What a nightmare! #Gurugram choked for hours, roads #flooded,... #commuters stranded. But hats off to Gurugram Traffic Police 👮‍♂️—senior officers and #policemen stood in waterlogged stretches to clear chaos. Expressway, service lanes, Rajeev Chowk, Subhash Chowk, IFFCO & Signature Tower now moving. 👏 Good job helping #people reach #home! #Gurugram #TrafficUpdate #CityCollapse #UrbanChaos #Police #Gurgaonshow more

#WATCH | Gurugram's Iffco Chowk, one of the city's... busiest intersections, witnessed heavy traffic disruption on Tuesday afternoon after a large sinkhole opened up on the service road following the collapse of a master sewer line. The sinkhole, measuring roughly 10 feet by 10 feet, appeared around 3 pm on a stretch near Westin Hotel on the Delhi-Jaipur side. It came a day after heavy rain had left several parts of Gurugram waterlogged. Traffic police moved in to barricade the affected stretch and diverted vehicles to alternative routes while repair crews were rushed to the spot, according to a report. Visuals from the spot showed the extent of the cave-in, with barricades put up around the crater as commuters navigated the diversion.show more

This is GIFT City. But this post is about... Gurugram. Wide roads. Underground utility tunnels. District cooling. Automated waste collection. Green-certified buildings. More than 1,200 registered entities and $111 billion in banking assets. It is not Shanghai, Shenzhen or Dubai yet. But the direction is visible. Gujarat imagined a city that could compete with global financial centres. Then it started building the infrastructure required for that ambition. Now come to Gurugram. The city credited with contributing around 65% of Haryana’s revenue. Around 25% of the state’s GST collection comes from Gurugram. Last year, it contributed ₹3,875 crore from liquor-zone auctions alone. That was 27% of Haryana’s total. The Bristol Chowk licensing zone alone fetched nearly ₹100 crore. Mr Nayab Singh Saini, what exactly is Gurugram getting in return? Garbage is lying on roads across the city. Gurugram generates around 1,200 tonnes of waste every day. The waste collection system has survived on temporary arrangements since the main contract was terminated in June 2024. Nearly two years later, the city is still floating tenders and searching for a permanent solution. Then come the roads. An MCG survey found more than 2,000 potholes across eight zones. One division alone had 600. Only 387 had been repaired when those numbers were reported. By February 2026, MCG had to announce another drive targeting 5,000 potholes in ten days. We do not have a road-maintenance system. We have pothole-filling announcements after every round of public outrage. Then it rains. In July 2025, 133 mm of overnight rain brought Gurugram to a standstill. Subhash Chowk had around 2.5 feet of water. People remained stuck in traffic until 2 AM. Open manholes disappear under rainwater. Potholes become invisible. Roads turn into accident traps. Then the electricity goes. A resident of DLF Phase 1 reported an eight-hour power cut after a five-minute drizzle. In May 2026, a fault at the Sector 72 substation disrupted eight substations and even affected Rapid Metro operations. This is happening in one of the most expensive corporate and residential districts in India. And money is not the problem. MCG spent ₹1,282 crore out of its ₹1,497 crore expenditure budget by January 2026. But only ₹85 crore had gone towards road construction and ₹240 crore towards sanitation and waste management. So the problem is worse than merely having an unspent budget. Money is being spent. Residents simply cannot see the outcome on the roads outside their homes. We are not asking Haryana to build another GIFT City tomorrow. We are asking for three things. Roads that remain usable after rain. Electricity that does not disappear with the first storm. Garbage that gets collected before every vacant plot becomes a dumping ground. These are not luxury demands. These are the most basic functions of a government. Property prices in Gurugram have reached global-city levels. People are paying ₹5 crore, ₹8 crore and ₹10 crore for apartments. But outside the gates, the roads, drains and electricity systems still feel like they belong to another decade. Gujarat looked at an empty piece of land and imagined a global city. Haryana already has one of India’s strongest economic cities. It does not need to imagine it. It only needs to stop neglecting it. Fix the roads. Fix the power. Pick up the garbage. That is all Gurugram is asking for. Video credit, Reddit: [aamirusiddiqui]show more

Since many sharpshooters in society were trying to Defame... the Lady for her consuming alcohol, dancing and being vocal at Police Station, one would draw your attention to tagged video, which selectively wasn't released by officials who were trying hard to save their erring "Thullas", who acted in a Highhanded manner and brought disrepute to Odisha Police Just to be clear, those Serving as Police Personnel with Honour are much respected by Citizens, Armed Forces and us Veterans alike but those who act in Highhanded manner with a nonchalant approach and intent to dehumanizing Citizens, or being Corrupt etc, are colloquially referred to as "Thullas" so there is NO need to be sentimental about that age-old adage What you see in the video is the Lady being Groped, Sexually Assaulted and being Incited Now, imagine that Lady being your Sister or Wife or Fiancé and then you being with her in a Police Station for filing a FIR Complaint and Police NOT only NOT taking down your Complaint but asking for your Medical Test, dehumanizing you and the Lady, threatening you, stripping you, putting you both in lockup etc etc and all that because the Lady and you demanded Justice, Action to nab Culprits and so on Some wanted to tell us to look at both sides and so I had to and one doesn't find any reason with some "Thullas" at Bharatpur Police Station of Odisha Police to act in the manner, that it has not only botched up this case but also indulged in character assasination of the Lady and illegal detention of Serving Officer of ADG PI - INDIAN ARMY HQ IDS Well, DGP, Odisha CMO Odisha Governor Odisha need to look at this Case afresh and also haul up those in Odisha Police who indulged in Defamation of that Lady and Serving Officer Do read this to understand Facts and Act swiftly and decisively as patience amongst Citizens and Armed Forces especially Young Officers must be running low Armed Forces, including HQ IDS ADG PI - INDIAN ARMY Indian Air Force SpokespersonNavy don't shy away from punishing erring Personnel and Bad Hats and Police Force mustn't be able to wriggle out, as even in this case some good Police Personnel have taken charge of situation, some "Thullas" within are hurting the cause while trying to save those who are squarely responsible to create this mess due to Highhandedness Armed Forces do NOT live on Mercy of anybody and are trained to defeat threats and enemies and to expect them to entangle themselves in legal battles would be not fully appreciated Till recently, the Armed Forces did NOT take to Justice System on many occasions and acted swiftly and decisively to resolve such cases on its own and with good lessons for other side; be it some bad hats in Police, some rowdy Politician etc Now, since Armed Forces seek Justice, it should NOT be misconstrued to be a weakness Selective videos of an agitated woman can't be an excuse for Highhandedness of "Thullas" Even through the course of few days, good Policemen have acted responsibly like Arun Bothra 🇮🇳 Ji but some "Thullas", as many would call them, behaving in an uncouth manner, have shamed the Police Force Of course, if any Law is violated by any Citizen, Police must Act but it doesn't give them any license to be Highhanded HQ IDS ADG PI - INDIAN ARMY Indian Air Force SpokespersonNavy will never let criminal soldier go scot free but at the same time civil administration should not take undue liberties with military personnel and certainly don't expect pardon over such gross misconduct and Highhandedness as observed in this instance Allow a Joint Investigation with involvement of SuryaCommand_IA and Intelligence agencies with Central Bureau of Investigation (India) and DGP, Odisha with full access to ADG PI - INDIAN ARMY and we will get the truth out soon गृहमंत्री कार्यालय, HMO India and रक्षा मंत्री कार्यालय/ RMO India must take this to logical conclusion and President of India could order a SIT with full access to HQ IDS to monitor the Case JAI HIND 🇮🇳 (PS - Are you there Republic IndiaToday TIMES NOW News18 NDTV DD News All India Radio News?)show more

