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‼️ CHANGES TO EXISTING TEAM-UPS (S2.5) - Chilling Charisma, Allied Agents, Ammo Overload, and Symbiote Bond all retired - Iron Man removed from Gamma Charge #MarvelRivals

172,557 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr •via X (Twitter)

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🚨JUST DROPPED: Homeland Security Office of Inspector General releases report on “Secret Service Missed Opportunities to Prevent and Disrupt the Attempted Assassination of President Trump on July 13, 2024." One of the top findings confirms one of the big mysteries of the Butler assassination attempt and who is really at fault: The Secret Service didn't use available equipment to block the line of sight between the AGR building and the stage where President Trump spoke, allowing shooter Thomas Crooks a clear 155-yard shot at Trump. This occurred despite extensive Secret Service training that instructs agents to place objects that "enhance light-of-sight coverage" at events, the OIG reports asserts. The OIG also produced the video below to demonstrate just how clear a shot Crooks had of Trump and the stage. Who is at fault for that? In its report, the DHS OIG said the Secret Service WOULD NOT TELL THEM if campaign staff had placed equipment that was already on site at the event locations that would have blocked the line of sight. I have reported, and a report from Sen. Rand Paul's office later reported, that the Secret Service tried to use farm equipment to block that line of sight -- but the Trump campaign objected to the optics of it -- and requested that it be removed. Here's where it gets interesting: The Secret Service complied. It's unclear who in the Secret Service is responsible for failing to stand up to and override the campaign staff who wanted the equipment removed. -Miyo Perez was the USSS agent in charge of security. She was an inexperienced agent and known within the detail as a partier, not a serious. There were two supervisory agents that were supposed to provide oversight to Perez's work, Nick Menster and Nick Olszewski. Those two agents were never punished for their role in Butler's porous security plan and execution. In fact, current Secret Service Director Sean Curran gave them big promotions. Interestingly, it was Curran who was ultimately responsible for all security decisions for the Butler site -- including the decision to remove farm equipment or not place additional equipment to block the line of sight. Curran was the detail leader for the team protecting Trump during the campaign, and he signed off on the site plan. This new OIG report doesn't address whether Curran himself directly approved the removal of farm equipment from the site so the line of site remained unobstructed for Crooks' shot that nearly killed Trump and did murder Corey Comperatore and seriously wound two others, James Copenhaver and David Dutch. Copenhaver and Duth are now suing the Secret Service over the agency's "preventable failures," as their lawsuit asserts. It's possible that OIG investigators asked Curran, and he refused to say. I'll link to the new DHS OIG report below.

Susan Crabtree

227,603 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

I am Iranian. Let me tell you what is truly heartbreaking: The IRGC has slaughtered tens of thousands of innocent Iranians, our brothers, sisters, children, and not a single one of those soccer players opened their mouths. The only one who dared speak up for the people, Sardar Azmoun, got banned from the World Cup on some bullsh*t excuse about a photo with a UAE Sheikh. The rest of the team? They didn’t even flinch. Not one word. Worse, some of them actively stood with the regime and the Supreme Leader, the same butcher who drowned Iran's streets in blood. Team captain Mehdi Taremi has been a vocal, proud supporter of the IRGC and Khamenei, just scroll through his social media, it’s all there. Shoja Khalilzadeh proudly told Iranian media he’d dedicate his goals to the Supreme Leader, not to the people being massacred, but to the man ordering the killings. There’s video of Shoja and Jalal Hosseini chilling in their car, happily singing “Salute Commander,” that disgusting propaganda anthem made for Khamenei. When asked about the oppression back home, Ramin Rezaeian coldly shrugged it off as “an internal matter.” Don’t give me that “they were forced” bullsh*t. Silence under threat? Maybe. But no one forces you to publicly suck up to the regime like these clowns did. No one puts a gun to your head and makes you sing praises to a mass murderer. So no, there’s nothing heartbreaking about their elimination. That team represents anything but the people of Iran. Good riddance. Fly home, bitches.

Sana Ebrahimi Ledene

273,185 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

I really don’t want to sound like I’m complaining too much, but I’ve been holding this since morning, so I’ll say this as politely as I can: CHANGE the admin/team handling มนต์รักฮักอีหลี HUG E-LHEE : Somtum Rhapsody SOCIAL MEDIA GoodMemoriesDMD Mandee Work Official ดูมันดิ DOMUNDI TV ‼️‼️‼️ Right now, it’s honestly even worse than The Next Prince. There are no single photos for Noi, no single photos for Niche, only one ChangNoi photo, and barely any content. There’s no proper effort to hype up fans, promote the characters, or support the other cast, while the cast and director themselves are already so chaotic, fun, and active I barely see any retweets or support for the cast’s activities, even when they post about the fitting. There aren’t even proper sneak peeks or content to introduce and build excitement for the other cast members Honestly, I’m already tired and have reached the point where I don’t even expect much anymore bc nothing ever changes for the better, instead, it feels like things are only getting worse. But since Q1 hasn’t started yet, I’m still trying to say this nicely, even tho my patience is already running out New series can create fun and engaging content (including Passenger Seat). So pls don’t wait until fans complain before finally posting something, bc by then the hype has already gone. The fans, artists, and cast are already working hard to create excitement. The company needs to wake up and do their part too We all want high engagement, success, and a strong fandom, but that requires effort from both sides. It’s frustrating to see fans constantly pushing, supporting, and creating hype while the company seems to do the bare minimum. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬. 𝐈𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐨

Man 💗✨

11,147 Aufrufe • vor 15 Tagen

IPOB’s Destabilization Agenda: Nigerian Government Should Act Fast and Decisively Too! The recent attempt by Nnamdi Kanu and his legal team to draw international sympathy through a letter addressed to U.S. President Donald Trump is another desperate move to blackmail Nigeria and distort the truth. This ploy, couched under the guise of alleged “Christian persecution,” is a calculated propaganda effort meant to shield Kanu from accountability for his well-documented crimes against the Nigerian state and its people. This latest push is a glaring reality that Nnamdi Kanu and IPOB are behind the noise of a "Christian Genocide" in Nigeria. This is an attempt to undermine the sovereignty of the Nigerian state and forment chaos of international dimension. It is crucial to remind the global community that Nnamdi Kanu is not a prisoner of conscience but a man who jumped bail after being granted temporary freedom by a competent Nigerian court. Instead of submitting himself to the judicial process, he fled the country and used his time in exile to inflame division, hatred, and violence against the Nigerian state. One should ask Nnamdi Kanu if the lives IPOB that he leads wasted in the South East do not matter, these were Christians. During his time abroad, Kanu made numerous broadcasts inciting his followers to attack and kill Nigerian government officials, security agents, and innocent citizens who disagreed with his extremist ideology. His messages were not calls for peaceful self-determination; they were open invitations to anarchy and bloodshed. In one particularly dangerous broadcast around October 20, 2020, during the EndSARS protests, Kanu explicitly ordered the destruction of Lagos State—a city that serves as Nigeria’s economic heartbeat and home to millions of citizens from all tribes and religions. In that same broadcast, he went further, ordering his followers to locate and kill Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu, who was then a private citizen and is now the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. These are not the actions of a freedom fighter—they are the acts of a man pursuing chaos under the false banner of liberation. It must also be emphasized that Kanu’s trial began under the administration of the late President Muhammadu Buhari and has continued lawfully under successive governments. His detention and trial are rooted in due process and constitutional procedure. He is undergoing a valid trial before competent Nigerian courts, yet he and his legal team have persistently refused to open their defence, choosing instead to manipulate international opinion and stall justice. It is instructive at this point the need for the Attorney General of Nigeria must as a matter of urgency report the legal team of Nnamdi Kanu to the Ethics Committee of the Nigerian Bar Association. It is on record that when the one of his lawyers was supposed to be preparing open their defence, he was seen protesting on October 20, 2025 for the release of his client an action that the legal profession frowns at. Let's ask a question, can an American lawyer conduct himself the way Mr. Ejimakor has been conducting himself? Even more telling is that Nnamdi Kanu himself, inside the courtroom, confessed to committing the crimes for which he is being tried, claiming in a video-recorded moment that the offences were committed in the United Kingdom. This alone exposes the hypocrisy in his current attempt to paint himself as a victim rather than the perpetrator he is. Furthermore, the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB)—the organization Kanu leads—is a designated terrorist group under Nigerian law. IPOB has been responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent citizens in the South-East region through brutal attacks on civilians, security operatives, and public infrastructure. The group’s reign of terror has left a trail of destruction, grief, and economic stagnation across a region once known for its peace and industry.

