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The Time Riders: Part 5 A Labyrinth Palace. Based on a post by BiscuitHammer, in 16 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels. The non-descript carriage had indeed made its way through Paris' winding streets, taking well over an hour to finally stop in front of the palace and allowing Mark to get out of the cramped cab before it rattled off. The sun had set some time ago, and night hung over the city heavily, the cloying air of Paris carrying the city's growing pains to his ears. Even at night, the city was not silent. Mark adjusted his outfit and marched toward the outermost gate of the vast palace, its arms spread wide and encompassing a massive courtyard. Two men wearing ornate red uniforms and holding pikes crossed their weapons at his approach, barring his entry. One of them gruffly asked him to state his business. Trusting to the plan, Mark said nothing, but merely held out one of his sealed letters, this one bearing the emblem of Richelieu. The guard examined it for several seconds, consulting with the other guard before handing it back and then opening the gate. Mark shot them both a dirty look for holding him up in his errand and then swept inside, doing his best to look haughty and full of bravado, which is what the Musketeers were apparently renowned for. He couldn't help but reflect that they seemed a lot less heroic than history let on and were more dickbags than anything else. Oh well. Faking being a dickbag was probably significantly easier than pretending to be a hero. He passed through another gate that got him closer to the palace, this one also manned by the Swiss Guard. He arrogantly presented them with the Richelieu missive, which once again satisfied their scrutiny and he was allowed to pass. He forced himself to not look around in wonder at his surroundings, instead heading straight to the great doors that would give him admittance to the palace. Alex once again presented his letter, but this time the guards squinted at him suspiciously. "Qui es tou?" demanded one of them. His throat was dry, but he answered as readily as he could, trying to sound authoritative and even haughty. "J'mappelle Benat de Ferres, of Soule, Second Company of the King's Musketeers under Monsieur de Treville. Let me through." "Fucking Basques and Gascons," muttered one of the guards in irritation. "Why would a musketeer be bringing a missive to his excellency, the Cardinal?" he demanded to know. Mark concealed his anxiety by looking pissed and rattling off one of the phrases Alexandra had given him, hoping it had the desired effect. "I have an idea, why don't we all go ask the Cardinal and you can fucking explain to him why you held up his envoy on an important errand? Does that sound good to you?" The two men looked at one another warily; the visitor was certainly obnoxious enough to be a Musketeer and a Gascon. Sighing and shaking his head in defeat, the one man handed the sealed letter back to Mark and they opened the doors, allowing him entrance. He swept by them, calling them shitheads in Spanish before the doors closed behind him. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help Gawking as he stared at the palace around him; its splendor was beyond anything he had imagined. Walls of white plaster, carved in exquisite shapes and edged in royal purple, along with gold filigree, and incredible paintings and artifacts lined the walls. Endless numbers of servants scurried by, hardly noticing him. He shut his eyes for a moment and composed himself, remembering the details Alexandra had shown him, the way through the palace. He turned and began his search for his teacher. Lisette walked primly through the halls of the palace, bowing her head deferentially to just about everyone who passed her. Wearing an elegant gown, she seemed to almost glide along the hallway, walking with a practiced ease that her mistress had taught her. She had, in three years, only been in the royal presence twice before, in attendance to Lady Alexandra. The king had barely noticed her, but Lisette didn't mind one bit, because this was far more of a life than she ever could have hoped for. She had, of course, spent much more time in the presence of the queen, because her mistress served Anne directly. Anne of Austria seemed mostly amused by Lady Alexandra's quirky servant, but she was kind to Lisette, often sending her home with gifts of chocolate. Her devotion to the queen, while not equal to her fanatic love for Lady Alexandra, meant she would die in Anne's name if necessary. She hoped it wouldn't come to that tonight, but she had made her peace with God and the Lady Mary all the same. Alexandra had set her with the task of removing or distracting every guard she could from the route Mark would take through the palace. She was not to kill anyone, nor was she to be seen in the mayhem, if at all possible. If things went wrong, she was to retreat to the queen's quarters and be seen protecting her. It was the best alibi she could hope for. A guard up ahead. He was a sullen-looking brute, not carrying the long pikes of the gate guards, but a much more practical halberd, along with a short rapier on his belt. She knew he'd be trouble. She ducked into an alcove and pulled a small phial out of her cleavage, drinking the strong red wine from it and sloshing it around in her mouth, to make sure the aroma was on her breath. Replacing the phial, she lurched back out into the hallway and sauntered toward him lazily. "Hello, beautiful," she said drunkenly, giving him a lopsided smile. "You must' be off-duty by now." "No, I am not," he grunted, not looking at her. "Go away, slut." "C'mon," Lisette persisted, leering at him as she leaned against the wall to his left. "We could be having fun. Don' you like fun?" "Duty is not meant to be fun." "But these are fun," she drawled, as she stepped in front of him and leaned forward, using her hands to pull down the front of her bodice and exposing her perky tits to the man, whose eyes went wide at the sight. "These are all the fun you'll need;” He didn't stop her as she sidled up to him, stood on her tip-toes and put her arms around his neck. Her breath was sweet with wine, her dark eyes glassy with the lack of inhibition it brought on. Her tits pressed to his chest, her hips flat to his crotch. "Take me into that room and fuck me;” she breathed huskily, her lips no more than an inch from his. "I want to feel you inside me;” The man was rather pale at her suggestion, but nodded readily and turned around to open the door. The parlor behind was empty, the perfect place for a rendezvous with this slattern. She took him by the hand and led him inside, closing the door behind them. Mark walked down the hallway, trying to not look like he was hurrying, and staying alert. He was entering a difficult part of the operation, because he was no longer in an area of the palace that led to either the king's quarters or those of Cardinal Richelieu. If anyone stopped him now, he would probably be redirected rather forcefully, and he had precious little time to waste. He walked by a door, from which he heard a moaning noise. Then he heard a familiar woman's voice, gasping and urging someone on. His translator bud wasn't close enough to hear what was being said, but he was fairly certain he knew what was happening. He subtly pushed the door open and peered inside. Mark gaped as he watched Lisette, leaning over a small table, panting while a member of the House Guard fucked her from behind, her layered skirt bunched over her ass as he pushed in and out of her. The guard remained oblivious, but she noticed the door open and flicked a glance his way. She gave him an annoyed look and jerked her head, indicating that she had this covered and he needed to keep moving. He nodded and pulled the door shut quietly before heading down the hall again. He turned a corner and then headed up some stairs, leading up to the next floor, which was apparently where Becky was being kept. He was so busy thinking about what he needed to do next that he blundered right into two guards, who grunted and then glared at him angrily. "Stupid shit!" the one man he had smacked into spat. "Watch where you are; who are you?" Mark went wide-eyed, not having expected them. His mouth seemed to work, but no sounds came forth. They blocked his ascent and continued to glare at him. "Who; are; you?" the man demanded again. Mark regained control of his voice and tried to speak. "My name is; my name is Benat;” Fuck, he'd forgotten his last name. "My name is Benat DeFlepard," he managed to say. "I am from Sully and I have' "What sort of name is DeFlepard?" snarled the one guard. "I have sealed orders," Mark interrupted, not liking where this was going. "From the Cardinal!" "Is that so?" sneered the man. "Let's see them!" Mark handed him the sealed missive scroll. The man examined it and frowned. "This is the king's seal," he growled. "What is the meaning of this?” Before the man could finish his query, Mark punched him in the face and then pulled his crème-colored tabard over his head and threw him down the stairs. The guard cursed loudly as he rolled at least two floors. Mark was too late to stop the other man from drawing his short rapier, but managed to grapple onto him, keeping himself from being run through. Mark might have been taller, but the guard was a veteran of many wars, strong and cunning. It wasn't long before he had Mark's back pressed against the wall, both men fighting for balance on the stairs. "Little shit!" he shouted, trying to press the edge of his blade against Mark's throat and slit it. They tussled, and Mark managed to wedge his arm between his neck and the rapier, feeling the sickening cold pain of the keen edge creasing his forearm. His free hand, however, snaked down to the pistol on his belt, twisting the leather until the muzzle pointed down; The stairwell echoed with a thunderous crack as Mark pulled the trigger and discharged the weapon, the iron ball punching a hole in the guard's boot and then his foot. The man groaned and staggered, releasing Mark. His ears ringing, Mark managed to shove the man down the stairs, following his comrade. He shook his head and began sprinting up the stairs, knowing the whole palace would be coming down on his head any second now. Alexandra was concealed in a secret closet in a parlor not far from the queen's quarters, listening carefully. She was wearing the red uniform of the Cardinal's personal guard, her impressive bust flattened and pulled tight with linen straps. Her golden hair was held in a ponytail while a black mask concealed her facial features. Her rapier sat on her hip and three customized pistols were concealed around her person, along with several knives balanced for throwing. She heard the discharge of a firearm, followed by shouts of alarm and fright. She hung her head and sighed. She'd been hoping it wouldn't come to this, but there seemed to be nothing for it. She would see her obligation met. Alexandra crossed herself and exited the hidden space, heading toward the Cardinal's quarters, determined to cause a distraction for Mark as he went in the opposite direction to rescue Rebecca. It was all in God's hands now. All she could hope was that Mark had remembered what his name was. Mark raced down the hallway, ignoring people who poked their heads out of various rooms and parlors to see what all the commotion was, before closing their doors and locking them in panic at the sight of him. He had his sword in one hand, his pistol in the other. Having discharged his shot already and having no idea how to readily and safely reload the damn thing, the pistol was mostly for intimidation purposes at this point. Thankfully, if he pointed it at people, they tended to make themselves scarce. A guard rushed around the corner, his halberd in hand, but Mark smashed the ornate swept hilt of his rapier into his mouth, which dissolved in a welter of blood, lips and gum before he burbled and fell over. Mark kept running. He shoulder-blocked his way past another guard, but then found himself confronted by a small group of angry servant girls, who kept swearing in French and throwing bread rolls and potatoes at him. Covering his head, he sprinted past them, resisting the urge to take a swipe at the uppity wenches. There was the room! He raced up to it and tried to open the door, but it was locked. Given the amount of noise and commotion he was causing, he shouldn't have been surprised. He stepped back and then slammed the heel of his sturdy boot into the door with all his might, knocking it out of its frame and falling to the floor. He rushed inside, looking around for his teacher, but she was nowhere in sight. That's when the heavy vase smashed into the back of his head. He was on his face on the floor, reality swimming around him. He heard someone hissing at him as he was handled roughly by his neck and his tunic. He was turned onto his back and someone was straddling him now, their supple legs on either side of his throat and their heavy skirt bunched up between their legs, allowing him to goggle up at his assaulter. "Becky! Stop! Stop, I; Ow! Jesus! Quit Hitting Me! It's Me, Mark!" The flurry of fists halted and then there was a pause thick with confusion. He felt his cheeks being gripped tightly, immobilizing his face and then his neck pulled up so that whoever was sitting on him could look at him. "Mark?" Becky exclaimed in disbelief. "Mark! Oh my God!" She began smothering him with feverish kisses, still straddling him. Still dizzy, he was in no particular shape to stop her, in spite of the fact the whole palace was on its way to kill him. His eyes finally managed to focus, and he looked up at her. "I've missed you too, Becks, but can you let me up, please?" Becky blinked and then jumped off him hastily, helping him to his feet. She still seemed stunned to see him, not that he blamed her. "How?" she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief and wet with emotion. "You; you were." "Dead? Yeah, kinda." "The how are you here?" she asked, trembling. He shrugged. "To quote Neil De Grasse-Tyson, science, bitches." "Oh, it doesn't matter," she exhaled, crushing herself to him and hugging tight, her body shaking with raw emotion. "You're back, Mark. You came back for me;” He smiled and hugged her back, his hand on the back of her head. "Well sure I did. You're my time-travelling partner, aren't you? Can't leave you here with these smelly savages." She laugh-choked back a sob and look up at him, her eyes leaking tears onto her scarlet cheeks. "And we're gonna get out of here and; Becks, are you, like, really drunk?" Her expression of delight warped into a scowl at his query and she pushed herself away from him. "Well what do you expect? I only spent the past month trying to kill myself with alcohol while you were taking your unscheduled nap, you jerk!" "I'm sorry," he faltered, knowing that this couldn't possibly be the right time to make her angry, on so many levels. "Let me get you out of here and then I'll explain everything." "Hang on;” she huffed, stomping over to a table and grabbing her bottle of wine, tilting her head back and taking a stiff pull from it gulping loudly. Mark made a wan face and fidgeted, acutely aware of the time they were losing. "Becks, no offense, but I'm pretty sure every guard in Paris is looking for me right now, and I' "Sounds like more of a you problem than a me problem," she grunted, attempting to drain the bottle with several loud glucks. "Nobody was trying to kill me while I was here." "No, you seem to have that covered;” he said dryly. She shot him a nasty look, but didn't stop drinking. "Look, we need to go," he insisted. "Pretty sure Alexandra's risking her neck to make sure I can' "Alexandra?" Becky interrupted, stopping drinking to look at him pointedly. "The gorgeous blonde I want to fuck?" "I; sure," Mark replied, trying to keep up. "Pretty sure she and Lisette are' "Who's Lisette?" Becky asked suspiciously, lurching toward him. She was quite a bit drunker than he'd initially thought. "It doesn't matter," he declared, determined to get moving before Richelieu arrested and shot his ass again. "We need to get' Mark winced in fear as she surged toward him, the bottle raised over her head. She flew by him and smashed the bottle down on the head of a guard who had barged into the room. His eyes rolled up into his head and he went to sleep. "Weren't you drunk moments ago?" Mark asked in disbelief. "Looks like you're the one who need rescuing." Becky shot back. "You were half a second away from having an exit wound the size of an airport runway in your chest just now." Another guard sprang around the corner. Becky, who was closest to the door, kicked him savagely between the legs. The man staggered to a stop and stiffened, but didn't fall over, the impact of her foot cushioned by the many layers of baroque skirt she was wearing, not to mention the dainty, padded slipper. As the man gaped at her, she kicked him between the legs again, but her skirt interfered, softening the blow to the place where he merely doubled over from the ache. Becky snarled angrily, lunged in, grabbed him by the neck and DDT him, almost as smoothly as ‘Jake the Snake' did to fellow pro wrestlers. This time he stayed down. "Jerk!" she muttered, glaring at the man. Without a second thought, she used a knife on the man's belt to tear layers of skirt away, leaving herself clad only in the bodice and skimpy underwear, with garters holding up the silk stockings she wore. She knelt on the unconscious man's back and pulled his boots off, replacing her slippers with the sturdier footwear. She then stripped his rapier and pistol from his person before turning to look at Mark. "You ready now?" she asked pointedly, standing there in what basically amounted to negligee and musketeer boots, while holding a rapier and a wheellock pistol. He gaped at her for a moment, unable to say anything. "You have no idea how stupidly sexy you look right now, Becks." Mark managed to say. "I'll believe it when Alexandra says it to me," she sniffed, turning and heading out the door. "Let's go, hero." Mark sighed and trotted after her, leaving the two men lying on the floor in a spreading pool of wine and broken shards of glass. Lisette made sure the guard was arranged comfortably in the plush chair, snoring, his breeches still around his ankles, his soft cock oozing cum all over his balls. She shook her head in exasperation as she rearranged her skirts; no sooner had the man cum than he yawned and began to fall asleep. She'd been nowhere close to climaxing when he'd finished. Typical male. At least the boy from the future liked to make sure she came first, even if he was a naïve school boy. She left the door open, to make sure his shame was on display and then hurried down the hallway, holding her skirt up and allowing herself to run. The palace was ringing with shouts of alarm, anger and panic. Everything seemed to be going as planned, whatever that entailed. She just trusted that Mistress knew what she was doing. Guards from various regiments were racing around now, getting one another's way and shouting orders angrily. She passed through them virtually unnoticed, merely a servant girl looking for shelter. She made a beeline right for the queen's royal apartments, and she was stopped by no one, since she was known to the guards and stuff. She nodded hastily as she passed two guards outside the ornate doors and headed inside the boudoir. Anne of Austria looked up from a book to see Lisette scurry in, closing the door behind herself and then pressing her ear to the door, ignoring everyone else in the room. She then saw the queen, blinked, curtseyed hastily, and went back to eavesdropping on the frenzy of activity outside. The monarch shook her head wearily and went back to reading her book. "You may not pass through here!" shouted the house guard, blocking Alexandra's passage forward. She had identified herself as a member of the Cardinal's guard, using her well-practiced man's voice to give credit to her guise. Thought he believed her, the man remained unmoved, barring her way. "I told you, I need to reach the Cardinal!" she insisted, knowing full well he would not let her through. "That is no concern of mine," he said coldly, glaring at her, his hand on his sword, ready to draw it. "Find another way to reach your Cardinal, because if you come another step closer, I will run you through." "So be it!" she growled as she lunged in, her own rapier flashing in her hand. The man drew his weapon and thrust at her, but she parried and then drove the point of her blade through the shoulder of his sword arm, pinning him against the wall. He groaned as his sword fell to the ground, but then her foot slammed into his face while she pulled her rapier from his shoulder. He was unconscious, but he would live. She had no cause to kill these men. She ran down the hallway, listening all the while to the commotion that echoed through the Louvre. A young guard barred her progress at a juncture in the hallways, and before he was even ready, she struck him across the head with the basket of her rapier, knocking him out. Alexandra continued along the corridor, but then saw several guards rushing into the other end of the hall, outside of an ornate door that led to the king's royal apartments. Upon seeing her, the six men pointed their muskets at her, three kneeling while the other three stood behind. A series of barks shook the area as she ducked around a corner hastily, avoiding their barrage. She could hear them shouting orders to reload. She leaned her head back against the wall and sighed. Idiots. Before they had reloaded, she had pulled a small device made of two pieces of flint out of her pocket, along with a tiny clay pot out of the other. From the hole in the top of the pot hung a thin strip of rigid paper. She held the pot by its flat bottom and snapped the flint pieces against one another, producing sparks that caught on the paper and began to burn. As the flame made its way down the paper wick, she counted slowly and calmly before leaning around the corner, tossing the pot, which skated on its flat bottom along the floor toward the guards who opposed her. She then ducked back, waiting grimly. There were shouts and the sound of boots stampeding, but then an unreal hissing shriek and a bright, flaring white light as the magnesium powder inside the container ignited. Cries of pain followed. Ten seconds later, the light died, and she rounded the corner and strode down the hallway. Four of the six guards had fled before the grenade went off, while two were writhing on the ground, clutching at their eyes from the flash blindness. She stepped between them and kicked in the door toward the king's apartments before turning around and walking away, knowing that this would create additional confusion as they sought to find the assassin in the red tabard who sought to slay the Sun King. There was more chaos to sow. Mark and Becky sprinted down the hall, ignoring the pell-mell going on around them. Inevitably, though, they were confronted by a soldier of the Cardinal, one that Mark recognized. It was the captain who had shot him. Marks teeth clenched as he rushed forward, ready to run the sonofabitch through, but Becky was faster. She threw herself into a skid, sliding along the polished floor, hurtling straight toward the man. He gaped at her in disbelief, but by then, she had slammed her foot into his crotch, doubling him over with a grunt of unreal pain. With a roar, she surged to her feet, grabbed the man around the middle from behind and yanked him over backwards, suplexing his family jewels with zest. Mark had by now skidded to a halt and watched in disbelief while his teacher stood over the supine officer and kicked him in the ribs. "Bastard!" she raged. "Teach you to kill my students!" She knelt and yanked his head up, making sure his eyes were open as she pointed at Mark, her voice dripping with vitriol. "See that? He's alive! You can't even kill something right! Your life means nothing! Nothing!" She smacked his head off the tile floor and gathered up her weapons before looking at Mark, composing herself now. "Sorry," she said with a flush of embarrassment. "You probably wanted him, didn't you? I thought you were dead, so if I ever saw him again, I'd have to avenge you." Mark shrugged. "No harm done. Except to him, and I don't really' Mark stopped talking and stared down the hallway behind Becky. Three men in flamboyant uniforms, trimmed in blue and white like himself were now approaching them. One had a grim, patrician air and about him, the second a handsome boyish charm, while the third towered over the others by a head and shoulders, a contemptuous smirk on his face. "That can't be good;” he thought. Becky didn't even blink. Without turning around, she pointed her pistol backwards over her shoulder and pulled the trigger. The bark of the shot echoed around the palace and the giant staggered backward, eyes wide in shock, before he fell over like a redwood. The other two gaped at her in astonishment as she turned around to glower at them. They hastily took hold of their downed friend and hauled him out of sight, their duty to the king forgotten. "That's right, ladies, run!" Becky called out, her chest heaving. "How's it feel to get beat up by a girl?" "You are so sexy right now, Becks." Mark chuckled, approaching her. She turned back to face him; covered with gunpowder smudges, scratches and the occasional bruise, she'd never looked more attractive to him. Heedless of their surroundings, she threw herself against him and kissed him shamelessly. His hands found her ass and squeezed as he returned the kiss and she moaned into his mouth. If there'd been a rhino horn on his crotch, he'd have been impaled on it. She broke the kiss and looked at him hungrily, her eyes shouldering with desire. "I'm so glad you're not dead, Mark," she breathed. "I can't wait to prove it to you when we get the fuck out of here." Mark took her hand and pulled her down the hallway, breaking into a run. They weren't out of danger yet. "What're you laughing about?" she asked, scowling while she allowed him to lead her through the palace. "I think that was Porthos you shot," he said almost cheerfully. "Becks, you ganked Porthos." "Oh, I did not," she hissed, trying to not feel disgust at her student's lack of historical knowledge and basic temporal mechanics. "Porthos doesn't die until 1670. So if that guy dies, it wasn't Porthos. If it was Porthos, he isn't dead. Read a book, Mark." "Ha, you said bookmark!" he laughed as he pulled her around a corner and down another hallway, trying to reach the point Alexandra had designated. "Uh!" Becky groused. "Why was I so damn happy that you lived? I swear, Mark, I; Ack!" They both whirled in panic and threw themselves back around the corner as a withering hail of musket fire peppered the plaster of the walls where they'd been standing mere seconds before. They scrambled to their feet and began running back the way they'd come, determined to not die in some baroque version of Bullet Hell from the Matrix. "Fucking shit!" Mark yelped, yanking her around another corner as more soldiers appeared and filled the hall with musket balls. "This sucks!" "Ya' think?" she hissed as they kept running, their options becoming increasingly limited. "I'm in this too, Mister Spotlight!" "Yeah, well at least you don't have the Goblin City Battle music from the Labyrinth soundtrack stuck in your head while they chase us around and try to kill us!" "I do now, you fucker! Thanks a lot!" Becky raged. A lone house guard skidded to a stop near them and prepared to fire. Mark flung his pistol at the man, striking him in the head before knocking him aside as they continued down the corridor. "What did you throw your gun away for, dumbass?" she exclaimed, wondering if blood loss after getting shot had permanently damaged Mark's brain. She hoped he could still get it up, if they made it out of here. "It had no ammo in it." Mark grunted, trying to get his bearings, thinking back to the plans of the palace Alexandra had shown him. "Why were you carrying around an empty pistol?" Becky asked in disbelief. "Intimidation purposes? Were you gonna hold it sideways when you pointed it at people, hope you looked all gangster?" "I plugged a guy on my way to find you, okay?" he sighed as they kept running. "The first shot fired that started this whole mess, it was me shooting some jackoff in the foot as I tried to find you." Becky skidded to a stop, halting Mark's flight as well. She looked into his eyes and then hugged him in relief. "Thank you, Mark," she said quietly. "You came for me, after you nearly died, and we both could today. You're very brave." When she ended the hug, Mark found she had put her own pistol in his hands. He frowned in confusion. "Why'd you give me your pistol?" he asked. "Because let's face it, I'm a lot more likely to snag another one than you are," she sighed. "Let's go, I'm done with the Sun King's France." Out of breath, they settled for trotting down a hallway, surrounded by the echoing sounds of chaos. Things had gotten so confused that the guards were all fighting one another now, thinking the enemy in their midst. Panting, the pair stopped suddenly as they came to a major intersection of hallways. Not far away, a confused brawl consisting of house guard and the Cardinal's guard blocked their passage. Upon their appearance, though, both sides paused in their fight and stared at them. Then a captain raised a call to kill them. Without even thinking, Mark pointed his pistol at the huge iron chandelier over the soldier's heads and fired. The plaster ceiling broke as the iron ball struck at and the chandelier plummeted, crashing into the dozens of men before while clouds of plaster dust filled the hall. "I can't believe that worked!" Mark laughed as they ran down another venue. "Yes, it was very impressive, Gene Kelly," Becky sighed, shaking her head. "Next, you'll be swinging from the damn chandeliers or using your knife to ride down tapestries." Soldiers surged around the corner, charging into the couple. Mark shouted in fury as they tried to skewer him while they attempted to wrestle Becky to the ground. He dodged a blade and slashed his foe across the arm before leaping back to try and give himself room. He looked around in a panic and saw Becky kicking a soldier in the nuts before punching another in the face, her eyes flashing with fury. Someone slammed into him from behind and he tumbled forward, scrambling to gain his feet. More bodies joined the fracas and he realized that they were not only trying to kill him but fighting one another as well. It was difficult to breathe. There were too many bodies smothering him. He gasped in panic and strained to find room for himself. His shaking hand gripped a sword and she shoved it forward indiscriminately, feeling something soft give before him. He focused all his effort on crawling forward, finally emerging from the churning pile of men, locked in combat. He dragged himself along the floor but then grunted in pain as something speared into his thigh from above and behind. He turned to look, his eyes watering in pain, seeing a man in red, glaring at him, raising his rapier for another strike. Then a sword point burst through the man's chest from behind. His eyes widened, and he dropped his sword and crumpled to the ground. The man who had killed him was already moving on to another target. Exhausted and dull with pain, Mark dragged himself to a wall and slumped against it, looking around for Becky, but she was nowhere to be seen. No. Not again. He ignored the maelstrom of violence and pushed himself to his feet, limping down a hallway, sword held loosely in his hand as he went to find his teacher. Alexandra strode down the hall with purpose, her senses keen for trouble. She had caused as much trouble as she could, all the while keeping the fray well away from the queen's quarters. She regretted that men would die today, due to their poor judgement, but she understood that the girl Rebecca could not remain here in Paris. A deep foreboding warned her that almost any price was worth paying to see her safely away. Sparring with D'Artagnan. She stopped as a lone figure came into view, blocking her way down the corridor. He wore the blue of the king's mousquetaires, his young face etched with determination. His hand rested on the hilt of his rapier while he observed her. "So," he began, tilting his head. "You must be the cause of all this mayhem, oui?" "I am not who you seek." Alexandra said plainly. "I do not truck with liars and I do not appreciate being lied to!" the young man snapped. "I would have your name before I run you through in the king's. Are you an agent of Buckingham?" "No." "Charles of Spain?" "I have no time for this," Alexandra said testily, putting her hand on the hilt of her blade. "Move aside and let me complete my task, musketeer!" "Then it is death you crave!" he hissed, his rapier flashing in his hand now. "I shall happily give it to you in the queen's honor!" Alexandra drew her blade as her foe rushed forward. She parried his initial thrust and then counter-thrust, which he swatted aside. A flurry of thrusts and ripostes followed, the two warriors measuring one another, vying for advantage in the narrow hallway. Steel rang and flashed. Alexandra's sword point tore a vent in one of her foe's sleeves, and she followed up with a swipe at his eyes, but he dodged away nimbly. He lunged in with the speed of a striking serpent and she caught his blade on hers before it pierced her stomach, turning it aside. They pressed blade-to-blade, moving around one another in a slow, deadly circle, their eyes locked. He danced away again as a main-gauche flashed in her hand, nearly shearing his throat open. He spun around her next attack, and when he was facing her again, a pistol had appeared in his free hand. At point blank range, he pulled the trigger. The thunderous bark of the firearm rattled her teeth as she bent backwards, the bullet passing harmlessly overhead. Alexandra somersaulted backward gracefully, coming to her feet with her rapier guarding against a follow-up attack. A lot of bemusement crossed his face. "Very pretty, good sir," he said. "But it will not save you." He darted in again and another furious exchange of swordplay followed. His blade kissed the top of her thigh, leaving a shining crimson thread on her skin. She paid him in kind with a nick across his cheek, followed by cutting the red plume from his hat. He was nearly as fast as she was, and his recklessness made him dangerously unpredictable, even to one as skilled and experienced as Alexandra. Their blades grated as they strained against one another, teeth clenched and eyes flashing in fury. With a cry of effort, she shoved with all her might and threw him back. He kept his feet and remained on guard, irritated by his foe's grit and skill. "D'Artagnan!" shouted Athos as he and Aramis dragged the unconscious Porthos across the hallway behind the combatants, disappearing from sight. This distracted the Musketeer, who turned to look behind himself in confusion and then disbelief. He glanced back at his foe and then sighed, sheathing his blade. "Until next time, enemy mine;” he said, before darting around the corner to catch up with his comrades. Alexandra waited some seconds after he was gone and then sagged against the wall, sighing heavily. She rubbed her face for a moment before returning her rapier to its sheathe and continuing on. She had to find Mark and Rebecca. The door to the room swung open and Mark staggered inside, panting in pain. His entire leg felt like it was on fire, and it was maddeningly sticky. He had lost his sword while searching for Becky, but it mattered little if he couldn't find her. He tumbled into a sitting position, propping himself up on his hands and trying to breathe. Everything hurt now, and it was getting to the place where he couldn't move. His head throbbed and he was getting dizzy. With extreme effort, he managed to tear one of his sleeves off, and tied it around his leg, hoping it would act as a tourniquet and perhaps staunch the bleeding. It stung like fucking Hell and to his distress did nothing ease his pain. He sat there panting, when a solemn figure in red moved slowly by the door. There was a pause and then the person came back into view, peering at Mark quizzically. Clad in red robes and a little red skull cap, his tight, lemony features creased in recognition and then disbelief. "I know you," the Cardinal murmured, his eyes never leaving Mark. "Yes, you are the boy from the field, the one who claimed to be a Spanish noble and had the pretty girl with him." He stepped closer, still scrutinizing Mark, who tried to move backwards, his body screaming in protest. "But you died," the elderly man stated. "My captain shot you. You died in that field. What witchcraft is this?" Annoyance flashed in the Cardinal's eyes now. "So, you are the cause of all this tumult. The girl I was to give to the queen, she is missing and now I know why." He pulled a pistol from within the voluminous folds of his red robes and cocked it before pointing the muzzle down at Mark's face. "I think it is time I dealt with this problem myself, once and for all." Too hurt and exhausted to fight back, Mark squeezed his eyes shut; "I Kick You In The Nuts, Richelieu!" shrilled a voice from the doorway behind the Cardinal, the shout followed by a sickening thump as a musketeer's boot appeared beneath Richelieu's groin. The man stiffened for a moment in confusion, but then his eyes crossed, and he bit his lower lip as his skin turned a sickly shade of green. While Richelieu slumped forward and then fell on his side, trembling and holding the family jewels, Mark goggled up at Becky, who stood indignantly in the doorway with her hands on her hips, glaring down at His Eminence. "Asshole;” she muttered as she stepped over the Cardinal and came over to Mark, who was shaking with the effort of holding himself up. Her eyes welled with emotion as she knelt next to him. "Oh, Mark," she said in a gentle voice. "Look at you, you got stabbed, baby. I'm so sorry;” "I'll be alright," he managed to say as she hugged him to her. "At least you still look amazing, no matter how badly your ass has been kicked." Becky's laugh choked back her sob and she smiled at him, tears in her eyes. "Smart-ass," she murmured. "C'mon, let me bind your boo-boo properly and then we'll get out of here, before everyone in Paris is dead." She fixed his makeshift tourniquet and then helped him stand. Once he was upright, he took a deep breath and smiled at her. "I think I can walk, I was just in need of a breather, ya' know?" She giggled. "How the Hell are we gonna explain a rapier wound through your thigh when you get home?" "With any luck, Chester will have a little something' to fix me right up." Mark replied. "Let's go. If we are where I think we are, then our ride isn't that far away." They walked cautiously down several smaller hallways, avoiding any and all encounters. They chaos seemed to have abated, at least for now. Alexandra had predicted that if fighting broke out, there was be lots of confused violence, followed by the various guard companies withdrawing to their assigned wings of the palace, to directly protect their charges, such as the king, queen and cardinal. "Bet the Cardinal's guards are gonna be upset," Mark chuckled. "He's nowhere near his quarters, and they let him get kicked in the freaking balls." Becky giggled as she walked alongside him, her arm through his. "You have no idea how good that felt, Mark. A girl could get used to that. Maybe we should visit Berlin, see if I can kick Hitler in the nuts." "One grand adventure at a time, teach;” he said wearily, causing her to laugh. But her mirth was brought up short when a solitary figure appeared in front of them, wearing red and clad in a black mask, a rapier and several pistols on their belt. Becky scowled, getting ready to step in front of her student, when Mark seemed to sigh in relief. "I am glad to see you are both well," said the person, walking forward, pulling their golden hair out of its ponytail and removing the mask. Becky's heart leapt as she came face-to-face with Lady Alexandra once more. "Thank the Lord." She stepped in and embraced them both, all three of them trembling at being reunited. Alexandra finally smiled at her friends and nodded. "We must still get you out of here, before the guards return to some sense of normalcy. Mark, do you still have the place name I gave to you?" Mark smiled wearily. "I; it's in the little pocket in my pants here, but it's probably pretty red and unreadable by now." "It's a good thing, then, that I wrote a copy, non?" Alexandra lilted, pulling a small piece of vellum out from beneath the sash she wore and handing it to Becky. "Go to this place," the noblewoman instructed. "By carriage, it should not take more than three days. It is a sanctum I use on occasion and it will be safe. Lisette and I will find you there a day or two after you arrive." She then handed two small, round jars into Becky's palm as well. "Use these to salve your wounds, until I arrive. I promise you, they will work." "How can we thank you?" Becky asked, staring at Alexandra, enchanted. The French woman smiled and then pulled Becky to her, kissing her deeply and passionately. Becky shuddered and moaned, her arms wrapping around Alexandra and returning the kiss passionately. Mark smiled as he watched the blondes make out for almost a minute before Alexandra reluctantly pulled away. "We need to stop, or we will be fucking right here in the halls of the palace," she breathed, wiping at the corner of her mouth with a finger. "We will see one another soon, and celebrate then." She turned to Mark and smiled before leaning in and kissing him gently. "You are a brave man, my friend. Never doubt it, no matter what travails Heaven provides." She walked them through several secret passages now, until they emerged into a small courtyard, under the cover of night. Standing nearby, a non-descript carriage awaited them. Alexandra wrapped Becky in a cloak and then spoke to the driver while the clambered inside. His instructions were clear, and he would not deviate from them. Becky and Mark looked out a small window, smiling and waving at Alexandra, who held up her hand to bid them farewell. The carriage exited the Louvre via a small gate where the guards asked no questions, and then they were on their way through Paris. Mark sank back into the surprisingly plush seat and sighed heavily. "Try not to get kidnapped again, Becks," he said lazily. "I'm not sure how much more of this my body can take." "But being rescued by you is one of my favorite reasons to use tawdry sex as a thank you," she protested, turning to smile at him and tracing a fingernail up and down his chest. "You wouldn't deprive me of that joy, would you, hero?" "Perish the thought, teach;” he chuckled tiredly. A time to recuperate. Mark had Lisette pinned beneath him and rocked back and forth on top of her, his cock plunging in and out of her molten cunt, while she groaned in pleasure. It felt so good to have this boy's tool inside her again. Her legs were wrapped around his strong waist and her hips moved in time with his, taking him in as deep as she could. Lisette rarely kissed anyone who wasn't her mistress, but in this case, she was making a willing exception. Their tongues tangled wetly as they fucked, exploring one another. The tingling heat was overtaking her, and she knew it would not be long now. She crossed her ankles behind him and she bit at the skin of his chest, shuddering in delight. Mark arched his back, pushing as deep inside her as he could, before shaking and allowing himself release. Her wanton cunt gripped his cock while he came deep inside her, his whole being awash with unreal pleasure. They moaned through a frenzied kiss and then sagged together, spent and sated, at least for now. Moans, pants and sighs of bliss attracted Mark and Lisette's attention and they looked off their side; also on the huge bed with them, Becky and Alexandra were sitting together, with their arms and legs wrapped around one another, kissing hungrily as they squirmed their slick pussies together. Their matching golden hair was damp with the sweat of their exertions, skin slick and shining. The greedy smacking and sucking sounds their slits made as they mingled made the four lovers shiver in delight. Alexandra and Becky were groping and fondling one another with unreal need, their nails leaving red marks and their fingers gripping tight enough to leave welts. Neither relented, though, desperate to cum together. The moans became groans and they were panting as they gyrated their hips, churning rhythmically in a sensual dance of bliss. They pulled tighter against one another, clenching their teeth and craning their necks as they peaked, then crying out and pressing their molten, gooey pussies as they came. More feverish kissing punctuated the climax and the finally both collapsed backward, chests heaving, their legs still scissored together. Steam seemed to be rising from their bodies, skin flushed pink. The four lovers lay silent for some minutes, just basking in their shared bliss. Mark finally pulled himself out of Lisette and then knelt over her face, allowing the dark-haired girl to slide his cock into her mouth, cleaning their mingled cum from his cock, which she did with great delight. Becky and Alexandra finally clasped wrists and pulled themselves up into a sitting position, hugging tiredly, but not willing to relinquish their most intimate contact. They kissed deeply and contentedly, fondling one another's tits. Lisette looked over at them and giggled. Alexandra looked over at her servant, her eyebrow raised. "What is so funny, girl?" Lisette turned on her side and rested her head on her hand while Mark spooned in behind her. "I was just thinking, Mistress; you and Miss Rebecca look so much alike. What if you are her ancestor?" Becky and Alexandra both thought about that, looked at one another for a moment, shrugged and began kissing again, their tongues tangling loudly. "And if that was the case, think about what we discussed the other day," she continued, smirking mischievously. "You said you had wondered what it would be like to Monsieur Mark's child, yes? Wouldn't that also make him Miss Rebecca's ancestor?" Mark burst out laughing while Becky choked on her shock, interrupting the kiss she had been so enjoying. She looked at Lisette in disbelief. Alexandra just sighed and shook her head, used to her servant's twisted humor. The moment of metaphysical terror passed for Becky and they all cuddled together in the center of the bed, kissing tenderly and caressing. Alexandra had told Becky all about Mark's efforts to find her and reach her, what he had undergone and risked. Becky's eyes shone as she looked at Mark at promised to make sure he was properly thanked until the end of time. "I wish you could stay," Alexandra almost moped, regretting that she had to give her new friends up. "I enjoy your company, and I am not ashamed to say I love you both." "Feeling's mutual, Alexa," Becky lilted, tracing a fingernail across her generous tit. "But maybe we needn't end our association. If we designate a consistent place, when you know you are available, you can leave a message there. Mark and I will check for messages, and when we see one, we can visit you at the appointed time. No conflicts or dangers presented, as long as we're all certain of the clear lines of communication." "I like that idea," Alexandra said, grinning. "And I have a gift for you both." She climbed off the bed and went to retrieve something. She returned shortly with two bottles, which she presented to them. "A new type of wine, invented in my native region of Champagne," she said, kneeling on the bed as they examined the bottles. "Twice fermented and sweet on the tongue, not unlike my darling Rebecca." Becky blushed and Mark grinned. "You'll be glad to know that in our time, champagne is one of the most expensive and sought-after drinks in the world, used in every important celebration." "That does please me, Mark." Alexandra said, nodding her head and deciding to not chide him this time about telling her the future. "And now that I think of it, literally, I've got a present for you, Alexa." Mark mused, getting off the bed. The three women watched as he walked into a large closet, rummaging around loudly. When he returned, he was holding what appeared to be several unusual books, which he handed to Alexandra. "What are these?" she asked, puzzled. "Well, the graphic novel is a pictorial history of Wonder Woman, who you may recall I told you a little bit about," he explained, sitting on the bed again. "And the other three books are all written by a man named Alexander Dumas and are fictional works about the Three Musketeers. I figured they'd be humorous reading for you." She looked up at him incredulously. "But; why were they in my closet here in my chalet?" He grinned again. "Well, just a moment ago, I decided to give them to you. So in a few days, I'm gonna gather them up, bring them here to just before Becky and I arrive, and bury 'em in your closet, where I know they are. That way, I don't run into any of us. And clearly it worked." Becky made a wry face. "Ya' know, I'd say you're getting the hang of this whole temporal travel thing, but I'm pretty sure you're only getting the hang of abusing it." Mark smirked at her and pinched her nipple, making her shiver and bite her lip. He then looked back at Alexandra. "And when you're done with 'em, you can just leave 'em in our drop-off spot and Becks and I'll pick them up. That way, there's no anachronistic copies of nineteenth-century novels or twentieth-century comic books lying around to be discovered by archaeologists." "I take back what I said just now, you're gonna get us all clock-hammered right out of existence." Becky sighed, causing her lovers to laugh. Mark and Becky lay side-by-side in her bed and holdings hands, back in their own time and generally none the worse for wear. They'd learned some valuable lessons and had made some important contacts along the way. "Do' you really think Alexandra's my ancestor?" Becky mused, looking at her bedroom ceiling. Mark shrugged. "You sure look a lot alike, and you're both Hell on wheels. I'm still amused by the notion of me being your great-great-great-whatever grandfather." She sighed and shook her head. "I can handle the notion of fucking and falling in love with my great-whatever grandmother, but the notion of you as my whatever grandfather gives me the jibblies. Just promise me you won't impregnate Alexa and make that come true, Mark." He chuckled. "I promise. I have no idea how trans-temporal alimony or visitation rights even work." Becky giggled and turned in to face him, cuddling close. "So, who're you gonna save me from next, hero?" she purred, nipping at his earlobe and making him shiver. "Oh, God, Becks, can we start out with some really ferocious kindergartners from the Roaring Twenties taking you hostage? I can probably handle that right about now." She giggled again and crawled on top of him, staring down into his eyes and kissing his nose while she squirmed her tits against him. "Take me to New York in the Twenties and I'll show you how liberated a flapper girl I can be," she whispered. "Deal?" "Deal." Mark replied, pulling her down and kissing her soulfully. Count Mark and Becky in! I Think I'm Getting The Hang Of This! Finally home. Mark sat at his dining room table, eating dutifully. His mom had prepared short ribs and mashed potatoes for dinner, one of his favorites. What she didn't know was that Mark had substituted several herbs and spices into her collection, items he'd brought back from his temporal travels. At the very least, this meant they were technically several hundred years old, or sometimes that they didn't exist in the modern era at all. "I'm enjoying this particular batch of thyme that I put in the braise," Dhallyla Pritchard remarked as she gently stabbed some green beans with her fork. "Mark, where did you say you got it for me? The flavor is so; special." Mark shrugged. "Another shop I thought I'd try out," he replied. "Nowhere near our usual places." "Well, keep it up, son," his father said, sitting at the other end of the table. "No offence to your mother's cooking, but the spices we were getting before weren't helping the cause. Now this is flavor." "Such a good little minion," his mom said sweetly, reaching over and pinching his cheek. "First, you did amazingly well on your Physics exam and boosted your overall grade to the place where the university accepted you, and now you're an herbs and spices guru. Talk about an unexpected change." "Yeah," his sister Roxy said, sitting across from him, and trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice. "Unexpected is right." "Now Roxy, be nice," their mom chided. "You should be happy for your little brother, he'll be going to university with you." "As long as she pulls her grades up," grunted dad, pausing in eating to waggle his fork in her general direction. "You promised us you'd keep your grades up and we'd let you live here rent-free as a result, Rox. We're living up to our end of the bargain, what's so difficult about yours?" "Maybe I should study more and party less," she grumbled, scowling at her food. She hated to admit it, but her mom was right, the spices were great. Where had the little trouser-snake bought them? "Ya' know, open my mind more and my legs less?" "Dear!" Dhallyla gasped, looking at her daughter in shock. "Nobody said you were behaving licentiously! There's no need to use language like that!" "Sorry," the dark-haired girl sighed, putting down her fork. "Just been on edge lately. Seems to have been The Mark Show around here recently,

