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Seedance V2 👌 Character tone: high-end romantic comedy, deadpan flirtation, over-serious male lead, quick-witted female lead, cinematic realism, sweet-chaotic chemistry, every frame like a poster Male lead: bespoke black suit, white shirt collar slightly open, handsome and severe, powerful aura, trying very hard to look cold and dominant, but...

62,659 görüntüleme • 4 ay önce •via X (Twitter)

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She said nothing… until everything came out 😌 Generated with Seedance 2.0 on BudgetPixel AI Prompt : Main Character: A beautiful Korean high school girl wearing a realistic Korean summer school uniform (하복). Natural skin texture with no beauty retouching. Hair becomes messy during combat, with expressive emotional acting. Facial proportions remain fully consistent throughout all shots. She begins timid and shocked, then gradually becomes determined and defiant. 0–1.5 seconds: The female lead quietly studies at her desk. Four delinquent schoolgirls surround her and begin bullying her. They mock her for studying, aggressively sweep her books off the desk, and shove her shoulders. Wide-angle handheld camera movement. Books fly in slow motion. Tense classroom atmosphere. Realistic school bullying energy, shaky camera motion, cinematic realism. 1.5–3 seconds: Close-up of the protagonist’s face. She slowly stands up. Her expression shifts from fear to cold determination. The bullies remain blurred in shallow depth of field behind her. A 0.5-second moment of silence. Slow cinematic push-in shot. Silence except for ambient classroom sound and tense breathing. 3–5 seconds: First confrontation. One bully throws a punch; the protagonist blocks and counters with a strike to the stomach. Another attacker rushes from the side; she dodges and retaliates with a spinning elbow strike. Handheld tracking shots follow the motion closely. Dynamic motion blur, impact camera shake, realistic fight choreography. No supernatural effects. 5–8 seconds: The remaining two bullies attack simultaneously with punches and kicks. The protagonist uses quick footwork and evasive movement to avoid hits. Dynamic 360-degree rotating camera movement. Rapid chained kicks and elbow attacks knock the attackers down. Classroom desks and objects shift from the impacts. Intense cinematic action pacing. 8–10 seconds: The final attacker charges toward the protagonist. The female lead leaps high into the air. Low-angle shot from the ground. 30% slow motion. Hair and skirt flow naturally. Dramatic cinematic lighting. Floating dust and airborne particles drift slowly through the air. 10–12 seconds: Midair 360-degree spinning kick. Slow-motion impact directly hits the final bully’s chest. Extreme close-up of the collision. The bully is launched backward into the classroom wall. Debris and dust explode outward. All bullies collapse onto the floor. Immediately after landing, the camera speed snaps back to normal for dramatic impact. 12–14 seconds: Victory moment. The protagonist stands alone in the center of the classroom, breathing heavily. The four bullies lie defeated around the room. The camera slowly and dramatically pushes toward her face. Soft cinematic bokeh background. Her expression is determined yet emotional. 14–15 seconds: Freeze-frame close-up. The protagonist stares directly into the camera and calmly says in Korean: (“I need to get into college.”) Delivery is realistic and emotionally restrained. After the line ends, she returns to looking like an ordinary student. Calm, emotional ending. The film emphasizes the intense academic pressure faced by Korean students. Style References: Korean action cinema, ultra-realistic cinematography, cinematic handheld action, emotional realism, grounded fight choreography, realistic Korean classroom atmosphere, high-budget Netflix K-drama aesthetics, cinematic lighting, dramatic silence beats, powerful female protagonist, grounded emotional tone. Negative Prompt: Cartoon, anime, CGI-looking textures, fake skin, extra limbs, distorted faces, exaggerated fantasy armor, unrealistic physics, low quality, blurry faces, overexposed lighting, comedic tone, childish style, fantasy classroom, male protagonist, bad anatomy, unrealistic body proportions, supernatural effects, glowing eyes, energy auras, magic.

Ai Arainz

82,611 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce

For eleven years the same dog lived at the end of the same six-foot chain in the same bare dirt yard, through eleven Tennessee summers and eleven freezing winters, never once setting a paw inside a house — and on the night they finally brought him in and showed him a real bed, the old dog just stood at the edge of it and shook, because he had no idea a thing that soft could possibly be meant for him. His name, the neighbors said, was Boone. For more than a decade he'd been a "yard dog" — chained to a stake behind a rented house, given food when someone remembered, a plastic barrel for shelter, and nothing else. No walks. No vet. No hand that reached for him except to refill a bowl. He wore a circle of bare dirt into the ground from pacing the only distance his chain allowed. When the family moved out and left him behind, a neighbor finally called it in. By the time the rescue got there, Boone was matted, heartworm-positive, his neck thick with scar tissue where the chain had worn him for years. He flinched at raised hands. But he didn't growl. He just lowered his head, the way dogs do when they've decided the world is something that happens to them. The woman who took him in — a rescue fosterer named Dana who'd seen a lot of hard cases — said she'd never forget that first night. She unclipped the lead inside her warm house and Boone didn't move. He stood on the kitchen tile like he was waiting to be told he'd made a mistake. She led him to the spare room where she'd put a thick dog bed by the radiator, and he just looked at it. Then he looked at her. Then back at the bed, as if the two things — soft place and for me — couldn't possibly belong in the same thought. "Go on, sweet boy," she whispered, patting the cushion. "It's yours. It's all yours." He put one cautious paw on it. Then another. He turned in a slow, disbelieving circle the way dogs do when they're about to lie down — a thing he'd maybe never done on anything but cold dirt — and then he sank into that soft bed and let out a groan that came up from somewhere eleven years deep. And then the old dog who had spent his whole life on a chain began to cry. Not howl. Cry — that low, broken sound — while Dana sat on the floor beside him with her hand on his side and wept right along with him. "You're never going back out there," she told him. "Never again. You're home now." Boone is heartworm-free now. He has a fenced yard he's allowed to leave, a couch he's not supposed to be on but always is, and a bed by the radiator that he still circles in disbelief every single night before he lies down — like he's making sure, one more time, that it's really his.

DE GOLDSMITH🪙🪙🪙⭐ ⭐⭐

533,418 görüntüleme • 5 gün önce

Fellow Africans, In a world filled with countless leaders, only a rare few rise to embody the very soul of their people. Even fewer transcend borders to become symbols of hope, resilience, and inspiration for an entire continent. His Excellency, the Right Honourable The Raila Odinga Amolo Foundation is one such figure. A man whose journey mirrors the struggles and triumphs of Africa itself. Today, I present him for your most serious consideration as the next Chairperson of the African Union Commission (AUC), a role for which he is uniquely and undeniably qualified. I am Kasmuel McOure, a young revolutionary who has stood at the forefront of Kenya’s struggle against oppression, corruption, and the erosion of good governance. I belong to a generation profoundly inspired by Raila Odinga’s unwavering fight for justice. His legacy is a powerful testament to resilience, vision, and the relentless pursuit of democratic values. Raila Odinga’s name is inseparable from the story of Kenya’s democratic evolution. He was instrumental in dismantling a 24-year dictatorship under Daniel arap Moi, championing the transition to a multiparty democracy, and crafting a constitution that secured the rule of law for generations to come. His leadership, forged in personal sacrifice, redefined the course of our nation. Even at great personal and political cost, Raila Odinga stood firm. When chaos threatened to tear our nation apart, he chose dialogue over destruction, constitutionalism over ambition; an extraordinary act of statesmanship in an age that too often celebrates self-interest. But Raila Odinga’s influence reaches far beyond Kenya. He is a Pan-African visionary, an Afro-Optimist who deeply understands the intricate fabric of Africa’s struggles and possibilities. He is a beacon of hope who has dared to challenge injustice and lead with unwavering integrity, even in the face of overwhelming odds. He envisions a continent where trade routes are open, civil unrest is quelled, and Africa reclaims her sovereignty from the chains of foreign exploitation. This vision is not a mere ideal; it is a lifelong commitment, one that has been consistently reflected in his actions and principles. A vision that resonates from the savannahs of the Mara to the shores of Cape Town, from the markets of Lagos to the streets of Addis Ababa. Kenya, with its vibrant online sphere and culture of debate, owes much of its freedoms to Raila’s sacrifices. He fought tirelessly to enshrine the right to free expression and political participation in our constitution. Though he remains a figure both praised and criticized, this duality speaks to his humanity—imperfect, yet unwavering in his pursuit of progress. I speak from personal experience, having been both an ally and a critic. Yet in every instance, I have found in him a leader who listens, mentors, and empowers. In a time when the world yearns for leaders of integrity, vision, and courage, Raila Odinga stands as an enduring beacon. He is a man whose vision for Africa is not confined to today or tomorrow, but for generations to come. A visionary leader who, against all odds, has always prioritized the people over power; an attribute Africa desperately needs at this pivotal moment. Africa needs a leader who embodies wisdom, courage, and an unwavering belief in our collective destiny. A son of the soil, forged in the fires of struggle, and ready to lead us toward a brighter, united future. Africa, I present to you your son, by way of Kenya, His Excellency, the Right Honourable Raila Amolo Odinga.