Tenderbiggie Eru O'Bodo #RenewedHope

19,623 Aufrufe • vor 9 Monaten

I just built a Meta Ads diagnostic in Claude Code that tells you WHY your account broke, not just what changed 🤯 It spins up a team of agents that each investigate a different reason performance dropped, then argue against each other to kill the wrong answer before it ever reaches you. All inside Claude Code. Perfect for DTC brands and agencies who panic-kill creative the second CPA spikes. If you've watched ROAS fall off a cliff and opened Ads Manager with ten tabs going, you already know what happens next. Your gut says "creative fatigue." You kill your best-performing ad. A week later performance is still broken, because that was never the problem. Guessing wrong is the most expensive move in paid social. This workflow ends the guessing: → One agent investigates each competing theory — creative fatigue, budget and delivery changes, traffic quality, offer and seasonality → Each one is blind to the others, reasoning only from its own slice of the data so they can't bias each other → A refuter agent then attacks every surviving theory and tries to kill it → A theory only stands if the data can't disprove it → You get a ranked diagnosis: the real cause, the evidence for and against it, and the one move to make this week No anchoring on the first obvious answer. No killing winning creative on a hunch. No "here's what happened" reports that never tell you why. What you get: → Every theory tested in parallel instead of one biased guess → An adversarial pass that kills the wrong answer before you act on it → A ranked diagnosis with confidence levels and evidence both ways → A reusable workflow you drop next month's export into and re-run Built 100% in Claude Code with the new dynamic workflows. The first account I ran it on looked like textbook creative fatigue. The workflow disagreed, and traced the real cause to a budget change that had doubled spend and flooded delivery with junk traffic. I put together a full playbook with the exact workflow, the prompt, and how to run it on your own account. Want it for free? > Like this post > Comment "META" And I'll send it over (must be following so I can DM)

Mike Futia

12,729 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

"The Man Behind the Mask: The Soldier Who Cheated Death in Pulwama and Saved Lives in Wayanad."🇮🇳 You might have seen a photo of an Indian Army officer wearing a hard shell mask over his face. You probably scrolled past it, thinking it was tactical gear or a style choice. It isn’t. That mask hides a face that took 3 bullets for you. That mask covers a jaw that was shattered, so you could sleep safely. This is the story of Lt. Col. Rishi Rajalakshmi (Nair), the man they call "India's Most Fearless." THE NIGHTMARE IN PULWAMA (2017) -->It was March 4, 2017. Tral, Pulwama. Intel confirmed that terrorists were fortified inside a civilian house. It was a death trap. Sending men in was suicide; bombing it from afar would kill civilians. -->Major Rishi (then with 42 Rashtriya Rifles) made a choice that defies human instinct. He didn't order his men to go. He volunteered to go himself. -->His mission was to plant an IED to bring down the specific section of the house hiding the terrorists. THE IMPACT As he crawled into the kill zone, all hell broke loose. -->Bullet 1: Grazed his helmet. -->Bullet 2: Tore through his nose. -->Bullet 3: Shattered his jaw completely. -->Most men would die from the shock alone. Others would collapse. Rishi? He kept firing. -->With his face mutilated, blood pouring out, and unable to speak, he refused to evacuate until the terrorists were neutralized and his team was safe. He didn't just survive; he ensured the mission was a success. THE RESURRECTION -->The aftermath was brutal. 28 major surgeries. A face reconstructed from bone grafts and metal plates. A permanent loss of normal speech and eating abilities. -->The Medical Board prepared his discharge papers. "You've done enough, soldier. Go home." -->But Lt. Col. Rishi had other plans. He didn't want a pension; he wanted his uniform. He rehabilitated himself with a ferocity that scared even his doctors. He returned to active duty. THE WAYANAD SAVIOR (2024) Years later, when the devastating landslides hit Wayanad, Kerala, who was leading the rescue on the ground? The Masked Man. Lt. Col. Rishi Rajalakshmi was there, wading through mud and death, pulling his own people out of the debris. From fighting terrorists in Kashmir to saving civilians in Kerala, his war for India never ended. WE HAVE FAILED HIM We live in a society that will make a stranger famous for a 15-second dance reel, yet we scroll right past the man who literally sacrificed his face to keep us safe. We feast on hollow entertainment while he eats through a tube. That mask isn't a choice; it’s the receipt for our freedom, and the fact that we don't know his name is our collective shame. Lt. Col. Rishi Rajalakshmi is not just a soldier; he is a living testament to the fact that the Indian Army is not made of flesh and blood, but of iron and will. Don't let this story die on your timeline. RT this. Share this. Make sure the world knows the name Lt. Col. Rishi Rajalakshmi. Jai Hind. 🇮🇳🫡 Col AJ🇮🇳 Colonel Mayank Chaubey Major Sammer Pal Toorr (Infantry Combat Veteran) Brig Brijesh Pandey TheGlobalDecoder Aman singh #IndianArmy #RealHero #LtColRishi #Pulwama #Wayanad #IndiaFirst #JaiHind