This episode begins with one of the great scenes in the mythologies of India. Indra had become King of the Earth by winning a great battle; he also became obsessed with power and increasingly demanding. Just when all the people were being reduced to dust and bones by the endless orders and sudden changes, the self-proclaimed lord of the earth has a surprising encounter with a ragged beggar boy. Although young and seemingly an outcast, the orphan boy knows more than the king about the use of power, the meaning of life and how the world can change in a moment.     We are each the beggar boy in the sense that we know what it means to be the orphan, the outcast, the immigrant or other who is being rejected, alienated or exiled. And in the end, the orphan boy, who breaks the spells of self-glorification and self-delusion that entraps the king and all the land, turns out to be Vishnu, the original creator who dreams up the world. Those who insist on claiming that they are superior and more righteous or entitled than others are not only psychologically rejecting their own inner orphan, they are also severing their connection to the underlying and essentially unifying dream of life.      Thank you for listening to and supporting Living Myth. You can hear Michael Meade live by joining his free online event “A Divided World, a Hidden Unity” on Thursday, July 17.     Register and learn more at mosaicvoices.org/events.      You can further support this podcast by becoming a member of Living Myth Premium. Members receive bonus episodes each month, access to the full archives of over 700 episodes and a 30% discount on all events, courses and book and audio titles.     Learn more and join this community of listeners at patreon.com/livingmyth.     If you enjoy this podcast, we appreciate you leaving a review wherever you listen and sharing it with your friends. On behalf of Michael Meade and the whole Mosaic staff, we wish you well and thank you for your support of our work.