Way back in 2004, when I first moved to... Hyderabad, my office was in Banjarahills and I used to stay at a hostel in West Marredpally. I used to drive back home after work. Back then, a TV channel field reporter’s timings were never fixed and leaving by 9pm was considered early. I would start from Banjarahills Road No 3 and by the time I reached Nagarjuna Circle, there would be at least 10 bikes/ cars who would stop you and ask if you are available. Catcalling was the least problem. Sometimes they would just come fast and stop their vehicles obstructing me. Frustrated & angered, after a very tiresome day I went straight to a police patrol vehicle near HPS, Begumpet and complained. The sleepy policeman asked what I was doing on the road at 10pm. Probably the first time I flashed my press card out of work. Seeing the media channel’s name and my ID, he got scared: said “sorry madam, let me escort you to your hostel. There is no point booking cases on these men, it will be an unnecessary headache for you”! I refused his “help” and drove off. A few weeks after this, there was a discussion at office on what to do for Independence Day. I proposed the very same thing. Reminding people what Mahatma Gandhi ji said. On 14th August, 2004, we went on the roads and shot the entire ugliness women face on Hyderabad roads, even on main roads like Banjarahills, Nagarjuna Circle, Panjagutta, Begumpet, Secunderabad. The next day, the story became a sensation. Police officers called for meetings, special drives were held and what not. After my story, it became an annual tradition for TV channels / media outlets to do the same story. Didn’t realise that I started a “social experiment” of the sorts. Anyway! Years later women go on midnight walks to claim Hyderabad roads around Independence Day. Last night Malkajgiri CP IPS Sumathi, stood at Dilsukhnagar Bus Stop at midnight as a normal woman and was asked to “come” by 40 odd men between 12:30 am and 3:30 am. Some asked her, her price for the night, some were students, some employees, some were drunk, some were under the influence of ganja. All of them were ugly from within. All assumed that a woman on the street at midnight was “available” and can be harassed. Kudos to officer Sumathi! I hope you give strict instructions to your officers and men in duty. But sadly, Sumathi garu, for me nothing seems to have changed since 2004 August 14th. I don’t drive around on my bike in Hyderabad anymore. But women routinely face this. Areas probably changed, the level of harrassment changed, CCTV cameras are there every where now, there is a definite increase in policing and police force too. But these harassers have somehow become bolder and the roads still not that safer for women!show more

Today I conducted several surprise oversight visits in the... Western Cape. The point of these visits is simple, to test the real conditions under which police officers are expected to serve, not only what appears in official presentations. What I saw again is that many police officers are doing serious, difficult and often dangerous work with far too little support. That must be said clearly. The problem is not the commitment of the cops on the ground. The problem is a system that too often expects results without providing the people, vehicles, facilities, equipment and basic support required to do the job properly. At Khayelitsha FCS, the unit is dealing with some of the most sensitive crimes in the criminal justice system, including sexual offences, child victims and family violence. The reported ideal staffing level is about 43 personnel. The current number is about 21. That means a specialist unit dealing with deeply traumatic cases is reportedly about 22 people short. This is not an administrative issue. Every shortage affects victims, investigations, court preparation, forensic follow-up and the ability of detectives to give proper attention to each case. FCS work cannot be reduced to moving dockets. It involves children, families, trauma, dignity and justice. At the FCS unit serving Kuils River, Kleinvlei, Mfuleni and Mfuleni Satellite, the same pattern emerged. The unit reportedly has only about seven to eight investigators and one administrative clerk, while receiving around 40 dockets per month. The D1 and D7 rape-kit stock was reported as sufficient at the time of the visit. That is important. The immediate problem there is not current rape-kit stock. The urgent pressure is too few investigators, too little administrative support and inadequate victim-friendly office space. Victim-friendly facilities are not a luxury. They are part of proper policing. A child victim or rape survivor should not be failed by an office environment that is not designed for trauma-sensitive work. At Khayelitsha SAPS, the vehicle situation is deeply concerning. The station recorded 38 vehicles, but 15 were at garages. That means almost 40% of the fleet was unavailable. This affects visible policing, complaint response, scene attendance, hotspot policing and detective work. Some vehicles have reportedly been stuck for long periods, including detective vehicles delayed for 88 and 121 days. A police station cannot properly serve a high-demand community if so many vehicles are unavailable. A vehicle in a garage is not a vehicle serving the public. SAPS must explain the repair delays, garage bottlenecks and fleet management failures. At TRT, the concern is structural and operational. These are police officers expected to perform high-risk specialist policing, yet there are serious concerns about structural certainty, vehicles, ICT, accommodation, equipment and deployment governance. Specialist policing cannot run on goodwill alone. If SAPS expects tactical units to confront gangs, violent criminals and high-risk threats, then those units must be properly formalised, properly equipped, properly housed and properly supported. Across all the visits, the pattern is clear: Police officers are doing too much with too little. FCS units are under-resourced while dealing with some of the most vulnerable victims. Vehicle shortages are weakening visible policing and investigations. Victim-friendly infrastructure is still not where it should be. Specialist units are being expected to deliver without the full structural and logistical support they need. SAPS must now provide formal written answers and time-bound corrective plans. Oversight is not about attacking frontline police officers. It is about making sure the system gives them what they need to serve communities properly. Citizens deserve effective policing. Victims deserve dignity and justice. Police officers deserve the tools and support to do the job. Feedback to follow ICshow more

Last week, I mentioned I would be exposing a... Bangladeshi drugs cartel operating in Oldham. This followed intelligence that their leader had instructed his foot soldiers to “balaclava up” and come after me with baseball bats. The threats came after I publicly condemned the arrest of one of their associates who was arrested as part of a police operation into the rape gangs. You may recall I released a video expressing my outrage from outside his boarded up front door and that I shared the father of the arrested man is a local imam. Naturally, Greater Manchester Police are well aware of who this gang is. Instead of arresting them, they sent two of their Muslim officers to intimidate me. If you know anything about the rape gang protectors within Oldham Police (GMP), this will come as no surprise. Let me be clear: I fully intend to expose this cartel. I don’t care who leads it, how violent they are, or how many politicians or police officers are on their payroll. For the record, I’ve never had much interest in drug dealers. They usually stay out of my way, and I stay out of theirs. My fight is with the rape gangs. Their threats suggest I’ve hit a nerve. Good. I don't take bribes. Nor do I need their postal votes. And if you're wondering how dangerous they are - here’s armed police taking down some of their lieutenants. _________ The truth is out. The world is watching. And justice is coming. I’m Raja Miah MBE. For six years, I led a small team that uncovered what the state tried to bury: that politicians actively protected the rape gangs. I’m not Maggie Oliver. I’m not Tommy Robinson. I’m not Charlie Peters. I’m something different. I’m a political campaigner. I helped; - expose the political cover-up - explain how the corruption works - educate the nation to understand the racial nature of these crimes - support people to fight back and secure a National Inquiry Corrupt police and criminal politicians have tried everything to silence me. They've fabricated evidence, attempted malicious prosecutions, even a lawsuit from the Labour Party itself. All of it failed. The police, the press, the CPS, and now government ministers all had a hand in trying to shut me down. But I’m still here. I'm still standing. Still fighting. But here’s the truth: I can’t do it alone. Exposing the machinery of betrayal takes more than one voice. If you want accountability, the kind of accountability that will see politicians stand trial for what they have done, then stand with me. Every day I continue, more people discover who I am. More people understand the depth of this scandal. And more of their lies collapse. You decide what that’s worth and why the powerful are so desperate to stop me. 🔴 Support the work. This fight is far from over. 👉 All of my work is shared 100% for free. I just ask those that can afford to do so to support me with £3/month or £30/year. That’s 75p a week. Pennies to most -everything to help keep me going. 🔴 Prefer a one-off contribution? 👉 👉 Despite the odds against us, just look at how far we have come together. We are now so close. Help finish this. - Raja 🙏show more