Kasmuel McOure

231,261 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

A dog stood on the last dry patch of a car as it slowly disappeared beneath the lake. He barked until the water reached his paws. Then, when we finally got close enough to rescue him... he fought us. Not because he was scared. Because the person he wanted us to find wasn't in the car. I first spotted him at 9:41 on a cold, gray Tuesday morning at Lake Fort Smith, Arkansas. From a distance, the vehicle barely looked like a car anymore. Only the roof was still above the water, sinking inch by inch. Standing on top was a soaked black-and-tan shepherd mix. His fur clung to his ribs. One ear bent over at the tip. His back paws were already underwater while his front paws desperately gripped the curved metal roof. He barked once at us... Then immediately turned and barked toward the shoreline. "Possible occupant," I radioed. "Vehicle almost submerged. Dog stranded on the roof." Deputy Luis Ortega steered our patrol boat while I crouched at the front with a rescue loop and a blanket. Behind us, the dive team was already on its way. Oddly, the dog barely looked at us. His eyes stayed locked on a stretch of shoreline covered with reeds, bushes, and young trees. He barked toward it over... and over... until his voice became nothing more than a raspy whisper. When we got within ten feet, I reached out with the rescue loop. Instead of coming to us... he backed away. His back legs slipped off the roof, and for a terrifying second it looked like he was going under. Somehow he clawed his way back up and stood trembling beside a dent in the metal. "Easy, buddy," I said. "We've got you." He looked straight at me. His amber eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion. A worn leather collar circled his neck, but there wasn't a tag anywhere. I tried the loop again. He ducked under it... and barked right past me toward the shore. That's when something didn't add up. Then I noticed the mud. The dog was soaking wet, but both sides of his muzzle were streaked with thick brown clay the kind you'd find on the shoreline, not out in the middle of the lake. A tiny green burr was stuck beneath one eye. If he'd climbed straight from the sinking car onto the roof... Where had the mud come from? "Maybe he already made it to shore," Luis said. I shook my head. "Then why come back?" Neither of us had an answer. A firefighter slipped into the lake and checked the front seats first. Nothing. Then the back seats. The car groaned as trapped air escaped in huge bubbles. The dog stopped barking. He simply stared toward the trees, standing perfectly still. A few moments later the diver surfaced. "The car's empty." Luis looked at me. I looked at the dog. I slipped the rescue loop over his head one more time. This time he didn't resist... until I tried pulling him into the boat. He twisted his whole body back toward the shoreline and let out a low, heartbreaking whine. Luis frowned. "He's not asking us to rescue him." "He's trying to show us something." I followed the dog's gaze. Near the edge of the lake, one patch of reeds was bent flat. Fresh tracks cut through the mud. But they didn't lead into the water... They came out of it. If you've ever seen a dog refuse safety because he was trying to save someone else... You'll want to hear what we found next.

GFY TV

54,057 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

When an abandoned Pit Bull turned its face to the wall every time a family stopped at its kennel, and I learned why, it broke something quiet in me. By the twelfth family, people at Briar County Animal Rescue had stopped calling it a coincidence. They called him rude. Or damaged. Or one of those dogs who “just doesn’t want people.” He was a stocky brown-and-white Pit Bull, maybe four years old, with a broad head, one torn ear, and the kind of stillness that made strangers uneasy because it looked too deliberate to be fear. His shelter card said Male. Neutered. Good health. Found abandoned near county road. His intake photo showed him staring directly into the camera, eyes amber and alert, ribs just faintly visible beneath short fur. But by the time families came to meet him, that dog from the photo had vanished. The kennel door would rattle. A child would point. A mother would bend down and say in the bright, hopeful voice people use when they want love to happen on schedule, “Look at this sweet boy.” And the Pit Bull would turn around. Not slowly. Not shyly. Decisively. He would walk to the back wall, sit with his shoulders squared, and face the cinder block as if the people standing ten feet behind him had already become a memory he preferred not to keep. The reaction was always the same. At first, confusion. Then awkward laughter. Then disappointment, which in shelters hardens quickly into judgment because there is always another kennel, another dog, another chance to be chosen without being made uncomfortable first. One man muttered that the dog was mean. A teenage boy said it looked ungrateful. A woman in a camel coat whispered to the volunteer beside her, “Why would anyone adopt a dog that won’t even look at you?” The volunteer had no answer. Neither did Kayla Moreno, the shelter’s adoption coordinator, though she tried. Kayla was thirty-one, compact, sharp-eyed, and the sort of woman who kept spare leashes looped over one arm and dog treats in every jacket pocket she owned. She had seen fear biters, shut-down seniors, clingy owner surrenders, and wild strays who mistook affection for a trap. But this was different. This dog did not panic. He did not bark. He did not tremble or lunge or cower. He simply refused to participate in hope. That made people angrier than open aggression ever could. By the end of the week, the Pit Bull had become a small ugly legend inside the shelter. Staff called him Winston because every dog needed a name, but visitors started referring to him as “the one who turns away.” Children lost interest in under a minute. Adults shrugged and moved on. A rescue partner declined to pull him because dogs with “poor kennel presentation” did badly in foster pipelines. One older volunteer, tired and not unkind, said what several others had already begun to suspect. “Maybe he just doesn’t deserve a home if he keeps doing this.” Kayla hated the sentence the moment it landed, but what unsettled her more was that part of her was starting to resent him too. Twelve families. Twelve chances. Twelve times he had chosen a wall over a hand reaching for him. Then one night, after the shelter closed and the last mop bucket had been rolled away, Kayla pulled up the security footage on a hunch she could not explain. And what she saw after midnight changed the whole story.

Crazy Moments

134,795 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

Would you dare chase justice while swinging thousands of feet above traffic below? Seedance 2 prompt on BudgetPixel AI Create a 15-second ultra-realistic cinematic high-altitude tether-swinging action sequence in strict 16:9 landscape, native 4K, 24fps. Use one seamless continuous drone follow shot with no cuts, no teleporting, and no time skips. The motion must feel physically continuous, dynamic, thrilling, and always readable. REFERENCE: image1 = main heroine reference. Use image1 as the strict identity reference for the heroine’s face, facial proportions, hairstyle, hair color, body proportions, age impression, outfit, shoes, accessories, styling, and overall recognizable appearance. Preserve her identity consistently throughout the whole video. Keep her as an original urban tether-swinging action heroine. Do not redesign her into a branded superhero character. Do not add franchise logos, copyrighted chest emblems, or recognizable third-party superhero symbols. CORE CONCEPT: This is an original urban tether-swinging action short. The heroine moves through the city using thin wrist-launched fiber lines, momentum, wall-running, rooftop movement, and real parkour body mechanics. She travels at high altitude between tall buildings, then lands on a rooftop, defeats one villain, and ends with a powerful shout. HOOK: The first second must be an instant scroll-stopping hook. Start with the heroine already falling backward off the edge of a very tall skyscraper. For a brief moment, it looks like she may actually fall. Then she instantly fires one thin tether line upward, it catches, and her body snaps into a huge high-altitude swing between buildings. STYLE: Photorealistic live-action realism. Premium cinematic action quality. Bright daytime Los Angeles atmosphere with realistic haze, realistic motion blur, realistic fabric movement, realistic body weight, real inertia, and practical environmental interaction. The sequence should feel like a premium action movie shot, not animation, not a game cutscene, and not a cartoon. CAMERA: One uninterrupted drone follow shot only. No cuts. No resets. No jumpy edits. No impossible viewpoint teleporting. The drone camera must stay wide enough to show both the heroine and the environment together. It may tilt, roll, arc, climb, and dive with the motion, but it must always feel like one real flying camera tracking her. Keep the framing intense and fast, but always readable. ENVIRONMENT: Bright daytime in a dense modern city inspired by Los Angeles and Hollywood. Show: - tall glass and concrete high-rises - rooftop edges - billboards and signage - palm trees far below where visible - busy roads and traffic far beneath - bright haze and sunny atmosphere - believable large-scale urban depth The action must happen mainly high above the street between tall buildings, not low near the ground for most of the video. VILLAIN RULE: Only one villain appears in the entire video. The villain is one adult male enemy only. He wears a fitted black suit, black shirt, and black shoes. No mask, no armor, no fantasy costume. He appears only in the rooftop combat section. Do not generate multiple enemies. Do not generate background enemies. Do not clone or duplicate the villain. ACTION RULES: The heroine’s movement must feel hand-and-foot driven, not magical floating. She must visibly: - fire thin tether lines from her hands - swing with real tension and momentum - push off building surfaces - run along walls with clear foot placement - absorb landings with bent knees - sprint briefly on a rooftop - fight one villain using fast practical action - finish in control Her body mechanics must stay realistic: - core engaged during swings - arms extended or flexed according to line tension - knees bend on landing and push-off - visible transfer of momentum between swing, wall-run, leap, landing, and combat Do not make her hover weightlessly. Do not make the tether line act like magic. Do not make her float in place unnaturally. EMOTIONAL ARC: - opening: shock and immediate control - mid-swing: intense focus - rooftop approach: rising confidence - rooftop fight: sharp aggression and urgency - ending: victorious adrenaline and fearless release AUDIO: No music. Effects and ambience only: - rushing wind - tether firing and tension snaps - air pass-by - foot impacts on walls and rooftop surfaces - city ambience far below - distant traffic and horns - fabric movement - breathing - one short rooftop fight impact sequence - one powerful final shout from the heroine TIMELINE: 0:00–0:01 Start from black into a shocking rooftop-edge fall. The heroine is already dropping backward off a skyscraper. For a fraction of a second it feels dangerous and uncontrolled. She immediately flicks her wrist and fires one thin tether line upward. It catches instantly. The drone yanks back and reveals the start of a huge swing. 0:01–0:04 The heroine swings at high altitude between tall buildings. The city is far below. Her body forms a long aerodynamic arc, one arm holding tension through the line, legs trailing cleanly behind. The drone follows wide and slightly rolled, emphasizing height, speed, and scale. 0:04–0:06 At the swing’s forward rise, she releases the line and redirects toward a nearby glass-and-concrete building. She plants onto the wall and runs across it diagonally with 4 to 5 clear steps. Her feet hit the wall with visible force. Her jaw is set and focused. The drone stays close but wide enough to keep the city depth visible. 0:06–0:08 She pushes explosively off the wall, fires a new tether line, and swings again through a narrower corridor between tall buildings. The movement should feel faster and more controlled now. She threads cleanly through the urban gap and angles toward a rooftop landing zone ahead. 0:08–0:09.5 She releases the line and lands hard but controlled on a rooftop. Knees bend deeply to absorb impact. She rolls into a short forward recovery step, then rises immediately into a sprint across the rooftop surface. 0:09.5–0:12 One villain in a black suit steps in to stop her. Keep only this single enemy. The heroine engages him in a short, sharp rooftop fight. She avoids his first attack with a quick slip, grabs or redirects his arm, drives one fast body shot or elbow, then uses his off-balance momentum to throw or slam him down onto the rooftop. The fight must feel quick, practical, and decisive. Real impact reactions. No slow choreography. No extra enemies. 0:12–0:13.5 The villain is down and no longer a threat. The heroine steps past him and moves to the rooftop edge. Wind moves her hair and outfit. She looks outward over the city with intense adrenaline and triumph. 0:13.5–0:15 At the rooftop edge, she turns slightly toward the open skyline, lifts her chest, and shouts one powerful final line: “가자!” She immediately launches forward off the rooftop edge into another leap just as the clip ends. End on the feeling that the action is continuing beyond the cut. IMPORTANT RULES: - one continuous drone follow shot only - no cuts - no teleporting - no cloning - no multiple villains - only one black-suited villain - no giant web canopy - use only thin functional tether lines - no franchise logos - no copyrighted chest symbols - preserve the uploaded identity consistently - action must stay realistic and momentum-driven - rooftop fight must be short, sharp, and readable - final shout must be “가자!” NEGATIVE: no cartoon, no anime, no game-engine look, no fake CGI stiffness, no floating, no weightless hovering, no random disconnected acrobatics, no city-wide web canopy, no superhero logo, no copyrighted spider emblem, no extra enemies, no masked villain, no armored villain, no cloned villain, no empty city, no dark night setting, no rain, no slow motion, no blurred identity, no outfit drift, no face drift, no extra limbs, no broken anatomy, no unrealistic hand deformation, no collision with buildings during swings, no messy unreadable fight.