Rachel Maddow looks at growing public anger at Donald Trump's war on the U.S. government, and looks at how cuts in the federal workforce, slashed funding to the NIH for medical research, and the decimation of USAID is having a profoundly negative economic effect in places that were previously supportive of Trump.

Enjoy this re-release of one my top listened to episodes with my guest, Joshua Becker.Joshua is a writer, creator, and entrepreneur at Becoming Minimalist. He is here to talk about his book, "Things That Matter: Overcoming Distraction to Pursue a More Meaningful Life." Drawing inspiration from Stoic philosophy, Joshua challenges the pursuit of luxury and fame, advocating for a life of purpose and intentional living. We explore his journey towards minimalism, spurred by a simple realization about possessions and their impact on happiness. From modeling values in front of his children to embracing solitude for self-reflection, Joshua provides practical steps to minimize regrets and enhance fulfillment. Tune in as we discuss the power of verbalizing intentions, the role of technology in our lives, and the importance of staying authentic on social media. Time Stamps:[07.41] End of life – Joshua explains that his book is dedicated to influencing the reader on how to live their lives having fewer regrets about how they lived. [09.53] Heedless luxury & no good activity – The comfort that isn't necessary and the time we spend doing nothing worthy makes us question the time we wasted, says Joshua. [15.41] I commit myself – Staying focused every day is essential. Joshua shares the importance of having a clear goal in mind every day. [20.24] Identify the distractions – Joshua shares how his book helps readers to identify the distractions in their lives from doing worthy things with their time. [31.37] A little bit more – No matter how much money we have, we want a little more. Joshua explains why 90% of American people have stress over money. [45.10] Re-programming – Joshua explains how the world is trying to manipulate our existence. He further explains how to break it and re-program ourselves. [51.50] Childhood – Joshua dives into how your origin or childhood affects your view of possessions. He shares what people need to do to discover how they are programmed in their childhood. [01.01.40] Time – Joshua dives into why it is easy to sacrifice time for things we don't want. [01.10.05] Consuming media – Joshua shares his idea on why technology consumes people.Connect with Joshua Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/becomingminimalistInstagram - https://www.instagram.com/joshua_becker/LinkedIn - linkedin.com/in/becoming-minimalist/ Twitter – https://twitter.com/joshua_beckerYouTube - https://www.youtube.com/@JoshuaBeckerWebsite - becomingminimalist.com/ Book by Joshua:Things That Matter: Overcoming Distraction to Pursue a More Meaningful Life 

The verse was revealed due to the people of As-Suffah. And if Allah SWT were to extend the provision profusely to His servants they would transgress in the land but He sends down by measure what He wills, Surah Ash Shoora 42 v27. For some wealth is appropriate as being poor would damage them Others are good with poverty as wealth would damage them For some health is good as illness would spoil them Others are good with illness as health would damage them I SWT alone manage the affairs of My servants for indeed I SWT am Aware and watchful over them (Baihaqi). 'Do not become heedless that you forget about The Mercy of your Lord' (Ahmad). 'Allah SWT is critical of incapacity' (Ahmad). 'The most incapable person is he who does not make supplication' (Ibn Hibaan).

Do Not Become Heedless Such That You Forget About The Mercy of Allah SWT And Thus Start Falling into Despair (Tirmidhi). ...it's our good fortune that Allah SWT forgives so many of our sins (without account) and those which are not forgiven are also dealt with very mildy as stated at the end of verse Surah 30 v41, they taste some of what they did. A person ashamed of his sins awaits Allah SWT Mercy (Baihaqi). Do Not Become Heedless Such That You Forget About The Mercy of Allah SWT And Thus Start Falling into Despair (Tirmidhi). O Allah SWT I seek refuge in You from those sins that prevent the answering of my requests. O Allah SWT I seek refuge in You from those sins that stop sustenance. O Allah SWT I seek refuge in you from those sins that bring about your wrath (Tabarani). O Allah SWT I ask you of sudden goodness and I seek refuge in you from sudden evil (Ibn As-Sunee). O Immense Eraser O The Beautiful Overlooker O You whose forgiveness is most expansive O You who outstretches his Hands with Mercy O You to whom all entreaties are directed O You to whom all complaints end up O The Most Generous in forgiving O The immense Bestower O You who initiates Blessings even before anyone deserves them O Our Lord O Our Protector O Our Utmost God I ask you O Allah SWT not to roast my form in The Fire (Haakim).