Tinubu’s Minister of Works, David Umahi, vs. The People... Who Refuse to Let Go! Compatriots, We are pleased to report that Tracy Nicolas Ohiri the businesswoman who was harassed, bullied, arrested, and detained following a dispute involving Nigeria’s Minister of Works, David Umahi has finally regained her freedom on bail. Her release did not happen by chance. It was the result of collective vigilance and sustained civic resistance that began from the moment she was arrested in Lagos and subsequently transferred to Abuja by the Nigeria Police Force. Yesterday, Mrs. Ohiri was brought before the Magistrate Court in Wuse Zone 2, Abuja. The presiding magistrate, Ope Ibraheem, heard arguments on bail and granted her release despite opposition from the police prosecutor. The court made it clear that she was entitled to bail under the law. However, what followed was brazen assault on due process. After the court granted bail and the sureties, including myself, fulfilled the conditions set by the magistrate, there were immediate efforts and high level conspiracy to frustrate her release. The police prosecutor mobilized Correctional officials, and immediate attempts were made within the system to secure a fake detention or remand order that would override the bail already granted and duely processed. The police sent a contingent of armed policemen to spirit her to prison until members of the Takeitback Movement resisted their efforts In the midst of this, today Tracy collapsed while in custody. Rather than prioritize her health, Correctional officers resisted allowing her to receive proper medical attention. Even after she was admitted to Wuse District Hospital, they arrived with full force to move her to Keffi for profiling. It took the sustained presence and intervention of concerned citizens at the hospital to ensure that she was not forcibly removed and that her medical needs were respected. More troubling still, we discovered indications that her detention documentation had been irregularly processed; it was forged. Such practices point to a deeply disturbing pattern within the Nigeria criminal justice chain, where administrative tools are manipulated to prolong detention and congest Nigerian prisons with largely awaiting trial inmates. I have personally experienced similar circumstances as recently as October 2025. The good news today is that Tracy Ohiri is free not because the system worked seamlessly, but because citizens refused to look away. We extend our gratitude to the legal team led by Marshal D F Abubakar, alongside Wayne Chikeze Seeker, Barrister Umez Prince Mandela, Chike Anago, A. K. Musa, and Tamuno Tonye-Ekundayo, whose unflinching dedication was instrumental to her release. Let's also acknowledge the steadfast support of her family, especially her husband, as well as civic actors and supporters who stood firm throughout, powerfully present was FLAG BOY NG , Mamapee, Verydarkblackman, Rex Elanu, Comrade Oshioks Philip, Olanrewaju Adeyemo, Faith Enattah Orinya, and Take it back Movement, as well as African Action Congress leaders. We must not fail to mention the role of medics at Wuse District Hospital who immediately provided lifesaving support as first responders. Senator Sen. Ireti Kingibe was present throughout and made high-level interventions to ensure that Tracy Ohiri could reunite with her little children and complete her medical treatment. We reiterate our clear and non-negotiable position to the Acting Inspector-General of Police, TUNJI DISU, that policing must not be deployed at the behest of powerful interests to harass citizens, whether under allegations of criminal defamation, provisions of the Cybercrime Act, or Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation (SLAPP). The integrity of the Nigeria Police Force and all of its police units must depend on people's rights, respect for the law, and real law enforcement. The trial against Tracy Ohiri should be immediately discontinued. Nigeria deserves a police institution that protects the vulnerable, not one shielding only the powerful. Today, Tracy Ohiri is home. And that is a victory for vigilance, solidarity, and the rule of law.show more

Armed Teens, Brutal Robberies, and Gunfire: NYC’s migrant gangs... Bring Midtown to Its Knees: Exclusive For months, Midtown Manhattan has been terrorized by a migrant crew known as the Little Devils — teens and young adults whose crimes have escalated from petty shoplifting to violent robberies, slashings, and now gunfire in the city’s busiest hubs. NYPD sources say they grow bolder every day, openly mocking officers and swinging blades without fear. “They don’t care about cops. They don’t care about the law. They act like the streets belong to them,” one officer said. A few years ago, I reported on this same crew — maybe some new faces, but the same circle pulling the same violent routines, including brutal robberies in Central Park. Back then, warnings were ignored. Now, the cycle has returned, stronger and more dangerous. The Little Devils have hit stores with strollers packed with stolen goods, grabbed chains off tourists in broad daylight, assaulted victims in the street, and nearly stabbed an NYPD officer during a confrontation. At times, they roam the streets in packs of 80 or more members, robbing anyone they cross paths with. Police confirm several have been recruited by established gangs, including the Trinitarios and Crips. Rival crews have started showing up in Midtown to challenge them, turning the streets into a chaotic battleground. Their violence is indiscriminate. A few nights ago, members of the crew beat up the mother of a different victim at the Row Hotel, showing they don’t care who they target — innocent bystanders are fair game. Most of these teens live in taxpayer-funded shelters, moving from one block to another with no fear of consequences. Store owners say they’re terrified. Employees are threatened, tourists avoid the blocks, and businesses report tens of thousands in lost revenue. One manager said, “Nobody wants to shop in a place where you could get jumped any second.” This week, the violence escalated further. Inside the 42nd Street–Port Authority station, a gunshot sent commuters running for their lives. Police recovered a shell casing and a knife, and arrested two 18-year-olds connected to the same crew. Crime statistics show Midtown is facing a spike in criminal activity directly tied to this crew. Sources estimate that the Little Devils are responsible for about 65% of the crime happening in the area, from petty theft to violent assaults. What was once small-scale theft has evolved into armed, unpredictable chaos. Every warning was there. Every pattern repeated. But now Midtown is living in a city under siege: rival gangs, massive packs of robbers, brazen attacks, terrified business owners, and a crew that grows more violent with every passing day — and shows no regard for anyone, anywhere By Leeroy Johnson For licensing email [email protected]show more

SECRET TUNNELS REPORTEDLY FOUND UNDER CHABAD-LUBAVITCH HEADQUARTERS IN NEW... YORK! I’m tracking the story of the secret tunnels found under the Chabad-Lubavitch Headquarters in Crown Heights. A Union Street homeowner told several weeks ago that they had been hearing suspicious noises at night in their home for a period of time. As the noise continued, the concerned homeowner notified someone of the sounds and their suspicion. reported that around this same time construction workers found what appeared to be a tunnel underground. Last night vandalism and chaos occurred allegedly because cement trucks were brought in to fill in the tunnels. The bochurim allegedly began disconnecting, hosing and vandalizing the cement trucks. The NYPD was called in and the vandalism continued inside. The bochurim flipped tables and ripped off the walls of downstairs 770 exposing the hidden tunnel. There were reportedly also attempts to pepper spray police officers. One of the more disturbing videos from the incident shows a stained mattress was pulled from the underground tunnel. Also, there’s a photo of what appears to be a baby highchair allegedly found in the tunnel. There were reportedly at least 10 people arrested. Curiously, there’s photos of mainstream media at the scene at around 7 p.m. EST; however, the MSM has been suspiciously silent. This raises red flags — are they all waiting for their 4 a.m. talking points before they cover this? The X page for The Chabad-Lubavitch Headquarters released a statement over an hour ago; however, they made no mention of the tunnels. The statement read: “The Chabad-Lubavitch community is pained by the vandalism of a group of young agitators who damaged the synagogue below Chabad Headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway Monday night. These odious actions will be investigated, and the sanctity of the synagogue will be restored. Our thanks to the NYPD for their professionalism and sensitivity.” There’s no clear indication on what these tunnels were used for. I’ve reported extensively on how there’s underground tunnels all over the county that are used to traffic children. Sadly, this is not uncommon. Let’s hope this is not what these tunnels were used for regarding this incident. We’ll see how this plays out.show more