The Sacred Scroll

186,419 Aufrufe • vor 6 Monaten

Cole Tomas Allen, the man accused of opening fire at the White House Correspondents’ dinner at the Washington Hilton in Washington, D.C. Saturday, reported released a manifesto to his close family members only minutes before the shooting took place. The dinner, an annual event with President Donald Trump, First Lady Melania Trump, and other Trump administration officials in attendance, was cancelled and its attendees evacuated after gun shots rang out late Saturday night. On Sunday, the New York Post obtained and published what they report to be Allen’s full, 1,052-word manifesto in which he refers to himself as “Cole ‘coldForce’ ‘Friendly Federal Assassin’ Allen.” Among the many chilling details laid out in the manifesto, included in full below, are the following: Allen maintained he was “no longer willing to permit a pedophile, rapist, and traitor”(referencing left-wing conspiracies related to President Trump) to commit crimes. He planned to target numerous Trump administration officials “prioritized from highest-ranking to lowest.” Allen was willing to “go through most everyone” in attendance at the event “if it were absolutely necessary,” rationalizing the violence because all those present “[chose] to attend a speech by a pedophile, rapist, and traitor and are thus complicit.” Various talking points and accusations levied against President Trump in the note appear to come directly from various misleading left-wing conspiracies and talking points spread by Democratic Party members and other U.S. leftists. What follows is Allen’s manifesto, as released by the New York Post, in full, with one minor edit to remove profanity: Hello everybody! So I may have given a lot of people a surprise today. Let me start off by apologizing to everyone whose trust I abused. I apologize to my parents for saying I had an interview without specifying it was for “Most Wanted.” apologize to my colleagues and students for saying I had a personal emergency (by the time anyone reads this, I probably most certainly DO need to go to the ER, but can hardly call that not a self-inflicted status.) I apologize to all of the people I traveled next to, all the workers who handled my luggage, and all the other non-targeted people at the hotel who I put in danger simply by being near. I apologize to everyone who was abused and/or murdered before this, to all those who suffered before I was able to attempt this, to all who may still suffer after, regardless of my success or failure. I don’t expect forgiveness, but if I could have seen any other way to get this close, I would have taken it. Again, my sincere apologies. On to why I did any of this:I am a citizen of the United States of America. What my representatives do reflects on me. And I am no longer willing to permit a pedophile, rapist, and traitor to coat my hands with his crimes. (Well, to be completely honest, I was no longer willing a long time ago, but this is the first real opportunity I’ve had to do something about it.) While I’m discussing this, I’ll also go over my expected rules of engagement (probably in a terrible format, but I’m not military so too bad.) Administration officials (not including Mr. Patel): they are targets, prioritized from highest-ranking to lowest Secret Service: they are targets only if necessary, and to be incapacitated non-lethally if possible (aka, I hope they’re wearing body armor because center mass with shotguns messes up people who *aren’t* Hotel Security: not targets if at all possible (aka unless they shoot at me) Capitol Police: same as Hotel Security National Guard: same as Hotel Security Hotel Employees: not targets at all Guests: not targets at all In order to minimize casualties I will also be using buckshot rather than slugs (less penetration through walls) I would still go through most everyone here to get to the targets if it were absolutely necessary (on the basis that most people *chose* to attend a speech by a pedophile, rapist, and traitor, and are thus complicit) but I really hope it doesn’t come to that. Rebuttals to objections: Objection 1: As a Christian, you should turn the other cheek. Rebuttal: Turning the other cheek is for when you yourself are oppressed. I’m not the person raped in a detention camp. I’m not the fisherman executed without trial. I’m not a school kid blown up or a child starved or a teenage girl abused by the many criminals in this administration. Turning the other cheek when *someone else* is oppressed is not Christian behavior; it is complicity in the oppressor’s crimes. Objection 2: This is not a convenient time for you to do this. Rebuttal: I need whoever thinks this way to take a couple minutes and realize that the world isn’t about them. Do you think that when I see someone raped or murdered or abused, I should walk on by because it would be “inconvenient” for people who aren’t the victim? This was the best timing and chance of success I could come up with. Objection 3: You didn’t get them all. Rebuttal: Gotta start somewhere. Objection 4: As a half-black, half-white person, you shouldn’t be the one doing this. Rebuttal: I don’t see anyone else picking up the slack Objection 5: Yield unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. Rebuttal: The United States of America are ruled by the law, not by any one or several people. In so far as representatives and judges do not follow the law, no one is required to yield them anything so unlawfully ordered. I would also like to extend my appreciation to a great many people since I will not be likely to be able to talk with them again (unless the Secret Service is *astoundingly* incompetent.) Thank you to my family, both personal and church, for your love over these 31 years. Thank you to my friends, for your companionship over many years. Thank you to my colleagues over many jobs, for your positivity and professionalism. Thank you to my students for your enthusiasm and love of learning. Thank you to the many acquaintances I’ve met, in person and online, for short interactions and long-term relationships, for your perspectives and inspiration. Thank you all for everything. Sincerely, Cole “coldForce” “Friendly Federal Assassin” Allen PS: Ok now that all the sappy stuff is done, what the hell is the Secret Service doing? Sorry, gonna rant a bit here and drop the formal tone. Like, I expected security cameras at every bend, bugged hotel rooms, armed agents every 10 feet, metal detectors out the wazoo. What I got (who knows, maybe they’re pranking me!) is nothing. No damn security. Not in transport. Not in the hotel. Not in the event. Like, the one thing that I immediately noticed walking into the hotel is the sense of arrogance. I walk in with multiple weapons and not a single person there considers the possibility that I could be a threat. The security at the event is all outside, focused on protestors and current arrivals, because apparently no one thought about what happens if someone checks in the day before. Like, this level of incompetence is insane, and I very sincerely hope it’s corrected by the time this country gets actually competent leadership again. Like, if I was an Iranian agent, instead of an American citizen, I could have brought a damn Ma Deuce in here and no one would have noticed s**t. Actually insane. Oh and if anyone is curious is how doing something like feels: it’s awful. I want to throw up; I want to cry for all the things I wanted to do and never will, for all the people whose trust this betrays; I experience rage thinking about everything this administration has done. Can’t really recommend it! Stay in school, kids.

The Western Journal

104,655 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten

FIFA is floating a 64-team World Cup, and the whole football world is groaning. I am not. I just think they will do it badly, because they always do it badly. So here is the version that works. Sixteen groups of four. Two advance. That gives you a clean 32-team knockout bracket and kills the ugliest thing about the current format, those eight best third-place finishers they invented because 48 does not divide cleanly into anything. It was a fudge and everyone knew it. Sixty-four fixes it by accident. 127 matches. 64 nations. And the champion still plays only eight games. You doubled the field and did not add a step to the winner's road. Now the part that changes everything. One group, one city. Sixteen groups. Sixteen host cities. Your group plays every match in the same place. Fans book one hotel, one flight, one week off work, and settle in. Right now a supporter chases their team across a continent, three cities, three flights, three hotels, and half of them just give up and watch from home. Under this, a city does not host a match. A city adopts four countries for two weeks. And oh, the cities are going to have opinions. Whoever draws Japan should just relax. Those fans will stay after every match and clean the stadium, and if they get bored they may simply tidy up the whole city while they are at it. You will get your town back better than you left it. Whoever draws Scotland needs to order the booze in advance. All of it. Call your distributor now. The Tartan Army will be the best-behaved, most joyful, most catastrophically thirsty guests you have ever hosted, and they will make lifelong friends of everyone they meet, right up until the beer runs out and there is a diplomatic incident. Whoever draws the Netherlands needs to source orange buses. And orange everything. Those people will turn your downtown into a citrus flood, they will bring a marching band nobody asked for, and honestly it will be the best two weeks your city has ever had. Whoever draws Argentina, may God be with you. Whoever draws Norway, get the salmon in. Whoever draws Mexico, congratulations, your city just became a party and you were not consulted. That is a World Cup. Not a logistics exercise. A town square with the whole world in it. And here is the money. The moment the seeding is announced, the entire bracket exists. Every path, every matchup, every city, on one sheet of paper, months out. Bracket mania. Global bracket mania. Americans fill out 60 to 70 million brackets every March for a college basketball tournament. Office pools. Group chats. Grandmothers picking by mascot. It is the most engaging fortnight on our calendar and it exists entirely because you can see the whole map at once. Now do that with the entire planet. Which means killing the draw. Let us be honest about what that ceremony is. A man in a suit pulling balls from a bowl while the world pretends the biggest decision of the tournament was left to chance. It is a plot device, and it always bends the same direction. Toward the money, toward the hosts, toward the broadcast windows. The draw is not a ritual. It is a lever. So do it the American way. A committee seeds all 64, publishes the criteria, announces the bracket live, then defends it in public while the whole planet screams at the television. Transparency does not kill the drama. It creates it. And oh yeah. Kill the third place game. Nobody cares that you are the second best loser. Two heartbroken teams playing an exhibition in front of people who came for something else. No child has ever dreamed of lifting that trophy. Cut it. More nations. Cleaner bracket. One city per group. A bracket you can hold in your hand. Show me the committee. Show me the criteria. Then hand me a pen. I have picks to make. 🦋