#MrMarket: The CBO projects ten years of heedless spending. Veronique DeRugy, Mercatus Center https://www.creators.com/read/veronique-de-rugy/05/24/projections-vs-scenarios-and-why-politicians-should-care 1936 FDR

What use is brute strength when the mind is under siege?A 5-part story By Blind_Justice & Loqui Sordida Ad Me. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels.Preface: A grim, brutal sword-and-sandal adventure in the style of Robert E Howard, creator of characters like Conan the Barbarian, Soloman Kane, and Red Sonya (whom we pay homage to in this tale).The grim visage of a snarling war goddess carved into the prow cut a foaming trough through a particularly high wave as fifty slaves grunted with the effort of dragging their oars through the churning waters, spurred on by the pounding drum and the sting of the lash. Slicing through the choppy sea with the practiced grace of a harem dancer, the sleek bireme stalked her prey, her sail taut and a firm hand on her tiller. With the salt wind in his hair and the brine spray on his face, Ambrose smiled.Gods willing, the Tyrant’s Blade, would finally overtake Kelgore the Despoiler today, putting an end to the pirate king’s bloody rampage and filling Ambrose’s purse with coin. The dreaded pirate had pillaged his way along the Xhastrian coast, uncannily avoiding his pursuers through guile, bribery and masterful seamanship. The merchants and nobles of Xhastria called out for the God-King to put an end to Kelgore’s atrocities. Despite unleashing the considerable naval might of Xhastria upon him, Kelgore still evaded justice.And so the heavy bounty levied on Kelgore’s head was enough to pique the interest of every mercenary who could stomach a rolling deck beneath their feet.Ambrose counted himself lucky to have cut a deal and joined forces with a warrior-witch whose renown, if not already legendary, was certain to become so. He had once seen Red Tsonia’s prowess in battle for himself and it made his heart glad that she sailed under his banner, and not Kelgore’s.Tsonia, flame-haired, long-limbed and clad in a woolen cloak against the stinging wind and spray, shot him a fierce glare. “The storm draws closer, Captain,” she stated flatly. In any other, Ambrose would have expected at least a note of worry in the statement.“Aye, and Kelgore sails into its teeth!” he replied.Leaden clouds hung but a hand’s breadth above the slate-gray, foam-crested waves and the sky between was hidden behind a curtain of distant rain. Less than a scant league ahead of them the silhouette of Kelgore’s ship drew low in the water, over-burdened by its plundered cargo. A lance of lightning bisected the sky to the west but still Kelgore’s crew pulled hard for the rain shroud.“He means to lose us in the maelstrom,” Ambrose continued, barely audible over the groan of the oars, the howl of the wind and the roar of the waves around them. “But Tyrant’s Blade is lighter. Faster. We’ll be on him before he’s swallowed by the storm.”“We’ll both be in the gullet of that storm if the winds change,” Tsonia observed, bracing a hand against the rail as a heavy swell rolled the deck beneath her feet. “But I’d rather die than let the last fortnight’s hunt go to waste. Kelgore the Despoiler dies today, come hell or high water.”Ambrose, steady as always, leaned against the rudder to climb the steep swell and keep Kelgore in sight. “You might have both if that storm catches us,” he replied. Then to his crew he shouted “Make ready to cut away the sail lines! We’ll not waste time furling if the winds shift!’The bireme pitched up another undulating hillock of water, smashed across its foamy crest, and plunged down the far side towards a deep valley. For the moment, Kelgore was lost to sight in the sea’s rolling hills. Tsonia cursed and clambered snarling up the aft castle but Ambrose merely grinned. A great warrior she might be, he thought to himself, but she cannot brook losing sight of her quarry because she cannot read the ocean.Down and down the Tyrant’s Blade dived, gaining speed as the oarsmen pulled and the sail snapped. Down, until the valley floor rose to meet them, as Ambrose knew it would. The deck yawed hard and pitched up suddenly. Above him, Ambrose heard Tsonia curse again. The rising swell had caught the ship on its back and bore her aloft towards the iron clouds above.As the turbulent waves fell away on either side, a great shout went up from the crew, for dead ahead was Kelgore’s ship, her sail fallen slack, as the wind had turned."Cleave the lines!” shouted Ambrose, though he needn’t have bothered. His crew knew their jobs and let heavy axes fall across the hempen cables at the first sign that the sail might falter and drag. The heavy canvass flapped away in the headwind, an expensive sacrifice, but dreams of wealth beyond counting had made Ambrose and his crew reckless in their thirst for Kelgore’s blood.“He turns!” shouted Tsonia from the aft castle. “Kelgore means to fight!”Thunder exploded and another fork of lightning stabbed at the sea, as if to portend the inevitable battle to come. Ahead, Ambrose could see the broadside of Kelgore’s ship turning towards them, two banks of oars dragging in the water on her port side. Kelgore’s limp sail suddenly snapped taut as it caught hold of the shifted headwind.“Ramming speed!" Ambrose bellowed. The tempo of the drum quickened and the oars beat a staccato rhythm through the violent sea. Tyrant’s Blade lurched forward into the wind like a mad dog broken free of its lead."To the bow Tsonia, and ready your blade!” he shouted up to the top of the castle.She leapt down from the roof and threw off her spray-sparkled cloak. In nothing more than a cropped halter of tarnished chainmail and a kilt of the same, Tsonia sprinted towards the front of the ship. Her sandaled step held her balance on the capricious deck and she drew a wickedly curved scimitar from its scabbard as she ran, the perfect weapon to maul unprotected flesh with quick, wide slashes.From the tiller, Ambrose couldn’t help but admire Red Tsonia’s shapely figure as she stood at the head of the mercenary crew, one hand braced against the ship’s high prow, the other idly testing the weight of her sword, her crimson locks tossed behind by the shrieking gale. Once again, lightning split the sky and thunder rolled a warning omen as the ship bore heedlessly down on its prey.“There’s a sight to daunt a man’s soul,” Ambrose said to the figure in the bright tangerine cloak who emerged from the castle. “Two fell goddesses bearing down on you with murder in their eyes. By the gods man, that’s a scene you ought to paint!”“Yes,” agreed Joras, taking in the volatile chaos unfolding before him and clinging tightly to a rail. “But to capture the proper perspective, I’d need to be on Kelgore’s ship.”Even amidst the roar of the waves and the booming thunderclaps, the impact of Tyrant’s Blade against Kelgore’s galley was ear-shattering. The heavy bronze-clad ram that the war goddess figurehead sat astride pierced the side of Kelgore’s ship in a cacophony of bursting planks, splintering oars, and wailing men as wood and flesh were torn asunder.Tsonia, nimble like a prowling cougar, used the force of the impact to propel herself onto the other ship’s deck feet first, toppling a bleeding sailor feebly clutching at half an oar sticking from his gut. She hoisted his mangled body up by an arm and tossed it towards a cluster of dumbfounded pirates stumbling in from the wounded ship’s prow, creating a gap big enough to allow Ambrose’s men to follow her onto the deck.And follow her they did, using a precariously placed boarding plank, hacking and stabbing at everything their short blades and heavy bludgeons could reach.“Keep them off me while I fetch Kelgore’s head!” she bellowed over the chaos just as sheets of rain began to pour from the roiling clouds above. Another peal of thunder rolled above the din, the deck heaved erratically beneath her feet, and Tsonia charged blindly into the deluge with no doubt she would find Kelgore at the helm, wrangling the ship and his men both.Her scimitar darted this way and that, finding ample bodies to carve open. Across the perilous deck Tsonia danced through the rainfall, plucking a wickedly barbed harpoon from the feebly twitching hand of a pirate she had just eviscerated.Over the cries of the wounded and dying and the drumming of the rain she heard a gurgling moan. Through the turmoil emerged a hulking, misshapen brute bearing down on her. A head taller and twice as wide as she, the grotesque creature hefted a gargantuan mace, the head a sharp-edged lump of dark matter lined with scintillating veins of a viridian mineral. Heedless if it hit friend or foe, the giant swept the weapon across the deck, felling a handful of his allies and clearing ample space for Tsonia.The visage of the brute was truly hideous, his features half-melted and covered in purulent boils of some fell disease. One eye was of a sickly green hue, the other of a brilliant blue. Unbridled rage flared in both as he roared, spit flying from swollen lips, rivulets of rain water trickling over thickly corded muscle. The mace came up to drive Tsonia through the deck like a nail but the flame-haired warrior was faster. With the force of a ballista she hurled the harpoon, the ghastly weapon tearing through the giant’s throat in a shower of gore. Like a grisly monument, the barbed head protruded from the back of his neck. Spewing blood and madly flailing at the object jutting from his jugular, the giant went to his knees. At last, he managed to grasp the heft of the weapon and pulled, ending his own miserable existence in self-defeating agony.A hail of arrows came down around Tsonia. Some missiles hit the fallen giant's back, others vanished overboard and into the roiling sea below. Tsonia peered through the torrent at the shadows of men atop the aft castle trying to unleash another volley of feathered death her way. For all the guile their master had displayed during his cunning evasion of the God-King’s might, his minions seemed to lack the fundamentals of warfare. No sound tactician would even consider archers in weather like this, but here they were.Chuckling to herself, Tsonia dashed towards the aft castle, her bloodstained weapon and fierce gaze enough to give pause to many a defender. Those too brave or foolish to flee she cut down as she ran, her curved blade carving horrible wounds into their bodies, only protected by wet cloth and unholy sigils tattooed onto their skin by blasphemous artists.By the time the third salvo scattered onto the precariously tilted deck, she dove headlong through the sodden curtain covering the castle’s entrance tucking into a shoulder-roll to avoid any hidden ambush. The sharpened prongs of a barbed trident scored the rain-splattered planks behind her and the anticipated defender readied his weapon for another attack. Tsonia lithely came to her feet. Her opponent, a half-naked Xhastrian with oiled skin and ceremonial braids in his coal-black hair had the greater reach, but he didn’t have her strength. She flung her scimitar spinning pommel over blade, causing him to evade to the side just as she expected. Grabbing his trident behind the viciously barbed tips, Tsonia pulled, breaking his balance and forcing him to stumble forwards or lose his weapon.The Xhastrian decided not to relinquish the trident and, thinking her unarmed and less dangerous, even put his weight behind it, hoping to put her off-balance. Tsonia let him push, allowing the weapon to glance off her shoulder. Too late the Xhastrian realized what her true plan was, but by the time he tried to pry her hands off his temples, it was too late. One quick snap to the side and the man’s neck broke. Tsonia tossed his limp body aside, scowling at the gash the trident had carved into her fair skin. The wound was already closing, her black blood hardening into a protective scab. In an hour, only the ghost of a scar would tell the tale of this exchange. A day later, even that ghost would only be a memory.Reclaiming her sword, Tsonia looked around. Another curtain covered the only other exit from the castle’s main cabin. Above the patter of rain and frantic footfalls on the roof above, Tsonia heard urgent muttering from beyond the curtain, syllables of a knotty language she knew all too well.Snarling in anger, Tsonia burst into the room beyond the curtain. Runes and sigils had been smeared onto the planks and the stink of death and magic was heavy in the air. A wizened old crone, naked but for bloody symbols painted onto her saggy skin, held the bleeding corpse of a young girl in her arms. A crimson gash on the girl’s throat told Tsonia all she needed to know. The storm tossing them about was not borne of nature, but of demonic forces.“Do not trifle with me, sell-sword,” the hag wheezed, brandishing a knife made from some large predator’s tooth. “I alone hold the storm’s true fury at bay.”The weather-witch rammed the blade into the girl’s chest, drawing thick red heart-blood. Like a living entity, the trail of blood curled upwards like a charmed serpent while the crone sang, enticing unspeakable powers from beyond the veil to do her bidding. Tsonia lunged forward to interrupt the unholy spell being invoked before her, the scimitar in her hand a crimson-stained arc of steel as she aimed for the crone’s neck.The weapon tore through flesh and bone, separating the still muttering skull from the neck it had sat upon. Blood fountained and the grinning head bounced off the floor, coming to rest near the veiled exit.“Take your lies to the Pits for all I care,” she growled, just as the planks beneath her feet rocked as if struck by an angry titan and the drumming rain above her intensified.There was a horrified yell from outside, even audible over the roar of the waves and the howl of the wind piercing every tiny opening in the ship’s hull. A moment later a horrible impact ripped through the aft castle. Beams cracked and planks split as a large weight slammed into the ceiling.“What in the Burning Hells have you done?” a cultured voice demanded to know.Tsonia tore her gaze away from the torrent of water sluicing through the shattered castle and pooling around her ankles. She saw his eyes first, black like twin obsidian beads piercing her with a gaze of dark nothingness. Behind those eyes, the man who clambered through the castle wreckage was tall and handsome despite sodden, battle-worn raiment. Long hair of sable hung wet and dripping past his sharp cheekbones and an angry snarl curled his thin lips as he snatched the severed head from the surging foam.“I have given your demon-kisser what she damn well deserved,” Tsonia spat, struggling to place her feet for a quick strike. But the heaving deck gave no quarter and left her clutching at the broken walls for balance.“You have damned us all, you stupid cow!” the empty-eyed man growled. “Like demons, storms are easy to summon but nigh impossible to control. And you just slew the one person who might have done so!”If possible, the hungry storm outside intensified, howling wind cutting through every tiny gap in the ship’s hull like the wail of unquiet dead. Ferocious waves tossed the ship. With a crash of splintering wood, a seismic wave shook the broken structure as the fragile ships were smashed together in the turbulent gale. There suddenly was the rush of water, very loud and very near.Tsonia found herself drawn to his stoic magnetism, and recognized the force of his presence instinctively. This man could be none other than Kelgore himself. His ebon eyes marked him as demonically debased, just as her own black blood marked her. It explained much about his wild success against the Xhastrians.“Since you seem to know so much about demons and storms, you must be Kelgore,” Tsonia bellowed over the clangor of the storm. “My hunt has come to an end at last!”Heedless of the precarious surroundings, Tsonia lunged, her blade aiming for the dread pirate’s heart. But the blow never connected.A murderous god’s fist shook the world as another mighty wave crashed down upon the interlocked and damaged ships. Already crippled, Kelgore’s vessel finally broke. Wood tore like paper, friend and foe were tossed like rice grains in a tornado. A widening circle of debris was tossed about by the raging waves. And Tsonia was in the midst of it all, sinking into the fathomless depths, the taunting smile of Kelgore still before her eyes.How had it all gone so wrong, Joras wondered as he clung to the rail of the tossing ship. Two weeks ago it had started out as such a pleasant adventure. The ocean breeze was warm and spiced with the scent of salt and pitch. The sea birds heralded Tyrant’s Blade as they followed the coastline under sail, saving the strength of the oarsmen. He’d filled pages of his sketchbook with Tsonia, Ambrose, and the crew.Why, he’d even managed to sketch a school of gamboling spout-fish as they playfully followed in the ship’s wake.But then two days ago the lookout had spotted the billowing smoke over the ruins of a fishing village, and soon after the lone ship that sailed away. The pleasant hunting cruise had turned into a grim pursuit as all aboard saw the Xhastrian reward close enough to claim. The seas grew choppy and the skies grew dark. The seabirds fell behind and the salt spray threatened his sketches as they chased Kelgore out into the open ocean.Joras was glad to have his precious pages wrapped in oil cloth and stowed safely in the aft castle, but it meant the image of Tsonia leaping from the crashing prow into the throng of pirates had to be roughed out in his memory alone and he always seemed to lose the little details that brought a painting of his muse to life.He wished he had the fortitude to follow Tsonia to the bow, to see and record the way Tyrant’s Blade pierced the other ship like a violent lover. From aft, he lost sight of Tsonia in the skirmish. All he could see was the feeble attempts of Kelgore’s oarsmen to dislodge the intruding ram. But the two small vessels were too tightly conjoined. Kelgore’s sail dragged the pair spiraling through the tempestuous waves and Ambrose held his rudder to pry deeper into the broken hull.With a crack of thunder the sky suddenly tore open and a deluge of rain overwhelmed sight and sound. Joras couldn’t make out more than shadows through the downpour. He clung to the railing as the deck dropped away beneath his feet, and then heaved upwards again.“The storm’s gotten worse,” he remarked with as casual a tone as he could muster while shouting to be heard.“It has,” agreed Ambrose, leaning all his weight against the tiller while straining to see the battle at the front of his ship.“Of course, I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” Joras added, trying to sound confident. “I’m sure you’ve survived dozens of squalls worse than this.”Thunder ripped the air again, and through the veil of rain Joras saw a blinding spike of lightning drive through the mast of Kelgore’s ship, shattering it like summer hay under the flail.“No,” Ambrose turned to face Joras and Joras saw the fear in the captain’s eyes. “No, this is the kind of storm that turns fishermen into farmers.”“It’s funny,” Joras yelled. “The farmers have the opposite saying about droughts.”Ambrose didn’t laugh. He abandoned the tiller to swing wildly to and fro at the whims of an angry ocean and joined Joras at the rail. Reaching into his soaking tunic, Ambrose tore a large key from the lanyard around his neck and forced into Joras hand.“Go below and free the oar-slaves,” he shouted. “None of us may survive, but I’ll not condemn them to certain death. I’ve got to tell the crew to save themselves.” With that grim instruction, Ambrose drew a brass-hilted cutlass and fought his way forward against the tide of the raging storm.The terror Joras had been wrestling with broke free and he felt its oppressive weight on his chest, buckling his knees and squeezing the air from his lungs. He’d faced peril and death often enough since he had decided to follow Red Tsonia on her quest for fame and glory, but always at the hands of a foe that could be defeated. How does one slay a storm? He could not depend on the unmatched prowess of his muse to save him this time. It was up to him.Joras summoned what courage he could find, and steeled himself to the task at hand. After Kelgore’s ship had been rammed, the crew had all gone to fight and had left the oar-slaves to recover their strength. Below his feet were fifty souls chained to their benches and Joras alone held their fates quite literally in his hand. Willing himself to release his iron grip on the rail, he charged across the pitching deck, lost his footing and tumbled through the open hatch and down the steep flight of stairs.He landed with a splash and clambered to his feet gasping for air in waist-deep water. If the maelstrom above was chaotic, the bedlam below was nightmarish. The howls of terrified men in the sightless dark drowned out the creak and groan of the stressed timber and the splash of churning water. The slaves pulled at their chains and beat at their restraints with chunks of broken wood or even their raw flesh. They knew Tyrant’s Blade was sinking, and that they had been abandoned to die.“Where are the locks!?” Joras cried over the din, desperately trying to get someone’s attention. “I have your key! By the gods, where are the locks?”As the water continued to rise, sloshing from side to side as the forsaken ship rolled in the angry storm, Joras was blindly herded towards the bow. With grasping hands guided by barely coherent cries of instruction, he found a stout padlock securing a heavy brass chain. It ran the length of the ship, passing through the shackle of each slave manning the twelve upper oars on that side. Fitting the key by touch, he turned it and released the chain.With a frantic jangle of metal, the first lucky group of oarsmen freed themselves and clambered over each other in a frenzied flight for the hatch. Those who remained bound wailed for their release even louder than before as Joras sought desperately in the dark for a matching lock on the opposite side of the hold. He found it at last, fumbled with the key, and was rewarded with a satisfying metallic clank.But as the second group of slaves fled the doomed vessel and the water crept up towards Joras’s chest, he realized with horror that the men on the lower banks of oars were secured with their own chains and locks, locks that were fastened under the churning floodwaters. Trapped below the benches of the upper oarsmen, the lower slaves were unable to even stand fully, and craned their necks to keep their shrieking faces above the rising water.Taking a deep breath, Joras dropped below the surface and found himself battered about by the surging flood. He clung to any handhold he could find in the dark, groping blindly for the hidden lock with the taste of metal on his tongue as he clenched the key in his teeth.His lungs began to burn and he feared his quest was in vain. His instincts screamed for the surface and life-giving air, but his will dwelt on the plight of those men who had no hope beyond him. Just as his will was foundering and his fear grew beyond his control, Joras’s fingers found the familiar curve of a padlock ring. Feeling for the keyhole with his thumb, he gracelessly jammed in the key and managed to turn it just as his instinct drove him back to the surface.There was no time to catch his breath. He had to go back for the key he’d left behind before he could even begin to search for the last lock. The inches of air that remained for the agonized men bound to the last oar benches waxed and waned as the waters sloshed back and forth with the rolling of the storm-tossed ship.And so back down Joras went, but in the swirling currents of the flooded hold he found that he had no more idea where to find the lock than he had the first time.Panic and guilt gripped Joras’s heart as he clawed desperately in the dark for the missing key. Had he really been so foolish as to lose it? Why had he not held his breath but a scant second longer? He endured the agony in his lungs to his very limit but had to come up for air empty-handed. The pitiful pleas of the doomed men that filled his ears sent him right back under the water with barely a breath.Then, through the crude woodwork he clung to, Joras felt more than heard the terrible creaking of timber and the shattering of the ship’s beam. He was suddenly seized by a mighty current that tore away his grip and flushed him tumbling through the dark water head over heels into the ravaged ocean until he lost all perception of up or down.Lungs aflame with need, Joras thrashed and fought in vain, weighed down by his sturdy traveling clothes and heavy orange cloak. He felt his consciousness collapsing, his limbs growing heavy, the water seeping towards his lungs. As the silence and the blackness took him, Joras found some small justice in knowing that he shared the same fate as the chained men he had failed.And suddenly there was blinding light and thunderous noise and wracking pain in his chest as he hacked and sputtered on the surface of the turbulent sea.“I should never have mocked your garish wardrobe!” shouted a familiar voice over the prattle of the rain. “The orange of your cloak is the only thing to be seen in this downpour!”