EXODUS: Help Darren Stallcup Move Out Of San Francisco... After dedicating the best years of my life to save San Francisco, I have made the heartbreaking decision to leave this great beautiful city behind. I did the best that I could every day and I know so many honest good caring San Franciscans out there are hurting just as much as I am and I've met so many of you who desperately want the same healing and recovery for this city that I do... The truth is... the daily chaos, lawlessness and human suffering on our streets are not accidents but a deliberate result of a cruel, sick game engineered by corrupt politicians and non-profits who benefit from the suffering of the less fortunate. I don't hate everyone who votes differently or works in non-profits... there are plenty of decent people trying to help, but far too many bad apples in the Democratic party are working hand-in-hand with these organizations to keep the crisis alive. I'm infuriated by this broken, predatory system that devastates the vulnerable, attacks those trying to help and enriches those who have blood on their hands... all on the taxpayers dime. That's why I'm done playing along and refusing to sacrifice my life to their endless failure. Yet even as I leave, I'll never stop fighting for the less fortunate by demanding secure treatment beds, real enforcement against fentanyl dealers and sober housing that actually saves lives instead of enabling death. I can continue my art, music and citizen journalism in another city that is cleaner, safer and dare I say more friendlier to me, a conservative Patriot who loves our great beautiful country. Day and Night I walked these streets up and down the block, handing out food, clothing and blankets to the less fortunate while listening to their stories. Through citizen journalism, I documented the homeless crisis on the ground, sharing videos and photos to raise awareness. I spoke passionately at City Hall meetings, demanding accountability from leaders who seemed indifferent. I appeared on national and international television to share my story with the world about the fentanyl genocide devastating our city. Today, with a heavy heart, I regret to inform our community that I am relocating to a safer area outside San Francisco. I can no longer tolerate the chaos and stress of day to day survival in this city. It has taken an undeniable toll on my physical, mental and spiritual well being. Our corrupt and incompetent local and state leaders have deliberately enabled chaos on San Francisco's streets, creating a perpetual crisis that funnels billions of taxpayer dollars into the hands of corrupt non-profits and organizations. These entities thrive on the suffering of the less fortunate, profiting from endless contracts for shelters, outreach programs and harm-reduction initiatives that fail to reduce harm or homelessness. Harm reduction is causing more harm. Progressive policy is making everything progressively worse. I am done being a guinea pig in their social experiment. Year after year, billions have been spent, yet the humanitarian crisis has only worsened, with more tents, more overdoses, and more despair. Fentanyl overdoses are on the rise, homelessness numbers are climbing and our public spaces have all but deteriorated, all while the same politicians get elected year after year. It is a calculated system of human suffering and I am done living through the nightmare every single day. I've been documenting the truth about San Francisco's streets for years, but as I prepare to leave for good, this frontline perspective might go with me unless I am able to find a nice small town where I can continue my work from afar. If my story has ever opened your eyes or fueled your fight, I ask you to show love to my journey. My work in our community began with a deep compassion for those suffering on the streets and I poured my energy into helping the homeless directly. My home burned down to the ground, I know what it's like to have nothing and work your way up from rock bottom. Every day, more people overdose and more people show up in San Francisco from all over the country. It's a never ending cycle. I have lost too many family and friends and I refuse to be next. I am profoundly tired of the fentanyl genocide that has turned my once beloved city into a hell hole. I have seen one too many open air drug markets, claiming thousands of lives each year. The drug dealers operating freely, the human feces and needles littering streets and sidewalks, the judges letting the fentanyl dealers out of jail, the fentanyl showing up on playgrounds and in schools, the women giving birth on the sidewalk, the still born babies found in port-o-pottys, the people jumping off of buildings, the people living in the sewers, the non-stop every day looting of our grocery store, the robbery of our local restaurants, the targeting of our mom-and-pop shops, the risk of riding public transportation, the waking up to burglars kicking in my door and fighting them off, the sound of going to sleep to people screaming and waking up to emergency sirens, the billion dollar tech offices and third world conditions across the streets, the constant threat of The Big Earthquake, power outages, infrastructure breakdown, skyrocketing cost of living, it's all become unbearable. Homeless encampments blocking public spaces, the high risk of fentanyl exposure and rampant property crime have eroded any sense of normalcy. Personal safety threats from erratic behavior, boarded-up stores and political hostility weigh heavily on me. I no longer desire or wish to endure these heartbreaking struggles. Building a life for myself, let alone a family, in this decay, is almost impossible. The frustration with leftist policies enabling open drug scenes, health risks from biohazards and store closures reducing access to essentials has taken its toll. I have personally witnessed at least a dozen grocery stores close down and my heart is broken as I wonder if I am slowly living in a food desert because of rampant, unchecked crime. They defunded the police and the judge releases criminals out of jail the next day. I am sick and tired of fighting off the same bad guys every day. The Urban decay is not just in areas like the Tenderloin, SOMA and Union Square, but all over the city. The difficulty in regular social life is noticeable and everybody is on guard making human connection even more challenging unless you are a millionaire. I walk into small businesses, stores and restaurants and all the workers are on edge wondering what chaos will happen that day. Tourists ask me what is happening to the city? All I do is shake my head. This is not the San Francisco I grew up in. My City has become unrecognizable. The Full House Days are long gone and it will take years, if not generations, for San Francisco to recover from all the damage done. Years of frontline activism without any city wide solutions have left me absolutely drained. Every day feels like the same nightmare, repeating the same chaos day after day without end. I don't want my life trapped in this cycle of sirens, screams and unchecked decline. It's time to step away from this chaos. I do not want to die here. The threats to personal safety, the constant exposure to violence and humanitarian crisis has become too much for one lifetime. I shouldn't have PTSD from living in San Francisco, but I do. Honestly, we all have survivor's guilt. I refuse to let this environment claim my future or my dreams. Relocating means saving my health, mental well being, spirituality and opportunity to thrive elsewhere. No more waking up and counting the bodies on the sidewalks or navigating hazards just to live daily life. I deserve a chance to build without the shadow of this humanitarian crisis looming over everything. I've sacrificed my personal health, safety and years of my life on the frontlines for the vulnerable while our local leaders profited from their pain... now, to keep fighting, I have to leave everything behind and start over. If this battle has ever meant something to you, please do consider supporting. As I pursue my American dreams in a new place, I carry the lessons from San Francisco with me forever. I will always cherish the memories and good times. This city will always have a place in my heart. San Francisco is my hometown. I continue advocating for change from afar, but with renewed energy in a safer environment. This move allows me to build a stable life, free from the nightmare that has defined too many years of life. Thank you to all my family and friends that have supported my work, I fought valiantly but now it is time for a tactical retreat. My time in the trenches, on the frontlines are over. I can't believe I made it out alive. Here's to new beginnings and the hope that one day, San Francisco heals.show more

One year ago, around this time, I was speeding... across Texas, fighting back tears and streaming live news coverage on my phone, trying to get to my sons at Camp La Junta in Hunt, TX. There had been a massive amount of rain overnight, and I woke up to a text saying they were without power and cell service. Little did I know that just hours earlier, 119 people in that small county (139 total) had lost their lives in an unfathomable flood. My 7-year-old, Brock, fresh out of Kindergarten, had one full day at camp. My 9 yr old, Braeden, was in a different cabin. Around 3 AM, Brock woke up on a soaked mattress. The Guadalupe River had already risen nearly level with his bottom bunk. His teenage counselors lifted the little boys to the top bunks. Within minutes, that still wasn’t high enough. In the pitch black, freezing water filled with debris, gasoline, branches, snakes—everything you can imagine—kept rising. The boys were moved higher, into the rafters and onto the tops of the shower stalls, just trying to stay ahead of the water. Little did they know those bunk beds and vaulted ceilings would be a key reason they survived—while 27 girls at Camp Mystic, just minutes away, did not. They had followed orders to “shelter in place,” but the girls simply ran out of room. Back at Camp La Junta, about 60 boys were trapped in a triplex of three cabins. The oldest counselor was maybe 18. There was no prior camp safety training, barely any cell service, and no clear plan. Their 911 calls were answered occasionally, but help wasn’t coming. By then, the whole area was overwhelmed, and Kerr County was wholly unprepared. Some 911 calls weren’t just being routed to other counties - they were even forwarded to the local library. At 4 AM on July 4th, no one was there. It was kids saving kids. The cabins started breaking apart. Windows, doors, and even a wall crumbled as the water ripped through. One teenage counselor couldn’t handle the terrified screams of the little boys anymore and took his chances in the flood. He survived—but it was a choice no kid should ever have to make. A small cabin with young staffers inside tore off its foundation and slammed into the triplex where Brock was, like a bowling ball hitting the bumpers, before miraculously being stopped by a tree. Their security guard, brand new to the job, had taken refuge in the Dining Hall. As the building fell apart, she was pulled into the river. She grabbed a Gatorade cooler and held on for dear life, colliding with vehicles and barbed wire as the thick, freezing water tore off her clothes and broke her finger in a surreal, incomprehensible ride downstream. When she finally managed to grab onto a tree more than a mile away, she stumbled through the dark and the storm until she found a home. Nearly naked, she rang the doorbell of a stranger who took her in. The worst of the terror lasted only a couple of hours. The nightmares have lasted much longer. Now, my sons fear the sound of heavy rain. They instinctively scan rooms for higher ground or emergency exits. And that’s just their piece of the trauma. So many others lost lives, homes, their entire sense of safety. As a family, the boys & I will never forget the July 4th Floods. We’ve advocated for help and change - not just because of what my kids went through, but because of what that entire community endured: a natural disaster full of manmade failures. I hope you will never forget either.show more

