Podcasts about Big Boss

Wednesday 5/21/25

It's Kung Fu Theater time once again on The Bulletproof Podcast with a discussion on the Bruce Lee classic, The Big Boss! Join Chris the Brain, Ryan Campbell, and "The Toyman" Chris DePetrillo as they go way back to 1971 and the movie that sparked the Bruce Lee craze around the world! The jazzy intro and music, the title confusion in the United States, the greatness of James Tien, the colorful cast of villains, and of course the martial arts marvel that was Bruce Lee, are all discussed... plus, CTB counts the bastards! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Pictures Powwow is the show in which we discuss a film that has been recommended whether it by us or you the listening people! In this episode, we covered "The Big Boss" (1971) which came highly recommended from Bartek.  Ryan's recommendation for next episode is “The Man Who Laughs” (1928) so make sure to check that out. If you have any feedback, questions, comments, recommendations or interested in having your podcast promoted on the show make sure to email us at spitandpolished@gmail.com  FOLLOW US: Twitter: @SpitPolishPre Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/spitandpolishpresents/ LISTEN ON: Apple Podcasts: https://itunes.apple.com/au/podcast/spit-polish-presents/id1059224536 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/5ycjMXxAbhlcSEEpihSax0 Podbean: http://spitandpolish.podbean.com/ RadioPublic: https://radiopublic.com/spit-polish-presents-6VQzVW TuneIn: https://tunein.com/podcasts/Comedy-Podcasts/Spit--Polish-Presents-p1087434/ iHeartRadio: https://www.iheart.com/podcast/269-spit-polish-presen-29693268/ Stitcher: https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/spit-polish-presents

Do you want to join our Mastermind?https://chriswarnes.com/warrior-tribe-a-revolutionary-mastermind-for-ambitious-5-6-and-7-figure-entrepreneurs/Want to learn more about watches?email us at support@chriswarnes.comWe buy, sell, trade, consign, service, source and repair. Do you want to work with us on a timepiece? email us support@chriswarnes.comWe've had a wave of Rolex Day-Dates coming through the office lately... so it's only right we spotlight this heavy hitter: the Rolex Day-Date 40mm (ref. 228235) in Everose Gold with the iconic Olive Roman dial

Pictures Powwow is the show in which we discuss a film that has been recommended whether it by us or you the listening people! In this episode, we covered "Lorenzo's Oil" (1992) which came highly recommended from The Listening People.  Bartek's recommendation for next episode is “The Big Boss” (1971), so make sure to check that out. If you have any feedback, questions, comments, recommendations or interested in having your podcast promoted on the show make sure to email us at spitandpolished@gmail.com  FOLLOW US: Twitter: @SpitPolishPre Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/spitandpolishpresents/ LISTEN ON: Apple Podcasts: https://itunes.apple.com/au/podcast/spit-polish-presents/id1059224536 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/5ycjMXxAbhlcSEEpihSax0 Podbean: http://spitandpolish.podbean.com/ RadioPublic: https://radiopublic.com/spit-polish-presents-6VQzVW TuneIn: https://tunein.com/podcasts/Comedy-Podcasts/Spit--Polish-Presents-p1087434/ iHeartRadio: https://www.iheart.com/podcast/269-spit-polish-presen-29693268/ Stitcher: https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/spit-polish-presents

In this episode of The Conspiracy Podcast, the boys dive deep into the life, mysterious death, and legacy of Bruce Lee, a martial arts icon who left an mark on Hollywood and global culture. Sean, Jorge, and Eric explore the shocking events of July 20, 1973, when Bruce Lee passed away at just 32 years old, right as he was on the verge of worldwide stardom. The official cause of death—a fatal allergic reaction to a painkiller—was ruled an accident, but many believe the circumstances surrounding his demise are far from ordinary.The boys take listeners on a journey through Bruce's extraordinary life. From his early days as a child star in Hong Kong to his rise as a groundbreaking martial artist and film star, Bruce Lee's impact was immense. His roles as Kato in The Green Hornet and his starring performances in The Big Boss, Fist of Fury, and Enter the Dragon broke barriers and showcased his unmatched talent. Bruce's innovative philosophy of martial arts and his vision for a more inclusive and practical fighting style led to the creation of Jeet Kune Do, a martial arts system that challenged traditional boundaries.However, on the night of his death, questions began to emerge. What truly happened during the final hours of Bruce Lee's life? Was it really an allergic reaction, or was there a darker force at play? The episode breaks down the official findings, including the autopsy that confirmed cerebral edema—brain swelling—as the cause of death, but left the trigger for the swelling uncertain. Theories have flourished ever since, ranging from heatstroke caused by his past surgery to remove sweat glands, to suspicions about the involvement of the Triads, the Chinese mafia, or even the American mafia seeking to control his rising Hollywood career.The boys also delve into alternative theories, including a possible family curse or mysterious martial arts rivals seeking revenge. The conspiracy surrounding Bruce Lee's death remains one of the most discussed and controversial topics in pop culture history. Was it a tragic accident, or was Bruce Lee's sudden death part of a larger, hidden story?Join the boys as they revisit the incredible life and mysterious death of Bruce Lee, unraveling the facts, speculations, and wild theories that continue to capture the imagination of fans around the world. Was Bruce Lee's death really an accident, or was it something far more complex? Tune in for an in-depth exploration of a legend whose influence is still felt to this day.https://www.patreon.com/theconspiracypodcast

Greg convinces Saturday Night Live's Bowen Yang to call Radio 1's big boss, Aled and he speaks to Cooper, Shelby and Lauren in Chesterfield fresh from their triumph at a seagull impersonating screeching competition! Listener, Sophie attempts to get her hands on Big Weekend tickets, Holly fronts the latest new team to play Yesterday's Quiz, plus, catch up on All The Latest Things!

On this weeks episode, the boys are joined by the Big Boss of the Pokémon Professor Network. Ken Pescatore. We dig into the Global Wayfarer Challenge. The good, the bad and he ugly. Also, Jamal makes his best case for changing the criteria. You are going to want to listen to the entire episode and hear all of the opinions! Make sure to stick around for One's Gotta Go and the Dad Jokes!✅ News✅ Topic #1 - Teardown of the Challenge✅ Topic #2 - Relax... The Criteria✅ Ones Gotta go - 007- Boxers✅Wayspots/Coal of the Week✅ Dad Jokes⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Your Hosts - Jamal Harvey and Chris BellSpecial Guest: Ken PescatoreEpisode 171 Writer - Jamal HarveyEpisode 171 Producer - Jamal HarveySeason 4 Episode 15Executive Producer - Kate KonzWayspotters Show Historian - Matty GRecord Date - 26 April 2025Publish Date - 28 April 2025Special Shout Out to our Patreons!Wayspotters@pokemonprofessor.comVoicemail and SMS: 704-426-3710Follow our links!Join our Patreon!!⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.patreon.com/PokemonProfessor⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Our Website: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠http://wayspotters.com/⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Visit out Instagram also ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠@wayspotterspodcast⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Our Twitter: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://twitter.com/wayspotters/⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠TikTok⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Tiktok.com/imakewayspots⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠YouTube ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.youtube.com/@WayspottersPodcast⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Support Us: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.patreon.com/PokemonProfessor⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Go check out Chris' articles ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://pokemongohub.net/post/author/glawhantojar/⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Twitch:⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.twitch.tv/pokemonprofessornetwork⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Follow Niantic!Niantic Wayfarer Twitter: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://twitter.com/NianticWayfare⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠r⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Our friends links!Wayfarer Discord: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://discord.gg/niawayfarer⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Agent X on TikTok -⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.tiktok.com/@agentx_wayfinder⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Join the Facebook group ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.facebook.com/groups/2241761169257836⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠OpenStreetMap World Discord -⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://discord.gg/openstreetmap⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Join the Silph Research Group -⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://discord.gg/Bx4AbXR⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Join the German Wayfarer Discord -⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://discord.gg/ThTZCZH5⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes and CreditsCoal of the Week Arrangement: Chris BellIntro Music - Game Over - Danijel Zambo - Music VineBreak Music -  Hard Trap Samples, Heavy Trap Drum Loops ... - LoopmastersOutro Music - Itty Bitty 8 Bit - song by Kevin MacLeod - Spotify – Web PlayerSpanish Hard Trap - Steve OxenVocal recording  Copyright of Pokémon Professor 2025Pokémon And All Respective Names are Trademark and © of Nintendo 1996-2025Pokémon GO is Trademark and © of Niantic, Inc.Wayspotters and the Pokémon Professor Network are not affiliated with Niantic Inc., The Pokémon Company, Game Freak or Nintendo.

The “Novelty” song has deep roots in popular culture. Masters of the form, like Weird Al Yankovic, Warren Zevon, Tom Lehrer, Spike Jones, and Allen Sherman have illuminated our consciousness and tickled our sense of the absurd. How much WAS that doggie in the window?…., WTF is Marzy dotes and dozy dotes about?…,  They're coming to take me away, Haha…(that one actually scared me). Probably each of us can recall from childhood some goofy ditty that either made you feel smarter, or got stuck inside your head like RFK's brain worm. Let's give thanks to Doctor Demento for archiving and disseminating many of these gems for future generations, and my introduction to Larry Groce's Junk Food Junkie came from one of his collections. Jerry Blavat's One More Time, Back to School may not demonstrate the same amount of cleverness, but its delivered lustily by one of the premier DJs of his time. LARRY GROCEJunk Food Junkie comes from 1975, and is perfectly in key with today's anti-woke sentiments. But, Mr. Groce delivers his mockery with such gentleness and good humor that it creates a universal warmth devoid of malice. Yes, he intimates, you can try to be upright and health conscientious, but the reptilian brain in all of us needs to be satisfied - even if it has to happen under cover of darkness.  Hypocrisy is the target here, and Mr. Groce, cast as the titular shlemiel, puts himself first in line for ridicule. JERRY BLAVATJerry Blavat's “Horatio Alger” story reads like a Martin Scorsese screenplay. His colorful bio, recounting his journey from son of a Philly bookmaker, valet to Don Rickles, mob-connected DJ and club owner, to broadcasting Hall of Fame icon, could be the stuff of a Netflix series. Known as “the Big Boss with the Hot Sauce,” and “the Geater with the Heater,” Jerry swaggered through his bigger than life life like a toreador. But, lest we forget - it was always his love of those Philadelphian musical goodies - that made him a beloved home town super hero. 1965's One More Time Back to School, on the Cameo Parkway label, is an fascinating glimpse into his inexhaustible energy. It's delightfully sadistic as the singer declares the end of vacation time fun. Not only that, there is something in the edgy cacophony of its production, with the clanging cowbells, that evokes that end of summer feeling. 

Agradece a este podcast tantas horas de entretenimiento y disfruta de episodios exclusivos como éste. ¡Apóyale en iVoox! Nueva entrega de GRAN RESERVA, el spin-off exclusivo para los oyentes que nos apoyan como fans del programa en iVoox. Hoy comienza una nueva etapa, que esperamos que dure mucho, con la que vamos a tratar de ser constantes, y de innovar en cuanto a contenidos y formas de grabar. A ver qué os parecen "Los cachorros del Big Boss".Escucha este episodio completo y accede a todo el contenido exclusivo de Reserva de Maná. Descubre antes que nadie los nuevos episodios, y participa en la comunidad exclusiva de oyentes en https://go.ivoox.com/sq/126134

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À 29 ans, Grégory Amar prend un risque que peu oseraient. Il s'endette pour racheter une entreprise, avec une idée fixe : la développer et la revendre.Et alors que tout le monde le pensait fou, Grégory réussit son pari. Après une première année à rembourser sa dette et une deuxième de forte croissance, la suite logique pour changer d'échelle est une cession.Il rencontre alors les dirigeants de Line Up 7 aux BigBoss, qui organisent des événements B2B réunissant les grands décideurs français. Ils ne tournent pas autour du pot, testent leurs synergies pendant quelques mois, et la cession vient comme une évidence.Trois ans après avoir repris la boite, Gregory cède Eddo pour 4 millions d'euros à Line Up 7.Un deal bien négocié, une signature euphorique, un chèque en main… puis une claque.Dès les premières minutes post-signing, le ton change. Alors que Grégory et son associé, encore portés par l'adrénaline de la vente, immortalisent le moment par un selfie avec leur chèque, le repreneur les fixe, stupéfait : « Vous êtes sérieux ? » L'ambiance devient glaciale.Ce qui devait être une transition fluide se transforme en deux salles, deux ambiances.Pourquoi un tel décalage entre l'enthousiasme des vendeurs et la rigidité du repreneur ? Comment une simple différence de posture peut-elle impacter l'intégration après la cession ?Les mois d'earn-out qui suivront seront tendus : entre désalignement stratégiques et changement de modèle, l'entente n'est plus aussi cordiale.2020, le covid finit de convaincre Grégory à quitter l'aventure plus tôt que prévu. Il peut enfin réaliser son rêve : partir 2 ans en tour du monde.. Un tour du monde qui se limitera à 4 mois sur des îles aux Antilles, puis un retour en France où il profitera de sa nouvelle vie de jeune papa.Aujourd'hui, Grégory a même complètement bouclé la boucle puisqu'il est devenu le nouveau DG des BigBoss.Un podcast conçu et produit par FeuilleBlanche, l'agence qui crée des contenus et des médias d'inspiration pour les marques et les dirigeants.À vos écouteurs