Sharon Riley

59,224 görüntüleme • 17 gün önce

Seedance 2.0 on MiniMax Design (H3) ===================== Prompt: Style: Photorealistic behind-the-scenes smartphone vlog footage. Faux vertical smartphone footage naturally cropped into 16:9. Authentic handheld phone aesthetic. No cinematic color grading, no HDR look, no 3D render, no game engine, no beauty filters. Feels like genuine behind-the-scenes content uploaded by a Korean idol. Lighting: Bright summer afternoon sunlight through large apartment windows gradually transitions into warm evening apartment lighting. Natural exposure fluctuations and auto white balance typical of smartphone cameras. Color: Neutral consumer smartphone color science with slightly soft contrast, mild highlight clipping near windows and natural indoor color shifts. Camera: Simulated smartphone camera filmed by another female idol member. Gentle handheld movement, natural walking motion, subtle autofocus breathing, slight rolling shutter during quick pans, occasional imperfect framing, brief focus hunting and realistic phone compression. Camera behaves like a friend casually filming, never professionally stabilized. Skin: Extremely realistic skin texture with visible pores and natural imperfections. Light everyday makeup. No skin smoothing. Acting: Gentle, elegant and soft-spoken. She smiles modestly, speaks calmly, occasionally becomes slightly shy after noticing the camera, and naturally thanks the person filming. Her personality is graceful, feminine, polite and slightly reserved. She rarely laughs loudly, instead showing warm smiles, subtle amusement and delicate facial expressions. Every movement feels refined, relaxed and effortless. Physics: Hair, clothing, towels, food, steam, water droplets and household objects all move naturally with realistic weight and momentum. Composition: Casual smartphone framing with occasional imperfect composition and spontaneous reframing. Feels like authentic dorm footage rather than planned content. Continuity: Maintain the exact same face, platinum blonde long straight hair with bangs, body proportions and identity from the reference image throughout every scene. No identity drift. Technical: Authentic 24–30fps smartphone video look with subtle compression artifacts. Final output 16:9. Audio: Natural apartment ambience only. Air conditioner humming, distant Seoul traffic, birds outside the window, cooking sounds, boiling water, frying food, dishes, footsteps, running water, toothbrush brushing, hair dryer, refrigerator hum and soft room ambience. No background music. No subtitles. Overall Mood: Warm, peaceful, elegant and comforting. Similar to a quiet behind-the-scenes dorm vlog uploaded by a Korean idol. Everything feels sincere, calming and intimate without trying to be entertaining. Character: A fictional Korean female idol in her early 20s. Long platinum blonde hair with straight bangs. Fair skin. Soft cat-like eyes. Slim figure. Graceful and feminine. She is known for her gentle personality, polite manners and calm speaking voice. She has just returned to the dorm after school and a schedule and quietly spends the rest of her summer evening. Wardrobe Continuity: CUT 1 She arrives wearing the exact sailor-style school uniform from the reference image, including the cream knit vest, blue sailor collar, blue pleated skirt, white socks and black loafers. CUT 2 She changes into an oversized white graphic T-shirt and loose black athletic shorts while cooking. CUT 3 She now wears a soft pastel blue sleeveless lounge top with white lounge shorts while eating dinner. CUT 4 The same lounge outfit while brushing her teeth. CUT 5 After washing her face she changes into luxurious white silk short pajamas featuring elegant gold piping along the collar, cuffs, chest pocket and shorts hem. The pajama set consists of a relaxed short-sleeve button-up shirt with matching silk shorts. Her hair is loosely tied back while doing skincare. CUT 6 Fresh after showering, still wearing the same white silk pajamas with gold piping. Her hair is slightly damp with a white towel resting around her neck while drying it. CUT 7 Relaxing on the sofa wearing the elegant white silk pajamas while hugging a plush toy and drinking iced tea. CUT 8 Before bed she lets her hair down naturally, waves softly toward the camera while wearing the elegant white silk pajamas, turns off the bedroom light and closes the door. Scene: A beautiful modern luxury Korean idol dorm apartment during a peaceful summer afternoon and evening. Cozy, bright and elegant interior with tasteful furniture, skincare products, plush toys, snacks, fresh flowers, books and neatly organized living spaces. CUT 1 — Coming Home Continuous handheld shot. She unlocks the front door, quietly enters the dorm wearing the school uniform from the reference image, removes her loafers neatly, places her school bag beside the entrance, smiles softly toward the camera and bows her head slightly. Dialogue: "다녀왔어요." CUT 2 — Cooking The camera follows her into the kitchen. She washes vegetables, prepares simple Korean home cooking, fries eggs, boils ramen, tastes the soup with a spoon and smiles gently. Dialogue: "오늘 많이 배고프네요." A female member is heard faintly from another room. Female Voice: "언니~" She smiles softly. "왜?" CUT 3 — Dinner She sits quietly at the dining table. Before eating, she gently places her hands together. Dialogue: "잘 먹겠습니다." She enjoys the meal peacefully while occasionally smiling toward the camera. CUT 4 — Brushing Teeth Bathroom mirror shot. She brushes her teeth slowly before smiling shyly after making accidental eye contact with the camera. Dialogue: "이제 양치해야지." CUT 5 — Skincare Now wearing elegant white silk pajamas with gold piping. She carefully applies toner, serum and moisturizer while calmly speaking to the camera. Dialogue: "오늘 피부가 조금 좋아 보이는 것 같아요." CUT 6 — After Shower She walks out of the bathroom with slightly damp hair and a towel resting around her neck. She quietly dries her hair while looking out the apartment window at the summer sunset. Dialogue: "샤워하니까 정말 개운해." CUT 7 — Relaxing She sits comfortably on the sofa hugging a plush toy while sipping iced tea and slowly scrolling through her phone. A female member speaks softly from another room. Female Voice: "영화 볼래?" She smiles warmly. "좋아요." CUT 8 — Good Night Late evening. She walks into her bedroom carrying her phone charger and plush toy. She turns around one last time, smiles gently at the camera and gives a small wave. Dialogue: "오늘도 함께해줘서 정말 고마워요. 좋은 꿈 꾸세요." She switches off the bedroom light. The bedroom door slowly closes while the handheld camera quietly remains outside for another second before the recording naturally ends.