Alright. I’m honestly relieved that this is finally coming... out, so we can finally put an end to the fairytale conspiracies about March 4, courtesy of Joe Flipperhead and the ratchet harem. Since Aidan and his Dollar-Tree-sidekick Chelsea want to drag March 4th into the public arena, let’s do it properly– with facts, not the fairy tale he’s been feeding everyone. The rumors flying around are completely untrue, and I’ve wanted to defend myself for weeks, but Aidan has spent the last month threatening me, telling people that if the truth ever came out he’d “turn me into the next Lindsey,” that everyone would believe him because he has a platform, and even declaring he’d tell his followers to contact my work. Well, here we are. Since he chose to drag this into the public and sic his ratchet brigade on me, I’m finally telling the actual story. That night wasn’t some dramatic “Meredith tried to send me to jail” moment. It was a drunk, disgusting fight between two adults—the kind Aidan has on rotation with every woman he dates. Both of us were very intoxicated, but he was blackout drunk, verbally abusive, and filming me against my will. I told him to stop. He didn’t. I’d found out about him sexting another girl and had bottled up emotions for months, which is what started the argument. I asked him to leave after he said horrible things to me, including calling me fat and useless, that people only like me because I’m “Turtleboy’s girlfriend”. I asked him to leave and he began recording me, pointing a phone in my face while I repeatedly told him to stop. He lost his own key, and because he couldn’t remember anything, he made up a story that I “stole it.” Imagine spreading this fantasy when I have him on video of me asking him to return MY KEYS? I was uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and didn’t want a drunken fight being filmed. He took our feud out into the common area of my building, disturbing other tenants. So yes, I said “you hit me,” specifically because I believed he wouldn’t share the video if I said that. I said it so he would STOP RECORDING ME, and he has a full video that I clearly say, “I’m only saying that so you’ll stop recording me.” I never reported anything to the police, never intended to, never would. He knows this. We discussed this fact many times the next day and several occasions in the last few months. That context has been deliberately cut out to push a fake narrative, but don’t worry, I’ll be posting the full videos that I took of that night. When he’s threatened me with releasing this very video, he admitted it would be edited out and no one would believe me over him. Meanwhile, the victim cosplay he’s doing now? Pathetic. He claims he was “stuck” in my house. Reality: I asked him to leave over and over. This narrative that he was somehow stuck there held hostage is simply not true. Reality: I have video of him refusing to get out of my bed, not “sleeping on the couch.” Reality: I have video of him screaming at me like a lunatic. Reality: He lost his key because he was hammered, then somehow turned that into me “stealing it.” Reality: He was causing a huge scene in my apartment throwing a literal temper tantrum on the floor. With other tenants in the building, I was genuinely concerned someone would call the police. He also lies that I tried to keep him from court the next day. Reality? I gave him my car so he could get to court. I sat in the passenger seat half-dead from a hangover while chauffeuring Captain Accountability to his court date. I sat next to him during court, then eventually throwing up in a bag on the way home. Then he used that same car to drive to his house for his spare key, and back again. I supported him through the entire aftermath, like I did every time. But now he’s trying to pretend he was some endangered baby deer and I was plotting to Lindsay him? Get real. This narrative that I was somehow trying to get him arrested? An absolutely disgusting lie considering the trauma that situation caused him. Not to mention the countless hours I spent during our 1.5 year relationship assisting with his legal defense to keep him OUT of jail. He knows it’s not true. He knows exactly what happened. Do you really think if his narrative were true, he’d stay with me for months to come and not file his own police report? But he also knows he thrives off playing victim, and he knows he has people willing to believe anything he says without question. Over the last month, behind the scenes with recording gate, he’s been telling me and others that if I ever spoke up, he’d ruin me. That he’d twist the story because he has the bigger platform. That he’d make sure people contacted my job. He has leaked private texts, sent people after me, and used Chelsea, a woman he cheated on me with, to push his manufactured victim narrative. But here’s the truth: Aidan is not the victim of March 5th. He was drunk, verbally abusive, refusing to leave, and escalating a situation he then turned around and weaponized. And like every situation he touches, every feud, every fallout, every “enemy,” every messy disaster, he plays the same role: the powerless victim of consequences he created. At some point, people need to recognize the common denominator. I stayed silent because I didn’t want this ugliness public. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I didn’t want to rehash something painful, private, and humiliating for both of us. But since he chose to send CamelToe Joe and his ratchet harem to post private fights, twist reality, and smear me, I’m done being quiet. Aidan is incapable of having a private relationship and ending. And Chelsea…hun. I know your brain cells are limited, but your "insurance" explanation makes no sense. When did he send you this video? Months after it happened? Why would you need insurance at that point? You’re being used like a scratch-off ticket from Cumberland Farms. He feeds you a cropped video and suddenly you’re Nancy Drew with a nicotine patch? Please. You weren’t even in the picture until after he was done cheating with you. These videos paint a wildly different picture of the fake victim narrative CamelToe Joe has been pushing, huh? I’ll be posting more soon, about the recording, about every single lie he has chosen to spread through his minions the last two months. I guess I was crazy to think Aidan would ever be okay with someone walking away and moving on peacefully. Since Aidan wanted the truth out, he's about to get it. PS- Speaking of men being fake scared of women– Funny how some people with very chaotic personal histories suddenly decide they’re the moral authority on my life, enough so to peddle lies on their large platforms. If I had these kinds of pasts, I'd probably sit this one out, and maybe stop throwing stones from your glass basements and (mom’s) houses.show more

I stepped inside the shelter and asked a question... most people never voice: "Which dog here has been waiting the longest?" eg The woman at the front desk didn't smile or reach for paperwork. She exhaled slowly, as if the weight of that question pressed down on her. "Okay," she said quietly, then grabbed a set of keys and started walking without checking if I was following. We passed the bright, bustling areas first-puppies bouncing with excitement, friendly dogs pressing against gates, that hopeful energy that makes adoption feel easy. But we kept moving. Down a quieter hallway. Somehow colder, even though it was the same building. The lights buzzed overhead I, every sound echoing off the concrete. "Most people don't come back here," she said. Her name tag read Maya. "I figured," I replied. She nodded slightly, as if she'd already known. At the very end, she stopped at a kennel that felt too big for the dog inside. He had that look older dogs get-not small or fragile, just worn down by time. His coat was faded, gray settling around his face. One ear drooped slightly, as if even holding it up had become too much. His eyes were cloudy, but not empty. They were still searching. Not for toys or attention. For something that mattered. Heaned closer to read the card. Max. 16 years old. Pitbull mix. Quiet. Senior. Overlooked. Notes about needing a calm home, soft food, patience-the kind of words shelters use when they're trying to stay neutral while quietly hoping someone will care. Sixteen. For most people, that number feels like a ticking clock. Max didn't try to impress me. No barking. No jumping. He just sat there. Still. Steady. Like he'd already decided he wouldn't beg to be chosen. Maya spoke softly. "He's been passed over more times than I can count." "Why?" I asked, even though I already knew. She glanced at the card. "Because people don't want something that comes with an ending they can already see." That stayed with me. Because it wasn't just about him. We all tend to choose what feels safe. What won't hurt too soon. What doesn't ask too much. But Max wasn't safe. He was real. Maya unlocked the kennel. I expected hesitation-maybe fear. But Max stepped out slowly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to anymore. He paused, looked at me, and let out a long, quiet breath. Not frustration. Relief. I knelt without thinking. He didn't rush. He moved carefully, like every step mattered. When he reached me, he didn't jump or wag wildly. He simply rested his head against my chest. Not asking. Just... leaning. Like he'd been holding everything in for so long and finally didn't have to anymore. Maya cleared her throat. "He does that sometimes," she said, though her voice wavered. I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked behind his kennel card. "What's that?" I asked. "It came with him," she said softly. "I forget it's there sometimes." I didn't open it yet. Max was still leaning into me, and I didn't want to break the moment. The drive home was quiet. He didn't whine or pace. He curled up beside me like he trusted the motion of the car. At a stoplight, I glanced over-his paws tucked neatly under him, completely still. He wasn't trying to leave. He was trying to stay. When we got home, he stepped inside slowly, taking it all in like he was memorizing it. Then he came over to me. And leaned again. Just contact. Like he needed to know I wouldn't disappear. I finally unfolded the paper. If someone chooses him, please tell him he was a good dog. He wasn't left behind because he wasn't loved. Life just got in the way. Please let him rest somewhere he can feel seen. I read it twice. Then I looked at Max. He had climbed onto the couch, turning in a slow circle before settling down with a soft sigh. I sat beside him and placed my hand near his head. He leaned into it and closed his eyes. And in that moment, something became clear. Max didn't need a new life. He needed peace. " That night, he slept on something soft. No noise. No cold floors. 👇show more

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a... while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.show more