“Kaela!" Joras gasped! "Gods be praised!”Tsonia dunked Joras back under the water before he had found breath. “I’ve told you not to call me that,” she admonished when she’d pulled him coughing back into the air. “And don’t give thanks too soon. This storm is ravenous, and we are still in its maw.”With powerful strokes, Tsonia dragged Joras through the rolling swells to a broken chunk of flotsam and there they clung as the witch’s storm raged around them.The first thing Ambrose saw when his senses returned was the war goddess, now a malformed, headless husk of bronze sitting astride a bent ram pointing at the churning skies above. Coughing up briny water, he forced himself into a sitting position and tried to comprehend the enormity of the destruction surrounding him.Tyrant’s Blade was no more. The prow, reinforced as it had been, loomed like a macabre monument over the bone-white beach he had found himself on. Dark shapes had washed up on the sand, splintered planks, scattered bodies, their limbs and spines twisted and broken, gulls pecking at their remains. Nothing seemed to move apart from the clouds overhead and the waves rushing up to meet the sand, occasionally depositing another piece of flotsam on the shore.Ambrose had been through his fair share of catastrophes, some self-inflicted, some visited upon him by his enemies or the capricious nature of the sea. None had even come close to the horrors he had witnessed in those last, lightning-struck moments. Torrential waves had washed men overboard screaming. Both ships had broken apart under the churning sea’s relentless assault. Ambrose too had been ripped from the deck of his trusty vessel into the pitch-black maws of the raging ocean and battered between broken timbers.Somehow, he had survived. The denizens of the deep didn’t fancy his soul this time. They didn’t let him off easy either.Moaning softly, he clutched his throbbing head. His fingers found a long gash along his temple. The cut was shallow but burned like the fires of hell. Breathing hurt too. With trembling fingers, Ambrose examined his sore rump, encountering bruises and cuts but thankfully no broken bones. Carefully testing his limbs, Ambrose fought to his knees and then his feet. His left ankle ached when he put weight upon it, but then his whole body sang in pain.Grabbing half an oar to steady himself, he dragged himself up the beach, away from the greedy ocean. Maybe fifty yards ahead, a veritable wall of green awaited him. Towering trees, sail-sized leaves and vines promised a nigh-impenetrable thicket, probably rife with sharp-toothed predators longing for easy prey. And beyond those viridian fortifications, spitting an ominous plume of smoke, a steep-sloped volcano loomed.Ambrose sighed. Finding his way off these inhospitable shores would be no easy feat. He had to assume he wasn’t the only survivor and there was a good chance that others might be Kelgore’s men, out to finish what the storm had started.Now further away from the crashing waves, Ambrose could hear other noises too, most of them unsettling and ominous. Echoing screeches or howls emanated from the jungle and a low, sonorous rumble seemed to come up through his feet, announcing that the volcano was much less quiet than he had hoped. His hand went to the sheath at his belt, but his prized blade had vanished in the maelstrom, torn from his fingers by the ravenous waters.He cast his gaze about in the vain hopes to spot it or something similar nearby, now keenly aware that he was among the few things moving on that beach and therefore easily spotted by friend and foe alike. Cursing his ankle, he hobbled back towards the shoreline, aiming for the closest pile of debris. There was no storage chest, no rack of weapons with blades, spears and axes to be found. Only a couple of pews, their construction sturdy enough to withstand a slave revolt were close at hand. A section of hull was still bolted to them. Ambrose couldn’t tell if it was a part of Tyrant’s Blade or Kelgore’s ship. There were no bodies he recognized either way. Sighing, he sank onto one of the pews, taking weight off his aching leg.Once more the stranded captain gazed at the sky. It was hard to tell the time of day, with the clouds roiling overhead. Even worse, it was hard to tell where he was. They had followed Kelgore’s ship along the Xhastrian coast before the pirate had steered away to the west, towards the open seas and out of the reach of the Green Cities. There shouldn’t have been any land in that direction, not even scattered islands were marked on the maps he had memorized so well in his years at the helm of Tyrant’s Blade. Yet here he was, on an unfamiliar beach with one leg impaired, no weapons to speak of, and a growing feeling of vulnerability and unease creeping up his spine. He would need food, water, and shelter to survive, warmth to dry himself and weapons to guard against his enemies, be they two- or four-legged.About to resume his trawl of the beach, he steadied himself for the inevitable stab of pain from his ankle when he heard voices coming closer. Muffled by the thick wood between himself and the voices, he couldn’t tell friend from foe. Bating his breath, he allowed them to pass him by, his body hidden in the shadow of the torn hull.And then Ambrose’s heart leapt with joy, for the scarlet tresses he saw could belong to only one person.“Tsaugh,” he croaked, not realizing how dry his throat was, or how blistered his lips. “Tson,” he tried again, but loud enough now to be heard over the crashing surf.Tsonia turned, and Joras with her. Both were sunburned and blistered, crusted with salt and sand. Joras leaned heavily on her shoulder, his footsteps faltering in the loose sand. Her hands were bloody to the wrist, and in one she carried a sandy thigh-bone that Ambrose preferred not to contemplate. Yet the smile that graced her lips was perhaps the loveliest thing he had ever laid eyes upon.“Do not try to speak,” she whispered when she had come back close enough to be heard. Her voice was dry and hoarse as well, but she gently sat Joras down upon the bench and leaned the two men into each other for support. The bloody femur she placed in Ambrose’s hand, closing his fingers around it like a cudgel.“Look after each other,” she wheezed. “I’ll find water and be back.”From his shoulder, Joras unslung an empty water gourd in a woven hanger, its stopper dangling by its tether. They must have found it washed ashore among the wreckage, or perhaps bobbing along with them as they drifted on the waves. Just as Joras handed the gourd up to Tsonia, they all looked up with a start.From the jungle came the sonorous rhythm of drums.“Where there are people,” Tsonia said with a smile, “there must be water.”The jungle canopy cast dancing shadows across the surface of the rippling pool that filled the hillside hollow. It was broad and deep, fed by a gurgling spring and surrounded by moss-covered stones and twisted tree roots. From the low end of the pond a trickle of water overflowed its basin and tumbled splashing down the hill, through the jungle, and eventually across the sandy beach to the sea. The small stream was too shallow and too sparse to slake a dying man’s thirst. Any who wished to drink deeply would have to follow the water upstream to the spring.And so by the spring, Kelgore waited.“The drums are moving,” he said. “They were coming from that direction. Now they’re over there.”“No, not moving,” came the reply. “Different drums. Different people. Only the message moves.”Kelgore thought about it and admitted silently to himself that it was probably true.“We should go. We should seek out those drums and turn the natives to our cause. Perhaps they can return us to civilized lands.”“No,” answered Kelgore. “We wait. Any of my men who wash ashore will find their way here. I would rather face the natives with a loyal force at my back.”“It’s dangerous. Any of the sell-swords who wash ashore will also find their way here.”“Then I will turn them to my cause or they will die.” Kelgore thumbed the blade of his knife before securing it snuggly back in its sheath.“Don’t be a fool, boy! You let your prejudice for culture and sophistication blind you. You were born to rule over all men, not just the civilized sheep of the Green Cities. Find these natives and lead them to the throne that is your destiny!”“Quiet, mother!" Kelgore snapped. "Someone’s coming.”The old corne’s severed head sat wedged in the crook of a tree branch where Kelgore hid watching the jungle pool. For too long the old witch had brow-beaten his obedience, but the tables had turned. It was she who was now dependent upon him. If he chose to feed her to the gulls or the fish, there was nothing she could do about it. He smirked with that confidence. Ignoring her scowl, he turned his attention back to the approaching footsteps.Through the jungle thicket across the pond, he spied her red hair first. He recognized her immediately, the vixen-warrior who had cut down his mother in cold blood and condemned them all to these savage shores. Unless he missed his guess, she was the mercenary known as Red Tsonia or Bloody Tsonia depending on who spun her tale. Kelgore once thought it presumptuous that she should take the name of the ancient warrior queen, but having seen her quality in person, he thought it might be apt after all.“Kill her!” hissed his mother, beneath the drone of the beating drums, the calls of tropical birds, and the rustle of the foliage in the sea breeze. “Avenge me!”“Shush!” he insisted.The flame-haired warrior spied the pool of sweet water and broke into a run. She dropped to her knees and scooped double handfuls to her mouth, letting the excess spill down her chest and stomach and thighs. When she had drunk her fill, she took an empty water gourd from her shoulder and plunged it bubbling beneath the surface.When she withdrew the gourd, Kelgore saw her hesitate before plugging it with its stopper. She looked back over her shoulder, then turned to face the drums in the distance. She sat for a moment in contemplation and then poured the water slowly over her own head, rolling her neck and massaging the clean water through her salt-stiffened hair.Tsonia closed her eyes, luxuriating in the cool water that rinsed away the ocean’s residue.Kelgore saw his chance to ambush her, to strike swiftly in her vulnerability, but he tarried.Tsonia filled the gourd again to finish rinsing her hair. She wiped the sand and grime from her face, and poured the last of the water down her chest. Kelgore could feel his manhood swell as Tsonia laid the gourd aside and pulled the ragged chainmail vest off over her head, exposing her ample breasts.“I would have her,” he murmured, as she bathed her bare shoulders, chest, and midriff by the burbling jungle spring. “I shall turn her to our cause and I shall have her.”“Fool!” spat his mother. “This is no fish-monger’s daughter, no doe-eyed waif. She is demon tainted, much as you were.”“Yes,” agreed Kelgore, feeling the lust rising in his chest as he watched Tsonia bathe. “But just think of the grandchildren she could give you.”“Dozens of bellies swell with my grandchildren all along the Xhastrian coast. How many grandchildren do I need?”“My mind is set and I shall not be dissuaded, mother. Now be silent, or will feed your tongue to the gulls!”“You’ve grown insolent since that bitch killed me,” he heard her grumble under her breath, but she said no more.Across the pond, Tsonia filled the gourd again, then stood and began to unfasten the chainmail skirt that hung from her shapely hips. Kelgore felt a certain satisfaction when he saw her jump as he stepped out from the cover of vines and thicket. He held his hands empty at his sides, but there was a hypnotic twinkle in his obsidian eyes.“You can be none other than Red Tsonia,” he called to her. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”Her eyes roamed over him, taking his measure. They lingered on his groin for a heartbeat before wandering higher, meeting his eye. Before he could exert his formidable will through his demon-tainted eyes though, she bent low and poured water from the gourd into her palm, continuing her bath. Kelgore exhaled slowly. Dumb luck made her evade his beguiling gaze this time, but there would be ample opportunity.“Sneaking up on me while I’m bathing isn’t the wisest course of action,” Tsonia said, her wet hands roaming her muscular thighs.“And yet, you seem oddly at ease for being naked and helpless,” Kelgore said.Tsonia poured more water, slowly rinsing her hips and the faint tuft of mousy brown fuzz covering her femininity.“What makes you think I’m helpless?” she wondered. “In less than a heartbeat, I could be at your throat, gutting you with that knife on your belt and you would be helpless to stop me.”Kelgore closed his hand around the bronze-wound hilt of his knife. “Then why don’t you? You were sent to kill me, were you not?”Unperturbed, Tsonia washed her sex, her face hidden by her unbound mane of fiery tresses. “Indeed. The God-King gave me ample reason to slay you on the spot. But until I know how to return to Xhastria to claim the reward, I’d rather not have to carry around a decaying corpse.” Her head came up, flashing a cocky smile.Kelgore cleared his throat, ready to employ his charming voice as he’d done so often with officials and paupers both, nudging their inhibitions aside, making them listen to what Kelgore deemed reasonable. “I might be willing to follow you,” he crooned, his sultry voice reverberating in a certain way. “There is no reason for us to be enemies, at least not for the time being. You will find me a very willing hostage. Let it be said that Kelgore knows how to please.”He relinquished the hilt of his knife and caressed the sizable bulge in his robes, the embers of lust flaring to fiery life. Not only did he relish the sight of the naked warrior before him, her ample curves and taut limbs promising exhausting revelry, but the feeling of his mind ensnaring hers, the delicious sensation of his hypnotic tendrils exerting their subtle, yet overwhelming influence. Oh how he would delight in ravishing her, coaxing unspeakable pleasure from her body and mind both!Tsonia had stopped washing herself. Instead she swayed gently to the cadence of his words, her hands wandering her body, as if she were presenting herself for his approval, a quizzical smile on her ruby lips. “What do you have in mind?” she wondered.“Take hold of me,” Kelgore murmured, parting the salt-stiffened fabric of his clothes and offering his throbbing lance for her fingers. His free hand touched her luxurious, wet mane of fiery tresses, guiding her face towards his yearning manhood. Her breath was hot on his skin and her lust rushed up through his fingertips as they touched her scalp.At her touch, Kelgore’s vision blurred as he latched on to one of her secrets, wrapped in shadows at the edge of her mind, but right at the surface where the most important secrets are always kept. Kelgore became Tsonia. He saw through her eyes, heard through her ears, and relived the memory she wanted to bury but couldn’t.He was bound naked to an altar made from some strange green rock. The surface had been polished smooth by aeons of use. Thousands of bodies had languished here until they met their demise. Icons wrought from ribs and spines and skulls adorned torch lit alcoves. Naked priests and priestesses, their bodies painted with unholy symbols writhed around the altar, their voices brittle from hours of chanting. And towering over him, confusion and lust flickering in its monstrous eyes, was the jackal-headed demon Q'alan, his jet-black skin slick with sweat, his prodigious erection dripping with hellish seed.“More.” Kelgore heard himself beg through Tsonia’s swollen lips. The burning taste of demon seed clogged his throat. Patches of the vile stuff caked his breasts, his stomach. A veritable lake of it pooled under his behind. And his hand wandered downwards, splaying open his hungry cunt for the demon to see. Thick rivulets of demonic seeds, mixed with virginal blood dribbled over his fingers and onto the stained altar.“Give me more,” Tsonia’s voice demanded as she spread her legs as far as the chains around her ankles allowed. She rammed two fingers into her sex, displacing another gob of the foul seed. “You are not sated yet, are you?”Her voice was hoarse and rough, but there was something in it, a force even the mighty Q'alan could not resist. Growling, hot spittle dripping from its jagged teeth, it grasped Tsonia’s hips. A large, bulbous sensation pressed against her rear, demanding entry to that as-of-yet unspoiled orifice. Tsonia groaned and wailed as the demonic phallus forced her open, but her moans turned to cries of ecstasy as Q'alan’s mighty spear filled her up. The demon gasped and frothed at the maw as it relentlessly pounded her, trying to break that insolent human who dared to challenge him.And yet, he couldn’t. He was as much a slave to her body as she was helpless to escape the pummeling Q'alan unleashed upon her.Hours passed in a moment of Kelgore’s memory. The jackal-headed demon took Tsonia every which way, pouring unending streams of his demonic seed down her throat, cunt, or ass. His claws left bloody furrows in her unblemished flesh, but the wounds seemed to heal as soon as he gouged them. And instead of tiring, becoming weaker under his monstrous assault, she seemed to thrive, urging him on for another fuck.And then the unthinkable happened. Q'alan tired. His rampant shaft, which had been erect for days and able to spew gallons of his demonic fluids, flagged. Tsonia, breasts heaving in heat, grinned wantonly up at him. One of the chains holding her arms to the altar had broken and she beckoned, curling her fingers at her cum-streaked lips.“Have me drink from your well once more, oh mighty Q'alan,” she groaned, her body making disgusting, sucking sounds as she slithered on the cum-slick stones. “Your seed is sweet nectar to me.”Q'alan threw his head about in irritation. The priests and priestesses, by now only whispering their binding chants in hoarse, broken voices, were barely able to stand. Snarling, he lashed out, cutting open a priest from head to groin. Hot, bloody intestines fell to the floor in sloshing tangles. The man was too hoarse to even scream as his life cascaded onto the befouled tiles. But the deed was done. The circle was broken. Q'alan was no longer bound.Spitting curses upon his inept cult, the jackal-headed monster vanished in a gout of foul-smelling vapor, leaving behind a tangle of confused and fear-stricken priests. When they saw Tsonia reach for the second chain holding her body to the altar, the cultists clambered over one another to flee from the torch lit catacomb.The chain broke as Tsonia flexed her arm, her body infused with Q'alan’s hellish strength. There were no wounds. There was no pain, not even from her ravaged nethers which the demon had abused for uncountable hours. Her bones were stronger than the rusted shackles tethering her to the soiled stone altar and she broke them with contemptuous ease.Tsonia came to her feet, wishing she could break her mother’s neck as easily as she could break these chains. Kelgore understood how Tsonia’s own mother had offered her virgin daughter to Q'alan for the promise of influence, riches and power.His vision snapped back, the flickering images of the underground crypt replaced with the twilit glade. There were no chanting priests, just the irritated chatter of jungle birds and the unceasing beat of the distant drums. He was standing next to the spring, his fingers entwined in Tsonia’s magnificent locks, her lips locked around his throbbing manhood, her tongue a fluttering sensation almost as sweet as the taste of the secret he had plucked from her.“Yes,” he purred, slowly rolling his hips forwards. “You and I shall make a fine pair. Demon-blessed, you and I. The world will tremble at our offspring’s might!”Her answer was a hungry growl deep in her throat. Strong hands dug into his buttocks and her mouth exerted delicious suction. This was different from the scared waifs he had coerced into his bedchambers, different from the docile noblewomen he had twisted and broken for his amusement.Kelgore found it hard to find words under Tsonia’s dexterous assault. One hand dove under his clothes, finding his sac. Expertly, her calloused fingers caressed his balls.He didn’t dare use his voice, for fear of inadvertently breaking the spell he had just put upon her. None of his prior victims had displayed such vigor under his control. But then, he never had tried charming another demon-touched being before.Tsonia’s growl had turned into a playful purr. One hand pumped his shaft, her other was busy between her own thighs. Kelgore slowly fucked her glorious mouth, amazed at how deep she was able to take his lance. She spurred him on with moans, with a clawed hand to his buttocks and he obliged, feeding her his shaft until his loins curled up in that all-too familiar sensation of imminent release.Once more he drove his lance home, eagerly devoured by the red-headed temptress kneeling by the spring, and hot spurts of seed poured from him. Kelgore loosened a triumphant yell as his body shook from an almighty climax, more satisfying and visceral than anything those tepid Xhastrian whores had been able to coax from him!A low, ominous growl answered him, shattering the magic of the moment. Kelgore’s spell, tenuous as it had been, faded away. Tsonia, Kelgore’s seed dripping down her chin, shook her head as if she had just woken from a perturbing dream. Her eyes caught him, robes wide open, his erection still proudly on display and a grim expression settled on her beautiful face, promising the inevitability of untold torment.A flicker of comprehension dawned and she flung herself at him, tearing his knife from its sheath as she barreled into him. They tumbled into the grass. Tsonia, gloriously naked and wet sat astride his prone form, one hand a crushing vise around his throat, the knife hovering above his eye, poised for a lethal descent.“I don’t know what fell magic's you employed on me, but I hope for your sake there is a good reason why I have your taste all over my mouth!”Kelgore, stunned by her sudden fury and for once at a loss for words, noticed movement in the branches above. A tall, man-like shadow watched with unknowable intent. Two more shades silently joined on adjacent branches. They carried nets made from vines and short spears tipped with stone points. Inquisitive eyes flicked this way and that. Their heads inclined as if in conversation, but whatever whispers they uttered were unheard over the rumble of the drums.There was no air to breathe. There was no air to bargain with. He could wait and hope the strangers would free him from Tsonia’s grasp, but Kelgore doubted he could hold on for that long. He’d rather take his chances with her than the ominous strangers. Croaking a warning, he raised his arm, pointing.Tsonia opened her mouth in a stillborn question. Before she could give words to her thoughts, a feathered dart sprouted from her neck. On instinct, Tsonia pulled it free, relinquishing Kelgore’s throat. Greedily, he sucked air into his burning lungs as Tsonia came to her feet, warily searching for the attackers.Ever the opportunist, Kelgore grasped the chance at freedom. He mustered his voice. “Drop the knife!”Tsonia obeyed, relinquishing his blade. Then her fighting instincts took over and she tumbled to the side, just as tall, muscular shapes arose from the undergrowth around them. Kelgore plucked his weapon from the ground and came to his feet in a scrabbling run, sprinting towards the tree where he had left his mother’s head. The first dart missed him by a finger’s breadth, but the second found its mark.A soothing calm fell over Kelgore as he stood there, watching Tsonia naked and grappling with a green-skinned savage. Slowly sinking to his knees, he was certain he saw Tsonia’s hips roll in a particular motion against that man’s groin. An irrational burst of jealousy gripped his heart. How could she still be so full of energy while he only wanted to sprawl on the floor and sleep until that beautiful tranquility had passed? How was she so willing to copulate with a beastly savage while he was here, still horribly aching for her body?The last thing Kelgore saw before sleep took him was a grinning face, tongue wagging as someone or something slung him over her shoulder.The stone blade was aimed at her ribs but Tsonia held it at bay and threw her weight to the left. The man or beast or whatever it was that grappled her shifted his feet to compensate. For the brief moment he was off balance, Tsonia caught hold of a jungle root, anchored herself, and with a mighty twist of her hips she sent her attacker sprawling to the ground.Was this creature even a man? Only the leather skin wrapped around his loins and the strap slung over one shoulder suggested any degree of civilization. His skin mottled in shades of olive, sage, and lime, was unlike anything he had seen before.Atop his powerfully muscled torso the head had a feral, beastial quality. Short fur rippled in the breeze and thin flews curled around canine teeth in a face that was more muzzle than mouth. The man’s arms ended in strong, clawed hands. A sinuous, striped tail curled from a shapely backside and the hind legs bent backwards were built for long, powerful strides and ferocious jumps.As Tsonia stood, the jungle seemed to twist around her, a verdant kaleidoscope of madness. The beast man didn’t regain his feet as much as he sort of oozed into an upright posture. The short spear undulated in his grip. The tangle of jungle roots beneath her feet shifted as if she stood upon a lattice of ship’s cables and the constant drum beat became muddled and lethargic.Tsonia shook her head to clear the dart’s poison from her vision, but it did no good.With a growl of anger, the beast man charged flapping like a banner in the wind. Tsonia leapt away from his attack leaving her feet and hands behind. She found herself next to the bouncing pool, next to her discarded chainmail top, which crawled into her hand and wrapped itself around her fingers.Before she could reorient her senses, her foe was upon her, clawed fingers at her throat and the point of his spear driving into her shoulder. Black blood hissed against the flint.With a roar of pain, Tsonia bashed him across his stubby snout with her handful of rubbery chainmail knocking loose a fang from his slavering lips. It left an arc of crimson hanging in the air like a sanguine rainbow. She brought a knee up into his groin where his twisted loincloth provided no protection. The beast howled but did not release his grip. She could feel his claws piercing her throat like gimlets twisted into cork. Again she brought the chainmail flailing down on his head, this time ripping away a pointed ear.The beast man released her throat, and caught her wrist in a grip like twine wrapped around bread dough. It was the opening Tsonia had hoped for, and she followed his motion adding her own considerable strength to his momentum, rolling the pair of them down the colorful brook that scarpered idly away from the spring pool.They tumbled down the slope and the world seemed reluctant to drag itself around in a spiral. Tsonia felt as if everything was made of honey as green and brown and claw and chain were mingled by a slow spoon. She saw the breath expelled from her lungs as she landed hard on top of her attacker, his fuzzy chest against the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. His arms wrapped around her and his clawed hands raked at her exposed throat and midriff.A bloody cry caught in Tsonia’s throat. She clutched at the beast’s pulpy arms, hoping to arrest their assault when she noticed the long, trailing appendage wavering gently from her shoulder. It must be the spear haft, still embedded within her like a spent lover.With all the focus she could muster, Tsonia released her attacker and took the spear in her grip. Clenching her teeth and straining wary thews with all her demon-blessed might, Tsonia forced the spear point through her shoulder, out of her back, and into the heaving chest of the screaming creature beneath her.For another moment he fought on, even as his life slipped away from him.Tsonia felt the flesh of her throat and her stomach melding, knitting together like a weaver’s handiwork. She yanked the spear out of her own body, black blood hissing and steaming along its length, and she pushed herself up and up and up to her feet. She hadn’t realized the ground was so low.The jungle continued to swirl around her, twisting and undulating. The spear felt pliant in her hand, as if made of soft leather, but she knew it could not be so. She shook her head again to clear the fog of the dart’s poison, but to no avail.Above her, a coarse series of syllables were barked in a language Tsonia didn’t know. She blinked into the twining tendrils of the jungle and saw another man, like this one, waiting by the flat ground by the pool. He carried a short spear in one hand and a net in the other. Both seemed to flutter in time to the sonorous beat of the distant drums.“So your people have honor of a sort?” Tsonia asked, mounting the hill. “You could have joined your friend and ganged up on me, but instead you waited for single combat. You have my respect, but not my mercy.”She was battered and bloody, her skin caked with mud and what must have been Kelgore’s seed. But she recognized a challenge when it was issued and while she didn’t know what would happen if she declined, she knew she was too vain to find out.“I don’t suppose you’d let me dress first?”The second foe barked a single word, hefted his spear and began to circle Tsonia cautiously, a wary eye on the captured spear and the chainmail hauberk she wielded.“No? No, I suppose you’re almost as naked as I am. Fair is fair after all.”Tsonia lowered her weight and readied for his attack, trying to hold her opponent in focus as the jungle blended and kneaded itself around them.The beast man lunged, stabbing with his spear, an experimental strike to gauge Tsonia’s speed. She parried it easily, although the spear shafts felt supple as they met, the clack of contact numb and muted. Whipping her handful of chainmail, she attempted to catch her