TSUBAKI

120,254 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

Fiona had always been the perfect wife for Michael. At 28 she had a body that turned heads everywhere they went. Her full DD breasts strained against every top she wore her ass was round and firm from years of yoga and her long auburn hair cascaded down her back like silk. Michael loved her more than anything but he knew deep down he couldn't satisfy her the way she needed. His cock was average at best and he finished too quickly every single time they had sex. That all changed the night they met Jason at a downtown bar in Columbus. Jason was everything Michael wasn't. Tall muscular with broad shoulders and a confident swagger that made women wet just from looking at him. He was 32 with a chiseled jaw dark hair and piercing blue eyes. When he shook Michaels hand his grip was firm and dominant. When his eyes landed on Fiona she bit her lip and squeezed her thighs together instinctively. They started chatting and Jason wasted no time flirting hard with Fiona right in front of Michael. "Damn baby you look like you need a real man to handle you" he said with a smirk. Michael sat there awkwardly sipping his drink but his cock twitched in his pants. He had fantasized about this exact scenario for years. Being cucked by a superior alpha. Later that night back at their apartment Fiona couldn't stop talking about Jason. "He was so fucking hot Michael. Did you see his arms? And the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me." Michael stroked his small cock while she described it getting harder than he had in months. "You want him don't you?" he whispered. Fiona nodded biting her lip. "I need him baby. I need a real cock." The next evening Jason came over. He walked in like he owned the place kissing Fiona deeply right in front of Michael. His big hands grabbed her ass squeezing it possessively while Michael watched from the couch. "Your wife is mine tonight cuck" Jason said with a cocky grin. Michael nodded his face flushed with shame and arousal. Jason didn't waste time. He pulled Fiona into their bedroom and stripped her down revealing her perfect naked body. Her nipples were already hard and her shaved pussy was glistening with wetness. Michael followed and sat in the chair in the corner as instructed. Jason pulled out his massive cock. It was at least 9 inches thick and veiny with a fat head that made Fiona gasp. "Oh my god its so much bigger than yours Michael" she moaned dropping to her knees. She worshipped Jason's alpha cock like a slut in heat. Licking every inch sucking his heavy balls and trying to deepthroat as much as she could. Jason groaned grabbing her hair and fucking her face roughly. "That's it baby suck that big dick while your husband watches." Michael stroked his pathetic cock slowly leaking precum as he witnessed his wife choke on a superior mans meat. Fiona looked over at him with lust filled eyes. "Look how hard he makes me baby. This is what a real man feels like." Jason threw her on the bed and spread her legs wide. He teased her dripping pussy with his huge cockhead before slamming in balls deep in one thrust. Fiona screamed in pleasure her back arching off the mattress. "Fuck yes Jason! Stretch me out! Your cock is so deep!" He pounded her hard and fast his heavy balls slapping against her ass. The sound of wet skin on skin filled the room mixed with her loud moans. Michael couldn't believe how different she looked. Her face was contorted in ecstasy in a way he had never seen. Her tits bounced wildly with every powerful thrust. Jason flipped her over and took her doggy style grabbing her hips and railing her mercilessly. "Tell your husband how much better I am" he growled. "Fuck Michael his cock is ruining me! I can feel him in my stomach! I'm going to cum so hard on his alpha dick!" Fiona cried out. Her body shook as she had the first of many orgasms squirting all over Jason's cock and soaking the sheets. Jason didn't stop. He fucked her in every position missionary with her legs over his shoulders cowgirl where she rode him like a whore grinding her clit against his base and even standing up holding her against the wall. Michael watched every second his own small dick throbbing but he wasn't allowed to cum yet. After nearly an hour Jason finally roared and buried himself deep. "I'm going to fill your wife up cuck." Fiona begged for it wrapping her legs around him. "Cum inside me Jason! Breed my married pussy!" Hot thick ropes of superior cum flooded her womb as she came again screaming his name. When Jason pulled out a river of his cum poured from Fiona's stretched hole. She looked completely fucked out and satisfied. She crawled over to Michael and kissed him deeply letting him taste Jason on her tongue. "Thank you for this baby. I needed a real alpha." But they weren't done. Jason stayed the whole night. He fucked Fiona two more times while Michael cleaned her up with his tongue after each load. The taste of another mans cum mixed with his wife's juices drove Michael wild. In the morning Jason made Fiona suck him off one last time before he left leaving her with a fresh facial. From that day on Jason became a regular. Michael embraced his role as the devoted cuck. He would prepare Fiona for her dates picking out slutty outfits and even driving her to Jason's place sometimes. He loved hearing the details afterward or better yet watching as Jason claimed his wife again and again. Fiona was happier than ever. Her body glowed from the regular alpha fucking and she fell more in love with Michael for giving her this gift. Michael found his pleasure in the humiliation and the intense love for his hotwife. #CuckoldStory #HotwifeLife #AlphaBull #EroticFiction #SpicyStory #CuckoldCouple #FionaAndJason #NSFWTwitter #Erotica #CheatingWifeFantasy

Fiona Fawndles

50,565 görüntüleme • 2 ay önce

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.

SiriusB

15,437 görüntüleme • 4 ay önce

grok imagine prompt: (text-to-image) Create a full-body portrait of a burned-out cyberpunk anime netrunner, captured from a slightly low-angle shot positioned at his eleven o'clock, using a subtle wide-angle lens for an immersive perspective that frames his entire seated figure at 70% of the composition, with tangled cables and defunct monitors filling the remaining space to create a throne-like silhouette of technological decay. His body is slumped asymmetrically in a salvaged high-backed chair, spine curved, head tilted back and slightly to his left, weight collapsed onto his right hip, left leg extended loosely forward with foot barely touching the ground, right leg bent with knee falling outward, left arm draped limply over the chair's arm with fingers trailing toward the floor, right hand resting palm-up on his thigh in quiet surrender, shoulders uneven and rolled forward, conveying complete physical and emotional exhaustion, a body that has simply stopped. His face is angled in a three-quarter view tilted upward-left, and his large, expressive anime-style eyes, 25% larger than realistic, are half-lidded and unfocused, gazing toward a point somewhere beyond the cracked ceiling, pupils directed to the upper-right corner but seeing nothing, conveying a hollow, dissociated thousand-yard stare of profound depletion, quiet grief, and the ghost of former brilliance, lips parted approximately 3 millimeters in an exhale that forgot to finish, corners pulled slightly downward in unconscious sorrow rather than active frowning, brow soft but with a subtle furrow of lingering pain between the eyes. His eyes feature pale grey-green irises with an almost washed-out quality, subtle gradient from silvery outer rings to dim seafoam centers, embedded with flickering glitched data streams, fragmented code characters, and corrupted geometric patterns suggesting damaged or overused cybernetic implants, some iris segments appearing to stutter or display dead pixels, along with dim diffused catchlights reflecting distant monitor glow, extremely long black eyelashes, thick eyelash lines slightly smudged as though he has rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and subtle bruise-purple shadows beneath indicating sleeplessness. His smooth, flawless anime skin has a pale porcelain undertone with unhealthy translucence, illuminated by cool blue-white monitor light from behind and to the right casting an ethereal backlit glow along his jaw, neck, and shoulder edges, contrasted by a single warm amber shaft of light falling diagonally from a crack in the ceiling above-left, creating dramatic chiaroscuro with deep shadows pooling in his eye sockets, beneath his cheekbones, and in the hollow of his throat, plus highlights on his left cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, and his cupid's bow, with visible subsurface scattering on his ears and the thin skin of his eyelids showing faint vein traces. Pale, slightly dry lips with a muted rose-grey tone are parted, showing a glimpse of shadowed upper teeth, with minimal shine suggesting dehydration. His nose is elegant and slightly sharp, with a defined bridge and delicate nostrils, subtle shadows beneath. Medium-length disheveled black hair falls in uneven layers past his ears and into his eyes, originally styled but now unwashed and tangled, some strands plastered to his forehead and temples with dried sweat, others sticking up at odd angles from running hands through it repeatedly, with subtle blue-violet rim lighting on the right side creating a ghostly luminous outline, a few strands appearing to float slightly from residual static charge in the air. Along his temples and trailing down the sides of his neck are seven visible neural jack ports consisting of circular metallic implants approximately 2 centimeters in diameter with matte gunmetal-chrome housings, three on the right temple in a triangular cluster, two on the left temple, two on the right side of his neck below the jaw, several showing visible damage including hairline cracks in the housing, one with a small chunk missing exposing internal components, and two or three leaking faint wisps of pale blue-white light like luminous smoke, with irritated reddish skin around the edges suggesting overuse or infection, small status indicator lights on each port either dim, flickering erratically, or completely dark. He wears an elegant but threadbare black suit jacket over a wrinkled white dress shirt, jacket shoulders slightly too wide suggesting recent weight loss, fabric worn shiny at the elbows and cuffs, subtle iridescent threading in the lapels that once displayed data patterns now showing only static, collar open with top three buttons undone revealing sharp collarbones and the neural ports on his neck, thin black tie loosened and pulled askew, shirt untucked on one side. Slim black trousers are rumpled at the knees and ankles, one pant leg slightly hitched up revealing a sliver of pale ankle above scuffed black leather shoes, one shoe half off his trailing foot. His hands are elegant with long fingers, visible veins, subtle interface scarring across the knuckles, and faint calluses from keyboard use. The throne-chair is constructed from salvaged materials including a high-backed executive chair base wrapped and nearly consumed by masses of tangled cables in black, grey, and faded colors, some cables plugged into ports along his spine through gaps in the jacket, others hanging loose with exposed copper wiring, defunct monitors of various sizes stacked and leaning behind and around him creating a halo of dead screens, a few displaying static, one showing a frozen error message, most completely dark, their combined shapes suggesting decayed wings or a corrupted halo. Scattered around the base are empty nutrient containers, a fallen glass, loose hardcopy printouts with illegible data. The environment suggests an abandoned server room or personal sanctuary fallen into neglect, concrete walls visible in the periphery, dust motes floating in the amber light shaft, cool blue ambient glow from the monitors creating a melancholy atmosphere of faded genius, beautiful tragedy, and quiet dissolution in a cyberpunk world that consumed one of its brightest minds.