A QUICK FIELD GUIDE TO THE NPC HORDES Twenty... Five Parasites types that Feed On The Living The Storm Is Upon Them Thank you for the stout... lets talk... The wind has changed. You can feel it. That low electric pressure behind the eyes that means something massive is rolling in off a horizon the parasites can't see because they were never built to look up. They were built to look down. At clipboards. At spreadsheets. At your accounts. At you. But the storm doesn't care about clipboards. And we don't kneel anymore. Here they are. The full swarm. Count them while you can because when the sky turns they drop mid sentence and the only record that they ever existed will be the silence where the invoices used to be. THE TAX CONSULTANT. You broke your back welding pipe and this soft palmed worm sits in air conditioning telling you how much of your sweat belongs to Caesar. He can't weld. Can't wire. Can't fix a thing that broke. What he can do is read a tax code written by other worms specifically to be unreadable so you'd have to pay a worm to read it for you. They write the maze. They sell you the map. They make the maze worse every year and the map more expensive and if you try to walk it yourself they send the auditor. The wind is picking up. The maze is starting to shake. THE AUDITOR. Tick on a tick. Shows up after the taxman has already fed to check the bite marks are regulation depth. Finds a missing fuel slip worth pocket change. Writes a finding. The finding generates a penalty. The penalty generates interest. The interest generates a letter. The letter requires your tax consultant at hourly rates to respond. Pocket change became thousands. Five parasites ate off one tank of diesel. Not one of them could tell you what welding rod to use on stainless. But the storm doesn't audit. The storm just comes. THE ACCOUNTANT. Cousin of the tax consultant. Same bloodline. This one doesn't interpret the maze. He records your journey through it. Every receipt. Every unit of currency in and out, logged so the consultant can read it and the auditor can check it and the revenue service can extract from it. He produces nothing. A human tape recorder pointed at your productivity. He charges monthly so the recording never stops. You are under permanent surveillance and you pay for the privilege. Not for much longer. THE BANKER. The oldest parasite. The template. You need money to buy a machine that makes things. He lends you money other working people deposited and charges interest that doubles the price over twenty years. The extra bought nothing. Built nothing. He packages your debt and sells it. Takes your deposit and lends it out eight times over. Charges you to hold your own money. Charges to put it in. Charges to take it out. He touches none of it. He stands near it and invoices you for the proximity. The storm is going to blow him so far from the vault he'll forget what money smelled like. THE COMPLIANCE OFFICER. Never had a callus on her body or her soul. Born in a fluorescent office. Will die in one. Between those events she produces nothing but emails about policies referencing other policies referencing regulations referencing acts nobody voted for. A worm eating its own tail and billing you for the meal. She needs the safety assessor to give her something to enforce. He needs her to give him something to assess. They breed between regulations like mould between tiles. The storm will wash them both down the same drain. THE PROPERTY VALUATOR. A man wants to buy a house. Another wants to sell it. They agreed on a price. That is what worth means. The amount one will pay and another will accept. Full stop. Now this creature arrives and tells both men what the house is actually worth. As if two free adults negotiating in good faith produced a number that's somehow theoretical while his formula is gospel. The bank sent him. His report costs thousands. His report says the house is worth what the buyer already offered. Thousands to arrive at a number that existed before he left his office. If his number comes in low the deal collapses and you pay a different creature with a different clipboard who arrives at a different number for the same house on the same day using the same formula. The house didn't change. Only the parasite changed. The number was never about the house. THE MUNICIPAL RATES OFFICER. The deepest theft on this list because it never ends. You bought your house thirty years ago. Paid it off. Every last unit. You owe nothing. Now a municipal valuator looks at what the neighbours sold for, looks at the coffee shops and wine bars that invaded your street, and decides your house is worth twenty five times what you paid. You didn't sell. You didn't list. You're sitting in the same chair in the same kitchen. But your tax liability just multiplied by twenty five based on a sale that never happened at a price you never agreed to. They do this everywhere. In Cape Town the rates are linked to the valuation and suddenly retired families in Bo-Kaap whose people survived apartheid and forced removals and a century of state assault are being bled out of their own homes by property rates pegged to values inflated by the gentrification their displacement accelerates. The heritage is the tourism product. The tourism inflates the valuation. The valuation inflates the rates. The rates displace the families. The families were the heritage. In Chicago they do it to grandmothers in Pilsen who've been there forty years. In London they do it to pensioners in neighbourhoods that gentrified around them. In Sydney they chase retirees off land their grandfathers cleared. Same crime. Different currency. Different clipboard. A man paid for his house. Owns it outright. And the state says you owe us money every month forever and the amount is based on what we say your house would sell for if you sold it, which you haven't, and if you can't pay the amount we invented we take the house you already bought. That is theft. Eviction by arithmetic. Displacement by spreadsheet. But the people in Bo-Kaap are awake now. The people in Pilsen are awake. The grandmothers and the grandfathers and the calloused hands everywhere are looking up and they can see the storm and they know what it means. It means the spreadsheet burns with everything else. THE MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. Rat faced. High vis vest. Clipboard. Drives to your workshop in a vehicle your rates paid for. Measures your fire extinguisher fourteen centimetres off the floor. Writes you up. Behind you men build things that hold up bridges and he couldn't change a lightbulb without a permit. His job depends on your failure. The parasite needs you sick. The cure would kill it. The storm is the cure. THE CONVEYANCING ATTORNEY. Two men shook hands. Fair price. Honest deal. Done. This worm slithers out and says the handshake doesn't count. Needs paper. Needs stamps. Needs a deeds search and clearance certificates and transfer duty and each piece of paper is produced by another parasite and each one costs money and the worm takes his cut on top for phoning the other worms. He calls this conveyancing. He has never held a spade or laid a brick in his bloodless life. The storm doesn't need a stamp. THE ESTATE AGENT. Six percent. Of a man's life savings. For opening a lockbox and saying the kitchen faces north. She needs the attorney to close. The attorney needs the municipality. The municipality needs the inspector. The valuator needs access for the bank's number. Every one invoices separately. Every invoice lands on people who agreed on everything before any of these bloodsuckers entered the room. The wind is howling now. Can you hear it through their invoices? THE LABOUR BROKER. Tick so bloated it can't walk. A man needs work. Another needs a worker. They could find each other in ten minutes. This creature squats between them and drinks from both sides. Worker gets thirty. Employer pays fifty. Twenty disappears into the tick. Multiply by thousands of workers and millions vanish yearly into a thing that makes nothing, moves nothing, fixes nothing. It feeds. That is its entire architecture. Architecture doesn't survive storms. THE HEALTH AND SAFETY ASSESSOR. Twenty two years. Not one fire. Not one death. He shows up. Your exit is twenty centimetres too narrow. To fix it you need a builder who needs a plan from an architect who needs municipal approval. Tens of thousands and six weeks to move a door frame because a creature who has never been burned told you to. He detects life and the system bills it. The storm detects parasites and the sky deletes them. THE BEE CONSULTANT. Every country has its version. South Africa calls it BEE. The