Far from being an otherworldly religion, Christianity teaches both the importance and goodness of life in this world. In fact, from Jesus' healing ministry to the work of modern missionary doctors, a consistent feature of the work of the Church in the world has been to care for the sick and needy, and not just point them to the life to come.   The early Church understood Jesus' ministry to be a paradigm for their own work. So, just as Jesus set believers free from their bondage to sin, early Christians purchased slaves specifically to free them. Whereas Jesus used miraculous power to heal people from physical effects of the Fall, Christians used more ordinary tools to care for the sick and disabled. These activities are not merely good deeds in themselves but serve to advance the Kingdom. Though the Gospel is a message and must be proclaimed, the early Church saw works of mercy and preaching of the Gospel as two sides of the same coin.   The first major epidemic faced by the Church was the Antonine Plague (A.D. 166-189). In fear of their lives, the Romans threw the sick out of their homes to die in the streets. Galen, the most prominent physician of the age, knew he could neither heal its victims nor protect himself. So, he fled Rome to stay at his country estate.   Recognizing that all persons were made in the image of God and that Jesus came to make all things new, body and soul, many Christians ran the other direction. They fought the Fall by tending to the sick, at risk (and often at the cost) of their own lives.    Since even basic nursing care can make a significant difference during an epidemic, Christian action saved lives. Their courage and self-sacrifice contributed to the rapid growth of Christianity. For example, when Irenaeus arrived in Lyon from Asia Minor, there were very few Christians. By the time the plague ended, there were 200,000 believers in Lyon.   The Plague of Cyprian, which took place the following century, was named after the bishop of Carthage who documented the epidemic. Dionysius of Alexandria, also a bishop, described what happened this way:    At the first onset of the disease, they pushed the sufferers away and fled from their dearest, throwing them into the roads before they were dead and treating unburied corpses as dirt…   But, he continued…   Most of our brother Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves and thinking only of one another. Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ.   From the earliest centuries, Christians embraced the medical theories and practices of the day. Contrary to stereotypes, the early Church did not attribute illness to demons, though they did recognize demonization as a real phenomenon. The real difference between Christians and physicians of the day was the willingness to risk death in order to treat the sick, convinced that if they died it would only mean a transition to a better life. The physicians, on the other hand, fled.   Christians also founded the first hospitals in history. By the late fourth century, there were hospitals in both the eastern and western halves of the empire. By the Central Middle Ages, hospitals and leprosaria (leprosy hospitals) could be found throughout most of the Christian world. When universities began granting medical degrees during the period, church-affiliated institutions continued to provide much of the care.    By the 18th century, the medical field had become increasingly professionalized and separate from the clergy. Though monasteries still provided care for the poor, and nursing was almost entirely in the hands of sisters and nuns, professional physicians increasingly handled medical issues for those who could afford to pay. Clergy attended to the dying and contributed to discussions of medical ethics but had few other responsibilities for the sick.   However, medicine was an integral part of the modern mission movement of the 19th century. Because Christianity has always affirmed the importance of the body, hospitals soon followed wherever missionaries went. This is another way the Church has been essential throughout history.    This Breakpoint was co-authored by Dr. Glenn Sunshine. For more resources to live like a Christian in this cultural moment, go to breakpoint.org.  This Breakpoint was originally published on August 17, 2022. 

We delve into Chapter 41, where fraught emotions and frivolous flirtations abound. As the final weekend of the regiment's sojourn in Meryton arrives, a cloud of gloom descends upon the young ladies of the town. Yet, among this dejection, Lydia Bennet finds herself in a delightful delirium; she is invited to accompany Mrs. Forster, the newly married, and rather naïve wife of the colonel, to the bustling, vibrant seaside resort of Brighton. Heedless of her sister Kitty's heartache and Elizabeth's remaining scepticism, Lydia excites herself with visions of invaluable introductions and romantic ventures with officers.However, Elizabeth's perturbation swells as she foresees the potential disasters this trip could spell for Lydia and, by extension, the image of their family. Despite her eloquent pleas and appeals to her father's reason, Mr. Bennet remains nonchalantly confident that Lydia's presence in Brighton will only emphasize her insignificance and help her realise her shallow aspirations. Dismayed yet resigned, Elizabeth retreats to accept the inevitability of Lydia's escapades in Brighton.In Chapter 42, we see life in the Bennet household slowly recovering its usual serenity, following Lydia's departure. The sisters wait impatiently for Lydia's promised letters, which turn out to be inevitably short and filled with frivolous details of her ventures. As plans for Elizabeth's trip to the Lake District are postponed and curtailed by an unexpected letter from Mrs. Gardiner, her hopes and expectations oscillate between disappointment and anticipation.Instead of the much admired Lakes, the Gardiner family, accompanied by dear Lizzy, find themselves bound for Derbyshire and the small town of Lambton. And yes, not far from this town sits the much spoken of estate of one Mr. Darcy, Pemberley. Although anguished by the mere idea of seeing Mr. Darcy or visiting Pemberley, Elizabeth has to contend with her aunt's desire to visit the said estate. Her alarm dissipates, however, when she finds out the Darcy family is not in residence for the summer. Acknowledging her inevitable curiosity, Elizabeth consents to tour Pemberley and thus, they are bound for this notable manor.