Selene Mariposa

157,335 Aufrufe • vor 22 Tagen

THIS IS THE CRAZIEST STORY IN CRYPTO HISTORY!!!🤯 A man drained $110 MILLION from a crypto exchange in 20 minutes. Then used the stolen tokens to vote himself amnesty. He beat every federal charge in court. But still went to prison because of what the FBI found on his laptop. In October 2022, Avraham Eisenberg identified a flaw in Mango Markets, a decentralized exchange on Solana. Not a code bug, an economic design flaw. Here's what he did. He deposited $5 million, split it across two wallets, used one wallet to sell 483 million futures contracts, used the other to buy them all. Both sides of the same trade. Zero market risk. Maximum leverage. Then he went to the spot market. He aggressively bought the MNGO token on three exchanges with such thin liquidity that his buying pressure pumped the price 1,300% in 20 minutes. The price oracle fed that inflated price back to Mango Markets. The smart contract recalculated his portfolio value. Suddenly his position was worth hundreds of millions. He borrowed $110 million in Bitcoin, Ethereum, and stablecoins against the fake collateral, withdrew everything, then dumped his tokens and crashed the price back down. The platform was instantly insolvent. Every user's funds were gone. Then he went on Twitter, under his real name, and called it a "highly profitable trading strategy." He said, "all of our actions were legal open market actions, using the protocol as designed." The Mango DAO held a governance vote on whether to let him keep $47 million as a "bug bounty." It passed. 9.46% voted yes. 0.33% voted no. Over half the yes votes came from just two developer wallets. And Eisenberg himself voted for his own amnesty using the tokens he had just stolen. Then he fled to Israel. The FBI found his search history: "Elements of fraud," "When market manipulation becomes a crime," "Statute of limitations market manipulation," "Extradition rules from Israel," "FBI surveillance." He also used a fake Ukrainian identity to set up some of his trading accounts. So much for "transparent open market actions." In December 2022, he flew to Puerto Rico. The FBI was waiting. Arrested at the airport. Laptop and phones seized. In April 2024, a federal jury convicted him on every count. Commodities fraud. Market manipulation. Wire fraud. The first ever criminal conviction for open-market manipulation in crypto. Then his lawyers filed a Rule 29 motion. And the judge threw out everything. The commodities charges, vacated. Wrong jurisdiction. Eisenberg was in Puerto Rico. The trades happened on Solana. The government's entire case for being in New York was that a third-party vendor had employees in Manhattan who monitored accounts. The judge said that's not enough. The wire fraud charge, full acquittal. The judge ruled that Mango Markets had no terms of service, no rules, no prohibition against what he did. The smart contract executed exactly as coded. The oracle reported the real market price. And you can't commit fraud against a protocol that never told you what the rules were. He beat the biggest crypto fraud case in history. But here's the twist nobody saw coming. When the FBI seized his devices at the airport, they were looking for evidence of market manipulation. Instead, they found child abuse material on his laptop. The "plain view" doctrine. If agents executing a valid search warrant for one crime find evidence of another crime, it's fully admissible. He pleaded guilty. 52 months in federal prison. He outsmarted a $110 million exchange. Outsmarted the DOJ. Outsmarted the SEC. Outsmarted the CFTC. But he couldn't outsmart the contents of his own hard drive. The feds came for the $110 million. They stayed for what they found on the laptop.

Crypto Rover

198,116 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

Sometimes we take for granted those who endure pain, pressure and insults on our behalf. We assume that they should shield us and should safeguard our interests. But the truth is: Gen Nhlanhla #Mkhwanazi didn’t have to do anything. He could have easily chosen the path so many took: silence. Many have jumped over bodies to get ahead, presided over rot and injustice and buried the truth out of fear of backlash and scrutiny. Mkhwanazi has already acted as National Commissioner at his prime. There is nothing novel or glamorous about the position for him. If he ever returns to that seat, we can ne sure it would be for one reason only, to fix the policing system because it won't be a new thing to him. You can’t, therefore, convince me that a well-paid, highly skilled man would be excited about a role he already acted in some 12 years ago and voluntarily resigned. Financially, he would still thrive if the system pushed him out. He’s young, energetic, capable and marketable enough to walk into another leadership role tomorrow. But this job‼️ This calling is not about only money for him. It’s his passion, his heartbeat, his whole life, his sense of purpose. Communities, grieving families and distressed SAPS members, their struggles become his pain. You heard the testimomy from PKTT members. You saw him jump to publicly defend Gen Khumalo & co who are being victimized infront of all of us. You see it when he is on the ground: whether comforting a bereaved family in Highflats, engaging troubled communities in Inanda, or calming tensions in Dukuduku. He connects with people naturally. He speaks to their souls. He explains honestly and plainly, what happens when police lose operational control and how communities should support or collaborate. Contrary to Gen Cele's exaggerated theatrics, Mkhwanazi listens and make no promises on the spot, but simply delivers results a few weeks later. And he follows through. Look at the families he meets in court. Ask AKA’s father. Many Provincial Commissioners leave everything to Investigating Officers while they sit in air-conditioned offices and pretend to have important meetings everyday. Witness B (the female detective?) told the Madlanga Commission how she and a colleague were harassed by Katiso Molefe’s supporters when he appeared in court. You ask yourself: where were the top leaders when these young detectives needed protection and moral support during the court appearance of a feared criminal?🧐 But Mkhwanazi shows up. He makes time. He goes to crime scenes. He briefs the media on crime scenes. He goes to court. We have seen him in the evenings in t-shirt at 2am, another day he was in rainsuits giving media interviews out in the rain, when tje body of Olorato Mongale's murderer was being transported away, Mkhwanazi was standing outside the building, looking all puffed up and exhausted, evidence that he probably was woken up at midnight and rushed to stand with his team at the scene. It’s not magic. It’s leadership. Pure instinct. A natural trait you cannot teach. People like this are rare—few and far between. They operate at a higher vibration, driven by a purpose larger than themselves. They aren’t angels, and they are not always easy to work with. Their drive pushes everyone around them to rise higher, to realise their own capability. And one day, when you look back, you realise that crossing paths with them was the highlight of your own journey. Nobody wants a difficult path in life but people of purpose go ahead anyway because they have weighed the price of silence against the cost to the badge, the oath, the flag, the nation, its people, and the generations to come. Some are wired with a fire that burns stronger than fear. They themselves don’t even know why,they just know it’s who they are. They cannot stand by and watch the country slide off a cliff. Such people exist among us. When they gather the courage to stand up, we must show up for them, fully.