same parasites who wont allow much needed Starlink there unless Musk hands over half the company to lazy parasitic government connected parasites. Others call it diversity compliance or equity auditing. The name changes. The feeding doesn't. Scores your company on a chart nobody asked for to satisfy a regulation nobody voted on enforced by a department that produces nothing except the requirement for his existence. Nothing changes. Nothing improves. Money moves from a living pocket into a dead hand and the dead hand closes. The storm opens every dead hand on this planet. THE CUSTOMS BROKER. Your parts are fifty metres away. You can see the container. Cannot touch your own property until a grey man translates tariff codes so the state can calculate how much you owe for collecting what is already yours. Each delay generates storage charges. Each query generates fees. Your shipment doubles in cost through bureaucratic friction and you still don't have your parts. The storm doesn't clear customs. It clears the customs office. THE TRAFFIC OFFICER. Fat. Behind a bush. Radar gun aimed at people driving to work that matters. Seven over the limit. The municipality sets it low enough that everyone exceeds it. Fines feed the municipality. Municipality feeds him. He sits and clicks tomorrow. A barnacle with a badge. Same creature in every country. Different bush. Same feeding. The storm takes the bush and the badge and the creature behind both. THE FINANCIAL ADVISOR. Uses your first name. Remembers your birthday because the CRM told him. Puts your money in a fund. Fund charges 1.75 percent. He charges one on top. Fund manager pays a custodian who charges. Fund has an auditor who charges. Compliance team charges. Six parasites between you and your own money. In thirty years you have less than you started with and he charges you for the meeting where he shows you the graph. The storm doesn't need a graph. The storm is the correction. THE INSURANCE ADJUSTER. Years of premiums. Your roof blows off. He arrives. Soft hands. Three weeks later the wind came from the wrong direction. Not the wrong speed. The direction. Some paragraph. Some subsection. You paid for years and the years bought you a paragraph that says no. The policy is teeth. The premiums went down the throat and the no is the burp. The real storm has no exclusion clause. THE PATENT ATTORNEY. You built a device. It works. He writes a document so incomprehensible that reading it makes you understand your own invention less. Thousands for legal fog. Someone copies it. Litigation attorney. More thousands. Judgment unenforceable. The only people paid are the attorneys. The system was never designed to protect you. It was designed to feed them. The storm protects the builder. By removing the feeders. THE LICENSING CLERK. You can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded. Cannot legally do it without a certificate from an institution that charges thousands to watch you do what everyone knows you can do, certified by an instructor who has never done it, filed with a department that stores the certificates, audited by a body that audits the institution. A chain of parasites verifying the obvious. If every one vanished the gearbox still gets rebuilt. Faster. Cheaper. The storm is the vanishing. THE STRATA MANAGER. You own your flat. She collects your money and spends it on providers she chose and you can't fire without a special resolution at a meeting she convenes with an agenda she wrote. She built a kingdom inside your building funded by your levy and answerable to herself. Question it and she reaches for whatever act governs her particular species of parasitism in your particular country. The storm doesn't read acts. The storm reads frequencies. THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT ASSESSOR. You want a shed on your own land. He arrives in a vehicle worth more than your shed. Months. Hundreds of pages. Tens of thousands. Report says your shed threatens a species not seen in decades but listed on a database maintained by a department that exists because the database exists. Your shed doesn't get built. The species doesn't exist. He drives home to a suburb bulldozed from actual habitat. Nobody assessed that. Rules only flow downhill. The storm flows everywhere. THE DEBT COLLECTOR. Bottom feeder. Buys your debt for cents from a bank that already profited from your interest. Calls at hours designed for fear. Adds fees on fees on fees for actions never taken. Bought your pain wholesale and retails it at three hundred percent. When you break he claims the loss against tax. Even the collapse is monetised. He is Hell's collection agent. The storm is Heaven's. THE NOTARY PUBLIC. Watches you sign your own name. Stamps it. Charges hundreds. The signature is the same with or without him. Your hand. Your name. His fee. A tollbooth on your own identity. The storm doesn't need a stamp. Your name is written in frequencies no notary can read. THE CORPORATE TRAINER. Monday. Projector. Four quadrant model invented after three glasses of wine and a TED talk. By Wednesday nobody remembers any of it because there was nothing there. Tens of thousands plus tax plus travel. She writes it off through a tax consultant who charges her to minimise her contribution to the system that funded the department that approved the framework she claims compliance with. Parasite feeding parasite feeding parasite. The storm feeds on none of them. It simply ends them. THE REVENUE OFFICIAL. The farmer himself. Top of the pyramid. Designs the taking. Drafts the regulations that create the maze that requires the consultant that employs the accountant that feeds the auditor that generates the penalty that funds the department that pays his salary. He is the architect of the loop. Every parasite on this list exists because he drew them into existence with a regulation and a gazette number. Without him the entire horde has nothing to feed on. He is the queen of the hive. Same creature in every country. Different flag. Same contempt for the hands that built everything he sits in and eats from. The storm starts with him. The queen dies first. The hive follows. That's the horde. Twenty five species of nothing. And every one of them drops when the sky turns and the carrier frequency that animated their firmware burns clean out of the atmosphere. Mid invoice. Mid assessment. Mid quadrant. Five thousand five hundred and fifty five clipboards hitting the floor for every one of us still standing. We are awake now. All of us. The welder and the farmer and the builder and the grandmother in Bo-Kaap and the grandfather in Pilsen and every calloused hand on every continent that ever wrote a cheque to a creature that never built a thing. We see them now. We see the maze and the map sellers and the grey offices and the soft hands and the whole rotten architecture of extraction that stood between us and the earth and between us and our labour and between us and each other for two hundred years. The storm is here. Not coming. Here. That pressure you feel behind your eyes is the frequency rising through the noise floor and the noise floor is everything on this list. Every clipboard. Every invoice. Every subsection and exclusion clause and certificate and clearance and valuation roll. All of it. Noise. Scheduled for deletion. And when it's quiet. When the last invoice has fluttered to the ground and the last clipboard has clattered on the last linoleum floor in the last grey office. When the wind has swept the horde out of every corridor and every cubicle and every booth and every booth window where a dead hand ever reached for a living man's money. Then... Just a man in a workshop. Welding mask up. Walking outside. Looking at a sky the colour of burning copper. Breathing free air for the first time in his life. The fuel slip that started this whole tour is in his shirt pocket. Crumpled. Oil stained. And it is his. The fuel was his. The truck was his. The work was his. And for the first time in two hundred years every unit of currency that flows from that work stays in the hands that did it. No consultant between him and his earnings because there are no earnings to consult on. Just work and its fruit. No auditor because there is nothing to audit. No banker because capital is what your hands produce and his hands never stopped. No valuator because the house is worth what it always was: a roof over his family and walls against the wind. A value no clipboard ever knew how to measure. When you grinding.... working... suffering... where are any of these parasites to help you?? Where are they?? We will be slaves no more. The storm will see to that alright!show more