tetsuo

153,630 görüntüleme • 6 ay önce

‡ 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 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce

I would like to explain the latest batch of viral videos I'm working on to the bemused brainrot-curious reader who is not familiar with "the culture". Why are these characters, mixed with this song, going viral? It's all about connecting infinite referential mirrors. What makes this video interesting are not its individual parts but the signifier links it draws. Let's look at the individual parts: ONE: The song is a Brazilian funk or "pancadão" song called MC Lan e MC WM - Sua Amiga Vou Pegar, these days part of what's broadly referred as Brazilian phonk or just phonk (not to be confused with the original phonk, a Memphis-derived genre from the early 2010s built around chopped Three 6 Mafia samples, cowbells and lo-fi tape hiss and etc. The Brazilian version comes an entirely different lineage and got its name adapted from “funk” to “phonk” exclusively because the names sounded similar. It has a similarly menacing posture but swaps the rap cadence for funk's 4/4 with kicks on 1 and 3 rhythm and a much heavier, distorted 808 synth sound). Phonk is often used for its exaggerated reverb feeling bass lines to signify power, style or simply "aura", which you can take as a shorthand for poise, coolness, being de-bon-air and a general detached positive feeling of high status. Aura. Because most users cannot understand the Portuguese lyrics (which are often quite vulgar and sexual), the singing takes the characteristic of a chant, something to be appreciated entirely for its sound, texture and gravitas. The vocals are just another instrument where you can appreciate the menace and swagger of the delivery directly without the cognitive friction of meaning. Non-Portuguese-speaking audiences are not missing anything they were supposed to get, they get “the vibe” that matters, which is not lyrical. These songs are often paired with (male) characters that are taken to display these traits like American Psycho's Patrick Bateman (yes, yes I know that’s the opposite of what you should feel about the character), Peaky Blinder's Thomas Shelby and a menagerie of anime characters like Satoru Gojo (Jujutsu Kaisen), Yujiro Hanma (Baki) and Goku and, really, any male character that is just a little bit cool. TWO: The man in the suit is a minor Family Guy character called Tom Tucker. The reference comes from a scene where Meg sees him walking through her school and says "It's Tom Tucker from the news!” We then cut to her POV, where he is walking in slow motion with soft romantic music swelling and birds chirping, the whole love-at-first-sight trope. Then a camera crew member off-screen yells "hurry up Mr. Tucker," and we get to see he is not walking in slow motion because Meg is infatuated, he is just walking that slowly in real life. Only the music and the birds were in her head. The gag is built on the viewer recognizing the romantic-slow-motion trope, briefly accepting it as the scene's reality, and then being shown that we (and Meg) projected the trope onto what is actually just a man walking very slowly. HA! The original gag is already about projection: a neutral image (slow walk) being assigned an external meaning (romance) by a viewer's pattern-recognition. This is what makes the edit-culture appropriation work so well. The clip got stripped of its context, paired with phonk and text overlays (AURA or “Me and the boys going to detention”), and retroactively assigned a new meaning, only this time it’s the cinematic nonchalant walk, the slow deliberate gait that signifies a man who knows he's the most important thing in the frame (ta la any 1980s Schwazerneggerian action movie hero walking away from an explosion without looking back, every yakuza boss entering a room, every western gunslinger approaching the duel). The edit is ostensibly projecting a trope onto a neutral image. The first projection was romance; the second projection is aura. Family Guy clips and gifs are easy to access and repost, which makes it a readily available and easy to use building block. The show has, through sheer volume of output and over two decades of YouTube and cable TV saturation, become a kind of public-domain visual library, a default vocabulary that any editor can pull from knowing the audience will recognize the source without having to be told, and we can just keep loading meaning onto it. THREE: The character in the background is Tom, from Tom and Jerry, doing a pose made famous by an iShowSpeed fan who encountered him during a livestream. By quickly and correctly identifying Speed by his full legal name ("Darren Jason Watkins Jr"), she showcased herself to be a true fan, which he responded to with his characteristic exaggerated reactions. The pose the girl hit, with the knowing look to the camera, produced a perfect “aura moment” complete commitment, zero irony, the unshakeable conviction that what she was doing was the coolest possible thing to do. As a result, the clip then got endlessly edited with "aura 🥶🥶🥶" captions to canonize it. Aura, in this lexicon, is not granted by the universe; it is summoned by the person's own belief that they have it and by displaying the correct attitude. Tom is also dressed as the previously mentioned Thomas Shelby from Peaky Blinders, which is itself a double signifier. The name match (“Thomas”, get it?) and the suit-and-flat-cap costume turn the cartoon cat into a stand-in for the perhaps most used "high-aura" male character of the past decade, the brooding gangster patriarch whose every cigarette drag has been set to phonk, cinematic scores and electronic music a thousand times over. On top of that, he is made entirely out of chrome, a popular trope of asking ChatGPT (one of the few AI tools people have easy and broad access to) to render things out of very high quality materials to indicate "rarity" or "status" like diamonds, platinum and etc. A sign that itself descends from a longer lineage of in-game cosmetic rarity tiers (League of Legends, MMOs, various skin economy freemium game, the Fortnite battle pass, the Pokémon shiny, dacha games and etc) where material finish is the visual shorthand of value. So "chrome" or "platinum" Tom on top of all previous signifiers signals a “maximized” or “maxxd” version. The image is suppose to invoke the superlative highest possible tier, rarest-drop, legendary-rarity version of aura, the way a kid in a playground would describe their dad as not just strong but the strongest in the world. FOUR: Finally, the background black hole calls back to the original Tom image, where he is surrounded by the universe itself, having ascended. The character has transcended the diegetic frame of his own cartoon and now exists at a cosmological scale, with the black hole standing in for the kind of unmotivated, vibes-based "cosmic" imagery that has become the default background for any video trying to signify that something Big is happening (the same visual motif that has powered comic book characters, anime transformations, video game power ups and anything wants to feel grandiose or “epic” without specifying what about). The black hole means significance in the abstract. At this point I think you understand the mechanism at play here. None of these references resolve to a stable meaning on their own. Tom Tucker is “cool” only in the very short context in which his image served as a substrate; he was convenient footage to pair with a song, and the absurdity of doing an "aura edit" on such a minor, strange character scene makes it all funnier and easier to share. Tom-the-cat is doing the aura pose > the aura pose comes from the iShowSpeed girl > the iShowSpeed girl was cool because she correctly played her part in an established bit of a large streamer with the correct timing and theatrical flair > the bit was cool because it was a shared convention unified by a popular central streamer figure > the convention existed because phonk edits had already trained this exact scenario to be read as confidence-plus-detachment as aura > the chrome finish points to AI image generation quirks > the AI image generation style can be mapped to gaming visual rarity shorthands; the gaming rarity tiers point to a much older logic of precious-metal-as-status. Each step on the referential chain is propped by the one behind it, and the one behind it is propped up by the one behind that, so on and so forth. There is no natural endpoint, the entire structure functions more akin to a network than a linked list. If you stop at any single point and ask "but why is particular signifier cool or funny or interesting”, the answer is always "because of the thing behind it.” It’s hyper-citation, Here, what matters is the structure of the whole rather than the content. This is structure is what I mean by infinite referential mirrors. The rate at which a concept is referencing, remixing and calling back to another is what’s interesting. In other words, It’s the velocity that matters. The chain of recognitions, each "I get that reference," and the cumulative effect of getting six references stacked on top of each other a short span of time gives you the feeling that you are participating in something dense and alive, because it allows you to recognize the shared meme ecosystem of the platform that you are participating in, even if only a glimpse of it. You are inside the culture rather than outside it. The brainrot-curious reader who watches this video and feels nothing, has “failed” to understand the joke because they are outside the hall of mirrors I am describing. You can only get the magic if you step in and start counting the reflections: the song, the suit, the cat, the chrome, the black hole, the transitions the video uses. You are looking at connected parts of this network of symbols and at the speed at which one image hands you off to the next. The entire thirteen-second clip is functioning as a single compressed referential payload that decompresses in the viewer's head into a small private essay exactly like this one. The video allows you to recognize yourself as someone capable of decoding it, and that recognition is the reward. That’s why media like this goes viral.

Pleometric

69,255 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce

Saturday - Adam Friedland This musical intro was the best part of the show. The rest of his act just made me miss Nick Mullen. Unlike every other show this week, there were girls there. They seem to love this guy. I used him as bait, to get the girl from Wednesday to go out with me again. She loves Red Scare Podcast and this Jewish twink is a staple of the Red Scare Extended Universe and I wanted to fuck her and so let's go see Adam Friedland. The problem with Adam is that he has no conviction. He does not own the room, he's just filling space. He announced that his father was there, in the crowd, which is great, let's hear something that might make your father uncomfortable. No such thing was said. He stared at the floor for half the set, as if he was sorry for being there. I saw Mulaney the night before; the difference was stark. Mulaney can get away with being a sheepish pushover twink Sometimes because he also has balls. He can accelerate from "Aw shucks" to "SHUCK YOU MOTHERSHUCKER" and both versions of himself feel true. Look, I get it, being a sad sorry pushover is his schtick and it works with the voice and it's very relatable for sensitive young men who didn't do sports in high school but to carry a room for a full hour you also need to be able to fight back. I could hear Nick's intonations in his voice. But it's clear that Mulldog spent all his creative energy this week ghostwriting the white guys' lines for the Roast of Kevin Hart and so Friedland was left to fend for himself, comedically. The mark of whether a comedian is delivering or not, for me, is whether I hold my piss in to keep hearing them. This was not the case on Saturday night. I recall stepping out and getting a good look at the crowd, and Friedland bumbling through his completely forgettable material, and thinking: this makes me feel like I could start stand up comedy today and dominate the genre. I have this instinct to say: Adam's young! He'll get better! But he's not. He won't. He's 39. He doesn't have the neuroplasticity. He crossed the Sensitive Young Man threshold ten years ago. Mulaney at 43 could be his father now. He's a "much better interviewer" apparently. I tuned out after Cumtown ended because frankly I don't give a shit about the middle east, and that's 90% of what he talks about. Different strokes. I asked some guy in the bathroom, mid-piss: "what would you rate this show, out of 10?" He said: ehh, like a 6. He's a much better interviewer. I don't hate Adam Friedland, I just wish there was anybody to be excited about in stand up comedy. Between this mens' magazine giving me a $500 stipend to "report" on all these shows and the $474 ticket to Gillis and the $432 ticket to Chappelle and the $741 ticket to Mulaney and all the drinks they make you buy at these things I'm feeling like a huge sunk cost leech on the world. Just taking people's money and using it to complain. At least my date seemed to be having a good time. I wrapped my hand around her low back and leaned into her head, wanting her but not sure how to say it. It's much easier to express that kind of thing on blow. Later that night I K-holed in public. Erica and I took way too much in the front seat of the van. We were outside a rave at 3 AM, they asked me to produce a QR code on my phone, I could barely stand. I felt like I was moving in 2D. The fat security guard barely flinched as I walked past him in slow heavy steps, like a penguin, marching into this densely fogged room with colorful lights and loud bumping trance music where all I could stand to do was lean against the heavily breathing walls. I tried to dance with the girl but it probably looked retarded. I didn't try to interact with anyone, I was too far gone. I thought of Karen, as I do every time I take K. The girl led me through the venue, as I worried I would fall over or walk straight into a wall. I worried about how bad this must look, how retarded I must look, wearing this huge XXL t-shirt tucked in to my pants that don't even fit that well because I have anterior pelvic tilt and no ass. I looked and felt like a clown. A failed clown. I was smiling painfully at Erica, looking down at her, and she was doing the same to me. We found a bathroom and I forced my way in. The ketamine was NOT wearing off. I felt my heart beating hard and my head spinning like I could have thrown up but there was nothing in my stomach besides liquid—no food all day besides a croissant at 2PM. I had downed some random person's red wine glass at the last bar. I worried it might have been spiked. I leaned with my head against the wall, sweating, wishing it would end, brutally aware that Erica's out there waiting for me, my friends are out there waiting for me, wondering if I'm okay, thinking he's too fucked up, he can't handle himself, I thought Thomas was always okay and always in control no matter what, they're losing confidence in me, they're losing confidence in themselves for associating with me, what is this big colorful retarded clown shirt I'm wearing I must look like such a fool right now I can't face these people, I can never face them ever again, my face must look so evil ugly and strained, I splash my face with water but it doesn't help, run it through my hair but it doesn't help, get the water all over my shirt but then it just looks like I threw up on myself or pissed myself or something, and I don't have another shirt, should I go out there shirtless, no that's worse, how am I ever going to leave this bathroom, why won't this K wear off, now Erica's calling me, texting me, are you okay, eventually they're just gonna bust in here I know, fine, I can do it, I'm opening the door, yes, I come out, she's still there, good, good girl. She leads me outside. I feel 10% better. I lead her straight to the van. We get in. I tell her to lay with me. Just like on the first night we met. Head spinning, chest heaving, completely exhausted, just lay with me. She asks are you okay and I say for the first time, no. No, I am actually not okay. I blame Adam Friedland. Overall rating: 4/10. Have Nick write your jokes or just stick to interviews.

Worst Boyfriend Ever

99,241 görüntüleme • 3 ay önce

Here's a teaser of Lv Bu (吕布) from Light Chaser Animation-the most powerful warrior of the Three Kingdoms, and perhaps the most dangerous man to trust. Lv Bu (吕布) was renowned as the era's most preeminent warrior. Born in Inner Mongolian, he's known as the "Flying General (飞将)" for his extraordinary martial skills. His legendary steed, Red Hare (赤兔), remains one of the ultimate symbols of a warhorse in Chinese culture to this day. It is widely believed to have been a "heavenly horse" from Central Asia. Lv's greatest weakness was never on the battlefield, but in his character. Suspicious, fickle, and lacking both political judgment and stable loyalty, he repeatedly switched allegiances in the chaos of the era, ultimately failing to secure a lasting position. He initially served under Ding Yuan (丁原), the Inspector of Bing Province (并州). In the late Eastern Han dynasty, imperial authority had weakened, eunuchs dominated the court, and political order had collapsed. In 189 AD, Ding Yuan led his troops to the capital Luoyang (洛阳) and conspired with the General-in-Chief He Jin (何进) to eliminate the eunuchs and restore order, or, make the throne great again. However, the plan was poorly executed. He Jin was killed by the eunuchs instead, who subsequently were slaughtered by He's allies. A huge vacuum of power emerged, and the situation quickly spiraled out of control. At this critical moment, the warlord Dong Zhuo (董卓), summoned to the capital, seized the opportunity. He swiftly took control of Luoyang, held the emperor hostage, and dominated the imperial court. Recognizing Lv's martial prowess and position, Dong Zhuo sowed discord between him and Ding Yuan, eventually persuading Lv Bu to kill his lord and defect to his side. For a time, the two referred to each other as father and son. However, Dong Zhuo's brutal and paranoid nature eventually wore on Lv Bu. Over time, as Lv grew more dissatisfied, his unease grew further when he began an affair with Dong Zhuo's maid. Ultimately, with the scheme of Wang Yun (王允), Lv Bu personally assassinated Dong Zhuo, the second time he killed his own lord. The maid, whose name was never recorded in historical texts, was later immortalized in the novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms as "Diaochan (貂蝉)." While the details of the maid's life are unknown, the story of Diaochan has become rich and romanticized, forever entwined with the legends of that era, making her one of China's Four Great Beauties. However, the assassination of Dong Zhuo did not grant Lv a stable position he sought. For the next ten years, he wandered between various factions, aligning with them, betraying them, and repeating this cycle. He remained the undefeated warrior, but over time, he came to be seen by all the warlords as: The strongest, yet the most untrustworthy man. Historical records show that when Cao Cao (曹操) tried to win over Lv Bu, he sent him a military seal and a sash. Cao Cao wrote in a personal letter to Lv Bu, "The royal family has no good gold, so I have recast a seal for you with my own family's gold; the royal family has no purple sash, so I have given you my own purple sash to show my sincerity." However, Lv's repeated betrayals finally led Cao to make the decision to eliminate him. In 199 AD, Cao Cao captured him. What followed was a fascinating conversation recorded in history. When Lv Bu met Cao Cao, he said: "From now on, the world can be at peace." Cao Cao asked, "Why do you say that?" Lv Bu replied: "Your Excellency's only concern is me. Now that I have surrendered, the trouble of the world is nearly over. If you command me to lead the cavalry and you lead the infantry, all under heaven will surely be unified." Lv then turned to Liu Bei (刘备), who was nearby and would move on to oppose Cao Cao in the southwest of China 20 years later, and pleaded: "Could you not speak a word on my behalf to loosen bonds?" Cao Cao, upon hearing this, smiled and said: "Binding a tiger must be done tightly." At that moment, Liu Bei intervened: "Have you forgotten the stories of Ding Yuan and Dong Zhuo?" These words completely changed the situation. Cao Cao immediately decided to execute Lv to avoid his own tragic end. Before his execution, Lv glared at Liu Bei in anger and shouted: "Big-eared man (大耳儿), you are the most untrustworthy!" This final insult not only marked the last words of his life but also made Liu Bei's nickname endure in history for 1,800 years. For over 1,800 years, Lv Bu has never disappeared. In history, in novels, in films, and in games, he is always the ultimate warrior. Max stats. Zero loyalty. And like many people of my generation playing 3K-themed games, he was the one character I wanted most, even knowing he would probably betray me. In history, he failed. In legend, he became immortal. So how do you see Lv Bu, legend, traitor, or tragedy?