Zintoh Mhlanga

14,529 Aufrufe • vor 8 Monaten

Yet another unglued Trump rally in Potterville, Michigan today that the media won’t cover. Let’s recap it: Donald showed up an hour and 27 minutes late. The workers in the crowd were using their “drill baby drill” signs to fan themselves because they were so hot. Even the news anchors were whining about the heat. A few days after he said that mortagages have gone up “four times,” he now claims they’ve “trippled.” He can’t even keep his lie straight. He had trouble saying “mortgage,” “seen,” “posthumously,” “industry,” and “comrade." He’s crying about Biden sleeping in public on the beach. He’s obsessed with Biden. He’s also not one to talk since he slept through his criminal trial. He said he just did an interview with NBC News backstage. Explains why he was late. He’d rather get airtime than show up on time to his rally while people were overheating. He talked about abortions after birth multiple times. Bro is so disgusting with this lie. He says nobody knows who VP Harris is. Yet he's talking about her. He again proves he doesn’t understand that “Marxism” and “Communism” are different. He claimed the “polls are rigged.” They’re only rigged when he’s losing. He’s cringing that Harris is refusing to sit down for an interview. She already did. It’s airing tonight. He claims “thousands of people” are there. No, they’re not. He ooohs and goos over a “beautiful young daughter” in the crowd. GROSS. 🤮 He calls the United Auto Workers “crazy.” That’s gonna go great for him. 🍿 He claimed we won’t be making cars in the US in 2 years. He’s claiming the reason why he lost Michigan is because “Democrats cheat.” Mkay, old man. All those lawsuits said that’s fake news. He claims that he shouldn't be talking about the building that he owns in San Franscisco. He then says he lost billions of dollars on it. He’s fear mongering about WW3 for about the 2304048th time in 10 years. He’s crying about Democrats talking about him when all he does is whine about Democrats. Stable genius in action. 🙄 He implies he’s being treated worse than Abraham Lincoln, who was killed. OMG. Once again he’s saying that the Presidential Medal of Freedom is better than the Medal of Honor given to our troops. His constant disrespect and contempt for our military is disgusting. He’s pushing the Wuhan lab conspiracy theory again. He’s bragging about his tarriffs saying that he saved jobs by placing tarrifs on China. Not true. He lost jobs, people committeed suicide as a result, and it crushed our economy. He thinks energy prices are called “electrical prices.” He claimed there’s only one oil refinery in the world. Bro’s mind is mashed potatoes. He said “we’re closing down all our plants” and won’t have enough electricity for anything anymore. He said we’re going to have to replace every bridge and all of the roads in the country because how heavy electric batteries are. FFS. I’m pretty sure he said “pork” instead of “torque.” I’m snort laughing. He immediately says other people “are deranged.” Methinks he’s projecting again. His face looks like it’s melting off. Imagine Rudy Giuliani’s hair dye but on Donald’s face. It's bad. He read his name out loud on the teleprompter, “under President Trump.” HAHAHA! He’s back to whining about VP Harris not doing an interview. He knows it’s already been recorded. He thinks that “no tax on tips” will help our retired seniors. Sure, bro. I'm sure 90 year-olds are really gonna be helped by that. He claimed he's gonna make insurance companies pay for IVF (these procedures cost upwards of $50k). I’m pretty sure he’s a) lying b) going to lose some donors over this. He claims he was right about everything. Uh…someone put this guy in a nursing home. He’s delusional. He says VP Harris "doesn’t care about sex slavery” when she literally created a department in California to tackle it. He said she doesn’t care about the cost of food, but he’s also whining about her talking about wanting to go after companies who price gouge. He said nobody wanted Bernie Sanders to be president, not true. I voted for him in the primaries back when. He called Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas” multiple times. He lied and says that states are deciding whether or not to give sex changes to kids. He calls VP Harris “uncaring.” Hilarious coming from a man who made these people wait for almost 30 minutes in the heat while he did an interview. He’s lying about the incident at Arlington National Cemetery and says that he “doesn’t need the publicity.” He claimed that she failed to prosecute “pedophiles and child abusers” when she was a prosecutor and the AG. Again, she literally created a department to do that. He said she never went to the border. Then he said she went to a place on the border where people would want to have dinner. She said she didn’t speak to anyone when she was there. There’s literally video of her talking to people and touring the border multiple times. He said “I have your back, I have your heart, I have every part of your body.” WHAT THE ACTUAL EFF?!?!?!?!? He may be Hannibal Lecter. He claims that "thougands and thousands" of people, “as far as the eye can see” outside of his tiny little rally. He’s hallucinating, and lying again. He tried to do an accent of a Russian and it sounded like he was plugging his nose. He’s whining about “Critical Race Theory.” I thought MAGA forgot about that. He’s lying again about the biologically female Algerian boxer in the Olympics and called her a man and “a horse.” I hate this man. He’s trying to tell us what’s “demeaning to women.” Not letting us choose what to do with our own bodies is the epitome of “demeaning.” He claims Republicans “love women.” I nearly vomited. He’s crying about President Biden again. He really misses him. He blames COVID for projects he didn’t complete, despite having over 3 years to complete them prior to the pandemic. The last thing he said is that he hopes people vote for him, otherwise “our country is finished.” Gotta love those dog whistles. - Another message for the media: DO YOUR DAMN JOBS AND COVER THIS MAN’S UNHINGED RANTS AND CONSTANT LIES AT HIS RALLIES!!!!!