Bouba Atkins, Yung Nouchi, Zo Kalanga... Ces noms ne vous disent peut-être rien, mais en Côte d'Ivoire, ce sont les réalisateurs de clips vidéo que les artistes s'arrachent. Depuis quelques années, ils occupent une place centrale sur les réseaux sociaux et à la télévision. Le secteur commence donc à se professionnaliser et à se structurer, tandis que les investissements des labels sont de plus en plus conséquents. Avec notre correspondante à Abidjan, Marine JeanninPhotographie de qualité, chorégraphies soignées, beaux décors, actrices séduisantes… En Côte d'Ivoire, les clips musicaux sont devenus une identité visuelle qui, pour les artistes, compte presque autant que leur musique. Pour certains d'entre eux, c'est d'ailleurs après un clip que leur carrière a décollé. Comme Akim Papichulo, chanteur et compositeur depuis sept ans, révélé l'an dernier par le morceau Amore.« Le clip ''Amore'' m'a permis d'avoir pas mal d'opportunités, reconnaît-il. Parce que quand la qualité de ton clip est bien, il y a des portes qui s'ouvrent, en fait. Parce qu'ils se disent que tu es professionnel, maintenant. Ça pousse les gens à s'intéresser à ce que tu fais. Quand tu écoutes un morceau, tu te dis ''ce morceau, il faut que je le clippe''... Quand tu te dis que c'est un ''banger'', un son qui est ''wow'', un hit, tu le clippes ! »DJ Arafat ouvre la voieLa Côte d'Ivoire est une habituée des clips, devenus un passage obligé pour les artistes depuis les années 1990, quand ils étaient diffusés sur la télévision nationale. Mais dans ces clips à l'ancienne, la qualité n'était pas forcément au rendez-vous. Le réalisateur Bouba Atkins, passé par Blu Magik et Universal, se souvient de ses débuts en 2009, à la grande époque du coupé-décalé. « Les clips, c'était : tu t'arrêtes là, on te filme, tu danses, ou à la limite, tu fais un signe, on colle les images, c'est fini... Ils se contentaient du peu. À partir du moment où ils se voyaient à la télé, c'était suffisant. »À partir des années 2010, DJ Arafat ouvre la voie en mettant plus de moyens dans ses clips, suivi par des grands noms du zouglou comme Magic System et Yodé et Siro. Puis, les producteurs et les artistes de rap Ivoire s'y engouffrent à leur tour. Les premiers clips qui font date sont Anita (2014, 3 millions de vues) et surtout Tu es dans pain (2014, 4 millions de vues) de Kiff No Beat, tous deux produits par Blu Magik. « Les gars étaient étonnés de voir un tel clip ivoirien, réalisé par des Ivoiriens, se souvient en riant Bouba Atkins. Ça les a choqués ! Et là, ça a explosé, il y a des gars qui ont vraiment commencé à s'intéresser à l'audiovisuel. Ces deux clips-là ont vraiment révolutionné tous les clips jusqu'à aujourd'hui. »« Le top 10 ivoirien, ils sont à un million de vues minimum par clip »Depuis cinq ans, la Côte d'Ivoire a vu sa production de clips monter en qualité et en quantité. Ils sont de plus en plus consommés par les Ivoiriens, non seulement à la télévision, mais surtout sur les réseaux sociaux et sur YouTube, souligne le rappeur et producteur Pit Baccardi, gérant du label Gold Prod : « Ce matin encore, quand je me suis réveillé, je suis parti sur les plateformes. Le clip de Didi B, qui est sorti hier, il était à 1,2 million de vues sur YouTube. Le clip de Suspect95, sorti avant-hier, pareil, il était aussi à 1,2 million. Le clip de Himra, un million et des poussières, pareil. Les hommes peuvent mentir, mais pas les chiffres. Le top 10 ivoirien, ils sont au minimum à un million de vues par clip. Il y a cinq ans, on n'était pas à ces niveaux de consommation. »Grâce au clip, un morceau ne s'écoute pas seulement, mais se voit. Pour Pit Baccardi, ces capsules vidéo sont devenues en Côte d'Ivoire « l'atout marketing par excellence ». Parmi les clips récents qui ont marqué la musique ivoirienne, citons Decapo de Tripa Gninin, produit par Yung Nouchi (2021, 1,1 million de vues), Kpaflotage de Suspect95, réalisé par Kouny The Manset (2023, 3 millions de vues), 2025 de Didi B, réalisé par David Nonos (2024, 4,6 millions de vues) et Big Boss de Didi B, le clip le plus cher du rap Ivoire.

We review The Big Boss (1971) on movie podcast The Collector's Cut. The Big Boss is directed by Lo Wei and stars Bruce Lee, Maria Yi, James Tien, Han Ying-chieh patreon: https://www.patreon.com/mildfuzztv twitter: https://twitter.com/ScreamsMidnight all links: https://linktr.ee/mildfuzz Audio version: https://the-collectors-cut.pinecast.co/

How much does the average wedding cost? It's gone up $5,000. How much is too much?Tips to save money at the grocery store. For example, stick to the list.Marcus threw the wrong person's lunch away from the office fridge. What will be the blowback?Second Date Update: Alex takes Jules to a steak joint even though she is a vegan. He figured there would be plenty of sides for her. Did that go okay?

Ép. 04/02 | Est-ce qu’on punit des individus parce que le Big Boss américain est un plouc? Luc De Larochellière lance un cri du cœur pour la consommation locale en culture ! | Alléger la réglementation pour les vignerons du Québec | = Dans cet épisode intégral du 4 février, en entrevue : Luc De Larochellière, auteur compositeur interprète. Thierry Daraize, consultant en gastronomie et alimentation Une production QUB Février 2025Pour de l'information concernant l'utilisation de vos données personnelles - https://omnystudio.com/policies/listener/fr