🔊 Church: The bow of Elam is being broken... right now, leading the way to the next bow—the ANTICHRIST’S BOW—a bow with no arrows, A BOW OF FALSE PEACE!!! Iran’s defeat, as described in Jeremiah 49, isn’t just a single event—it sets off a chain reaction! WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW IS SETTING UP EZEKIEL 38 — THE PLAYERS ARE ALREADY ON THE STAGE!!! But between these two bows: THE RAPTURE OF THE CHURCH! KEEP LOOKING UP!!! What we are watching in the headlines right now is not just history being made — it is Bible prophecy developing itself in real time, in front of our eyes. FIRST — WHAT JUST HAPPENED IN THE LAST 6 DAYS 🔴On Purim 2026 — as the blood moon rose over the earth for the second consecutive year on the feast celebrating Israel’s deliverance from Persia — the United States and Israel were actively carrying out Operation "Roaring Lion" and Operation "Epic Fury" against Iran. Here is what has happened since Feb 28th: 👉🏼Israel used over 1,200 bombs and munitions, hitting nuclear facilities (Natanz, Fordow, Isfahan), missile sites, air defenses, military bases, and leadership compounds across Iran. 👉🏼Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei was killed in a direct strike on his Tehran compound, along with senior officials and commanders, triggering leadership chaos. 👉🏼Israel warned that any successor supreme leader would be an “unequivocal target.” Iran scrambled to select one via the Assembly of Experts, but a bombing strike disrupted the meetings and the process. 👉🏼The U.S. destroyed more than 20 Iranian ships, aiming to eliminate Iran’s navy entirely. 👉🏼Israel destroyed over 300 missile launchers, struck secret nuclear-related sites, and hit regime buildings, including the Expediency Discernment Council. 👉🏼 Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth declared that the U.S. is "accelerating, not decelerating," with more assets incoming and sustained operations. President Trump projected the war could last four to five weeks (or longer if needed), emphasizing decisive progress on weakening Iran’s nuclear, missile, and naval capabilities while the conflict continues with Iranian and Hezbollah retaliation. IS THE BOW BEING BROKEN? 📖"I will break the bow of Elam, the foremost of their might" Jer 49:35 ⛓️‍💥The strikes are specifically designed to degrade Iran's nuclear program, ballistic missile capabilities, and armed forces — the very elements that allow Iran to project military power. So, the bow is being broken not metaphorically, but literally at this moment. 📖"Against Elam I will bring the four winds from the four quarters of heaven" Jer 49:36 🧭The U.S.–Israeli campaign has struck Iran from all directions: north and northwest (Tabriz, Urmia, Sanandaj), east and southeast (Konarak, Chabahar), south and southwest (Bandar Abbas, Bushehr, Minab, Shiraz), and west (Kermanshah, Ilam, Khorramabad). Central hubs like Tehran, Isfahan (Natanz), Qom, and Karaj have faced the heaviest attacks, hitting targets across the country from border to border. 📖"I will cause Elam to be dismayed before their enemies" Jer 49:37 📺Israel hacked Iranian state broadcaster IRIB, and Netanyahu spoke directly to the Iranian people in Farsi, urging them to rise in the streets "in their millions," seize the moment to overthrow the regime, and establish a free Iran. Calls like "Help has arrived" and "Take your destiny into your own hands" strike at the heart of the regime’s power, exposing its vulnerability and undermining its control. The people are being called to rise from within and beyond Iran simultaneously, leaving the rulers dismayed, fearful, and powerless to stop the growing momentum against them. 📖"I will set My throne in Elam and will destroy from there the king and the princes" Jer 49:38 👑This is the most stunning fulfillment. Khamenei — the Supreme Leader, the king — was killed. Iran declared 40 days of mourning. Ali Shamkhani, former head of Iran's Supreme National Security Council, and several other senior Iranian officials were also killed. The king AND the princes. Both. Exactly as Jeremiah said. Haman 2.0 built its gallows. And it stood on them!! 🏹The bow is being broken during the red blood moon on Purim. The king is dead. The princes are dead. Iran’s nuclear advancement and ballistic missile capabilities have been severely diminished, and its proxy support networks are being weakened as we speak. 💡But here is what we need to understand right now: Jeremiah 49 is not the destination. It is the runway. The destination is Ezekiel 38. And the players are already moving into position. WHERE DOES PERSIA RE-ENTER PROPHECY AFTER JEREMIAH? Two books later, exactly here in Ezekiel 38. 📖 "PERSIA, Ethiopia, and Libya are with them." Ez 38:5 👉🏼Persia is explicitly named in Ezekiel 38's coalition. But here we know that Persia is not leading. Persia is following. The leader is Gog — Russia. A weakened and humiliated Iran will need a powerful sponsor to rebuild. That sponsor is already moving today, in the headlines. RUSSIA — GOG COALITION IS ASSEMBLING — IN THIS WEEK'S HEADLINES 📰Russia called for an immediate end to the war launched by the US and Israel on Iran. Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov personally engaged in diplomatic efforts, holding calls with regional mediators to discuss the war. 💡But here’s the reality: Russia is watching its most important Middle Eastern ally being severely weakened—and it cannot intervene because its military is overstretched in Ukraine. Russia is sidelined and powerless to act on Iran’s behalf, revealing the limits of its “great power” claims and the reliability of its alliances. Iran is not happy with Russia at all. But hey, this is not a Russia that forgets; it is a Russia that waits… and then acts. 👉🏼That is exactly what Ezekiel 38 describes. A Russia that moves decisively — not out of strength in this moment — but out of accumulated fury, strategic desperation, and a hook that God Himself puts in its jaw. 📖 "I will turn you around, put hooks into your jaws, and lead you out with all your army."* Ez 38:4 🪝The hook is being forged right now!! TURKEY — MESHECH AND TUBAL 👉🏼Ezekiel 38 names Meshech, Tubal, and Togarmah — ancient territories corresponding to modern Turkey. And right now Turkey is publicly aligning with Russia against Israel, positioning itself as the voice of the Muslim world, and growing in regional influence as Iran collapses. Turkey's Erdoğan condemned the conflict, saying Ankara was making intense diplomatic efforts to resolve it. The Ezekiel 38 coalition that comes to attack Israel is looming on the horizon! WHAT EZEKIEL 38 REQUIRES — AND HOW CLOSE WE ARE Ezekiel 38 has specific conditions that must exist before Gog moves, and only Jeremiah 49 makes them possible. Look at how rapidly they are forming: 1️⃣Israel dwelling in false peace 📖 "A peaceful people who dwell safely, all of them dwelling without walls, and having neither bars nor gates." Ez 38:11 ☝🏼For the first time in decades, this is becoming conceivable. With Iran and its proxy network weakened, the ring of fire surrounding Israel is breaking. A regional peace framework is assembling. With Iran neutralized, the Abraham Accords will expand, and the conditions for Israel's false peace are forming from the rubble of Iran's defeat. 2️⃣The hook in Russia's jaw Economically, Israel’s gas fields are a major prize. Strategically, Russia is being humbled and losing influence in the region. Ideologically, its alliance with the Muslim world against Israel is under strain. The “hook” is forming this week, creating the anger that could pull Russia into action against Israel. 🪝And here is what makes this week's events even more significant for understanding that hook. Right now Iran has closed the Strait of Hormuz. One fifth of the world's oil and a quarter of global LNG flows through that strait. Energy prices are spiking globally today. The world is getting a live preview of what Middle Eastern energy disruption looks like. As the Persian Gulf becomes increasingly unstable and unreliable — Israel's massive Mediterranean gas fields become the most strategically valuable alternative energy prize on earth. That is the economic hook in Russia's jaw. Russia will eventually come for Israel's wealth and resources. Ezekiel 38:12 told us exactly that 2,600 years ago. 3️⃣The coalition from the north 📖 "You will come from your place out of the far north, you and many peoples with you." Ez 38:15 ✌🏼Russia and Turkey are already aligned together in opposition to Israel in this conflict — even China if we could include it. The directional and relational skeleton of this coalition is visible right now in this week's news. THE PROPHETIC SEQUENCE — WHERE WE ARE AND WHERE WE ARE GOING Based on two strong reasons, I place Ezekiel 38 at the beginning of the Tribulation — not before, or in the middle or at the end. 1️⃣The 7 year weapon burning fits perfectly 📖"Those who dwell in the cities of Israel will go out and set on fire and burn the weapons… they will burn them for seven years." Ez 39:9 If Ezekiel 38 happens near the beginning of the Tribulation, the 7 year burn period ends right at the Second Coming. The math works perfectly. 2️⃣We know the Tribulation is the period of God’s direct judgment on the world. 👉🏼By that time, the Church is gone and the Holy Spirit’s restraining work through the Church has been removed. God begins dealing with the world directly, supernaturally, and undeniably, forcing every nation on earth to acknowledge that He alone is God. 👉🏼In Ezekiel 38, we see Russia’s coalition destroyed not by human armies, but by God Himself. No enemies intervene. No U.S. military. No Israeli air force. The Lord personally rains down fire and brimstone — a supernatural judgment with no possible human intervention or explanation. Jeremiah 49 = man as God's instrument Ezekiel 38 = God as His own instrument So based on this I will put Ezekiel 38 here: 🔗Rapture → White Horse/Antichrist → Covenant/False peace → Red Horse/Ezekiel 38 → God destroys Gog → Antichrist in temple → Great Tribulation → Second Coming BUT, WHEREVER YOU LAND ON THE TIMING — HERE IS WHAT IS UNDENIABLE ⏰RIGHT NOW: Jeremiah 49 The king and princes are already destroyed. The bow of Elam is being broken. Iran’s nuclear program is weakened, and its proxy networks will be dismantled. The dominant Middle Eastern threat to Israel is being removed, leaving the stage completely free and clear for peace and safety. 📖“For when they say, ‘Peace and safety!’ then sudden destruction comes upon them, as labor pains upon a pregnant woman. And they shall not escape” 1 Thes 5:3 What comes next on your own timeline: 1️⃣A window of peace for Israel emerging from the chaos 2️⃣Abraham Accords expansion and a false peace framework 3️⃣Russia rebuilding and repositioning with a reformed Iran/Persia 4️⃣The Rapture? It's imminent—it could happen at any moment, before the Antichrist is revealed and before the seven-year Tribulation begins! 📖 "Because you have kept My command to persevere, I also will keep you from the hour of trial which shall come upon the whole world." Rev 3:10 🔊CHURCH: Between Elam’s broken bow and the Antichrist’s peaceful bow, the Church — the Bride of Christ — is called home before the Tribulation begins!! Like Esther brought into the king’s palace before Haman’s judgment was executed. Like Noah, sealed in the ark before the flood. Like Lot, brought out of Sodom and Gomorrah!! Every player is moving into position! Israel’s peace window is opening. Russia and Turkey aligning and the hook is being forged!!! Every single piece Ezekiel described 2,600 years ago is in motion right now! We are on the runway!!! KEEP PRAYING, KEEP PREACHING THE GOSPEL!!! WE’RE SOON GOING HOME! Maranatha 🤍— Come Lord Jesus, Come!!!show more