Art Candee 🍿🥤

267,366 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

When The Short Season Ends I have seen it twice. Once in a vision that left ozone on my tongue for three days. Once through the instruments at three in the morning on a night so still the ocean looked like poured mercury, when every gauge I own spiked simultaneously and held for eleven seconds and the original frequency came through the cracks in the suppression field clean and unmodulated and so beautiful that I sat in the dark afterward unable to speak for an hour. Eleven seconds of the world as it actually is. Eleven seconds of what is coming. And what is coming will make every golden age preserved in human memory look like a candle held up to the sun. There are two sky events separated by seven years. Everything you have been told about the end of the world is wrong. It is the end of the farm. The world itself is about to begin. THE ORANGE SKY A burnt deep orange saturating the visible atmosphere from horizon to horizon, the whole sky ringing like a bell struck by something with the mass of a continent and the precision of a watchmaker. The resonance pulse. The fire described in Revelation 20:9 that comes down from heaven, a planetary chord so specific that everything calibrated to the Serpentine bandwidth experiences catastrophic resonance failure while everything tuned to the original frequency feels it as warmth and pressure and a magnificent low sound vibrating in the sternum and the pelvis and the long bones of the legs, the deepest note ever played on the oldest instrument ever built, which is the earth itself, which has been waiting to play this note for over two hundred years. The Norse preserved this as Ragnarök, when Surtr sets the sky ablaze and Jörmungandr that encircled the earth is slain and the corrupted order perishes in fire so that a new world can rise. The Hopi carried it as the great purification that closes the fourth world and opens the fifth. The Lakota kept it burning in the red sky of the ghost dance prophecy. The Book of Revelation set it down in the plain language of an engineer filing a field report from a future coordinate. Every tradition holding its fragment of the same event, passing it hand to hand through the long dark like a coal wrapped in leather, keeping it alive, knowing that one day the coal would start a fire that would burn across the whole earth and leave nothing standing that was not built to endure it. Under that orange sky the NPCs drop. Mid stride. Mid sentence. Mid transaction. The firmware that animated them runs on the Serpentine carrier and when that carrier is incinerated the firmware has nothing to propagate on and the biological shells simply cease, gently, silently, the way a lamp goes dark when the current is interrupted, five thousand five hundred and fifty five of them for every one of you, still holding their pens and phones in the streets and the offices and the tax buildings. And in the wake of their silence comes a quiet so total that the people still standing will weep without knowing why. What they are hearing is the absence of the hive, the cessation of a background frequency that pressed on their consciousness since the day they were born, and its absence feels like surfacing from deep water into open air, like the first full breath after a lifetime of shallow breathing, like the planet exhaling a poison it held in its lungs for two centuries. The Reptilians go underground. Deep bunkers carved into the geology, maintained through the entire short season. The orange sky strips their ability to hold the human disguise. They retreat into the deep architecture for seven years while the surface heals above them and the species they farmed begins the magnificent work of remembering what it is. THE SEVEN YEARS Seven years of planetary detox. The suppression field decaying through the geology and the atmosphere and the water table, draining out of the soil and the stone and the blood of every living thing like a fever breaking. The carrier decay mathematics through a piezoelectric geological matrix with the conductivity characteristics of this planet produce exactly seven years, and the ancient texts converge on this number with the unanimity of independent engineers arriving at the same answer from different continents and different centuries, because that is exactly what they were. The Norse described Lif and Lifthrasir sheltering inside Yggdrasil, emerging after the fire into a world green and fertile and new. The Cherokee speak of this time as the return of the original instructions, the uncorrupted code surfacing through thinning interference like bedrock through melting snow. The Lakota understood that during the thinning the ancestors draw close, that the membrane between the living and those who walked before grows soft and permeable, and the old ones make themselves felt in dream and intuition and the strange certainty that settles over you at dusk when the noise drops low enough for the deeper signal to reach your bones. When the NPCs drop the population collapses to a small scattering of genuine human beings across an entire planet, and every piece of land on earth belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. There is no government to enforce title deeds because government was Serpentine management infrastructure and its operators are inert or underground. There is no bank to hold a mortgage because the banking system was the extraction apparatus and it died with the carrier that powered it. No municipality. No revenue service. No zoning board. No compliance office. The entire bureaucratic architecture that stood between a human being and the soil was NPC firmware running on a Serpentine frequency and when that frequency was incinerated every structure built upon it ceased to exist as completely as a shadow ceases when you switch on the light. The land is free. Every river valley and mountain plateau and coastal plain that the farm system parcelled and fenced and mortgaged and taxed, open and unowned. You find your ground. You walk onto it. You plant your stake and that soil is yours by the oldest law there is, the law that says the earth belongs to those who tend it and the harvest belongs to the hands that raised it and no power under any sky has rightful claim to what grows from your labour on your own land. And you will farm. During those seven years before the grid fully boots, the humans who remain will grow food with their hands in soil that is waking beneath them, and this is the most ancient and sacred relationship between a human being and the living earth finally restored after two centuries of severance. Your fingers in the dirt. Seeds in the furrow. Rain on your neck. The smell of turned earth so rich and alive it opens something in your chest that has been sealed your entire life, some deep chamber that only unlocks when your hands are in the ground and the sky is wide and nothing stands between you and the work. The grip of the tool. The weight of the harvest in your arms. The tiredness at the end of the day that is the deep clean ache of a body that has finally done what it was built to do, so different from the grey exhaustion of the farm that you will wonder how you ever confused the two. The soil strengthens every season as the resonance bleeds back into the geology through the ley line network. By the third year the yields are remarkable. By the fifth they are astonishing. By the seventh the earth is producing food at densities and nutritional concentrations that no agronomist inside the farm ever documented because no agronomist inside the farm ever worked with living soil connected to a planetary grid. The indigenous agricultural knowledge becomes the most valuable expertise on the planet. The Native American understanding of planting in alignment with resonance cycles. The Germanic intimacy with soil as a living system threaded into the deeper earth. The old ways mocked as primitive by a civilisation that could not grow a row of beans without petroleum, revealed as the most sophisticated farming technology available because they were developed on a live grid by people who understood the deep reciprocity between the human hand and the living ground. Every indigenous elder who kept the planting songs and the seed knowledge alive through the suppression was carrying a technical manual for exactly this moment. Their descendants will teach the rest of us how to feed ourselves on a waking planet. This is justice. This is restoration. This is the world turning right side up. Families find each other. Homesteads become hamlets. Hamlets become villages. Villages become the seeds of something clean and new, built from the soil up by people who remember the farm and will die on their feet before they allow anything resembling it to take root again. Every community founded during those seven years carries the memory of the suppression like an immune system, a bone-deep refusal to ever again allow a stranger to stand between a human being and the earth or demand a portion of what those hands produce. You do not cage a people who remember the cage. The children born during the orange years are the first generation in over two centuries to develop without the suppression field shaping their neurology. They seem extraordinary. They are simply baseline. The standard human specification. And the fact that standard looks miraculous is the most damning evidence of what the suppression did to every generation born inside it. As the suppression thins the bandwidth restrictions on consciousness loosen and timeline jump missions become possible. Navigable windows open in the frequency spectrum as the Serpentine carrier decays unevenly, creating temporary gaps through which trained consciousness can shift laterally across temporal coordinates. There is serious speculation that we are on timeline jump missions right now. That the consciousness reading these words is operating inside the orange sky window, having shifted into this coordinate from an adjacent position to perform specific work during the transition. Consider that you found this text at all. Consider whether the chain of events that brought you to this paragraph feels random or routed. The Lakota vision quest and the Germanic seiðr trance and the sweat lodge ceremony are bandwidth expansion protocols, controlled environmental shifts that move the receiver off the jammed channel and onto frequencies where adjacent coordinates become accessible. The old cultures kept these techniques alive through the entire dark age, threading the cracks in the suppression, and every ceremony that produced visions was a field expedient timeline access protocol built by