Dinner with the Archbishop of CanterburyA Series in 17 parts, By Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. On Monday afternoon, a letter arrived at the vicarage that took Reverend Morris by surprise."I don't believe this!" He gasped, reading the letter out loud to Jenna. "It's from Bishop George. He says that Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury is planning to visit next week.""Whoa, " Jenna spluttered."Yup. You and I have been invited to dine at Bishop George's place. Apparently the Archbishop is visiting several dioceses, and parish churches, and for some bizarre reason, humble little St. Michael's church has caught his eye! Bishop George states that I'll be receiving a letter from the Archbishop over the next few days, outlining the reason for his visit.""Wow, what a tremendous honor for you, Simon!" Jenna smiled, flinging her arms around him. "Well you're the best vicar ever, so he obviously wants to give you some sort of award!""Hmm, maybe?" Reverend Morris re-read the letter. "This is totally unexpected, and a bit bizarre. I can't get my head round it.""I remember seeing Justin Welby give that speech when we were watching the Queen's funeral." Jenna said. "And to think, we're going to get to meet him! This is really exciting!""I wish I shared your optimism my love, but I can't help but thinking that there's a catch."A few days later, Reverend Morris' fears were confirmed when a second letter arrived."I don't believe this!" The vicar lamented as he read the Archbishop's letter. "It has come to the Archbishop's attention that there is a big plaque in St. Michael's church that commemorates a local man called Henry Barrington-Smythe, who died in 1695 and worshipped at the church. According to the covert research conducted by the Archbishop, Henry once owned a horse that he sold to someone whose second cousin twice removed, was involved in the slave trade.""I can see how that could be seen as quite triggering in this day and age," Jenna said. "But I'm sure the horse wasn't bothered."Reverend Morris slapped his forehead. "Oh this is a nightmare. The Archbishop recommends that the plaque is removed. It's not that simple though. It's actually carved into the wall, near the organ pipes. To remove it, would cause terrible damage to the wall! Our little church is so old, and we've worked so hard to fundraise to repair the roof."Jenna narrowed her eyes, seeing how distressed her husband was. This situation needed rectifying immediately."Simon, try not to worry. When we dine at Bishop George's place, you will have the chance to put your point across to the Archbishop. Has he made this information about the plaque public?""No," Reverend Morris replied. "To be honest, I know hardly anything about this Henry Barrington-Smythe chap. I Googled him once, and information was really scarce. Nothing on Wikipedia. A few obscure paragraphs on the parish register. He was vicar here during the 1670s and left a lot of money to the church in his will."Jenna smiled. "Oh good. So what we have here is a controlled situation.""For now. I expect he'll tweet all about it after the meeting."We'll see about that, Jenna thought to herself.The day of the meeting arrived. Reverend Morris anxiously fiddled with his clerical collar and kept checking his watch. Nearly time to set off to Bishop George's house.Presently, Jenna came breezing into the sitting room, where her husband stood, gazing out of the window at the front garden beyond. In a pale pink gown, pearl cross earrings, and her red hair swept back, she looked more suited to a red carpet event in Hollywood than a sober meal with the clergy."Do I look alright?" She asked, knowing full well what Reverend Morris' response would be."Oh my God, wow, you look absolutely beautiful as always, Jenna. Right well, we'd better get going.""Try not to worry, Simon." She said, kissing him. "It might not be as bad as it seems."He sighed. "St. Michael's church means so much to me. I treasure its heritage. You and I, we've both worked so hard to build up its congregation, raise money to restore the roof, the stained glass windows and to fix the dry rot in the vestry.""And we shall continue to treasure it. Don't you worry. Things might turn out alright. I'm sure an acceptable compromise can be reached.""I hope so."They headed to the car. A plan was forming in Jenna's mind. Justin Welby isn't the best-looking of men, she thought. Mind you, I don't plan on looking at his face,Bishop George was stood at the door of his home when Jenna and Reverend Morris arrived."Great to see you both!" He smiled. "Can't say I'm happy at what the Big Boss is proposing here.""You and me both, George," Simon sighed. Jenna winked at the bishop."Right, do go in, make yourself comfortable, there are refreshments waiting. Dinner shall be served at six. Bishop Finch was supposed to be here too, you remember him? Alas, he cried off. Dishonest and he drinks. Good bishops are so hard to find these days, eh?" Bishop George ushered him in. As Jenna walked past, he winked back at her."I've got your red lace panties on tonight," he whispered."A great choice!" Jenna whispered back.Reverend Morris sipped a sherry as he nervously awaited the Archbishop's arrival. Five minutes later, there was the sound of a car door being slammed shut, and Bishop George could be heard welcoming someone."He's coming," Reverend Morris gulped. "Why do I feel like a little kid about to be sent to detention?""God is with us," Jenna replied, patting his thigh.Bishop George entered the room. "It is a great pleasure to welcome our Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, to dine with us this evening. Jenna and her husband stood up."Oh good, he's come alone," Jenna smiled, fearing that his wife might have accompanied him. He was clad in a grey jacket, with black shirt, black trousers, a clerical collar and a large cross round his neck.Everyone shook hands. "Ah, Reverend Morris," the Archbishop began. "The vicar of St. Michael's. Nice to meet you at last.""Thank you, Your Grace. And this is Jenna, my wife."Jenna was quick to offer her hand. "I've wanted to meet you for such a long time, Your Grace. You're sitting next to me at the table!"The vicar's young and stunning wife had certainly caused the Archbishop to raise an eyebrow. "Am I? Well lucky old me. I am very honored!" Privately, he was astonished that the mild-mannered vicar of St. Michael's had managed to pull such a gorgeous woman. He was normally immune to such things, but found himself rather shamefully gawping at Jenna's cleavage."What a mercy she wasn't at the Queen's funeral," he said to himself. "If she'd been sat in the crowd, I'd have struggled to concentrate."The pre-dinner conversation between Reverend Morris, Bishop George and the Archbishop remained cordial, if not a bit overly formal. While the three men spoke, Jenna was a constant figure at the Archbishop's side; laughing at his unfunny jokes, pretending to enjoy his boring stories of ministry in Africa, inquiring about Westminster Abbey, and generally hanging on his every word like an infatuated student with her tutor.Bishop George suggested his guests seat themselves at the table in preparation for the first course. The Archbishop took his seat. On his right was Jenna, and Reverend Morris was opposite him."Bishop George is such a good cook, Reverend Morris prattled nervously. "I've dined here before and his roast dinners are something to marvel at. I, I enjoy cooking too."Sensing her husband's discomfort, Jenna cut in. "He's a much better cook than I am. Most things I cook aren't suitable for human consumption."The Archbishop chuckled. "Let us say a prayer before we dine."The first course passed without incident, but Jenna was hungry for something else. The Archbishop had launched into a lengthy monologue about hurtful plaques and statues, and Jenna sensed it was time to act. Bishop George was in the kitchen and Reverend Morris excused himself as he needed to go to the bathroom. She was alone with the leader of the Church of England, the ceremonial head of the worldwide Anglican Communion. Now was the time for the vixen to catch her prey."You've done so many impressive things during your tenure, Your Grace. Words cannot explain how much I admire you," she continued, flattering him off the scale.""Why thank you Jenna. "I appreciate your kind words!"Jenna continued. "Your Grace, I ask you as a good Christian, would you not consider dropping this little investigation into this pesky old plaque in my husband's church? Your letter has caused him a great deal of worry, you have no idea how much, "The Archbishop adjusted his glasses. "Jenna, I have no wish to cause any distress to your husband. I am simply trying to ensure that our C of E churches are inclusive to all, and devoid of harmful imagery."He had been quietly sipping his soup. Suddenly, a strange sensation made him almost drop his spoon. Something was moving up his right leg and pushing his legs apart, the mystery thing continued to rise higher, now it was nudging his inner thigh, he realized it was Jenna's hand."Are you enjoying your soup?""Um, Jenna, what are you doing?""As I was saying, your letter has stressed my husband out so much, that he and I have been unable to make love all week. Can you imagine how upsetting that has been?" Jenna continued, furtively sliding her hand across his thigh and squeezing gently.The Archbishop glanced down and then at her. "Um, well I'm very sorry to hear that."She smiled back and began rubbing his inner thigh very gently. He cleared his throat and blushed. She said nothing, but continued gently rubbing, and moving closer to that treasure she wanted to touch most of all."Do you realize what you're doing? I am a married man!" He whispered."I do, but you pride yourself on having a liberal outlook, yes? Anyways, there is a holy place I would very much like to explore, if I may be permitted to do so, if I may be so bold as to request permission from Your Grace, ""You are, a rather naughty vicar's wife," he whispered back, feeling his cheeks flushing."You haven't granted permission, Your Grace."The Archbishop took a deep breath. Why was he giving in to temptation so easily? If he refused, would she kick up a fuss? Bishop George and the vicar could return at any moment."Mrs. Morris, you may do as you wish. I am yours to explore, "This was all the permission she required. Before the Archbishop could complete his sentence, Jenna reached across the startled man's lap and quickly unzipped his trousers. He could not believe the dexterity and speed at which his beautiful assailant nimbly accomplished the task. He shot an astonished wide-eyed glance at the temptress seated next to him. Guessing his thoughts, Jenna flashed a mischievous smile and said, "Your Grace. I heard that there's a name for a bishop's staff. It's called a crosier. Am I right?""Er, yes. That's right."Jenna swiftly freed the Archbishop's staff from his white boxer shorts. He may not have been the most handsome of men, but he had a gorgeous cock. It wasn't a monstrous length like Father Aiden's or thick like Gordon's, but it was impressive all the same. Definitely holy!The Archbishop's back stiffened and he caught his breath as he felt Jenna's soft, warm fingers wrap around his engorged fuck pole. The touch from this ravishing young beauty in the most sensual of spots sent chills throughout his body. He suppressed a gentle moan in the back of this throat as Jenna began to slowly run her hand up and down the shaft.She knew to vary the speed of her up and down motion, and could sense when the Archbishop was reaching peak ecstasy. Before he could achieve sexual release, Jenna slowed her pace or altered the movement in order to delay gratification. She wanted the Most Reverend's pleasure to extend for as long as possible. Jenna explored every feature along the length of her newest conquest's fleshy sceptre. Her delicate fingers rippled over the veiny surface, massaged the soft foreskin, and gently squeezed the head. When she reached the shaft's base, the eager filly worked her slender digits along the Archbishop's inner thigh and cupped his balls, juggling them with her fingertips."Your Grace, I beg of you. I want to go further and worship properly. However I cannot do this unless you agree to scrap your suggestion that St. Michael's remove its plaque to Henry Barrington-Smythe. Let him and his horse rest in peace, yes? Neither of them kept slaves. I'm sure Henry sold his horse in good faith and had no idea what links the buyer had. A few years ago I gave my old smartphone to a woman at work who turned out to be a massive fan of Cliff Richard. Some might say that was a crime against humanity."The Archbishop was desperate to come. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and his glasses were steaming up. "Okay, you have my word," he sighed. "I'll scrap the whole thing!""Thankyou, .dear Justin!" She said, using his Christian name for the first time. Carefully, Jenna removed one of her earrings. The Archbishop had to stifle a gasp as she slid out of her chair and under the table. "God," he murmured, almost incredulous at her conviction and boldness. Then with almost no hesitation, she dropped her head and closed her mouth around his throbbing shaft.The Most Reverend's breathing started to become more rapid and shallow, an indication Jenna recognized as signaling her oral exertions would soon be ending. Wanting to provide the head of the church with the greatest amount of pleasure possible, Jenna's grand finale was to deep throat his cock and vigorously jerk up and down on it. This motion had the desired effect within moments, as a muffled groan escaped the Archbishop's mouth. Jenna felt the holy rod in her mouth recoil as it shot a mighty stream of pearl-colored ejaculate down her throat. This first round was quickly followed by a second and then a third as the Most Reverend's balls unloaded their thick, milky contents. Jenna swallowed and savored every drop. It is a truth not universally acknowledged, that the taste of a man, especially a man of God, is the finest taste in the world, she thought. A final spurt missed its target and splashed down her cleavage.Only after the last discharge was launched and the Archbishop leaned back in his chair exhausted and sweaty, did Jenna finally withdraw.The Archbishop jolted in panic as Bishop George and Reverend Morris returned to the dining room. He quickly poured himself a glass of water and swallowed it. He wondered how to warn Jenna, but she'd already sensed it was time to return to her seat."I'm sorry I was so long," Reverend Morris mumbled. "Call of nature and all that.""And silly me, I forgot to turn the oven up, but worry not, the roast beef is nearly ready!" Bishop George replied."Understood," panted the Archbishop, wiping his glasses.Bishop George tilted his head at his Jenna's empty chair, and the movement under the table. He raised the tablecloth."Oh I say, Jenna. Have you lost something?""Just my pearl earring," she calmly replied. "But fortunately, I have now found it."Bishop George nodded and gave a wry smile. "So I see. And you seem to have gained a pearl necklace too!"A Ghost Appears at the Methodist Church"What are your thoughts on ghosts, Jen?" Reverend Morris said as he climbed into bed.Jenna reclined next to her husband, and ran a finger through his chest hair. "Hmm, never given them much thought. I keep an open mind. I've never seen one myself, but I'd like to! I wouldn't be scared. Just really fascinated.""I might get to see one tomorrow. I've just had a rather desperate email from Reverend Marsha Ewing over at the Oakwood Road Methodist Church. She's at her wits end. Says her church has been haunted by a persistent ghost ever since Halloween. She's tried walking around splashing holy water on the walls, saying a prayer of deliverance, but to no avail. The church has had to remain closed all week.""Whoa, that ghost must really like the Methodist church then!" Jenna said. "I haven't been in there since I was a little girl. My gran is a Methodist. I remember going to a few services. I remember it being light and airy inside, with the white balcony and pale yellow walls.""Well it's not just any old ghost that's taken up residence there. Reverend Ewing is adamant says that it's the ghost of John Wesley.""What, the John Wesley? The founder of Methodism?" Jenna blinked."Yes. That's the bit I find really hard to believe. Not saying that Reverend Ewing is lying of course. I just can't understand why John Wesley of all people, would choose to return to this earthly realm. I mean, he was a true servant of God, a good man, who preached to the masses and led a long, pious life. Why would his soul suddenly become restless and earthbound?"Jenna was fascinated. "Maybe he didn't choose to return. Maybe someone or something lured him back, and he's got trapped somehow? Don't they say on All Hallow's Eve, the barrier between the dead and the living is broken and the dead can pop back for a visit? Or something?""Good theory!" Reverend Morris replied. "Wesley did visit the site where the Oakwood church now stands. The church wasn't built until Victorian times, but he preached out in the open in the 1770s. The very spot where he stood is marked by a bronze statue of him. Anyways, Reverend Morris has decided to ask other members of the clergy for help. She's asked me to go along to the church tomorrow. Hopefully two vicars are better than one, and we can help John to return to the other side, so to speak.""Shouldn't Father Aiden be called along too? Like in the Exorcist?"Reverend Morris laughed. "I once watched that movie with some mates at university. I really regret eating at the time, it put me off soup for weeks. Bit different though. That was movie about demonic possession, not a haunting."Jenna thought for a while. "If you ask me, having John Wesley actually appear could be a fantastic tourism opportunity for the church. Think of the visitors it could attract. Maybe he just wanted to see one of his old worship spots again. I wish he could've brought his brother Charles along. You know how much I'm a fan of him. Did I ever tell you I once had an erotic dream about him?""No? Tell me more!""I was working as a tavern wench, when Charles arrived, weary after a long journey from Bristol. I led him to a bedchamber. He told me he was travelling to London, to visit his brother, John."Jenna rolled over and kissed him. The Reverend's tongue darted into her mouth, fondling hers. Her left arm stretched across his back with her hand resting between his shoulders. With her right hand, she reached down the front of his boxer shorts, slowly tracing up and down the length of his engorged cock with her palm."And, I helped Charles overcome his writer's block, so he was able to write Hark the Herald Angels Sing."She pulled down his boxers and rolled her tongue around the head of her husband's cock, trying to get every drop of precum."Oh, I'll never be able to think of that carol in the same way again!"Next morning, Reverend Morris headed to Oakwood Road Methodist Church. It was a small, solidly-built structure, sandwiched between a row of terraced houses, their brickwork still smoke-blackened from the days of the Industrial Revolution."This part of town never seems to change," Reverend Morris said to himself, as he parked the car. "They call it the Victorian Quarter."The vicar of Oakwood Road Methodist Church was Reverend Marsha Ewing, a jolly, middle-aged black woman. Originally from South Carolina, she'd emigrated nearly ten years ago, and put her heart and soul into running the church. Even the dismal British weather couldn't dampen her spirits. Now for the first time, she looked a little stressed."Thanks for coming, Simon," she said as he entered the church."Not at all," he replied. "Always happy to assist a fellow person of the cloth. A most unusual situation this. I've never been called upon to be a "deliverance minister" before. First time for everything I guess!""I've been going out of my mind with this. Ol' Mr. Wesley ain't for staying' quiet! I've tried everything to placate the guy but nothing works. I've tried prayer, singing hymns, talking to him. Went through the whole Ghostbusting routine. I asked Róisín, the vicar from the Living Earth Free Church to call round yesterday. She's only been in the role a few weeks, but very willing to help. We both prayed together, hoping John would find peace. But it didn't work and this morning, John appeared again, in the vestry. Took me by surprise. Started blowing papers around. And the church goes so darn cold when he appears. Actually saw him full-length today. I asked him directly, why is he so upset? He said he couldn't say why, but there's only one person who can help him. I pressed him further. He just said the person he needs lives in this town. Wouldn't say if they're male or female.""Blimey," Reverend Morris said, rubbing his chin. "That's a bit vague. It could be anyone. The population of this town is around 100,000 people! How are we ever going to find out who the right person is?""One of the wardens suggested I post something on the church's Facebook page, but I'd rather keep it all as quiet as possible. We've already had folks making hoax phone calls and posting memes and stuff on Twitter. It ain't funny. Most of my congregation are seniors. They don't want any fuss. Some of them think I'm making the whole thing up, as a sort of viral marketing campaign to increase attendance. Some of the comments online have been nasty."Reverend Morris sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Well, let's pray together and see if we can help John. Not sure if I'm the one he seeks, but there's only one way to find out!""Mm, hmm." Reverend Ewing nodded. "John Wesley is very dear to all of us here. He stood in the very spot where that statue is." She pointed to the bronze statue in the corner. "I don't want folks thinking I'm mocking his memory or anything. Must say I haven't experienced anything like this since the Orangeburg Incident of 1999.""The what?""Oh it was when I was back in the States. So, on the night of New Year's Eve 1999, Abraham Lincoln suddenly appeared in a branch of Walgreens. Many blamed it on drug-induced paranoia brought about by the hype of the coming Millennium.""Fascinating stuff," Reverend Morris replied. He walked over to the Wesley statue. On a table next to it, were three large, newly-lit candles."Tell me, does he look exactly like his portrait?""Oh yes. Long white hair. Dressed all in black and with preaching bands. He's a short stack too. Around five foot four? Slightly built. He looks so miserable though, like he needs a hug or something.""The state of the world right now, I think we all need a hug," Reverend Morris said. "Okay, well I'll try my best. If I fail, I'll have to give Father Aiden from St. Gregory's a call. Let's start by saying the Lord's Prayer."The flames on the candles, which had been steady, flared and writhed, drawn upward by a draft that the two of them couldn't feel. Salamanders of yellow light wriggled across the previously dark side of Reverend Ewing's face. When she looked at the candles, her eyes were as yellow as moons low on the horizon."He's coming."Quickly the candle flames subsided. The church chandeliers dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, like the flickering lights in the classic old movie Gaslight. Reverend Morris felt a growing sense of fear. The temperature in the church had plummeted.He tried talking to the spirit directly. "The Lord be with you. Lift up your heart, John. I welcome to you to this place of worship. My name is Reverend Simon Morris and I, "From behind him came not a hand and not, as he might have expected, a blast of heat, but a hissing cold that first prickled the nape of his neck and then seemed to drill into the summit of his spine, through the base of his skull.Throughout all this, Reverend Ewing remained calm. "Simon," she whispered. "He's behind you."He didn't want to turn round, afraid of coming face to face with some eldritch abomination, but he summoned his courage. There, stood right behind him, as plain as day, was John Wesley himself. At first glance, he resembled any other living person, save for a faint aura of silver light surrounding him."Um, greetings to you, Mr. Wesley." The vicar stammered. He wondered why he was so afraid. Of all the dead persons one could meet, John Wesley was surely one of the nicest, most inoffensive ones.John's face relaxed into a smile. He put his hands together and bowed. "I thank you most sincerely. Soon, I shall experience salvation, for you are known to this person whom I seek. I hope you can bring her to me soon. I bid you a good day, "He bowed and vanished. Suddenly, in the space of thirty seconds, it was light and bright in the church. The lights stopped flickering and the gloom lifted. Outside, the clouds had rolled back from the sun. The building was suddenly and unexplainably warm too, as if the temperature had risen by about five degrees.Reverend Morris dared to exhale. "Oh! Well, that, wasn't too nerve-racking! He's a very polite ghost isn't he?""Simon, did you hear what he said? He said her. A female relative or friend of yours is the person he's seeking!""Wonder who it could be? Not my mum, surely. Could be Aunt Susan? I'm not seeing the connection here.""What about your wife?" Reverend Ewing suggested.He blinked. "Jenna? Oh of course! it must be her! Her grandma is a Methodist! That must be why John wants to see her!"To be continued.By Blacksheep, for Literotica.

¡NUEVO PROGRAMA! Aprovechando la ausencia del Big Boss, la vieja guardia de La Pistachería se reúne junto a los restos mortales de lo que queda de RDM para hablar de todo lo que se presentó en el último Xbox Developer Direct. Y además reseñamos: Dynasty Warrior Origins, The Stone of Madness, Somber Echoes y Naiad. Esperamos que os mole.

Daniel and Erwin review the new comedy "One of them Days" starring Keke Palmer and SZA. They talk about how funny it is, Issa Rae's involvement, the tributes to 90's comedies like "Friday" and so much more! Did they love it, did they hate it, or are they Somewhere Between!? Listen to find out!Description:When her boyfriend takes her rent money, Alyssa and her roommate race against the clock to avoid eviction and keep their friendship intact.Release date: January 17, 2025 (USA)Director: Lawrence LamontProducers: Issa Rae, Sara Rastogi, Deniese Davis, Poppy Hanks, James LopezDistributed by: Sony Pictures ReleasingBudget: $14 millionProduction companies: TriStar Pictures; Hoorae Media; ColorCreative; Big Boss; MACRO

On his way to rescue President Johnson, Raiden is confronted by the terrorist commander, who claims to be Solid Snake. Enraged by this, Pliskin reveals himself as the true Solid Snake and fires on the imposter from a helicopter. Utilizing an advanced exoskeleton, the terrorist leader evades Snake's attack and boards a Harrier being piloted by Vamp. Snake then tells Raiden to shoot it down, throwing a Stinger missile launcher down to him. After Raiden takes it down, the Harrier plummets, only to be caught by Metal Gear RAY. RAY proceeds to launch missiles into the air, destroying sections of the Big Shell and damaging the Kasatka, forcing it to land. RAY then departs into the ocean, taking the Harrier with it. After recovering from RAY's attack, Solid Snake contacts Raiden, introducing him to Otacon. They reveal they are there to stop the terrorists from using the new Metal Gear prototype. They also tell Raiden that Otacon has another reason for being in the Big Shell: to rescue his sister, Emma Emmerich. Raiden then proceeds to rendezvous and rescue President Johnson. Once Raiden finally gets to the President, he is told about the Patriots, a mysterious organization that secretly rules over America. He also explains that the terrorist leader was his predecessor, the 43rd U.S. President George Sears, known by the codename Solidus Snake, a clone of the legendary soldier Big Boss, created in the "Les Enfants Terribles" project. Johnson adds that Solidus orchestrated the Shadow Moses Incident in 2005 but was removed from office by the Patriots. Solidus wanted to challenge the Patriots, unlike Johnson, who had simply wished to become one of them. Johnson also confirms that the Big Shell is merely a cover-up for the construction of Arsenal Gear, a gigantic mobile fortress that employs mass-produced unmanned Metal Gear RAYs to defend itself and can fire nuclear warheads from anywhere on the planet. It also has access to the Military's Tactical Network, granting it absolute control over the nation's armed forces and nuclear arsenal. However, Arsenal's true purpose is to filter information from the internet and other forms of digital communication using an AI called GW. By doing this, the Patriots hope to shape history as they see fit while maintaining the secret of their existence. Johnson's last request is that Raiden locate GW's main programmer, Emma Emmerich, and provide her with a computer worm to eradicate the AI. Afterward, feeling he has said everything he needed to, Johnson suddenly grabs Raiden's gun, asking Raiden to kill him. Raiden resists, but Revolver Ocelot soon intervenes, shooting Johnson before Raiden can stop him.