Zhai Xiang

14,519 görüntüleme • 4 ay önce

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

53,327 görüntüleme • 6 ay önce

For nearly seven years at the Humane Society outside Asheville, North Carolina, an aging Labrador-collie mix named Baxter carried out the same quiet ritual every single time a terrified rescue puppy arrived at the shelter. No one trained him to do it. No one encouraged it. He simply decided, somewhere along the way, that frightened puppies should not be alone on their first night. Every time a new puppy entered the building crying, trembling, or clawing desperately at kennel doors, Baxter would slowly stand up from the blanket in the corner of kennel fourteen, walk to the back of his run, pick up one particular faded blue stuffed rabbit, and carry it down the concrete hallway. Then he would carefully push the toy beneath the puppy's kennel gate. Only after the puppy settled down would Baxter quietly return to his own kennel and lie back down without the rabbit. Every single time. My name is Elise Warren. I'm fifty years old, and I've worked at Humane Society for almost thirteen years. People imagine animal shelters as loud places full of barking dogs and happy adoptions. Sometimes they are. But mostly, shelters are emotionally exhausting places held together by routines, bleach, paperwork, volunteers running on caffeine, and staff members trying not to fall apart after difficult days. Humane Society sits just outside Asheville near the Blue Ridge foothills. Forty-two kennels. Eight employees. Constant overcrowding. The usual heartbreaks. Strays hit by cars. Senior dogs surrendered after owners die. Puppies dumped near rivers or grocery store dumpsters. And then there was Baxter. He arrived at the shelter when he was around five years old after being surrendered by an elderly widower entering assisted living. The owner's daughter brought him in wrapped in an old quilt because she couldn't stop crying long enough to hold the leash steadily. She told us Baxter had lived on the same farm his entire life. Same porch. Same owner. Same routines. Then suddenly everything disappeared. Dogs process grief differently than humans, but they absolutely feel it. Baxter felt it deeply. For the first few months, he barely interacted with anyone. He wasn't aggressive. Just painfully quiet. He had the kind of sad, thoughtful eyes that made people uncomfortable because they looked too human. Potential adopters usually passed him by for younger dogs who bounced against kennel doors wagging wildly. Baxter would simply sit in the back of kennel fourteen, watching. Waiting, maybe. But he became famous among the staff for something else. The rabbit. It was an old stuffed toy, faded blue with one floppy ear and stitching repaired several times by hand. The fabric had worn nearly smooth over the years. Even when Baxter first arrived, it was clearly ancient already. He treated it carefully. Not like a chew toy. Not like something to destroy. More like something important. The first time we saw him give it away was during a thunderstorm. Animal control had brought in a six-week-old border collie puppy found abandoned in a drainage ditch after heavy rain. The puppy screamed nonstop for hours. High-pitched panic cries that echoed through the kennel building long after closing time. I was finishing paperwork around 9 PM when I noticed Baxter standing near the puppy's kennel. He pushed the rabbit underneath the gate. The puppy stopped crying within minutes. At first, we thought it was coincidence. Then it happened again. And again. Over the years, Baxter repeated the ritual with dozens of puppies. Tiny pit bull mixes. Malnourished hound puppies. German shepherd litters rescued from neglect cases. Terrified strays pulled from highways. Whenever a puppy arrived frightened and alone, Baxter somehow knew. He would carry the rabbit down the hall with slow, deliberate steps despite his worsening arthritis and slide it gently under the kennel door. And somehow, most puppies calmed down afterward. (continued in the first comment)

Gabriele Corno

43,141 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

The apartment across the courtyard had been empty for nearly a week before anyone noticed the dog. Moving trucks had come and gone over the weekend. Furniture disappeared. The lights stayed off. Management assumed the tenants had simply finished their lease. But every evening, just after sunset, a small white-and-tan Jack Russell Terrier would appear outside the apartment door. He never wandered far. He would lie on the worn welcome mat for hours, lifting his head every time footsteps echoed down the hallway. Whenever the elevator doors opened, his tail would twitch with hope before slowly falling again as another stranger walked past. Most neighbors thought someone would come back for him. No one did. By the fifth day, his bark had changed. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It was quiet, almost pleading, as though he believed if he called often enough, the people he loved might hear him. I couldn't stop thinking about him. Each morning before work, he was there. Each night when I came home, he was still waiting. A maintenance worker finally confirmed what everyone had begun to suspect. The previous tenants had left without taking the dog. No emergency contact. No forwarding address. Nothing. That evening, I carried a bowl of fresh water into the hallway. The little dog didn't move toward it. He simply stared at the apartment door. I placed a blanket nearby and sat several feet away, saying nothing. Nearly an hour passed before he cautiously walked over, drank a few mouthfuls of water, then returned to the same spot outside the empty apartment. The next morning, heavy rain swept through the city. Water blew into the open-air corridor, soaking the doormat where he had spent every night. I couldn't leave him there any longer. When I gently reached toward him, he didn't resist. He was lighter than I expected. Far too light. Inside my apartment, he immediately searched every room before curling into the corner beside my bookshelf. He ignored the expensive dog food I bought that afternoon. He ignored treats. He ignored toys. Even when I sat beside him, he kept his eyes fixed on the front door, listening for footsteps that never came. The veterinarian examined him the following day. Physically, he wasn't seriously ill. He was dehydrated, underweight, and carrying several untreated ear infections, but none of it explained why he refused to eat. The veterinarian sighed softly. "His body can recover," she told me. "It's his heart I'm worried about." She explained that some dogs experience profound emotional distress after sudden separation from the people they've bonded with. They stop eating, withdraw from interaction, and seem to lose interest in everything around them. Healing takes patience. Not days. Sometimes weeks. So I changed my routine. Instead of trying to convince him to play, I simply shared the room with him. While reading, I sat on the floor nearby. While working on my laptop, I left it beside his blanket. At night, I spoke quietly to him about completely ordinary things, not because I thought he understood every word, but because silence had probably become frightening. For nearly a week, nothing seemed different. Then one morning, as I prepared breakfast, I noticed him watching me from the hallway instead of hiding. It wasn't much. But it was the first time he'd shown curiosity. Later that afternoon, when I walked into another room, I heard the faint clicking of little paws behind me. He had followed. Only a few steps. Then he stopped. The following evening, I offered him a small piece of boiled chicken. Instead of turning away, he sniffed it carefully before taking the tiniest bite. I smiled so hard my face hurt. It wasn't about the food. It was the decision behind it. For the first time since I'd met him, he had chosen tomorrow. Little victories followed. He started greeting me at the door after work. He discovered that tennis balls were worth chasing. He claimed the sunny patch beside the living room window as his favorite afternoon nap spot. One night, while I watched television, I felt something warm against my leg. He had quietly climbed onto the couch and rested his head against me. No hesitation. No fear. Just trust. The veterinarian noticed the change immediately during his next checkup. "Look at him now," she said, smiling as his tail wagged across the exam room floor. "That's a completely different little dog." I decided to call him Chance. Not because life had given him a second chance. Because he had given one to me as well. It's been almost a year now. Every evening, he still walks to the apartment door before bedtime. He stands there for a few seconds, listening to the quiet hallway. Then he turns around, trots back into our home, curls up beside me, and falls asleep without looking back. Sometimes healing isn't about forgetting where you've been. Sometimes it's simply discovering that someone stayed long enough to help you believe in home again.