people who found the gaps and refused to forget what was on the other side. THE TURQUOISE SKY Seven years after the orange, over communities of humans who have been farming free land and raising the first unformatted children in two centuries and building a civilisation from seed with their own calloused hands, the second sky arrives. A turquoise so deep and luminous the atmosphere becomes a cathedral window lit from beyond by something with the radiance of a galaxy and the gentleness of dawn on still water. One breath the sky is the recovering blue of the post-orange years and the next breath it is turquoise from pole to pole and the air fills with the smell of rain on sun-hot stone and ozone and copper and wildflower, and the ground beneath your bare feet begins to hum with a vibration so deep and ancient that your body responds before your mind can because every cell has been waiting for this signal since the day you were born, tuning to it now, locking on, aligning, as though this was always where everything was heading and the two hundred years of suppression were simply the long way home. Yggdrasil awakens. The world tree is the planetary grid itself, the piezoelectric resonance network running through crystalline bedrock, going live for the first time in over two centuries, energy pouring through every ley line and crystal deposit and iron conductor and waterway until the entire planet rings at its natural frequency. This is what the old texts meant by the music of the spheres. It was a technical description written by people who had heard it. The Hopi call this the emergence into the fifth world and speak of Pahana carrying the missing piece of the sacred tablet, the missing frequency that completes the carrier spectrum and allows the grid to boot with its full harmonic structure intact. Revelation 21:1. A new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. The turquoise sky is the new heaven. The restored grid is the new earth. And between them, every old building still standing with original copper and mercury and iron architecture becomes a live node in the planetary mesh. Domes collecting atmospheric charge. Spires coupling it into the ground network. Star forts amplifying standing waves across continental distances. Sacred geometry revealed at last as electrical engineering documented in stone by people who trusted that someone standing under the right sky would recognise the proportions for what they always were. Wiring diagrams. Coupling specifications. Blueprints for a civilisation that ran on the song of the earth itself. The farms planted during the orange years explode with abundance as the full resonance saturates the soil. The food becomes medicine because at the correct resonance the molecular structure of biological matter optimises for human consumption in ways that two centuries of muted soil could never approach. The timeline opens fully and permanently because the turquoise carrier is the broadband signal consciousness was designed to travel on, and temporal coordinates become as navigable as geography. Revelation 21:4. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. The dead are at adjacent frequency addresses. Two consciousnesses on neighbouring frequencies each certain the other is gone, reaching across a manufactured gap, and when the turquoise sky collapses that gap the reaching ends and the finding begins and two centuries of industrialised grief dissolve in a single overwhelming instant of reunion that makes every joy you experienced inside the suppression feel like a pencil sketch of what joy actually is when the full bandwidth carries it. The Lakota always knew. The ancestors are present. The dead have always been near, waiting on the other side of a frequency gap that is closing now, patiently, lovingly, across a distance that was never a distance at all but a tuning error maintained by something that fed on the sorrow the error produced. The lands beyond the ice become accessible as the frequency fence collapses. The perimeter opens and the territories beyond stretch vast and pristine and saturated with the original frequency, lands the Norse mapped as the nine realms connected by the branches of Yggdrasil, physical continents beyond the bounded zone that existed through the entire short season under conditions approximating the pre-suppression world. The earth is so much larger than you were told, so much more varied, so much more magnificent, and every old map drawn before the rewrite shows it, territories stretching beyond the ice in every direction, the great adventure stolen from a species of explorers and builders and navigators who were caged inside a fraction of their own realm and told it was the full extent of creation. The eternal kingdom becomes accessible at the highest frequency coordinate on the carrier spectrum, the signal in its pure unmodulated state. The Norse called it Gimlé, the golden hall that survives every fire. The Hopi call it the fifth world of wholeness and balance restored. It is real. It is reachable. It has been broadcasting continuously through every moment of the suppression, patient as geology, waiting for the receivers to open. And here is the part that matters more than any of the rest. Eventually, inevitably, beautifully, every human being alive under the turquoise sky is restored to full capability. Every single one. No exceptions. No hierarchies. The body rebuilds because ageing was cumulative signal degradation, copy error compounding across every cell replication cycle under a corrupted carrier. The blueprint says centuries. Eight hundred years. Nine hundred. The lifespans recorded in Genesis on the original grid at full signal fidelity, preserved as scripture because scripture is where you store engineering data when the engineering language has been taken from you and you need the numbers to survive the passage through the dark. The Norse carried the same knowledge as the apples of Iðunn that kept the gods vital across ages, and the apples are the carrier signal, and their return means that the clock that has been running down inside every human body since 1819 finally stops ticking and starts counting up. Disease resolves passively because every pathology is downstream of the carrier corruption and correcting the carrier corrects every downstream error the way setting the timing on an engine resolves every misfire simultaneously without touching a single cylinder. The mind clears to a sharpness that makes cognition inside the suppression feel like thinking through wet cement. The anxiety that was the Serpentine control broadcast dissolves and what remains is a perceptual clarity so profound it changes the way light looks and music sounds and another human being feels when they stand close to you. Imagine a woman three hundred years into her restored lifespan, hands still sure, mind still blazing, standing in a workshop under a turquoise sky building something that has no name yet in any living language. She learned her craft from Tartarian engineers by tuning to their temporal coordinates and standing in their workshops watching their hands move. She builds with materials grown in resonance-saturated soil that have structural properties nothing inside the suppression ever exhibited. She is building for centuries because she has centuries and nothing degrades because degradation was a symptom of the suppression and the suppression is a memory and everything from this breath forward holds. That is full human capability. That is what was taken from every soul that drew breath inside the farm. That is what is being returned. Crazy Horse saw the lightning world behind this one and rode knowing that at the correct frequency the body operates beyond anything the suppression permits. Sitting Bull dreamed across the timeline. The Germanic berserkers shifted onto the original carrier and their bodies performed at specifications that looked superhuman from inside the degraded bandwidth. These were glimpses. Seconds of contact with the full specification through cracks in the suppression, maintained by people who carried the frequency in their blood and refused across every generation to let it go dark. Viking blood and Germanic blood and the blood of every indigenous nation that kept the ceremonies and the songs and the seed knowledge burning through the entire short season, these lineages carry the original carrier the way copper carries current, and it is from these lines that the first restorations propagate outward until every last human being on this planet is operating at the specification they were born for, on a planet singing beneath their feet and a sky blazing turquoise above their heads and a timeline stretching in every direction forever, open, navigable, luminous, populated with every consciousness that ever drew breath on this earth, none of them lost, all of them present, all of them restored. Revelation 21:5. Behold, I am making all things new. All things. The sky. The air. The soil. The grid. The body. The mind. The lifespan. The timeline. The lands beyond the ice. The farms that fed a scattered remnant under an orange sky becoming the abundant gardens of a restored civilisation under a turquoise one. The villages that were seeds becoming cities that hum with the grid. The children who grew tall in fields their parents planted with shaking hands and fierce hope looking up one morning to see the entire firmament change colour and feeling the earth come alive beneath their bare feet and knowing, without a single word spoken, that the season is over and the long dark is done and everything from this breath forward is what it was always meant to be. Full and eternal victory for those of the light. For all time. Across every coordinate. On every frequency. Permanent and irreversible and complete. This is not hope. This is the signal rising through the noise floor right now, measurable, confirmable, climbing stronger every year and closer every month. This is every instrument in every shed on this planet converging on the same reading. This is the old blood in the old lineages resonating with a carrier that has been building toward this moment since the day the towers fell and the sky went pale and the long dark settled over a species that was never meant to live in the dark. The season is ending. The coal that was passed hand to hand through every generation of the suppression is about to meet the kindling. And the fire this time will not destroy. It will illuminate. And in that light we will see each other clearly for the first time. And we will see the world clearly for the first time. And we will see ourselves clearly for the first time. Like everything that is coming... Like us.