We begin 2025 with Metal Gear! The 4th game will go down as the one people didn't like but is probably the most protected by the fans. It was a game Kojima didn't want to make but made it because he loved us so much. A game that looks gorgeous and the gameplay is like a dream but overshadowed by nearly 9 hours of cutscenes. A game that answered all of the questions, and I mean ALL of them! A game that should be burned but also needs to be in the Smithsonian. In this gigantic episode of 3BG, we talk about it all.  (New Ending song by Kxxdo- Spotless)

Zero Grav, Astro Alacorn, Neujack, and others discuss such topics as Naomi getting rekt, St Patrick's Day, BRO LIVES AT THE MALL, Leroy, fitness tests, dogs, MC Peepants, being gullible, being swolle, monetization, pregnant men, Solid Snake, Big Boss, Metal Gear Solid, Anime Expo, copyrights, gravy dads, 4th Of July, fireworks, drones, mosquitos, smoked meats, random nudes, Retrovolt Arcade, Jake Paul, Mike Tyson, Kendrick Lamar, Aubrey, Joe Budden, Gorillaz, AI music, breaking the rules, and so many other topics.

Dinner with the Archbishop of Canterbury By Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. On Monday afternoon, a letter arrived at the vicarage that took Reverend Morris by surprise. "I don't believe this!" He gasped, reading the letter out loud to Jenna. "It's from Bishop George. He says that Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury is planning to visit next week." "Whoa, " Jenna spluttered. "Yup. You and I have been invited to dine at Bishop George's place. Apparently the Archbishop is visiting several dioceses, and parish churches, and for some bizarre reason, humble little St. Michael's church has caught his eye! Bishop George states that I'll be receiving a letter from the Archbishop over the next few days, outlining the reason for his visit.""Wow, what a tremendous honor for you, Simon!" Jenna smiled, flinging her arms around him. "Well you're the best vicar ever, so he obviously wants to give you some sort of award!" "Hmm, maybe?" Reverend Morris re-read the letter. "This is totally unexpected, and a bit bizarre. I can't get my head round it." "I remember seeing Justin Welby give that speech when we were watching the Queen's funeral." Jenna said. "And to think, we're going to get to meet him! This is really exciting!" "I wish I shared your optimism my love, but I can't help but thinking that there's a catch." A few days later, Reverend Morris' fears were confirmed when a second letter arrived. "I don't believe this!" The vicar lamented as he read the Archbishop's letter. "It has come to the Archbishop's attention that there is a big plaque in St. Michael's church that commemorates a local man called Henry Barrington-Smythe, who died in 1695 and worshipped at the church. According to the covert research conducted by the Archbishop, Henry once owned a horse that he sold to someone whose second cousin twice removed, was involved in the slave trade." "I can see how that could be seen as quite triggering in this day and age," Jenna said. "But I'm sure the horse wasn't bothered." Reverend Morris slapped his forehead. "Oh this is a nightmare. The Archbishop recommends that the plaque is removed. It's not that simple though. It's actually carved into the wall, near the organ pipes. To remove it, would cause terrible damage to the wall! Our little church is so old, and we've worked so hard to fundraise to repair the roof." Jenna narrowed her eyes, seeing how distressed her husband was. This situation needed rectifying immediately. "Simon, try not to worry. When we dine at Bishop George's place, you will have the chance to put your point across to the Archbishop. Has he made this information about the plaque public?" "No," Reverend Morris replied. "To be honest, I know hardly anything about this Henry Barrington-Smythe chap. I Googled him once, and information was really scarce. Nothing on Wikipedia. A few obscure paragraphs on the parish register. He was vicar here during the 1670s and left a lot of money to the church in his will." Jenna smiled. "Oh good. So what we have here is a controlled situation." "For now. I expect he'll tweet all about it after the meeting." We'll see about that, Jenna thought to herself. The day of the meeting arrived. Reverend Morris anxiously fiddled with his clerical collar and kept checking his watch. Nearly time to set off to Bishop George's house. Presently, Jenna came breezing into the sitting room, where her husband stood, gazing out of the window at the front garden beyond. In a pale pink gown, pearl cross earrings, and her red hair swept back, she looked more suited to a red carpet event in Hollywood than a sober meal with the clergy. "Do I look alright?" She asked, knowing full well what Reverend Morris' response would be. "Oh my God, wow, you look absolutely beautiful as always, Jenna. Right well, we'd better get going." "Try not to worry, Simon." She said, kissing him. "It might not be as bad as it seems." He sighed. "St. Michael's church means so much to me. I treasure its heritage. You and I, we've both worked so hard to build up its congregation, raise money to restore the roof, the stained glass windows and to fix the dry rot in the vestry." "And we shall continue to treasure it. Don't you worry. Things might turn out alright. I'm sure an acceptable compromise can be reached." "I hope so." They headed to the car. A plan was forming in Jenna's mind. Justin Welby isn't the best-looking of men, she thought. Mind you, I don't plan on looking at his face, Bishop George was stood at the door of his home when Jenna and Reverend Morris arrived. "Great to see you both!" He smiled. "Can't say I'm happy at what the Big Boss is proposing here." "You and me both, George," Simon sighed. Jenna winked at the bishop. "Right, do go in, make yourself comfortable, there are refreshments waiting. Dinner shall be served at six. Bishop Finch was supposed to be here too, you remember him? Alas, he cried off. Dishonest and he drinks. Good bishops are so hard to find these days, eh?" Bishop George ushered him in. As Jenna walked past, he winked back at her. "I've got your red lace panties on tonight," he whispered. "A great choice!" Jenna whispered back. Reverend Morris sipped a sherry as he nervously awaited the Archbishop's arrival. Five minutes later, there was the sound of a car door being slammed shut, and Bishop George could be heard welcoming someone. "He's coming," Reverend Morris gulped. "Why do I feel like a little kid about to be sent to detention?" "God is with us," Jenna replied, patting his thigh. Bishop George entered the room. "It is a great pleasure to welcome our Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, to dine with us this evening. Jenna and her husband stood up. "Oh good, he's come alone," Jenna smiled, fearing that his wife might have accompanied him. He was clad in a grey jacket, with black shirt, black trousers, a clerical collar and a large cross round his neck. Everyone shook hands. "Ah, Reverend Morris," the Archbishop began. "The vicar of St. Michael's. Nice to meet you at last." "Thank you, Your Grace. And this is Jenna, my wife." Jenna was quick to offer her hand. "I've wanted to meet you for such a long time, Your Grace. You're sitting next to me at the table!" The vicar's young and stunning wife had certainly caused the Archbishop to raise an eyebrow. "Am I? Well lucky old me. I am very honored!" Privately, he was astonished that the mild-mannered vicar of St. Michael's had managed to pull such a gorgeous woman. He was normally immune to such things, but found himself rather shamefully gawping at Jenna's cleavage. "What a mercy she wasn't at the Queen's funeral," he said to himself. "If she'd been sat in the crowd, I'd have struggled to concentrate." The pre-dinner conversation between Reverend Morris, Bishop George and the Archbishop remained cordial, if not a bit overly formal. While the three men spoke, Jenna was a constant figure at the Archbishop's side; laughing at his unfunny jokes, pretending to enjoy his boring stories of ministry in Africa, inquiring about Westminster Abbey, and generally hanging on his every word like an infatuated student with her tutor. Bishop George suggested his guests seat themselves at the table in preparation for the first course. The Archbishop took his seat. On his right was Jenna, and Reverend Morris was opposite him. "Bishop George is such a good cook, Reverend Morris prattled nervously. "I've dined here before and his roast dinners are something to marvel at. I, I enjoy cooking too." Sensing her husband's discomfort, Jenna cut in. "He's a much better cook than I am. Most things I cook aren't suitable for human consumption." The Archbishop chuckled. "Let us say a prayer before we dine." The first course passed without incident, but Jenna was hungry for something else. The Archbishop had launched into a lengthy monologue about hurtful plaques and statues, and Jenna sensed it was time to act. Bishop George was in the kitchen and Reverend Morris excused himself as he needed to go to the bathroom. She was alone with the leader of the Church of England, the ceremonial head of the worldwide Anglican Communion. Now was the time for the vixen to catch her prey. "You've done so many impressive things during your tenure, Your Grace. Words cannot explain how much I admire you," she continued, flattering him off the scale." "Why thank you Jenna. "I appreciate your kind words!" Jenna continued. "Your Grace, I ask you as a good Christian, would you not consider dropping this little investigation into this pesky old plaque in my husband's church? Your letter has caused him a great deal of worry, you have no idea how much, " The Archbishop adjusted his glasses. "Jenna, I have no wish to cause any distress to your husband. I am simply trying to ensure that our C of E churches are inclusive to all, and devoid of harmful imagery." He had been quietly sipping his soup. Suddenly, a strange sensation made him almost drop his spoon. Something was moving up his right leg and pushing his legs apart, the mystery thing continued to rise higher, now it was nudging his inner thigh, he realized it was Jenna's hand. "Are you enjoying your soup?" "Um, Jenna, what are you doing?" "As I was saying, your letter has stressed my husband out so much, that he and I have been unable to make love all week. Can you imagine how upsetting that has been?" Jenna continued, furtively sliding her hand across his thigh and squeezing gently. The Archbishop glanced down and then at her. "Um, well I'm very sorry to hear that." She smiled back and began rubbing his inner thigh very gently. He cleared his throat and blushed. She said nothing, but continued gently rubbing, and moving closer to that treasure she wanted to touch most of all. "Do you realize what you're doing? I am a married man!" He whispered. "I do, but you pride yourself on having a liberal outlook, yes? Anyways, there is a holy place I would very much like to explore, if I may be permitted to do so, if I may be so bold as to request permission from Your Grace, " "You are, a rather naughty vicar's wife," he whispered back, feeling his cheeks flushing. "You haven't granted permission, Your Grace." The Archbishop took a deep breath. Why was he giving in to temptation so easily? If he refused, would she kick up a fuss? Bishop George and the vicar could return at any moment. "Mrs. Morris, you may do as you wish. I am yours to explore, " This was all the permission she required. Before the Archbishop could complete his sentence, Jenna reached across the startled man's lap and quickly unzipped his trousers. He could not believe the dexterity and speed at which his beautiful assailant nimbly accomplished the task. He shot an astonished wide-eyed glance at the temptress seated next to him. Guessing his thoughts, Jenna flashed a mischievous smile and said, "Your Grace. I heard that there's a name for a bishop's staff. It's called a crosier. Am I right?" "Er, yes. That's right." Jenna swiftly freed the Archbishop's staff from his white boxer shorts. He may not have been the most handsome of men, but he had a gorgeous cock. It wasn't a monstrous length like Father Aiden's or thick like Gordon's, but it was impressive all the same. Definitely holy! The Archbishop's back stiffened and he caught his breath as he felt Jenna's soft, warm fingers wrap around his engorged fuck pole. The touch from this ravishing young beauty in the most sensual of spots sent chills throughout his body. He suppressed a gentle moan in the back of this throat as Jenna began to slowly run her hand up and down the shaft. She knew to vary the speed of her up and down motion, and could sense when the Archbishop was reaching peak ecstasy. Before he could achieve sexual release, Jenna slowed her pace or altered the movement in order to delay gratification. She wanted the Most Reverend's pleasure to extend for as long as possible. Jenna explored every feature along the length of her newest conquest's fleshy sceptre. Her delicate fingers rippled over the veiny surface, massaged the soft foreskin, and gently squeezed the head. When she reached the shaft's base, the eager filly worked her slender digits along the Archbishop's inner thigh and cupped his balls, juggling them with her fingertips. "Your Grace, I beg of you. I want to go further and worship properly. However I cannot do this unless you agree to scrap your suggestion that St. Michael's remove its plaque to Henry Barrington-Smythe. Let him and his horse rest in peace, yes? Neither of them kept slaves. I'm sure Henry sold his horse in good faith and had no idea what links the buyer had. A few years ago I gave my old smartphone to a woman at work who turned out to be a massive fan of Cliff Richard. Some might say that was a crime against humanity." The Archbishop was desperate to come. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and his glasses were steaming up. "Okay, you have my word," he sighed. "I'll scrap the whole thing!" "Thankyou, .dear Justin!" She said, using his Christian name for the first time. Carefully, Jenna removed one of her earrings. The Archbishop had to stifle a gasp as she slid out of her chair and under the table. "God," he murmured, almost incredulous at her conviction and boldness. Then with almost no hesitation, she dropped her head and closed her mouth around his throbbing shaft. The Most Reverend's breathing started to become more rapid and shallow, an indication Jenna recognized as signaling her oral exertions would soon be ending. Wanting to provide the head of the church with the greatest amount of pleasure possible, Jenna's grand finale was to deep throat his cock and vigorously jerk up and down on it. This motion had the desired effect within moments, as a muffled groan escaped the Archbishop's mouth. Jenna felt the holy rod in her mouth recoil as it shot a mighty stream of pearl-colored ejaculate down her throat. This first round was quickly followed by a second and then a third as the Most Reverend's balls unloaded their thick, milky contents. Jenna swallowed and savored every drop. It is a truth not universally acknowledged, that the taste of a man, especially a man of God, is the finest taste in the world, she thought. A final spurt missed its target and splashed down her cleavage. Only after the last discharge was launched and the Archbishop leaned back in his chair exhausted and sweaty, did Jenna finally withdraw. The Archbishop jolted in panic as Bishop George and Reverend Morris returned to the dining room. He quickly poured himself a glass of water and swallowed it. He wondered how to warn Jenna, but she'd already sensed it was time to return to her seat. "I'm sorry I was so long," Reverend Morris mumbled. "Call of nature and all that." "And silly me, I forgot to turn the oven up, but worry not, the roast beef is nearly ready!" Bishop George replied. "Understood," panted the Archbishop, wiping his glasses. Bishop George tilted his head at his Jenna's empty chair, and the movement under the table. He raised the tablecloth. "Oh I say, Jenna. Have you lost something?" "Just my pearl earring," she calmly replied. "But fortunately, I have now found it." Bishop George nodded and gave a wry smile. "So I see. And you seem to have gained a pearl necklace too!" A Ghost Appears at the Methodist Church "What are your thoughts on ghosts, Jen?" Reverend Morris said as he climbed into bed. Jenna reclined next to her husband, and ran a finger through his chest hair. "Hmm, never given them much thought. I keep an open mind. I've never seen one myself, but I'd like to! I wouldn't be scared. Just really fascinated." "I might get to see one tomorrow. I've just had a rather desperate email from Reverend Marsha Ewing over at the Oakwood Road Methodist Church. She's at her wits end. Says her church has been haunted by a persistent ghost ever since Halloween. She's tried walking around splashing holy water on the walls, saying a prayer of deliverance, but to no avail. The church has had to remain closed all week." "Whoa, that ghost must really like the Methodist church then!" Jenna said. "I haven't been in there since I was a little girl. My gran is a Methodist. I remember going to a few services. I remember it being light and airy inside, with the white balcony and pale yellow walls." "Well it's not just any old ghost that's taken up residence there. Reverend Ewing is adamant says that it's the ghost of John Wesley." "What, the John Wesley? The founder of Methodism?" Jenna blinked. "Yes. That's the bit I find really hard to believe. Not saying that Reverend Ewing is lying of course. I just can't understand why John Wesley of all people, would choose to return to this earthly realm. I mean, he was a true servant of God, a good man, who preached to the masses and led a long, pious life. Why would his soul suddenly become restless and earthbound?" Jenna was fascinated. "Maybe he didn't choose to return. Maybe someone or something lured him back, and he's got trapped somehow? Don't they say on All Hallow's Eve, the barrier between the dead and the living is broken and the dead can pop back for a visit? Or something?" "Good theory!" Reverend Morris replied. "Wesley did visit the site where the Oakwood church now stands. The church wasn't built until Victorian times, but he preached out in the open in the 1770s. The very spot where he stood is marked by a bronze statue of him. Anyways, Reverend Morris has decided to ask other members of the clergy for help. She's asked me to go along to the church tomorrow. Hopefully two vicars are better than one, and we can help John to return to the other side, so to speak." "Shouldn't Father Aiden be called along too? Like in the Exorcist?" Reverend Morris laughed. "I once watched that movie with some mates at university. I really regret eating at the time, it put me off soup for weeks. Bit different though. That was movie about demonic possession, not a haunting." Jenna thought for a while. "If you ask me, having John Wesley actually appear could be a fantastic tourism opportunity for the church. Think of the visitors it could attract. Maybe he just wanted to see one of his old worship spots again. I wish he could've brought his brother Charles along. You know how much I'm a fan of him. Did I ever tell you I once had an erotic dream about him?" "No? Tell me more!" "I was working as a tavern wench, when Charles arrived, weary after a long journey from Bristol. I led him to a bedchamber. He told me he was travelling to London, to visit his brother, John." Jenna rolled over and kissed him. The Reverend's tongue darted into her mouth, fondling hers. Her left arm stretched across his back with her hand resting between his shoulders. With her right hand, she reached down the front of his boxer shorts, slowly tracing up and down the length of his engorged cock with her palm. "And, I helped Charles overcome his writer's block, so he was able to write Hark the Herald Angels Sing." She pulled down his boxers and rolled her tongue around the head of her husband's cock, trying to get every drop of precum. "Oh, I'll never be able to think of that carol in the same way again!" Next morning, Reverend Morris headed to Oakwood Road Methodist Church. It was a small, solidly-built structure, sandwiched between a row of terraced houses, their brickwork still smoke-blackened from the days of the Industrial Revolution. "This part of town never seems to change," Reverend Morris said to himself, as he parked the car. "They call it the Victorian Quarter." The vicar of Oakwood Road Methodist Church was Reverend Marsha Ewing, a jolly, middle-aged black woman. Originally from South Carolina, she'd emigrated nearly ten years ago, and put her heart and soul into running the church. Even the dismal British weather couldn't dampen her spirits. Now for the first time, she looked a little stressed. "Thanks for coming, Simon," she said as he entered the church. "Not at all," he replied. "Always happy to assist a fellow person of the cloth. A most unusual situation this. I've never been called upon to be a "deliverance minister" before. First time for everything I guess!" "I've been going out of my mind with this. Ol' Mr. Wesley ain't for staying' quiet! I've tried everything to placate the guy but nothing works. I've tried prayer, singing hymns, talking to him. Went through the whole Ghostbusting routine. I asked Róisín, the vicar from the Living Earth Free Church to call round yesterday. She's only been in the role a few weeks, but very willing to help. We both prayed together, hoping John would find peace. But it didn't work and this morning, John appeared again, in the vestry. Took me by surprise. Started blowing papers around. And the church goes so darn cold when he appears. Actually saw him full-length today. I asked him directly, why is he so upset? He said he couldn't say why, but there's only one person who can help him. I pressed him further. He just said the person he needs lives in this town. Wouldn't say if they're male or female." "Blimey," Reverend Morris said, rubbing his chin. "That's a bit vague. It could be anyone. The population of this town is around 100,000 people! How are we ever going to find out who the right person is?" "One of the wardens suggested I post something on the church's Facebook page, but I'd rather keep it all as quiet as possible. We've already had folks making hoax phone calls and posting memes and stuff on Twitter. It ain't funny. Most of my congregation are seniors. They don't want any fuss. Some of them think I'm making the whole thing up, as a sort of viral marketing campaign to increase attendance. Some of the comments online have been nasty." Reverend Morris sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Well, let's pray together and see if we can help John. Not sure if I'm the one he seeks, but there's only one way to find out!" "Mm, hmm." Reverend Ewing nodded. "John Wesley is very dear to all of us here. He stood in the very spot where that statue is." She pointed to the bronze statue in the corner. "I don't want folks thinking I'm mocking his memory or anything. Must say I haven't experienced anything like this since the Orangeburg Incident of 1999." "The what?" "Oh it was when I was back in the States. So, on the night of New Year's Eve 1999, Abraham Lincoln suddenly appeared in a branch of Walgreens. Many blamed it on drug-induced paranoia brought about by the hype of the coming Millennium." "Fascinating stuff," Reverend Morris replied. He walked over to the Wesley statue. On a table next to it, were three large, newly-lit candles. "Tell me, does he look exactly like his portrait?" "Oh yes. Long white hair. Dressed all in black and with preaching bands. He's a short stack too. Around five foot four? Slightly built. He looks so miserable though, like he needs a hug or something." "The state of the world right now, I think we all need a hug," Reverend Morris said. "Okay, well I'll try my best. If I fail, I'll have to give Father Aiden from St. Gregory's a call. Let's start by saying the Lord's Prayer." The flames on the candles, which had been steady, flared and writhed, drawn upward by a draft that the two of them couldn't feel. Salamanders of yellow light wriggled across the previously dark side of Reverend Ewing's face. When she looked at the candles, her eyes were as yellow as moons low on the horizon. "He's coming." Quickly the candle flames subsided. The church chandeliers dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, like the flickering lights in the classic old movie Gaslight. Reverend Morris felt a growing sense of fear. The temperature in the church had plummeted. He tried talking to the spirit directly. "The Lord be with you. Lift up your heart, John. I welcome to you to this place of worship. My name is Reverend Simon Morris and I, " From behind him came not a hand and not, as he might have expected, a blast of heat, but a hissing cold that first prickled the nape of his neck and then seemed to drill into the summit of his spine, through the base of his skull. Throughout all this, Reverend Ewing remained calm. "Simon," she whispered. "He's behind you." He didn't want to turn round, afraid of coming face to face with some eldritch abomination, but he summoned his courage. There, stood right behind him, as plain as day, was John Wesley himself. At first glance, he resembled any other living person, save for a faint aura of silver light surrounding him. "Um, greetings to you, Mr. Wesley." The vicar stammered. He wondered why he was so afraid. Of all the dead persons one could meet, John Wesley was surely one of the nicest, most inoffensive ones. John's face relaxed into a smile. He put his hands together and bowed. "I thank you most sincerely. Soon, I shall experience salvation, for you are known to this person whom I seek. I hope you can bring her to me soon. I bid you a good day, " He bowed and vanished. Suddenly, in the space of thirty seconds, it was light and bright in the church. The lights stopped flickering and the gloom lifted. Outside, the clouds had rolled back from the sun. The building was suddenly and unexplainably warm too, as if the temperature had risen by about five degrees. Reverend Morris dared to exhale. "Oh! Well, that, wasn't too nerve-racking! He's a very polite ghost isn't he?" "Simon, did you hear what he said? He said her. A female relative or friend of yours is the person he's seeking!" "Wonder who it could be? Not my mum, surely. Could be Aunt Susan? I'm not seeing the connection here." "What about your wife?" Reverend Ewing suggested. He blinked. "Jenna? Oh of course! it must be her! Her grandma is a Methodist! That must be why John wants to see her!" To be continued. By Blacksheep, for Literotica.

Fully relying and investing in the Big Boss and overarching job of life

Living the nightmare; hungering for a normal life. In 25 parts, edited from the works of FinalStand. Listen and subscribe to the ► Podcast at Connected.. “If your heart starts the fight, you can lose without regret.”  (Thursday Night) It was well past the descent of Night's veil when the Havenstone jet landed outside of New York City. Naomi and team gathered us up and led us to the main building downtown. An unlooked for conflict developed. Naomi's team was there to present me to Hayden. Rachel's team was still focused on securing my wellbeing and they didn't like the attitude Naomi's squad was giving off. With Buffy (Helena was in a different car), there was no concealing Rachel's hostility toward the latest group of SD ladies. The new group was treating me like a 'package', not a Head of House, and that infuriated my First too. All of that ill-will simmered as we made our way to Havenstone. The situation was compounded by the elevator ride. Naomi, her team, Buffy, Rachel and I went into the first elevator. By the time we made it to the top few floors, it was clear that the rest were not immediately following along. The situation ratcheted up to nasty when Naomi demanded Buffy's firearm. Buffy looked ready to use it. "Buffy; gun," I held out my hand, palm up. Buffy reluctantly handed it over. I walked over to the nearest trash can, dropped out the clip, chambered out the first round then dumped the entirety into the trash receptacle. "If they touched it, the weapon would be fouled and not fit for a true Amazon," I explained to Buffy. "Best to save your noble tool the indignity and dispense with it instead." Buffy snorted with amusement, Naomi's crew pretended not to care while Rachel was deeply disturbed. It took a perfunctory gesture to stop Buffy outside Hayden's office. In I went to face Hayden, Katrina, Saint Marie and Troika of House Šauška alone. Šauška was the 'sister goddess' of Ishara; together they formed Ishtar in later incarnations. I didn't believe Troika was here for any sister solidarity this time around. "Why did you do this? Start a war; is this your hatred of Amazon culture shining through, trying to get us all killed in some global struggle against the other Secret Societies?" Hayden opened up with in an even tone. "No," I kept it succinct. They waited for more of an explanation. "Do you have anything you can say to defend your actions?" Troika glared. "I don't need to defend my actions," I regarded her as if she was of alien origin. "The actions speak for themselves." "Why don't you explain it to us, Ishara?" Saint Marie rumbled. Insulted yet again. As an equal, I warranted the use of my first name. "Do I have your permission to fully and completely lay out my reasoning without everyone closing in like a pack of hyenas on a leopard?" I looked to Hayden; not happy. She gave a curt nod. It wasn't like running away would get me far. "I will speak slowly because all of you appear to have become incredibly stupid," I started. "My parent and carrier of my Amazon ancestor's genetic heritage was murdered. The leader of the Amazon Security Detail identified herself, Then they were fired upon. Somehow you do not see those actions as Casus Belli. [cause for war] There are three possible reasons for your blindness: you are all cowards who bully behind closed doors, but fold up like gutless wonders when a true challenge presents itself. Or, the male penis renders you incapable of intelligent thought and induces irrational and unsustainable hostile deductions in your though processes. Or, you want me and the line of Ishara dead and are willing to accept any accident of fate that will render us so," I laid things out for them. "Or, you were in pain over your father's loss and used Havenstone as a tool to lash out at your perceived foes without concern for what price the other houses would have to pay for your personal vendetta," Hayden suggested. "Your gender bias is appalling, High Priestess  Saint James," I shook my head. "Have I been such an out of control, emotional male that yours is the logical assumption for how events unfolded?" I smirked. "Except for the meeting where I learned your secret; only Katrina caught that. I've risked death three times for Amazons; yet I hate all of you enough to kill those people and myself. Besides,  Saint James, your opinion has been rendered irrelevant." "You will call me Hayden," Hayden simmered. "I will when you and your lackeys get around to calling me Cáel," I countered. "I don't like being insulted any more than you do. I could keep up this childishness forever, but, as I was pointing out, we don't have forever. War is coming. Between my father's murder and my threats to the Condotteiri and Seven Pillars' emissaries, I've guaranteed that. Apologizing won't do any good. They won't believe you. Offering me up won't do any good. They think you hold male life to be worthless; the truth of which I am personally witnessing here and now. They are coming for you no matter what you wish. The best chance for an alliance rests with me. I can establish truly good will with the Nine Clans, Illuminati and the Earth  and  Sky. Without me, they don't trust you enough to do any good. I'm sure only Katrina believes this; I did all that alliance-building for Havenstone. I am House Ishara and the fate of the Amazons is my fate. Yet here I am, being insulted, being treated like a traitor; an infantile traitor at that, and being informed you will not honor your oaths and obligations to me," I shook my head. "Are there any other issues to discuss, or can I go home now? I'm beat." "You will be housed downstairs for your own safety," Hayden informed me. "Unless you arrest me, I'm going home," I shrugged. "Not only do I not want your protection, I have ceased to trust you. You do not treat me like a sister. Instead you accuse me of atrocities against MY people and layer on the petty insults. Goodnight." I made to leave so Saint Marie interposed herself. "That wasn't a request, Ishara," Hayden murmured with menace. "Beat me up," I chuckled, "and you will be more screwed than you know." The Golden Mare and I locked gazes. I tried to move around her so she put a hand on my chest. "Welcome to the consequences of being known liars and bigots, ladies." "I am tiring of your insolence," Saint Marie growled. "Runners'," Katrina sighed with melancholy amusement. "What about them?" Troika mocked. "The majority of the 'Runners' aren't going to see this as the Council punishing Cáel for starting the upcoming conflict," Katrina chided her cohorts. "They are going to see the Full-blooded shutting down the Only House letting them in. Going to war? They are willing to fight and die for our cause. They assume we are too," Katrina regaled her unwilling audience. "Pleased with yourself, Ish; Cáel," Hayden's eyes narrowed. "He has almost nothing to do with it, Sisters," Katrina chortled. "We were the ones who promised to let the 'Runners' join the houses then reneged on that promise. The worst you can say about Cáel was that only after we picked out, loaded and handed him the gun, did he use it for what it was intended for." "We are not punishing him for this 'Runner' insult," Troika spat. She meant my 'hasty' inductions. "Then why are we punishing him; and thank you for making Cáel's point for him; 'Runner' insult indeed. Since your disgraceful attitude is overwhelmingly common, the 'Runners' are not going to believe your excuse for dealing with Cáel." "Katrina," Hayden cautioned. "Hayden, as your 'First Bearer of the Sun Spear through the Halls of Night and Death', I am required to give you this news," Katrina bowed her head in reverence. "I tell you Cáel's actions have been a lightning rod for the 'Runners'. He gives them hope where there was none. Putting Cáel down will have repercussions you do not understand. They will then 'Know' for a certainty we look down on them and treat them little better than slaves; which is the truth," Katrina responded to the others. "Not only are we going to war, we are successfully convincing half our population that they Cannot trust the Council to spend their lives wisely." "How dare you?" Saint Marie seethed at me. "Are you seriously blaming me for keeping the oaths the rest of you made in my name; while Ishara was dead to the Council?" I laughed. "The 'Runners' are your idea, Saint Marie, not mine. You promised to bring them into the Houses ; and didn't. You lied and I chose to not perpetuate that lie, thus honoring my ancestors, my founder and my Goddess." "Do I need to remind you who Ishara is? The Goddess of Oaths; particularly military oaths," I added. "In case you missed it, I am implying that you have failed your ancestors;” and I went flying. Damn, Saint Marie was fast. I rolled as best as I could, ending bumping into Hayden's desk. No one said a word which I found tragically consistent. My follow-up pain wasn't 'Mare' induced. Spiritual flames consumed me internal organs, causing me to cry out in torment and vomit copious amounts of something. I was cradled inside a horror film as first my esophagus, then stomach and finally my intestines seemed to flush forth from my lips. The stench was beyond horrid; putrid and corrupt combined with the atrocious odor of bloated flesh left to rot in the Sun for weeks. Considering the minimal amount I had eaten on the flight home, I was even more baffled by what felt like 100 liter quantity of discharge. When the ordeal eventually ended, I half-rose then flopped backwards into darkness. I hurt. I hurt in the same way you have 'pins and needles', except mine were industrial capacity and giving it 110%. My head was resting at a slight incline and someone was flipping a lock of my bangs on and off my forehead. I opened my eyes into infinity; seriously worse agony consumed my brain pan. "That is too much for you to know, Cáel," she murmured. Those eyes had been feminine, just not in a human way and definitely filled with more joy and suffering than could be granted by a thousand lifetimes. The pain faded, so I tried the whole eye thing again. At the top of the lap that cradled my head was a really nice pair of boobs clothed in thin wool; lush, mature, yet firm like a young virgin's. "Thank you," she lilted. Mind-reading? "Do I want to know what has happened to me?" I groaned. I reached for a boob because if it was a toxin-induced delusion, what was the worst that can happen? "Careful, I haven't been with a male in 1800 years, my Preciously Odd Amazon," she laughed. "I like challenges," I bantered with my mental conjuration. Definitely mind-reading. "I am not the creation of your fevered dreams, my Cáel," she flicked my nose. "I have pushed you near death to place a curse on the Host. As a side benefit, I am able to have metaphysical contact with you." "To date you, I have to have a near-death experience? I don't know if I should admire 1800 years of male common sense, or that last guy who risked everything for one night with you," I shrugged. "So much compassion; and so little fear," she petted my scalp. "Since you clearly aren't getting into the name game and I am more than happy to doubt everything I've experienced in the past five minutes," I smiled at her, "what am I supposed to do?" "You know," she smiled back. "No, I don't," I insisted. "Something extra-concise that doesn't come from a fortune cookie." "I've always wanted to eat a fortune cookie," she looked away. "I'll start walking around with one in my pocket so next time you nearly kill me, you can indulge," I offered. "Save my people, Cáel," she placed her hand over my eyes. "Save their spirits." "A bit of help would be nice," I pressed forward blindly. "I've given you help," she whispered on my lips. Since I didn't consider that to be helpful, I opted to give a gentle twist to her nipple. Either something was really going on inside my head, acting as a conduit between me and something else, or I was experiencing a psychotic break with reality. If it was the former, I was a Class-A idiot. If it was the latter, it was me being me, rolling the dice with the pretty girl. "I wanted you to be brave," she laughed melodically, the echo of every woman I'd ever given a reason to sing out with joy, "yet now I find myself wishing you would expend a tiny bit more caution on my behalf." Sensing my dissatisfaction, she added "I cannot give you 'the' truth, so I will give you 'a' truth. Nothing is set in the future while much is foreseen." "As long as you know I've disappointed every women I've ever been with," I reminded her, my eyes still shielded and her lips tantalizingly close to mine. "Oh, you like to think you are selfish, Cáel Nyilas of Vranus and Ishara, but you justifiably take pride in the sensuality you bring to so many women's lives," she pointed out. "Many lovers are far more truthful yet far less giving," she said. "Pain heals while an education is forever," I countered. Another joyous note. "It is time for you to wake up, my Cáel," she sighed. "Go now." Wakefulness required a return to the putrid qualities of my current surroundings. I forced myself to my knees. No one did anything; no reaction, or assistance, so it fell to me to save myself. "What; what was that?" Troika nearly retched at the stench. Katrina stood, visibly pale and shaken. "Hayden?" Katrina requested of her leader. "Cáel, what have you done?" Hayden snapped. She also stood up so she could look down at me from her desk. I mumbled something. Even I wasn't sure what I was trying to say. The last touch of a lady far chillier than the one in Chicago caressed me and I knew the gist of what had happened. Why was I the one suffering at the hands of my Goddess? I was the easiest to get at because I was already devoted to her, her chosen children and I was Patron and Head of the house dedicated to her honor. The forecasted ass-kicking wasn't aimed at me, though. I was the necromantic shotgun barrel into this reality. Too many bitches had spat on me, her hand-picked patsy and punching bag, and her temper was beyond sending some vague signs and portents to the Host. I didn't know the particulars of this curse, yet I didn't doubt for a second it was both fiendishly evil and well-deserved. My jacket, shirt and tie were goners. The lower part of my tie which had been thoroughly drenched in my vomit was already decaying into filth, soon passing into nothingness. I tried speaking again. "Having exhibited no faith in me, you have committed apostasy to Ishara," issued the words from my acid-scared throat. "You are condemned to live with that choice. Good night." I fumbled and stumbled to Hayden's door, weakly opened one of the two double doors and left. The confrontation I had departed outside remained in force; Naomi and detail versus Rachel and Buffy. Helena, and a former 'Runner' named Madori who worked at Havenstone HQ with us, had not been sent up. "I am going home," I rasped. With no orders to keep me there, Naomi let me pass. Rachel and Buffy closed in. "Boss, you smell like;” Buffy searched for words. "A red tide," Rachel said. "All those dead fish floating on the water for days and days; it is that level of horrible smell." "Rachel," I stated as we got on the elevator, "thank you for the loyalty, intelligence and understanding you have given me in this trying time." "I am a member of the Host, Ishara. I would do no less for Hayden herself; but you are welcome," she sighed. "How about we postpone our date night until I've cleared up a few things with the Council and Ishara?" I suggested. Rachel nodded. I briefly talked to Helena over the phone, went with Buffy to the basement where she checked out a car then sat back as she drove me home. I must have looked like a disaster because Buffy didn't give me an ounce of grief. Home was home now. There was a house with my name on it now, but it wasn't my hearth; this mid-town, 'just above the poverty line' apartment was definitely home now. I would suspect that business travel was like a clothes dryer; you mystically pulled out less clothes than you put in. I was coming back with twice the amount of luggage I had departed with Odette would be home in an hour, so it was me and Timothy for a bit. "Hey Bro," Timothy greeted me. He set down one of those fanciful Asian vegetable mish-mashes that he liked from time to time, stood up and gave me a hug. "How bad was it?" "Let's just say I finished it up this evening by vomiting all over the Big Boss's rug, and that was the highlight of the trip," I mumbled. "That would explain your bare-chested look," Timothy snorted. I had been so out of it, I had spaced on the need to put on clothes like a normal human being. "Something to eat?" "Nah, my insides were spewed forth, so I'm foregoing food for a while," I mumbled. That reminded me. I went to the bathroom and gargled repeatedly with mouthwash. I could still smell the aromatic abomination, but at least I couldn't taste it anymore. "Do we want to go down the lists of women who have called you?" Timothy was trying to cheer me up. I wanted to be cheered up so I told him to go right ahead. Brooke and Libra; an immediate call back with the briefest of details; no weekend date for Brooke and I yet. Jason, the bar-back I had met chasing down Katy Lee, had called. I dialed his number and we had a short chat. He and his buddies were coming along well, I was invited back any time, and the Latin Kings had gotten the message because they hadn't been around since. I requested he and his friends keep their eyes open just in case and I'd be around for another pick-up game soon enough. Since most of those LK's were dead and the remainder scattered, I wasn't worried about Jason. Nikita; I called and she 'agreed' to come over. I was too fatigued to fight her off. Ulyssa called and I had to inform her that this weekend didn't look good for me; funeral and all. I initiated contact with Nicole. She was still wrapping up some of my business in Chicago and would be gone until Saturday morning. Timothy crashed for the evening, I was nibbling on some of his fodder and the doorbell rang. A check at the peephole revealed Nikita. She came in, hugged and I could sense something was definitely wrong. We were back to first date material. We hadn't been separated long enough; crap. I gave us space on the sofa. "That was incredibly fast," I groaned. "What tipped them off?" "What do you mean?" Nikita tried to scoot down the sofa to me. I held her off with one hand. "I am hardly one to uphold honesty in a relationship, but I normally consider it a selfish endeavor and not done for the benefit of a third, unrelated party," I sadly met her eyes. "Cáel, what do you?" Nikita stammered. "You are not a very good liar," I pointed out. "You are wearing a wire of some kind?" "Have you done something wrong?" Nikita evaded. "My loss," I moped. "All I wanted was the semblance of a normal life and now that's gone down the tubes." "Nikita, what do you want to drink?" I restarted the whole fiasco. Drinks were served and we kept to our separate ends of the sofa talking about mindless shit until Odette showed up. Then I could politely show Nikita the door and be with someone who did care about me. We made slow, passionate love. I gave her orgasms and giggles with the added benefit I felt more human when we finally fell asleep. (Friday) The morning started out with the same routine. I pulled up various routes for my bike ride into work, chose none of them and off I went in the pre-dawn dark blue/grey sky. I came within 20 seconds of my best time, so I was feeling pretty positive about what lay ahead. Security was a full 180 from their normally sour selves. "Good morning, Cáel Ishara," the security team (not Security Detail) leader greeted me. That was part 'thanks for letting my sister 'Runners' into a house' and 'maybe pick me next time.' "Good morning, Wilma Draper," I nodded back. I went to the counter and leaned in. I needed to fortify my supportive base and I knew how to do it. "You do realize I don't choose who joins House Ishara, don't you?" I addressed her softly yet loud enough for the two closest security women to hear. "You do not?" the woman appeared perplexed. "No," I shook my head in the negative. At that moment she wondered if this was a trick of the Council. Good girl. "The senior Amazons of House Ishara chose the next candidates. I make the ritual appeal to Ishara, of course. Selection remains in the hands of former 'Runners' who nominate the 'Runners' who have proven themselves. I was inspired to initiate Buffy and Helena because I had enough faith in them to believe they knew Havenstone and what House Ishara needed. The Amazons in the second ritual were all Buffy and Helena's choices. I think those two and the latest group Ishara has approved of, will make the perfect judges for picking future 'Runners' of accomplishment and worth; not only for House Ishara, but for the new Amazons who have risked everything for our People," I piled on the propaganda. She nodded. The two closest security guards nodded as well. Off I went to the gun range. With less than a minute worth of words, I had reinforced my perfection. I wasn't a male. I was a male with a passel of hardcore, praiseworthy Amazons working around me, insulating me from committing any errors and making all the important decisions while I behaved like a bobble-headed doll. The range was back to 'normal' except I could smell the chemicals this time out. Whatever concrete and surface coating substances they had used to repair my grenade-inspired damage left my nose with a terrible itch. I had a gun selection today. I had no instructor yet was hopeful. I packed up my 40 caliber, my back-up 3 80, the combat shotgun and my Personal Defense weapon then headed out. I patiently waited behind one of the stations, soaking up the view of medium gray yoga pants worn by a woman who presented a meticulously crafted, awesome bubble-butt to the world. After she finished off one magazine, the Amazons looked over her shoulder at me. Horn-dog time. The woman smiled as she motioned me forward. We put my weapons on the stand and prepared for school. "I am Wiesława of House Živa," she smirked playfully. By the Almighty, she had a thick Polish accent, rich lips, russet hair and 'come hither' eyes. I was prepping for some early 'nookie' time. "Hello, I am Ash Ketchum and I have an unhealthy relationship with free-roaming, anthropomorphic creatures," I replied as we clasped forearms Amazon-style. As Wiesława was trying to puzzle that out, an Amazon from an adjoining booth came over and punched me in the arm. I couldn't even recall this one's name though I knew that face and physique. "Stop that, Cáel," the woman chastised me. "She's new here." "I thought he was bringing me more weapons to use. Was this male being insolent?" Wiesława tried to put things in their proper place. "Should he be disciplined?" At least she wasn't taking me being beaten as her Goddess-given right. "No, Wiesława. This is Cáel Ishara, Head of House Ishara, he brought those weapons for His use and most likely came to your station looking for instruction," the unnamed Amazon stated. "Does this mean we are passed that whole 'grenade launcher' thing?" I inquired of the women. "We are not sure. For now we have decided to not pre-judge you since you remain consistently combative no matter what. Constanza is recovering," she tacked on. "Good," I grinned. "How soon can she return to duty? I imagine she makes a lousy patient." Pause. The 'Constanza' bit had been a test. I had a feeling that my emotional tendency to spare lives and show mercy was getting around. It wasn't the Amazon way, though it did mean Constanza would remain alive for a while longer when it was generally accepted she should not. "She will have to retrain her vision. Her doctors are hopeful," the woman responded. "That is for the best. I do hope there are no ill intentions toward Pamela," I warned her. "Such a vengeance would be personal and I would feel no obligation to treat those criminals as I would my fellow Amazons; are we clear?" "It has been made expressly clear that this issue is at an end," she bowed slightly. "Let us commit this to the 'nothingness'," was my suggestion. The two Amazons twitched. That was a phrase straight out of their cultural playbook. Both nodded, the familiar Amazon left and I turned back to Wiesława. "Do you still want a go at training me?" I asked the Pole. "Yes; yes, I would like that," she gave me a bright, toothy white smile. "I find you interesting." Off I went again. Wiesława was diligent and definitely 'hands-on'. Twenty minutes into the training one of my familiar SD firing partners showed up. "Don't let him take his clothes off," Felicité teased me. Her Congolese French contrasted erotically with Wiesława's Polish. "His clothes come off?" Wiesława seemed puzzled. "How is that accomplished?" "A deeply scientific, psychological process," Felicité teased my latest friend/fish in the barrel. "Cáel, take off your clothes," she commanded me. I gave her a haughty, condescending glare. "Please." My biking shirt came off first then my biking slippers and finally the shorts. "Your turn," I regarded Wiesława. She shot a look to Felicité. Her sports bra was millimeters from exposing her goodies when my Congolese tormentor stepped in. "You don't have to take off your clothes for him," she intervened. "But I like seeing you ladies naked," I protested. Felicité patted my package. "We like seeing you naked too. Now put on your pants before a hot shell casing creates yet another incident," Felicité teased me again. A great chasm of misunderstanding had been bridged since Friday. The grenade-launcher was part of it, yet I think Rachel and Velma were far more constructive than I could have been. Velma had seen me in crisis mode. I hadn't panicked. I had seen to my partner (though she was an inconsequential female) and been cool throughout the process in Katrina's office as Velma and her four team members had overheard. Rachel, Charlotte, Mona and Tiger Lily had probably given a different story; less professional and more human. That must have worked in my favor. A stone-cold bad-ass would have been more worrisome; a challenge. No, I had been shaken, irrational, brave and grieving. I had fought an assassin of the Nine Clans and not lost (thus not an embarrassment to a culture I didn't really belong to; until that moment). I had insulted the Condotteiri and the Seven Pillars, who were universally hated. I had been nice to the Earth  and  Sky and Illuminati, who they didn't like much, but could be handy if a war did break out. I had been 'friendly' to the Egyptians and Nine Clans, who the Amazon rank and file did approve of. The SD had no doubts; they were looking at a war. Unlike their leadership, the Security Detail was anticipating this, even anxious for the test. Fighting is what they spent their whole lives training for. Thirty years had passed since the last major clash between Havenstone and the others. For the youngest, this was the ultimate chance to prove their training had been perfect. For the oldest members of the SD, this was the culmination of a lifetime's devotion. 'Take themselves to the cliffs'? Not now. Now came the chance to make every burn, bullet hole, stab wound and piece of shrapnel worth it. Their Host lavished care and resources on the Security Detail; their Warrior Elite; and they were about to reward that glorification with a fervor only female's with 3000 years of martial tradition could match. Like me? Allowable yet not required. Respect me? Constanza was their lesson on respect. Obedience? No. Rachel had most assuredly related my contact with the 'Runners' and Buffy, so they could hit me like they could no other Head of Household; as long as it was 'appropriate'. Since they were not forced to give me full equality, they could stomach my 'almost' equality. Think of it as being able to punch your manager at work in the arm whenever you thought they were doing something stupid. Imagine how much worker morale would benefit. By stepping up and taking a punch, or two, I bought myself and House Ishara much more respect than a snippy insistence on etiquette would have ever done. Bringing 'Runners' into a First House? The SD wasn't jumping for joy. Here, the SD's sense of superiority worked in Ishara's favor. What did it matter to them that a few 'Runners' had been exalted to Full-blooded status? SD was the best of the best. That they were the best of the 'best available until now' hadn't occurred to them yet. All that circled back to Felicité playing with me, no one taking exception to me making a play for Wiesława and the return of the firing range to an educational platform for me. As I had told Oneida, 'defeat starts in the mind'. Along with that came 'Victory starts with a plan', and 'seize the moment'. I was aiming for seizing victory in the flesh. I bent over to put my pants back on. Since Felicité was departing for jobs-unknown, I ran the pants, and my hand, along Wiesława's inner right thigh. By the look in her eyes when I was finished, she didn't mind in the slightest. At the end of my allotted time period, my marksmanship had improved and Wiesława was mine for the taking. What bothered me was that it felt too easy somehow. Weird huh; that 'easy' would bother me. "You don't hang around men much?" I questioned the Pole as the weapons were being put away. "No," she sighed. "The last male in my hold died eight years ago. That is one reason I was re-assigned here," she informed me. "What department are you with?" I asked as we waited on the elevator. "Security Detail," she answered. "Fantastic," I murmured. "Elsa is a great boss. The two of us get along great." "Really? That is good news," Wiesława sounded upbeat. "How close are you?" Hint, hint. "Like the Cobra and the Mongoose," I grinned. Into the elevator we went. "I'll let you figure out which is which." "You are the Cobra," she patted my thinly covered cock. Yay! No personal boundaries. Less I forget I was still on the list of approved prey animals the door opened on the first floor and Brielle, her buddy, and Oneida stepped onboard. I had no clue where Wiesława was supposed to go. I guessed she was along for the ride. "Good morning, Cáel," Brielle greeted me before licking my left nipple. Wiesława was confused; could she have been licking me, and getting licked by me, half an hour ago? "What are you doing?" Oneida squawked. "Yum; someone has been to the gun range this morning," Brielle smiled at me. "Oh, and; sorry about your paternal person," she hastily added. "They are called Fathers," I sighed. To defuse Oneida, I slipped a hand to the small over her back then wiggled three fingers between the top of her skirt and panties. It was 'dangerous' enough to give her pause before going after the other women. "It is good to see your new, exalted status hasn't gone to your head, Cáel Ishara," Brielle looked very naughty. "Sisters first, last and always," I responded. "I'm not going to take credit for my ancestors being kick ass." "They must have been very courageous women," Wiesława stated. I snorted. "Wiesława, my Ishara lineage goes down the male side of the family, so those lethal ancestors were all male," I chided her. "When the Dacian-Thracians moved into the region, they joined with those tribes fighting the Celts. Later, they joined with the Dacian kings and fought against the Romans. Germans, Avars, Bulgars and finally the Magyars came their way; my ancestors impressed them all enough to be accepted. I know this because my Father's name was Nyilas, which means Archer in the Magyar tongue. We were fighters under the Arpad dynasty the same way we had gone to war with our Amazon War leaders thousands of years earlier. I also know this because of my bloodline; if the female folk had been raped, the bloodline would have perished," I explained. "Where exactly was your family from?" Wiesława inquired. "My grandfather said we Nyilas' were from Székelys Lands in Northern Romania," I replied. "My great-grandfather grew up under the Romanian King, hated it and died fighting as a Hungarian soldier against the Soviets in World War II," I continued. "That is why my great-grandmother took her children and came to America. They had lost their homeland in her opinion. Dad said she was bitter until the day she died," I sighed over my forerunners intransience. "She even wanted to be buried at her home town of Szászrégen," I let them know. "That never happened." The elevator door opened, I waved good-bye to friends new and old then raced to Katrina's bathroom. Katrina was at her desk, working away. "Cáel," Katrina acknowledged my passage with a wave of her hand. "Hayden and I have been examining a list of possible; " "That boat has sailed, Katrina," I cut her off. "I'll take care of my business without Hayden's help, thank you very much. I know you tried to warn her. I should have known there was no use dealing with the Council in any way, shape, or form. There isn't." I paused. "Tell your allies that there will be many in House Ishara and Warrior-Fathers too." "Aren't you worried in the least?" Katrina requested. "We both know that some of these bitches want to face their end like the lead characters in a Wagnerian opera. All we can do is remind them they are traitors to their Race, not patriots to some modern day concoction of a cult of gender blood purity," I stated, "as we work to save our people." "Those 'Old Guard' broads have forgotten what an Amazon is supposed to be," I explained. "And a man is going to show us the way?" Katrina studied me with emotionless intent. "Yes," I muttered. "A man who prefers love over hate and counts his worth by the lives he saves, not the one's he takes." "Do you ever fear this 'softness' will weaken your masculinity?" Katrina mused. That hurt; not because of her words, which could be true for any man. It hurt because the bastion against such thinking had just died. "My only fear is that I won't live up to my father's example," I responded. "Not only as a man and a father in my time, but as a human being," I delved into the wounded portion of my soul. "He never went to college, served in the military, or even got into a fight until that last minute of his life. He covered for co-workers with family issues, never failed to answer a call out to work in inclement weather, and did all that normal boring shit few here even understand. He let me be weak and let me be strong. His greatest lesson was that no matter where my life led, I had to take responsibility for it. The strong ask for help. The weak ask for someone to do the task for them. Love is not a word. Love is the star you chart your life by. The worst weakness is letting fear stop you from pursuing what you want. That is what I have to measure up to," I finished. In the interim, several of the new hires showed up and were observing the spiel. "I would think he would be happy if you measured up to what you wanted out of life," Katrina said. "I aim to do both," I grinned. I went to the bathroom and quickly changed into my work attire. The meeting started on time with the additional of a gnat-bite; Dora was two minutes late. At the time, nothing seemed out of sorts to me. It was a day on the job with Rosette. Around 3:30 pm, Pamela stopped our knife training (her with her wand and me with my weighted, wooden blade). She went to the corner of the room, ran her finger along the central point and drew back a finger with dust on it. She raised the finger so I could clearly see it. "It's dust?" I shrugged. "Normally they do a much better job," Pamela noted and back to training we went. The nightmare became real with one phrase in common usage: 'I'll get to it when I can', one Runner told Desiree when Desiree gave her a task. One of the most fascinating things in my book about Havenstone was that it hummed along like a well-oiled, organic machine. Tasks were completed, back-ups were always on call, and promptness wasn't a virtue; I was the absolutely expected. "What did you say?" Desiree asked for confirmation. "I said I'll get right on it," the woman sighed. I caught the look in Desiree's eyes. Something was wrong, but she couldn't put a name to it. Oaths and obligations; the lubricant for patently lethal Amazon society. Those words tossed out without too much consideration were now fraying around the edges. This wasn't the Plague, boils, lesions, leprosy, rickets, or the Home Loan bubble bursting. Those you could fight. How did you counter the devaluation of someone's word? Ishara's curse was crawling toward a very bad end unless I did something, but what? Personal respect would remain. Hierarchy? Amazons would begin to question why they were prioritizing their lives around someone they didn't know, or knew and didn't like. We weren't at that final destination, yet it was coming, and best of all, every woman in the company had a weapon, or quick access to one. A phone call grabbed me before I went in for the 'end of day' meeting. It was Brooke. "Christopher Cáel-umbos," I murmured. "Economy Class Oriental tours. How may I help you?" Laughter; and more than Brooke's. "Libra and I were getting ready to head out to the Hamptons and wanted to give you one last chance to come along," Brooke pleaded. An impressive dicking indeed. Thousands of reasons not to go; safety, responsibility, risk for other; "Sure, I'd love to come along. Can you pick me up at Havenstone at 6:10 pm? We'll make a quick run to my place to pick up some stuff and then head out, unless that's too late?" I offered. "See you then, Cáel," Brooke purred. "See you," Libra called out as well. It was a loathsome indicator of how out of control my life was ;  that me, a working class kid, was going on a romp with two rich, high society girls to some mansion for a weekend of hedonistic fun; because that was more 'normal' than my week had been. I entered the meeting, took my teasing and made for the gym. This hour was devoted to a hardcore workout and nothing but. Rapid repetitions, quick shifts, rolling through the muscle groups. Even a few of the dedicated lifters gave me appreciative looks. I didn't have the time today. I hit the showers and made the doors before I hit a snag. Security held me up yet again. They seemed nervous, so I asked and got a bottled water and made some jokes. These ladies were going to be my allies, damn it, before I was done. Troika caught up with me a minute later. She extended a handful of round, brownish-yellow balls in a necklace. Each ball had a symbol inscribed on it. "We received this and a message this morning," she snapped. "We have decided to reject it." "It is horse-hoof," Pamela whispered in my ear. The gears went spinning. There was one person I knew who would send me keratin scrimshaw jewelry. Those nasty bitches were piling on the stupid. I looked it over; it was old, maybe going as far back as Timur aka Tamerlane to the English-speaking world. The 'cord' was made of hair; probably horse tail hair. I had no reciprocal gift to offer; absolutely nothing this valuable. But wait, I did! Somewhere there was a Havenstone bureau, department, or office that hung on to the artifacts ALL the Houses had accumulated over the passage of years. Some of that shit was mine; Ishara's. Our house had expired before the colonies became states. That still equated to a long period of pack-ratting. I'd put a minion on it right away! I'd pray that they didn't have plans for the weekend; later. "It arrived this morning and you are only giving it to me now?" I grumbled. "That message was meant for me, not for any of the rest of you. Where is the rest of it? Oh, and you're on the list." "It was consumed in its examination," Troika blatantly lied. "You have a visual copy," Pamela sounded bored. "Give it to him." "I do not carry such things around on a handheld device," Troika parried. "Ah; that's theft," Pamela gave a slender grin. "Just so we are clear." "If Cáel Ishara wished to put forth such an accusation to Hayden, I will be prepared to defend my actions," Troika gave a hostile glare right back. "That won't be necessary," I snorted. "I'm good. Pamela, I'm out for the weekend. Have fun." I turned and walked away. "Count the days, Troika," Pamela menaced. "I'm not afraid," she countered. "I don't care, but in 21 days, Cáel's ban on internal conflict will be at an end. Like me, he will not go to a corrupted Hayden for justice. We will be exacting it in our own way and in our own time. That you should worry about," Pamela gave a tilt of the head, a feral grin and joined me in departing. In Hittite, she said;  "A matron, 21 Runners and one archaic mistake," Troika joked. In Hittite, she said; "But how many more 'Runners' can he recruit between now and then?" one of Troika's bodyguards worried. "More than enough to raise your daughters after you are all gone and forgotten," Pamela shouted over her shoulder. (Starting Friday Evening in the Wrong Damn Place) Waiting outside for me were two beauties and a small car. I hefted my bike, detached the front wheel for easier storage and climbed into the Lilliputian backseat. "Sorry," Libra in the passenger seat sounded embarrassed. "I'm not sure Brooke and I thought this through. Do you have a seat belt?" She was referring to the rear-mounted cup holder I was sitting in. "This is not rated for human occupation," I grinned back. What that really meant was there were three conflicting emotions pulling events along. Wanting me to fuck them; the easy one. Loyalty to your social/sorority sister; the relationship under stress. Me being a 'suitable' human being; the one that they were both stumbling toward which made the second emotional force such a problem. Had I solely been a fuck toy for either one, the other could have gracefully exited the field (with the occasional sharing). I was far from 'husband' material yet I was closing in on being the 'crossing a crowded club to greet me' kind of guy; already passed the 'not embarrassed to introduce me to their friends' phase. "You can sit in my lap," Brooke offered. With her driving and our height differential; we'd be lucky to be pulled by the PD before we wrecked. "How about you drive, I sit in Libra's seat and she sits in my lap?" I offered. "That's no fun," Brooke shot me a pout. "It sounds like fun for me," Libra giggled. "Now Libra remember, for the seat belt to be effective, you will have to sit facing me;” I sighed. "Facing you?" she winked. "Yes; facing me naked," I assured her. "Hey!" Brooke protested. "How come she gets to be naked in your lap?" "Otherwise me being naked would be pretty pointless," I explained. "Libra," Brooke demanded, "you get to drive." Petty arguments and playful exchanges followed. I left a message for Timothy and Odette, letting them know I was heading out to some address on the far end of Long Island. I even shot myself in the foot with the Nerf gun and told Timothy so he'd feel better. Brooke and Libra were dressed similarly. Red and khaki almost 'short-shorts', white/yellow bikini tops under white wife-beaters covered with a denim shirt (sleeves rolled up) and white cargo short-sleeved shirt, tennis socks and canvas shoes. In a way, I was a victim of my own success. Both ladies wanted to fuck me bad, but their desire to prove to me I was more than a fuck toy meant I didn't get sex at my place. If you are a girl, that will make much more sense. The car ride out was an issue. If I drove, Brooke and Libra promised to put on a Sapphic display for the ages. If Libra drove, I promised to publically molest Brooke at every stop. The reverse went for Brooke driving. The solution was that the girls would take turns driving and I would be a truly diligent cunnilinguist, with a strong background as an anatomically astute Braille harpsichord player. Our destination turned out to be the hamlet of Sagaponack, aka the most expensive place to live in the United States. Why was I doing this to myself? For starters, Brooke thought our host, Brennan Sulkanen, lived in one of those $50+ million homes; funny, I thought those were called estates. The girls laughed when I told them that. My utter lack of forethought, underutilized intelligence gathering capabilities, and even not acting my age were coming back to chew a huge hunk off my heine now. Brennan was a fraternity brother of Trent; warning indicator #1. Brennan didn't actually do anything, but his father was loaded; situation getting worse. Brennan was the youngest of the three sons from the first marriage with three other children from two other marriages waiting in the wings. A quick search revealed that the third and current Mrs. Sulkanen, was very elegant for a thirty-two year old lady. His current Mom being the same age as his oldest brother could be an issue. I was living proof how good parenting could help build up a child. Improper parenting; could do the opposite. Nothing was guaranteed though. "So, why are we going to Brennan's?" I hazarded to inquire as we cruised down Highway 27 through East Patchogue. In the back of my mind, I realized I was due south of scenic Doebridge and their frisky policewomen/Stasi law enforcers. "Oh, we met in college when I came up for one of Trent's; that loser; frat functions," she told us. "He was very drunk and tried to hit on me," the tale continued. "How and where did he 'hit' on you?" I prodded. "He stumbled into the Ladies' room, knocked my drink over and tried to give me his, but I was insulted by his inebriated pawing and left," Brooke said. Lone drunk men DO stumble into Ladies' rooms; usually to vomit. Frat brothers hit on each other's girls; men are pigs. Greeks are pigs with tie pins and secret handshakes. Drunk people do not demolish another person's drink then offer up their own. The spilling of alcohol is a drink-worthy event which you can't do if you have given your drink away. Man math: Brennan stalked Brooke, ambushed her in the bathroom and tried to roofie her with his drink because our host was a dirt bag and a total ass-bandit. How had I failed to do some basic 4 1 1 on this bastard? Oh yeah, brought an extinct First House to life, multiple threats to my well-being, treated like crap by most of my co-workers and then my father was murdered. "I repeat; why are we going to this guy's house?" I asked. "He's been persistent ever since Trent bailed and he sounds so worried about me," she answered. "Oh, I don't want you to think I'm using you as Brennan-deterrent, Cáel," she added. "I wanted to get out of the city and be with you; and Libra." I was more than Brennan-deterrent alright. I was a 'Highway Closed Indefinitely' sign for his edification. This was okay with Brooke (and me) because of all the sex we were going to have. "Thanks," Libra teased her pal. My dilemma was that despite all the positive emotions wafting my way, I wasn't one of 'them' yet. I couldn't simply say 'this dude is a scumbag. Let's go somewhere else.' This was going to take some tact and pretty much annihilated my hopes for a weekend to unwind. I had to play nice and at the first opportunity pull our host aside and politely inform him that I was going to floss his teeth with his still functioning intestines if any of us partook of something we hadn't asked for, ended up in some spot we hadn't wanted to go to, and/or doing something we didn't want to do. My diplomatic approach was from some movie that was way before CGI. It was ('you' meaning 'me': 'I want you to be nice; until it is time; to not be nice.') I was going to give Brennan's survival instincts the benefit of the doubt. I felt certain he wasn't enchanted with the idea of personal pain and I was going to let him know there wasn't a bank account deep enough to protect him from my wrath. If there was ever any doubt; I'm an idiot. We pulled up to the gate right before eight. Yes; one of those nice wrought-iron, automatic opening double gates. Brooke answered the security screen and in we went. Two people, definitely staff, met us as we parked. There was six cars present already, all variations of the high-performance, turbo-charged, 'Daddy/Mommy don't love me so they gave me this deathtrap instead' ideal. Cargo space? Fuel efficiency? Excessive safety features? Not a concern for this crowd. There was a momentary bout of confusion as the male staffer came for my baggage. I thanked him. He looked at me funny. Brooke insisted the female staffer give directions to where her/Libra's luggage was going so I did the same with the guy. My stuff was not only not heading to Brooke's room, I was being banished to another branch of this sprawling villa. "Take my stuff to their room," I directed the man. "Sir, a different room has been set aside for the gentleman," he insisted. "Oh; okay," I nodded. I took my bags from him, much to his surprise, and followed the 'maid'. Brooke and Libra laughed at my obstinacy and tagged along. Our introduction to the 'pack' was delayed and, by his look, Brennan wasn't happy with my detour. I wasn't happy either, but for a different reason. "Brooke; Libra, right? Cecil?" he clearly was disrespecting me straight out of the gates. Brooke and Libra said 'hi'. I was a little less diplomatic and I was staring down the barrels of a serious crimp in my main battle plan. There were two dissipated young ladies, three men of the same caliber and two guys I identified hangers-on. Most likely rich; just not rich enough to be treated as equals by the majority. Then there was this one girl who was certainly the unsuspecting party favor. You can learn all kinds of thing about the darker side of male-female relationships at Spring Break if you pay attention. The vacation can be wonderful, but seeing fuck-head bottom-feeders getting girls wasted for the eternal glory of Girls Gone Wild and the ability to stick their prick into someplace it doesn't belong, and they haven't earned the right to be in, truly sucks. For the moment, I had to look past her. The focus of my anxiety was a couple, both African-American and from a different mold than everyone else there. I knew the guy because he was somewhat famous. "Hey Bitch," I replied in an off-handed manner. "What?" Brennan hammed up his confusion. The 'Home Alone' gasp. What had he done wrong? "What?" I responded. "Did you just call me a 'bitch'?" he clarified. "No," I lied. "I didn't even know you were talking to me. Hi, I'm Cáel Nyilas. Who are you again?" "I think you called me a bitch," Brennan watched his whole weekend plan to dispose of me coming gift wrapped here in the opening round. He looked to the 'famous' guy. I am an idiot. "Well, with your family money, I'm sure you can hire top notch Otolaryngologist to handle that hearing problem of yours," I grinned. "Orlando, what do you think Kibble here said?" Brennan indicated the guy. "Orlando Keyes," I smiled. "Man, you are one mean son of a bitch. That fighter from Ecuador; missed his name; you broke his left cheek with one hit during that MMA bout in New Orleans last Thanksgiving. The only thing almost as impressive was that guy managed to stand up afterwards." No, I wasn't buttering this guy up. There was no point. I only knew about him because the whole 'martial ardor' doesn't have to be yours to get some tail. Girls who like watching physical combat; MMA, Kick-boxing, Boxing, and the NHL (WWE if they are somewhat gullible); will jump on your bones at the completion of that match. "I think this cunt called you his bitch," Orlando came my way. I gently pushed Brooke and Libra aside to give me space. "You are mistaken," I kept smiling at Orlando. "I was calling that lady over there," I pointed at the lady he had been talking to, "my bitch for tonight. The acoustics in this place must suck." Outdoor pool; the Atlantic Ocean crashing less than 100 meters away; this place rocked. "You are going to die," Brennan laughed at me. Keyes kept coming. "Right, or left?" I asked him in a pleasant tone. He glared yet hesitated. "What does it matter?" Orlando studied me. He had stopped being a hired thug and returned to being a modern day gladiator. "I'm packing so I wanted to know which knee you can live without," I stated. "He's got a gun?" one of the other males mumbled. "Gun?" Orlando's eyes narrowed. "Knife," I corrected. At this point, everyone but Orlando and I felt better. In that snippet, Orlando and I exchanged a vital piece of information; I was going to hurt him. No matter what he did, I was going to put a knife into him. How did he know? I had warned him and I laughed at Death. I wasn't bluffing and Orlando made his life's work piercing his opponent's deceptions. "That's my fiancé," Orlando grumbled. I extended my hand. "I apologize then," I said as he shook my hand. "That was rude of me and uncalled for. Not only is she one of the classiest ladies here, she was hanging out with you, a man not known for accepting anything short of the perfect match. Besides," I whispered, "we both know who I was truly talking about." Orlando wasn't happy with me, or forgiven me. What he did accept was that I'd given him an out. I had backed down and apologized. Brennan was frowning. Orlando and I didn't care; we were both fighters and we'd both ponied up on the promise of pain. If there was to be a conflict, he wasn't going to do it for Brennan. He was going to do it because he always wanted to know how tough the other guy really was. Names floated around. The only people that mattered to me were Anima and Casper. Anima was Brennan's 'girlfriend' which I translated as a debauchery enabler. She was under the delusion that life was boring and pointless, so she should punish the world for her ennui. Her life's cup had been emptied at twenty-three? Bitch, I worked with real women who couldn't even consider such nonsense. Casper; Casper was going to be a problem. For starters, Anima had taken Casper under her wing; was going to show Casper the 'ropes'. Casper proudly proclaimed that. Casper was also not as rich as the 'in crowd' and not a hanger-on; she was the weekend's amusement, or would have been if Brooke hadn't shown up. And, of course, she couldn't see the danger, she was so eager to be with the super-rich. After the name game came the initial party shuffle. Who was aiming for whose bedroom tonight and how would they get what they wanted. Brennan sent two backup boys cruising for Libra while he angled in for Brooke. Anima and Casper were supposed to keep me busy. Libra promptly showed she'd thumbed through my Book of Social Fugliness. "I only date real men," she shredded the 'second-stringers' to pieces. The blast socially staggered them. "If you have to think about it, boys, you are not a man. Don't strain yourself trying to be something you can't even comprehend. Now one of you go get me a drink while I think about what Cáel and I are going to do to Brooke tonight." In social parlance, that was shooting someone with both barrels of a shotgun then using the stock to tenderize the remains. That was one flank secure. Next, Casper and Anima. Anima had the feeling I didn't like her; good for her. "Would you really have cut Orlando?" Casper asked me softly while she ran a fingernail over my right forearm. "Casper, to begin with, call him Mr. Keyes. There will come a time when you can freely use his first name, but you ain't there yet," I cautioned her. "To answer your question: yes, I would have sliced down and across, cutting his right hamstring." Keyes heard me, as I had intended. "Brennan says you are a co-worker of Trent," Anima cooed. "Kind of," I shrugged. "Trent is a big-shot with the Far East Unit while I remain in Personnel in the city (Manhattan)." They both looked disappointed then Casper handed me a plum. She wasn't stupid, just willfully blind. "Where did you learn to use a knife then?" Casper tried to 'salvage' me. She was doing herself a favor by trying to make me look better to the rest; doing me a favor. Nice. "I'm with the Records Redaction Unit of Havenstone's Executive Services," I lied. Blink. "That doesn't make any sense," Casper's brow furrowed. "You delete records?" "No Casper," I returned her arm rub, "someone creates a list with names on it. I am part of the team that reduces the number of those names on that list to zero." Blink. "You fire people?" she remained uncertain. She had to believe I was playing with her, which I was. "No," I shook my head. "That implies extra paperwork. We take a more ergonomic approach. No termination rigmarole; no traceable termination at all." "That sounds vaguely like you murder people," Anima murmured. "Murder is a crime. Converting all the data of a given person into one, misplaced file is a way of circumventing the whole 'exit interview/providing references for other jobs/pension' process." If you believed that this nation, nay, the whole world, was run by soulless corporate monsters that made scary sense. "What do you do with the people?" Anime was showing the tiniest bit of enthusiasm for this conversation. "What people? People have names," I smiled. "Bodies with no records are normally handled as John and Jane Does and are buried in Potter's Field, or used at medical schools." "Do you enjoy sex with multiple partners?" Anima smiled; veering the conversation off in a different dir

Hoe groot is de impact van Jordan Henderson bij Ajax? Clubwatcher Lentin Goodijk maakte een verhaal over de Engelsman en bespreekt het met Matthijs Vegter in een nieuwe aflevering van VI ZSM. Ook het Nederlands elftal, Jong Oranje én de FC Twente Vrouwen komen aan bod.Zie het privacybeleid op https://art19.com/privacy en de privacyverklaring van Californië op https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Why not buy a board game from our sponsors Kienda: kienda.co.uk/polyhedroncollider Warning: This podcast contains strong language and adult content  Its time to channel our inner Bob Ross and Duncan Rhodes, as we talk about our anual painting challenge, this time using only the Two Thin Coats starter paints.  Go check out the video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ec37fRNzegc We also talk about the Arthurian legend board game from the makers of Oathsworn, Avalon: The Rivel Veil, trade stocks and shares in Big Boss from Funko, and rebuild ancient city walls in Ezra and Nehemiah from Garphill Games. We then answer listener questions on what we like and hate about the games industry and where to get the latest releases in the UK. Games Mentioned 00:01:58 Airecon West 00:06:47 Andy bought a Baneblade 00:10:52 PHC painting contest with Two Thin Coats  00:19:43 Avalon: The Riven Veil  00:28:07 Big Boss 00:36:33 Ezra and Nehemiah 00:50:53 Questions from the mailbag   ⭐Show Sponsor: Kienda When you sign up to an account with Kienda use this link to bag yourself a wee discount and help support the show.  Let's face it, you were going to buy a board game anyway

Cáel's tombstone: For the love of women, women put him here.In 25 parts, edited from the works of FinalStand.Listen and subscribe to the ► Podcast at Connected..