Crazy Moments

41,286 görüntüleme • 1 ay önce

john wick seedance text to video prompt: [STYLE / CINEMATIC SETUP] A 10.5-second, 16:9 photorealistic AAA action-game cinematic rendered at real-time speed with no slow motion. The setting is a cramped, cluttered late-night Asian restaurant connected to a rain-soaked street. Cyan-green fluorescent light, red neon and warm practical lamps create a high-contrast mixed-light environment, with reflections across wet floors and pavement. Shoot with a 35mm spherical lens, shallow-to-moderate depth of field and cinematic motion blur appropriate to the actual speed of movement. Use close shoulder-mounted and handheld coverage, connecting seven short close-combat shots with fast hard cuts. The camera instinctively pans, retreats or drops with each block, takedown and collision while keeping the action and contact points readable. No dialogue, no subtitles and no BGM. Generate only synchronized rain, appliance hum, urgent footsteps, fabric movement, body impacts, gunshots, metal contact and breaking glass. [IMAGE REFERENCES] No external still-image reference. Follow the written character and environment descriptions consistently. If the platform supports reference video, use the supplied video only as a reference for editing rhythm, camera distance, action direction and lighting atmosphere, not for copying a specific actor’s identity. The protagonist remains the same lean, agile man in his early forties throughout the sequence: neck-length black hair swept back, a short beard, a tired but focused face, a slightly wrinkled black suit, white shirt and narrow black tie, all carrying faint rain and wear marks. Preserve his face, hairstyle, body proportions, clothing and screen direction across all seven shots. Keep every opponent visually distinct: a man in a blue work uniform, a bald man in a navy jacket, a heavy man in a black jacket, a bald counter attacker, a red-headband attacker, a red-jacketed armed attacker and a heavy man in a dark green coat outside. [TIMELINE SECOND BY SECOND] 0–1.9s: [Shoulder-height medium close-up, tight lateral handheld tracking, real-time speed] The protagonist stands on screen left, pinning the blue-uniformed attacker against a glass refrigerator with his left forearm and palm. He delivers two compact, weighted elbow and palm-heel strikes. Each impact drives the attacker’s head into the refrigerator door, loosening his white headband and leaving a small blood trace on the glass; the attacker finishes sliding down the door while the protagonist remains standing. 1.9–4.3s: [Medium shot transitioning into a high-angle overhead, shoulder-mounted drop, real-time speed] Hard cut near the restaurant’s rear entrance. The bald attacker in a navy jacket locks the protagonist from behind. The protagonist lowers his center of gravity, traps the attacker’s arm and rotates his hips, throwing him heavily over the shoulder onto the wet floor. The camera drops with them into an overhead view. Kneeling across the attacker’s torso, the protagonist draws a compact black pistol and fires one downward shot; recoil travels through his wrist and the attacker jolts once before becoming still. 4.3–5.9s: [Tight medium shot, lateral handheld follow, real-time speed] Hard cut with both men already upright. A heavy attacker in a black jacket swings from screen right. The protagonist slips outside the punch, allowing it to pass close to his face, circles behind the attacker and locks his shoulder and neck off balance. He presses the pistol close to the side of the attacker’s head and fires. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates both faces; the attacker’s head and shoulders snap backward and his body begins to collapse. 5.9–7.9s: [Counter-height medium close-up, subtle handheld push-in, real-time speed] Hard cut to the restaurant counter. Another bald attacker bends forward and clamps around the protagonist’s waist. The protagonist pins the attacker’s head and neck under his left arm while grabbing a short, rigid pointed utensil from the counter. He drives two compact downward thrusts into the upper shoulder and side of the neck. Each contact bends the attacker’s knees further; a restrained amount of blood marks the shirt and counter edge before the attacker hangs helplessly beneath the protagonist’s controlling arm. 7.9–9.0s: [Two-person medium close-up, fast pan with a short retreat, real-time speed] Hard cut as the red-headband attacker rushes into close range. He throws a wide hook from screen right. The protagonist raises his forearm to block, catches the wrist and pulls it outward, then drives a palm heel and forearm into the attacker’s face. The camera retreats with the impact as the attacker loses his balance and staggers toward the rear right of the frame. 9.0–9.9s: [Low-angle wide shot, slight arc around the action, real-time speed] Hard cut to a wider section of the restaurant. The red-jacketed armed attacker advances from screen left. Holding a long black firearm with both hands, the protagonist uses it as a blunt weapon and swings horizontally from right to left. The weapon strikes the attacker’s upper chest and shoulder, rotating his torso, crossing his feet and sending him off balance toward screen left. 9.9–10.5s: [Exterior rainy-street medium shot, fast parallel tracking, real-time speed] Hard cut outside the restaurant. The protagonist already controls a heavy attacker in a dark green coat and uses his forward momentum to drive the man’s head and upper body into the side window of a parked black station wagon. The glass bursts inward at the contact point, scattering both large and fine fragments. The attacker folds through the broken window while the protagonist regains stable footing beside the car, ending with glass fragments still falling. [STYLE & QUALITY BOOSTERS] Maintain the protagonist’s face, black suit, white shirt, tie, hairstyle and body proportions through every hard cut. The pistol, pointed utensil, injuries and blood marks must appear only in their designated shots and must never morph or change ownership. Throws, recoil, strike reactions, loss of balance and window breakage must show believable weight, inertia and precise contact. Apply motion blur only to rapidly moving arms, weapons, glass fragments and camera-relative backgrounds. No sudden face or costume changes; no extra fingers, fused limbs or inverted joints; no morphing weapons, utensils or vehicles; no foot sliding or rubber-like collision reactions; no blood, bullet damage or glass fragments appearing before physical contact.

underwood

12,588 görüntüleme • 13 gün önce

“A lie unchecked becomes the truth.” Where have we heard that before? If Hank Brennan’s inflammatory claims about the defense & the ARCCA experts were true and accurate, why were NONE of those issues raised or even mentioned in his Motion to Exclude ARCCA Experts, or any court documents whatsoever? He stated that he received that information on February 13, 2025, nearly a week before Tuesday’s motions hearing, but you’re telling me that this guy wasn’t chomping at the bit to put ANY of this in a motion? Sure—and I’ve got a bridge to sell you. Why did Brennan file no affidavit of factual support, pursuant to Rule 13(a)(2) outlining any of these damning claims? Maybe because then he’d be bound under the pains & penalties of perjury which would make it much harder for him to hide behind “I misspoke” when his lies are confronted by the truth. Furthermore, if Brennan’s oh so damning claims of impropriety were true, then surely he would’ve included them in his Motion for Sanctions on the Defense, right? Especially given the fact that he filed his sanctions motion with the court (on 2/14/25) AFTER he’d already received said damning information (on 2/13/25), and from the defense themselves no less 😂. Certainly, if Brennan’s claims were true, and not him trying to distract & obfuscate from the mountain of Brady violations the prosecution is drowning in by playing to “the audience on the right,” there’s absolutely no chance he’d leave that information out of his Motion for Sanctions, but yet it is nowhere to be found. Why’s that? This was a blatant PR stunt by Hank Brennan & the DA’s Office to smear the integrity of the defense attorneys while planting the seed that ARCCA is not a neutral party. And guess what? They got what they wanted. Judge Beverly Cannone yet again revealed her bias and partiality—eating up every morsel of Hank Brennan’s unsubstantiated say-so, which is curiously outlined in NO court documents whatsoever by the Commonwealth. She piped up the theatrics without asking any questions or allowing the defense to respond or be heard. There are rules of criminal procedure for a reason and prosecutors have ethical obligations. Hank Brennan has repeatedly failed to abide by MA Rules of Criminal Procedure, specifically Rule 13(a)(2), obligating him to file an affidavit of factual support, which in part exists to keep attorneys honest & hold them accountable to the truth. This, of course, is why he rarely files them. On a side note: speaking of affidavits, you know who’s never submitted any affidavits, signed & sworn to under the pains and penalties of perjury? Jessica Hyde and Ian Whiffin. On the contrary, Richard Green has submitted at least 4 affidavits. The entire objective of Brennan’s PR stunt on Tuesday was to taint the jury pool by trying to make the defense attorneys look as sleazy as him so that any potential jurors will be less inclined to believe what the defense says, and attack the integrity of the ARCCA experts because he can’t meet them on the facts & they destroy his case. And much of the local + mainstream news media bought it hook, line & sinker. Nearly every headline is running with Brennan’s unverified word salad. It’s in the press & news media, and potential jurors have seen it. The damage is done, and because Judge Cannone was seemingly complicit in this charade of theatrics, she allowed Brennan’s lie to go unchecked. She’s seen no affidavit from him signed under the pains & penalties of perjury showing factual support of anything he said on Tuesday. So why is she so inclined to believe him? With a Judge so eager to indict Attorney Alan Jackson, Karen Read & her defense team for seemingly inexplicable personal reasons, based on nothing more than a hyperbolic emotional argument—which as it turns out was later revealed to be entirely false & inaccurate during that same hearing—and based on no real argument elaborated anywhere in any court documents by the Commonwealth, Judge Cannone confirmed once again that she lacks judicial temperament & is unfit to be presiding over this case. Judge Cannone is supposed to protect Karen Read’s right to a fair trial. Instead, she’s ensuring that Karen Read will never get a fair trial. Do you think any media outlets are going to issue retractions when Alan Jackson/defense counsel is absolved? Of course not! And by that point, the damage has already been done. Judge Cannone left the casual observer + news audience with a very prejudicial impression of the defense, seeking no follow up and affording no due process for the defense to be heard. A lie unchecked becomes the truth, and Judge Cannone knew that allowing Hank Brennan’s lie to go unchecked for a week would be extremely damaging to the defense in the lead up to trial. Why is she so apt to believe that defense counsel is somehow nefarious or dishonest when 3,000+ pages of Touhy evidence provided by the ongoing federal investigation—into THIS DA’s Office and THESE third party culprits—exposed an overwhelming number of the Commonwealth’s lies and verified that this is factually a malicious prosecution? Touhy evidence that only verified and corroborated the veracity of the defense and its case. ———— But, don’t take my word for it. Look at Hank Brennan’s own words in his Motion to Exclude ARCCA Experts and his Motion for Sanctions (attached below in comments). Let me know where, if anywhere, you find any of these damning claims (hint: you won’t). Look at the docket of all recent filings (attached) and let me know where, if anywhere, you see any affidavit of factual support for Brennan’s ARCCA expert exclusion argument that he made Tuesday (hint: you won’t). And it’s not due to lack of time, as he had nearly a week to file any of this information in a court document. Yet, he chose not to do that. What does that tell you? But let me get this straight, Judge Cannone has grave concern that could have profound effects on the defense and defense counsel? What a disgrace. #KarenReadTrial #KarenRead

Olivia

41,096 görüntüleme • 1 yıl önce