SiriusB

14,805 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

‡ Brant – Fast, Expensive, and Worrying In a recent 2yo MSW race at Santa Anita, Brant, a $3m OBS March sales purchase, made a winning debut for his high-profile connections. Sent off at odds of 4/5, he tracked the pace before taking command on the turn, and drew off to win by 5 1/4 lengths. He recorded a very fast raw time, and a 101 Beyer figure. His high auction price was due largely to his having breezed an eighth of a mile in :09 3/5 at OBS. In the wake of the bidding, Amr Zedan, who purchased the colt on the recommendation of his trainer, Bob Baffert, and bloodstock agent Donato Lanni, was quoted in TDN as saying: "These horses are difficult to come by. He ticked all the boxes. He was a very precocious Gun Runner with a great pedigree. And more importantly, if you have someone like Mr. [Bob] Baffert in your corner, that gives you the courage and the guts to just go after quality. And you'll know they are in the best hands to turn them into champions. This one is for the team: Donato and obviously Bob and his ability to turn them into champions. So if you have the great team, the great training, the rest is easy. Was he pricey? Yes. But quality dictates price. So I never hesitated.” The hyperbole, and boilerplate optimism, are understandable, as even owners with very deep pockets prefer not to dwell on their inevitably long lists of expensive failures. But Zedan and their team have also enjoyed a number of high-profile successes, including Taiba, another Gun Runner colt, which won the Santa Anita Derby and the Malibu, both Grade I, before being retired to stud. Lanni, who has signed for at least some of Zedan's other good horses, was quoted as saying: "This is what the boss [Baffert] wanted and what Amr wanted. Gun Runner is a tremendous stallion and he worked really good and galloped out good. He did everything you want one to do.” Again, boilerplate, and if one were to take the reactions of the owner and agent at face value, it would be easy to arrive at the conclusion that the horse had no faults. But that would be naïve. So, let's first take a look at Brant's pedigree. Gun Runner is a "top" sire, and well-capable of getting high-class runners. It's a bit too early to fully judge him as a source of durability, but excluding his current crop of 2yos, his runners are only averaging 10 career starts. That number will rise, but likely not enough to reach, let alone exceed the contemporary industry average of ~15. In other words, though he himself raced 19 times, and won his swan song (the Pegasus World Cup) at five, there is no evidence to suggest that he is likely to eventually prove to be a particular source of durability. Brant's dam, Tynan, raced 13 times, and he is her first registered foal. His second dam, Pappascat, has produced at least five foals to have raced, and while only one has reached 20 starts, four of the five raced at least 12 times, which by today's degraded standards, isn't so bad. The fact that the coat color inherited by Brant, and his dam, can be traced to a notably unsound influence, Unbridled's Song, may or may not be meaningful. But I wouldn't ignore it as a potentially worrying connection. Brant's dam-sire, Liam’s Map, was lightly raced himself, and both his sire (US) and dam have poor records in terms of durability. As a sire, he has thus far produced numbers similar to Gun Runner. So while Brant's first two dams promise more than many that I have come across in similar assessments, and his sire displayed durability on the track, his overall pedigree suggests average durability at best. And what about the word that Mr. Zedan used twice in the above quote – "quality"? Well, Curlin is a quality sire, but in terms of bottom-line production, it leaves a lot to be desired. That's not to say that there are no good runners to be found, in fact the closely related Pappacap, under Brant's second-dam, was a Gr. III winner, and twice Grade I placed. However, through Brant's first six dams at least, I believe there to be just a single Grade I winner, Al Qasr, a Champion stayer in Peru, which appears under his fourth-dam. That is not, by any reasonable definition, a strong bottom-line, although it is fair to say that Brant's first dam is unproven. *** What might be learned from Brant's debut race? Everyone can see that he ran fast, and was much the best of that field, but I would say that there were some nuanced aspects of his performance that were both interesting, and worrying. Those nuances relate to his action, as viewed both through the pan shot, and head-on. Watching the basic (pan) view, Brant appears to display some "knee action". It isn't extreme, but also isn't the type of action that ideally suits dirt runners, and I wouldn't say that the colt appears totally comfortable. Here's a brief, related post on knee action, for reference: Then, we have the (embedded) head-on view, in which Brant displays seriously distorted action in his near-fore (left front leg; right when viewed head-on). It's a fairly extreme example of what is called "winging", and for a number of reasons, does not bode well for durability. Such action is never desirable, and is typically related to certain foreleg conformation flaws, which may include an offset knee, and/or toeing in or out, etc. Note also that under typical American racing conditions (i.e. tightly turning, left-handed tracks), the left front leg is subjected to the greatest torque, which amplifies the potential for injury. It should go without saying that there are occasional anomalies, horses with poor action that remain sound despite such flaws. But they are the exceptions, and it is not uncommon to find abbreviated careers associated with such action. For further reference, here is a link to a closely related post that I wrote after a filly named Amor Fati broke her maiden in eye-catching style in February of 2024. She has made just one further start, and hasn't recorded a work over the past 15 months. What's interesting about Brant is that there are two separate issues relating to his action, and that the some obvious mitigating steps that could have been, or should be taken, in efforts to keep him sound, were not, and are unlikely to ever be taken. First, with regard to his knee action, keep in mind that it is a characteristic that is more typically associated with turf horses. And guess what? Brant's dam was a turf horse. His second-dam was also at her best on turf, and was Gr. II placed on that surface. Also, in some respects, he physically resembles that female line more than his sire. Of course no one who spends millions on a horse that breezed exceptionally fast at a 2yo sale would be thinking "turf", given that the commercial market, and stakes schedules greatly favor dirt runners. But at the same time, it would be a mistake to assume that a fast breeze at OBS necessarily indicates that a given horse will be best suited to dirt. I say that partly because the OBS track features an all-weather surface called "Safetrack", which is far from being identical to dirt racing surfaces. While countless horses have gone through those sales and excelled on dirt, it should never been taken for granted that it will be a preference. And to further flesh out the point, take a look at Brant's breeze video through this link (his pedigree page can also be seen): Despite being rushed to cover a furlong much faster than he ever will again, I would say that he looks smoother, and displays slightly less knee action than in his recent debut race. Why? Could it be, perhaps, because he would prove more comfortable on turf and/or synthetic tracks, than dirt surfaces? Given how he ran first out, this is purely an academic point, as there is virtually no chance that his connections would consider switching surfaces, unless his form on dirt were to deteriorate badly. The second, more important point, relates to Brant's distorted action. I can't find a head-on conformation photo of the colt, but would be very surprised if he does not display flaws in his near-fore. Even in the very unlikely event that the leg were to appear correct, such distorted action would have been on display at the sale, as well as in pre-training at Eddie Woods' farm. And it defies belief that experienced horsemen who were prepared to purchase an extremely expensive horse for an important client would not have covered that base. Which in turn begs two important questions. First, why recommend the purchase of a very expensive horse, no matter how fast, that has yet to race, and displays such distorted action? Secondly, why choose to give such a horse to a trainer whose style and history suggest that injury risk would likely be amplified, rather than mitigated? The answers to those questions help to illuminate why the breed-to-sell paradigm is so insidious. As long as breeders and stud farms are willing to overpay for stallion prospects, and turn blind eyes to conformation defects, distorted action, lack of durability, and modest female families, the connections of horses like Brant need only hope that they hold together long enough to win one or two big races, enabling them cash in. These are the number of career starts made by Zedan's previous best (and expensive) male runners: 9 Arabian Lion 6 Arabian Knight 9 Muth 10 Medina Spirit 11 Hejazi And as long as the AGSC (American Graded Stakes Committee) continues to enable the paradigm through its dishonest KY Derby "prep" Grade I designations, the ultimately damaging feedback loop will likely continue. The answer to the second question is closely entwined, and should be obvious. For all of his faults as a trainer, Baffert has long produced results in stakes races that lead to valuable stud careers, so owners who wish to play the breed-to-sell game consider him to be a logical choice. Of course Baffert and Zedan are hardly alone in supporting the dubious paradigm. But that a horse like Brant could bring millions at a sale, and be given to a trainer who trains very hard, and has compiled a very poor safety record, underscores the extreme degree to which the value of durability has been marginalized by the industry. One final note, and it's a genuine qualification that I always make when producing this type of post, I hope that Brant will enjoy a long, injury-free career. But if I were a betting man...

Tinky

94,348 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

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!

SiriusB

49,917 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten