know you had, and it takes us back to Flatwoods. Here’s a note written by Jeremiah Ward who lived in trailer in the town (and the Ransacked Bunker before that):
“I, Jeremiah Ward, resident in the town of Flatwoods, county of... not sure.
Being of sound mind, and not acting under... duress. Mostly.
Hereby declare this letter to be my last will and testament.
Mia gets the house, and everything in it.
It ain't much but that's all I got to give and... she's all I got.
I know she's still alive.
The Responders say the dogs got her, but I know it ain't true.
They been real good to us. Teaching an old geezer like me how to really cook is something. I'll give em that.
But I know they lyin about those dogs. I seen em in the hills. There's some bad folks scoping us out. They took my granddaughter, I just know it.
I'll get you back, Mia. I promise.”
Mia, a baby who slept in the crib in that trailer, was abducted by raiders. And the only raider gang that ever had any interest in kids was the Diehards. And when you remember that the Responders had a foster care program that would later be run by Colonel once he was older, you’ll remember that a shit load of children went “missing” when Billy (Fishbones) attacked Flatwoods. And if teeth (baby, mole rat, or otherwise) was the secret ingredient in Angler’s chem recipe… and Colonel was Angler’s apprentice for a number of years before he joined the Responders… and Colonel was the caretaker of all of the children of Flatwoods… then exactly what was in those documents that Colonel was burning on his back porch?
Full Circle: So after everything, the Diehards lost their crop of children at the Palace of the Winding Path in 2079, but took the children of Flatwoods and left Appalachia. When they came back, they put Fishbones (Billy) in charge of the Ohio River Adventures operation, who is now spiking the mirelurk meat with a potent chem. It’s totally possible that Ra Ra is actually Mia Ward (Jeremiah Ward’s granddaughter). Hell, it’s even possible that Jeremiah Ward is somehow Ward from Foundation. Since Colonel was obviously keeping, and subsequently burning, secrets, I’d say he was also inclined to keep his raider past a secret as well as the truth about his adoptive father. Like he said in his Survivor’s Story, “he was bad.” Perhaps the reason he kept his Diehard history a secret from the Dassa and the other Responders was because he knew that the Responders were the ones punishing and exiling people back in Charleston. But this whole story began the day Darius Angler decided to get revenge on Grafton Steel. And if his brother hadn’t actually died after all, then it would explain why Angler stayed with the Diehards for as long as he did rather than returning to the Free states. Regardless, this entire story began and ended with Billy. “It was always Billy.”
submitted by Gumbybum to fo76 [link] [comments]


2023.05.28 02:21 floatingriverlog Sports-betting Legal Question

Hello,
I'm a newbie with sportsbetting stuff but my friend who resides in California, asked me if I would be willing to input my phone number and place the bets for him, as I reside in Ohio. His reasoning is that he has off-shore odds or something like that, with being in California and now that Ohio has legalized sports-betting, we have regulated odds (?). I may be butchering all of this, but this friend in California is a good friend, and I trust him. I just want to make sure legally, that I'm safe to do this.
He wants me to place the bets he wants, and this is assumed that the account the bets are placed in, are all in his name, address, social, etc. The money also belongs to him, so I don't really see where I'm taking in any risk. He did mention that I do need to in-fact learn how to read the spreads to make this more of a long-term partnership. I'm basically just given 1% of any proceeds derived from winning these bets. How and where am I exposed, if at all? Is this legal to do?
Thanks!
submitted by floatingriverlog to legaladvice [link] [comments]


2023.05.28 00:45 throwawaysscc Cars+Smartphones =Chaos on roads everywhere

Cars+Smartphones =Chaos on roads everywhere submitted by throwawaysscc to massachusetts [link] [comments]