We're here at the precipice of 200 and are gazing into some visages that we were wholly unprepared for as we discuss the Baleful Pokemon, Hisuian Zoroark! Zorua's journey comes to an end and boy what an end it is! Follow along with the entries below: Legends Arceus: With its disheveled white fur, it looks like an embodiment of death. Heedless of its own safety, Zoroark attacks its nemeses with a bitter energy so intense, it lacerates Zoroark's own body. BTB: With its unparalleled hair game, it projects malice and hatred to an unfathomable degree. Loves its kids. Blurbs from: https://legends.pokemon.com/en-us/pokemon/zoroark/ Hisuian Zoroark card art by Kouki Saitou Cover design by Kwesi Phillips Music by Junichi Masuda and Go Ichinose Leave us a tip at https://ko-fi.com/beyondtheball

Pastor Rick teaches from the book of the Acts

Pastor Rick teaches from the book of the Acts

Pastor Rick teaches from the book of the Acts

Pastor Dave teaches topically.

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This episode we speak about a requested topic, how do we forgive ourselves after having sinned and moving past it? We speak about forgiving ourselves for our sins and not falling into the trap of shaytan. We speak about bettering ourselves and not letting our past define us.We also address the importance of seeking forgiveness and repenting to Allah sincerely and how trusting that we are forgiven will allow us to forgive ourselves. It also speaks volumes when we can forgive others who have wronged us because Allah is the Most-Merciful and He forgives All Sins, so we should practice forgiveness and mercy as we would want Allah to forgive us.FOLLOW US ON SOCIAL MEDIA!Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/deentourr/Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@deentourrTimeline:Intro - 0:00Accountability in Sin - 0:52We Wrong Ourselves - 5:28Forgiveness vs. Repentance - 6:44Regret - 8:16Purpose of Life - 10:01Struggle - 12:51Allah Forgives All Sins - 14:38The Victim Mindset - 17:18The Lion and Sheep - 20:50Forgiving Others - 21:28Mankind is Heedless - 25:18Fighting Out of Anger - 27:09Backbiting/Slandering Others - 29:21The Poison of Anger - 33:02Live in Repentance - 35:15Good Deeds Radiate Good Character - 36:00Constantly Seeking Forgiveness - 38:00Outro - 41:24

What is it like to live a life without distractions? This week's episode of the Pursuit of Learning podcast features Joshua Becker, a writer, creator, and entrepreneur at Becoming Minimalist. He is here to talk about his latest book, "Things That Matter: Overcoming Distraction to Pursue a More Meaningful Life." Throughout the episode, we discuss Joshua's journey,, identifying distractions, re-programming, money as a stressor, becoming a minimalist,, and more.[00.28] A brief bio – Joshua shares his journey of becoming a minimalist and discovering how excessive possessions take happiness away. [07.41] End of life – Joshua explains that his book is dedicated to influencing the reader on how to live their lives having fewer regrets about how they lived. [09.53] Heedless luxury & no good activity – The comfort that isn't necessary and the time we spend doing nothing worthy makes us question the time we wasted, says Joshua. [15.41] I commit myself – Staying focused every day is essential. Joshua shares the importance of having a clear goal in mind every day. [20.24] Identify the distractions – Joshua shares how his book helps readers to identify the distractions in their lives from doing worthy things with their time. [31.37] A little bit more – No matter how much money we have, we want a little more. Joshua explains why 90% of American people have stress over money. [45.10] Re-programming – Joshua explains how the world is trying to manipulate our existence. He further explains how to break it and re-program ourselves. [51.50] Childhood – Joshua dives into how your origin or childhood affects your view of possessions. He shares what people need to do to discover how they are programmed in their childhood. [01.01.40] Time – Joshua dives into why it is easy to sacrifice time for things we don't want. [01.10.05] Consuming media – Joshua shares his idea on why technology consumes people.ResourcesConnect with Joshua Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/becomingminimalistInstagram - https://www.instagram.com/joshua_becker/LinkedIn - linkedin.com/in/becoming-minimalist/ Twitter – https://twitter.com/joshua_beckerYouTube - https://www.youtube.com/@JoshuaBeckerWebsite - becomingminimalist.com/ Books by Joshua – Things That Matter: Overcoming Distraction to Pursue a More Meaningful Life – goodreads.com/book/show/58636918-things-that-matter The Minimalist Home: A Room-by-Room Guide to a Decluttered, Refocused Life - https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39810030-the-minimalist-home-The More of Less: Finding the Life You Want Under Everything You Own -https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27036703-the-more-of-lessSimplify: 7 Guiding Principles to Help Anyone Declutter Their Home and Life - https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13049773-simplifyClutterfree with Kids - https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20618993-clutterfree-with-kids

Far from being an otherworldly religion, Christianity teaches both the importance and goodness of life in this world. In fact, from Jesus' healing ministry to the work of modern missionary doctors, a consistent feature of the work of the Church in the world has been to care for the sick and needy, and not just point them to the life to come.  The early Church understood Jesus' ministry to be a paradigm for their own work. So, just as Jesus set believers free from their bondage to sin, early Christians purchased slaves specifically to free them. Whereas Jesus used miraculous power to heal people from physical effects of the Fall, Christians used more ordinary tools to care for the sick and disabled. These activities are not merely good deeds in themselves but serve to advance the Kingdom. Though the Gospel is a message and must be proclaimed, the early Church saw works of mercy and preaching the Gospel as two sides of the same coin.  The first major epidemic faced by the Church was the Antonine Plague (A.D. 166-189). In fear of their lives, the Romans threw the sick out of their homes to die in the streets. Galen, the most prominent physician of the age, knew he could neither heal its victims nor protect himself. So, he fled Rome to stay at his country estate.  Recognizing that all persons were made in the image of God and that Jesus came to make all things new, body and soul, many Christians ran the other direction. They fought the Fall by tending to the sick, at risk (and often at the cost) of their own lives.   Since even basic nursing care can make a significant difference during an epidemic, Christian action saved lives. Their courage and self-sacrifice contributed to the rapid growth of Christianity. For example, when Irenaeus arrived in Lyon from Asia Minor, there were very few Christians. By the time the plague ended, there were 200,000 believers in Lyon.  The Plague of Cyprian, which took place the following century, was named after the bishop of Carthage who documented the epidemic. Dionysius of Alexandria, also a bishop, described what happened this way:   At the first onset of the disease, they pushed the sufferers away and fled from their dearest, throwing them into the roads before they were dead and treating unburied corpses as dirt...  But, he continued...  Most of our brother Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves and thinking only of one another. Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ.  From the earliest centuries, Christians embraced the medical theories and practices of the day. Contrary to stereotypes, the early Church did not attribute illness to demons, though they did recognize demonization as a real phenomenon. The real difference between Christians and physicians of the day was the willingness to risk death in order to treat the sick, convinced that if they died it would only mean a transition to a better life. The physicians, on the other hand, fled.  Christians also founded the first hospitals in history. By the late fourth century, there were hospitals in both the eastern and western halves of the empire. By the Central Middle Ages, hospitals and leprosaria (leprosy hospitals) could be found throughout most of the Christian world. When universities began granting medical degrees during the period, church-affiliated institutions continued to provide much of the care.   By the 18th century, the medical field had become increasingly professionalized and separate from the clergy. Though monasteries still provided care for the poor and nursing was almost entirely in the hands of sisters and nuns, professional physicians increasingly handled medical issues for those who could afford to pay. Clergy attended to the dying and contributed to discussions of medical ethics but had few other responsibilities for the sick.  However, medicine was an integral part of the modern mission movement of the 19th century. Because Christianity has always affirmed the importance of the body, hospitals soon followed wherever missionaries went. This is another way the Church has been essential throughout history.   Many Christians and critics today are skeptical that the Church is essential or necessary in the modern world. It is. To learn how and why, please join the new online Breakpoint course The Essential Church: Why the World (and Christians) Still Need the Body of Christ. Hosted by Colson Center theologian-in-residence Dr. Timothy Padgett, the course will feature thought leaders Dr. Peter Leithart, Dr. Glenn Sunshine, and Collin Hansen. Go to colsoncenter.org/August. 

Season 5, Episode 2.Make sure you're moving forward.ITINERARY:A Desk FanTRANSCRIPT AND CONTENT WARNINGS:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tg_Xsk3EnIj1wGmiG8equlHrYZ3HQ_LBNjZA2fjAgXU/edit?usp=sharingPlease consider supporting the show by subscribing to the Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/domguilfoyleThe Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality is written, performed, and edited by Dom Guilfoyle. Published by That's Not Canon Productions.Mistholme Merch is available at https://www.redbubble.com/people/DomGuilfoyle/shopDom's cats can be seen at https://www.instagram.com/dom_question_mark/For more Mistholme, subscribe to the show and like the Facebook page, and please support the show if you can by subscribing to the Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/domguilfoyle, or via the Supporter Feature at https://supporter.acast.com/the-mistholme-museum-of-mystery-morbidity-and-mortalitySupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/the-mistholme-museum-of-mystery-morbidity-and-mortality. Our GDPR privacy policy was updated on August 8, 2022. Visit acast.com/privacy for more information.

Pastor Rick teaches from 1st Kings (1 Kings 14) The post Heedless Kings first appeared on Calvary Chapel Mechanicsville.

Recorded by Monica McClure for Poem-a-Day, a series produced by the Academy of American Poets. Published on March 2, 2022. www.poets.org

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim Sohbet by Sheykh Lokman Effendi Hazratleri on Laylatul Raghaib 1443 naksibendi.us

Danny Lavery welcomes Margaret Josephs, author of the memoir, Caviar Dreams, Tuna Fish Budget: How To Survive In Business and Life. Josephs also hosts a podcast with the same  Lavery and Josephs tackle three letters: First, from a letter writer who discovered some alarming issues after becoming her grandmother's bookkeeper. Another writer doesn't know whether to share or destroy her box of letters written during a tough time. The final letter is from someone questioning the “rules” of ghosting. Plus, a deep dive into Joseph's new book. Slate Plus members get another episode of Big Mood, Little Mood every Friday. Sign up for Slate Plus now and get $25 off your first year. Need advice? Send Danny a question here. Email: mood@slate.com Production by Phil Surkis Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Danny Lavery welcomes Margaret Josephs, author of the memoir, Caviar Dreams, Tuna Fish Budget: How To Survive In Business and Life. Josephs also hosts a podcast with the same  Lavery and Josephs tackle three letters: First, from a letter writer who discovered some alarming issues after becoming her grandmother's bookkeeper. Another writer doesn't know whether to share or destroy her box of letters written during a tough time. The final letter is from someone questioning the “rules” of ghosting. Plus, a deep dive into Joseph's new book. Slate Plus members get another episode of Big Mood, Little Mood every Friday. Sign up for Slate Plus now and get $25 off your first year. Need advice? Send Danny a question here. Email: mood@slate.com Production by Phil Surkis Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Transcript: Hello, this is Pastor Don Willeman of Christ Redeemer Church. Welcome to the Kingdom Perspective. Sacrificial generosity is at the very heart of the Christian gospel. The gospel is the story of God generously sacrificing His life for us. When we believe the gospel, we become those that do the same for others. Fortunately, We have 2,000-years of church history replete with accounts of this sacrificial generosity on display. One such example comes to us from a description of the church in 3rd century Alexandria (modern day Egypt)—as a lethal epidemic swept through that ancient pagan city. Listen to a church leader describe the response of Christians: “[During the great epidemic] most of our… [fellow] Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves. Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ. Many, in nursing and curing others, transferred their death to themselves and died in their stead…. The pagans behaved in the opposite way. At the first onset of the disease, they pushed the sufferers away and fled even from their dearest, often throwing them into the roads before they were dead…” (Dionysius, Bishop of Alexandria, 260 AD). Fortunately, with modern medicine the personal risk of caring for the sick and dying is somewhat mitigated. However, the impulse to do so must not be. The gospel makes us generous, courageous and loving even in the face of death and disease. Why? Because the One who has so loved us has overcome the mother of all fears—death itself! Something to think about from The Kingdom Perspective. “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints and seek to show hospitality.” ~ Romans 12:9-13 (ESV)

Series: Revelation: The Best is Yet to ComeTitle: “Why worship God for Armageddon?Scripture: Revelation 16:1-21(Main commentary helps listed at the end)Bottom line: God is glorified in his just wrath as he brings is awesome wrath on his enemies—wrath that fits the crime. (Just ask the heavenly host)Intro/Opening story:Brave Church by Rowland SmithThe year was 250 CE and Rome found itself facing, invaded even, by a different kind of enemy. It was not an army it could simply defeat on the battlefield, but a plague that swept through parts of the empire.Most historians think the invader was akin to Smallpox or Bubonic Plague, based on the early descriptions of symptoms. Whole households were disappearing to the ravages of the disease. Proximity was spreading illness at unprecedented rates, causing fear and panic as people saw their friends and family quickly falling ill, only to escape symptoms by death.Plague and PanicBodies were left in the streets, being removed from houses so that remaining inhabitants could hopefully live in relative safety from whatever was attacking. The sick were driven out into the public areas to die a slow and painful death. It caused panic among the public, resulting in many fleeing to the countryside to escape the confines and tighter living of city neighborhoods. At one point, up to 5000 per day were falling in Rome alone. The empire was dying in epidemic proportions!However, as many fled, there was one group of people that stayed. They cared for the sick, buried the dead, attempting to thwart the plague by burying bodies and covering them in lime, or burning bodies that had been piled in the streets. Who were these lunatics that stayed and cared for those who were dying? Who was this group that ran into the plague instead of fleeing in panic? They were known as Christians.Love and LoyaltyThese so-called Christians that lived within the Empire were found with the sick and dying, not running from them. As people suffered in the community, they responded with love, care and concern. They put their hands on the hurting and brought comfort to their suffering.In 260 CE Dionysius wrote a tribute to their efforts saying, “Most of our brother Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves and only thinking of one another. Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ…”These anomalies of common sense stayed to care for the wholeness of the community, dealing with the ravages of death and infection rather than running to the hills in search of safety. The Christians lived in search of love and in search of a response that looked like Jesus' life. A life where love triumphed danger and where the values of the kingdom of God overruled the safety of one's life.These values resulted in a bravery that was not witnessed in the rest of the community or in the civic rulers. Only the Christians were brave enough to love, in spite of the dangers.A Growing Faith Most historians reflect on this era of Roman history as a critical time in Christian history as well. This response of the Christian community is often cited as one reason that this faith in Jesus grew among the population. Even pagan observers noticed a constant charity and love for others. During these times of plague and great need in Roman history, Christians were observed to be standing in the gap where the empire failed to bring wholeness.The emperor Julian complained in a letter to his pagan priest in Galatia that the virtues and responses of the Christians were out matching their own citizens. He observed that recent Christian growth was partly due to, “benevolence toward strangers and care for the graves of the dead.” He goes on to say, “The impious Galileans support not only their poor, but ours as well, everyone can see that they lack aid from us.”Curious ValuesThe early church, as it lived in Rome, gained notice as a community that lived under a different set of values that were based on love and care for neighbor. They brought human care to situations in ways that other philosophies and belief systems did not, and so people were drawn to it. They were drawn to a community that cared for them in spite of their outsidedness and differences in beliefs. And so, the Romans noticed this strange band of brave people that were connected by a Galilean named Jesus. They noticed these oddities because they lived by virtue of a particular verb…love.Teach the frame reminding us about Rev 11:15 that Jesus will be king. (Time permitting)Read through and explain Rev 16 as the last 7 judgments of God on his enemies.We must read Rev 16 from God's perspective—not ours. Explain why…Each plague:The placeThe punishmentThe promise or perversion1st 3: response of the righteous2nd 4: response of the wickedIf time…Final thoughts with help from Nicky Gumbel:I. Jesus is coming back. He tells us this in his beatitude. Second coming of Christ—are you ready? We're one day closer to it than we were yesterday.II. Jesus took your judgment. “It is done” reminds me of “It is finished” from Jesus on the cross where he died for my sins so that I wouldn't have to. (John 19:30) Cf. Romans 6:23 and John 3:16III. Judgment is delayed. (But this is his final warning) Judgment is for those who “refused to repent and glorify him.” (16:9) …but not forever. It is right and good that God would judge those who deny him giving them what their actions and attitudes deserve. Are we ready? Are we warning others?IV. Judgment will be totally just. 16:7 (heaven praises him for this too) And we're reminded that God's judgments are “true” and “just”. That's because he is truth and he is holy. This is consistent with his perfect and unchanging character.ConclusionAs Greg Stier says, let's keep our eyes on the clouds and on the crowds as we wait expectantly for his imminent return. Let us not walk in fear but in love rooted confidently in the faith we've received in Jesus Christ.Read 10 commandments (Exodus 20); 2 Peter 3:8-9; 1 Thess 5:1-11.Invite people to repent and believe.Tell someone.If you want your name written in the book of life, pray to God something like this,Dear God, thank you for revealing your word and ways to me today. Thank you for helping me understand better who you are and what you are doing.I believe that Jesus Christ, the son of God, died for my sins in my place so that I could receive mercy and have life in his name. Forgive me for my sins and fill me with your Holy Spirit to overflowing. Help me read and obey your word daily as I learn to walk in step with you. In Jesus' name I pray, amen.PrayOther Illustrations:“Keep your eyes on the clouds and the crowds.” —Greg StierLive in light of his imminent return.“Jesus didn't give the Church the book of Revelation so we'd build ourselves bigger bomb shelters, but so we'd would build longer dinner tables” - @RayOrtlundOther thoughts wrt joy and circumstances and Jane / Nightbirdie“Sow a thought, you reap an action;Sow an action, you reap a habit;Sow a habit, you reap a character;sow a character, you reap a destiny.”-E. Stanley JonesThe Framed Picture of Revelation 11-16144,000 sealed—6 trumpet plagues (7-9)True Prophet John (10:1-11)Persecuted Church (11:1-14)Christ is King (11:15-19)Persecuted Church (12:1-13:10)Satan's False Prophet (13:11-18)144,000 sealed—7 bowls of wrath (14-16)Notice the symmetry and how it purposefully points to the most important truth in the book of Revelation. Just another way God reinforces the idea that he's purposefully revealing himself to us for our good and his glory.Other notes:References:Main commentary help:Exalting Jesus in Revelation by Daniel AkinRevelation by Jim HamiltonRevelation by Paige Patterson, New American Commentary seriesBreaking the Code by Bruce Metzger2020 Sermons by Matt ChandlerESV Global Study BibleBible in One Year by Nicky GumbelBible Knowledge CommentaryThe Book of Revelation, NICNT, Robert MounceThe Outline Bible, WilmingtonBible in One Year reading plan, Nicky GumbelExalting Jesus in 1 Kings by Tony MeridaDiscipleship on the Edge, Darrell W. Johnson

When we look at our lives, and see how they are steadily passing by, it will be clear to us that we must be heedful. We must use the time that we have left as best we can in order to cultivate as much goodness and peace as possible. To join Ajahn Anan and the Wat Marp Jan Community online for daily chanting, meditation, and a Dhamma talk, you can email wmjdhamma@gmail.com for the link. Daily live sessions at 7pm - 9pm, Indochina Time (Bangkok, GMT+7).

Bo and Bud visit with Jason Blakely, author of "We Built Reality: How Social Science Infiltrated Culture, Politics, and Power."

Andrew Slaven, JJ Bull and Laura Brannan take in a jam-packed Scottish Cup weekend full of goals and green screen glitches. Celtic look set to appoint Eddie Howe as their new manager. The Athletic’s Peter Rutzler tells us about Howe’s last year at Bournemouth and whether he has the character to flourish in the Glasgow goldfish bowl. Aberdeen appoint former model and England striker coach Allan Russell. Will he have any strikers to coach in the summer at Pittodrie? Hamilton boss Brian Rice boils over regarding refereeing decisions. Plus we show some love to Defoe, Lafferty and Ryan Seacrest. RUNNING ORDER:    • PART 1: Scotland beat the Faroes (01m 30s) • PART 2: Eddie Howe to Celtic? (07m 30s)  • PART 3a: Rangers 4-0 Cove Rangers (24m 00s) • PART 3b: QOTS 1-3 Hibs (28m 30s) • PART 3c: Dumbarton 0-1 Aberdeen (29m 30s) • PART 3d: Formartine 0-5 Motherwell (32m 30s) • PART 3e: Hamilton 0-3 St Mirren (37m 00s) • PART 4: The odds with Paddy Power (42m 30s) • PART 5a: The rest of the Scottish Cup weekend (44m 00s) • PART 5b: Your questions (53m 00s)    SIGN UP TO THE ATHLETIC FOR £4 A MONTH: • theathletic.com/totally   GET IN TOUCH: • follow us on Instagram • find us on Facebook • send us a tweet: @TheTotallyShow   PARISH NOTICES: • we’re sponsored by Paddy Power - home of the Money Back Special   READ STUFF ON OUR WEBSITE: • check out thetotallyfootballshow.com. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Vannak olyan fiatal csapatok, akik megérdemlik a figyelmet, mert rászolgálnak erre. A Heedless Elegance túlzás nélkül ilyen, már csak azért is, mert rögtön az év elején ledobták a bombát, konkrétan egy olyan lemezt, ami vélhetően nem csak az én év végi listámra kerül majd fel. A lemez születéséről, a zenekarról, élményekről, motivációkról beszélgettem a srácokkal. Vendégeim: - Konter Samu (Ének) - Forgó Zsolt (Gitár) - Varga Dániel (Gitár) Heedless Elegance a Facebookon: www.facebook.com/heedless.elegance/ Heedless Elegance lemezrendelés: metal.hu/zenekarok/heedless-elegance/ Ric$ a Facebookon: www.facebook.com/szenegetorichard Ric$ blogja: ricsandgreen.hu Ha bármi észrevétel, hozzáfűznivaló, témaötlet van, azt a rics@ricsandgreen.hu címre küldhetitek! :) Ha szeretnéd, hogy több Ric$Cast készüljön, akkor támogasd az adást a patreon.com/ricscast oldalon, vagy egy pólós csomag megvásárlásával a Facebook oldalamon! Köszönöm! :) Felvétel, mastering: Pataki László, Zdosek Ádám - Genezáret Stúdió Intro zene: Fellegi Ádám Intro hangok: Lukács László, Fejes Tamás, Sidi, Big Daddy L, Nomad Marci, Paddy

A worker of a mental hospital relates his experience with Joe Slater, an inmate who died at the facility a few weeks after being confined as a criminally insane murderer. He describes Slater as a "typical denizen of the Catskill Mountain region, who corresponds exactly with the 'white trash' of the South", for whom "laws and morals are nonexistent" and whose "general mental status is probably below that of any other native American people". Although Slater's crime was exceedingly brutal and unprovoked he had an "absurd appearance of harmless stupidity" and the doctors guessed his age at about forty. During the third night of his confinement, Slater had the first of his "attacks". He burst from an uneasy sleep into a frenzy so violent it took four orderlies to strait-jacket him. For nearly fifteen minutes he gave vent to an incredible rant. The words were in the voice and couched in the paltry vocabulary of Joe Slater but the onlookers could construe from the inadequate language a vision of: green edifices of light, oceans of space, strange music, and shadowy mountains and valleys. But most of all did he dwell upon some mysterious blazing entity that shook and laughed and mocked at him. This vast, vague personality seemed to have done him a terrible wrong and to kill it in triumphant revenge was his paramount desire. In order to reach it... he would soar through abysses of emptiness 'burning' every obstacle that stood in his way. The ranting stopped as suddenly as it had started. This was the first of what would become nightly "attacks" of a similar nature. The peripheral otherworldly images of Slater's visions were different and more fantastic with each successive night, but always there was the central theme of the blazing entity and its revenge. The doctors were perplexed with the Slater case. Where did a backward man like Slater get such visions, when surely an illiterate rustic like him would have had little if any exposure to fairy tales or fantasy stories? Not that there were stories similar to Slater's. Why, too, was Slater dying? As an undergraduate, the intern had built a device for two-way telepathic communication which he had tested with a fellow student with no result. The device was designed around his principle that thought was ultimately a form of radiant energy. Heedless of any ethics, he attached himself with Slater to the device as Slater lay near death. With the device switched on, he received a message from a being of light whose experiences had been what were transmitted through the medium of Joe Slater. This being explained that, when not shackled to their physical bodies, all humans are light beings. The thought-message went on to explain that, as light beings within the realm of sleep, humans can experience the vistas of many planes and universes which remain unknown to waking awareness. The intern understood that the light being would now become completely incorporeal, and undertake at last a final battle with its nemesis near Algol. Joe Slater died then, and there were no further transmissions. That night an enormously bright star was discovered in the sky near Algol. Within a week it had dimmed to the luminosity of an ordinary star and in a few months it had become barely visible to the naked eye.

June 12, 2020

Who eat of food after their sacrifice Are quit of fault, but they that spread a feast All for themselves, eat sin and drink of sin. By food the living live; food comes of rain, And rain comes by the pious sacrifice, And sacrifice is paid with tithes of toil; Thus action is of Brahma, who is One, The Only, All-pervading; at all times Present in sacrifice. He that abstains To help the rolling wheels of this great world, Glutting his idle sense, lives a lost life, Shameful and vain. Existing for himself, Self-concentrated, serving self alone, No part hath he in aught; nothing achieved, Nought wrought or unwrought toucheth him; no hope Of help for all the living things of earth Depends from him.[FN#5] Therefore, thy task prescribed With spirit unattached gladly perform, Since in performance of plain duty man Mounts to his highest bliss. By works alone Janak and ancient saints reached blessedness! Moreover, for the upholding of thy kind, Action thou should'st embrace. What the wise choose The unwise people take; what best men do The multitude will follow. Look on me, Thou Son of Pritha! in the three wide worlds I am not bound to any toil, no height Awaits to scale, no gift remains to gain, Yet I act here! and, if I acted not-- Earnest and watchful--those that look to me For guidance, sinking back to sloth again Because I slumbered, would decline from good, And I should break earth's order and commit Her offspring unto ruin, Bharata! Even as the unknowing toil, wedded to sense, So let the enlightened toil, sense-freed, but set To bring the world deliverance, and its bliss; Not sowing in those simple, busy hearts Seed of despair. Yea! let each play his part In all he finds to do, with unyoked soul. All things are everywhere by Nature wrought In interaction of the qualities. The fool, cheated by self, thinks, "This I did" And "That I wrought; "but--ah, thou strong-armed Prince!-- A better-lessoned mind, knowing the play Of visible things within the world of sense, And how the qualities must qualify, Standeth aloof even from his acts. Th' untaught Live mixed with them, knowing not Nature's way, Of highest aims unwitting, slow and dull. Those make thou not to stumble, having the light; But all thy dues discharging, for My sake, With meditation centred inwardly, Seeking no profit, satisfied, serene, Heedless of issue--fight! They who shall keep My ordinance thus, the wise and willing hearts, Have quittance from all issue of their acts; But those who disregard My ordinance, Thinking they know, know nought, and fall to loss, Confused and foolish. 'Sooth, the instructed one Doth of his kind, following what fits him most: And lower creatures of their kind; in vain Contending 'gainst the law. Needs must it be The objects of the sense will stir the sense To like and dislike, yet th' enlightened man Yields not to these, knowing them enemies. Finally, this is better, that one do His own task as he may, even though he fail, Than take tasks not his own, though they seem good. To die performing duty is no ill; But who seeks other roads shall wander still. Arjuna. Yet tell me, Teacher! by what force doth man Go to his ill, unwilling; as if one Pushed him that evil path? Krishna. Kama it is! Passion it is! born of the Darknesses, Which pusheth him. Mighty of appetite, Sinful, and strong is this!--man's enemy! As smoke blots the white fire, as clinging rust Mars the bright mirror, as the womb surrounds The babe unborn, so is the world of things Foiled, soiled, enclosed in this desire of flesh. The wise fall, caught in it; the unresting foe It is of wisdom, wearing countless forms, Fair but deceitful, subtle as a flame. Sense, mind, and reason--these, O Kunti's Son! Are booty for it; in its play with these It maddens man, beguiling, blinding him. John Metaphysical

Welcome to Story Time With Darcie!In every episode, with the help of a few guests, I read a piece of my own short fiction. I’m an eclectic writer, so you may be surprised by the genres and situations, but what these stories have in common is their exploration of big ideas.The world has changed this past month. The story originally scheduled to run today no longer feels like the best choice. Instead, I think the world will appreciate a touch of levity. I admit, I don’t think I’m funny. (My mother thinks I’m hysterical, but her opinion might be biased.) Heedless, last year I took a stab at writing comedy, and if it doesn’t make you laugh out loud, I hope Three’s a Crowd at least gives you a giggle.If you’ve read this story before, either on my facebook page or in my book Musings, this version is a bit different. A re-edited, re-mastered, re-worked 2.0 version.I want to extend special thanks to today’s many guest voices. As the story is about family, and Covid-19 has separated me from mine, I’m delighted to have Hilke (my mom), Ron (my dad), Annissa and Pamela (my sisters), and Lyra (my niece) join in on the fun! I love you all! I’m so happy we were able to work on this project together from our own corners of the world! As a special gift to my listeners this month, I’ve made a ringtone of Hank’s Laugh Line. I don’t want to ruin any joy this story has brought you, but I can’t bring myself to sign off without a few final words… My heart goes out to you in this time of uncertainty. No matter where you are, know that you are not alone. If you’re in a position to help, please reach out to those who can not. A loaned book, a can of soup, or a phone call can make a huge difference. If you are lonely, reach out to friends and family. They love you and, even if you can’t hug, you can phone, video call, or write emails and letters. If you are scared, hurting, or mourning, give yourself the time and compassion to heal. Stay safe and smile when you can. Our global mental health is taking just as much of a beating as our global physical health. We can come through this stronger. The planet will have taken a cleansing breath. Our hearts will be open. It’s just a matter of time.Well, that’s it for another episode of Story Time with Darcie. Special thanks to Hilke, Ron, Annissa, Pamela, and Lyra, for sharing your voices this month. If YOU would like to become a voice on Story Time with Darcie, please, reach out! My eclectic stories need a variety of voices, and yours will be a welcome addition!Thank you for listening. To read more of my stories and perhaps inspire my next one, join me on facebook. I mentioned at the top of the show that you can also read this story in my book, Musings. I still have a few copies of the second edition of that collection of short stories available. Give me a shout if you’d like to buy a copy. And of course, subscribe here for future episodes of Story Time With Darcie. Direct Link to text version of original (not 2.0 version) of Three's A Crowd.Direct Link to Hank's Laugh Line ring tone.

In 250 AD what became known as the Plague of Cyprian broke out. It lasted for 13 years. Many scholars now identify it as something like Ebola. Cyprian, the Bishop of Carthage, preached a series sermons throughout this time. In these sermons he encouraged his listeners to care for the sick who were still living. A colleague described how Christians, “Heedless of danger … took charge of the sick, attending to their every need.” What would compel these Christians to put themselves in the path of danger? They knew the truth which Martha learned in this account from John 11. In this account Jesus teaches us that he has us on the road to resurrection and we have life now.Support the show (https://nnyredemption.breezechms.com/give/online)

Transcript: What should you do as a member of the church do to respond to the coronavirus? Sacrificially care for those in need. Fortunately, we have 2,000-years of history of the church facing such crises with love and wisdom. One such example comes to us from a description of the church in 3rd century Alexandria as a lethal epidemic swept through that ancient pagan city. Listen to a church leader describe the response of Christians: “[During the great epidemic] most of our… [fellow] Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves. Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ. Many, in nursing and curing others, transferred their death to themselves and died in their stead…. The pagans behaved in the opposite way. At the first onset of the disease, they pushed the sufferers away and fled even from their dearest, often throwing them into the roads before they were dead…” (Dionysius, Bishop of Alexandria, 260 AD). Fortunately, with modern medicine the personal risk of caring for the sick is somewhat mitigated. However, the impulse to care for the sick and dying must not be. The gospel makes us courageous and loving even in the face of death and disease. Why? Because the One who has so loved us has overcome the mother of all fears—death itself! Something to think about from The Kingdom Perspective.

Heedless of warnings, Yennefer seeks a cure to restore what she has lost; Geralt inadvertently puts Jaskier in peril; the search for Ciri intensifies. Scorecard: 7.4/10 Feedback : blackgirlcouch@gmail.comTwitter: Black Girl_CouchTumblr: slowlandrogynousmiracle

Jehu was able to accomplish a few great things for God, but he still had so much potential. Please let us know how it has ministered to you using one of these options: Email: pastor@vbph.org Voicemail: https://anchor.fm/vbph-sermons/message Thanks for listening. Has this message been a blessing to you? Please consider giving a generous donation using this link: https://vbph.org/#givingflow --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

Half-Hardy Plants. That's a term you don't run into very often - but when you do, it can be confusing.   Just this morning, I swung by a garden center to check out their clearance plants and I ended up chatting with a gardener who had running to a label that had that term: Half-Hardy Plants.   The term Half-Hardy simply means that the plant will not survive a frost - that they can't handle a dip in temperatures.   So think about your tropicals; maybe you have some citrus - an orange tree or a lemon tree - or simply your patio pots.   Those would all fall into the category of Half-Hardy Plants.         Brevities #OTD On this day in 1868 Aristides Simoni was born.    He helped discover the role of the mosquito in the transmission of yellow fever.       #OTD And it was on this day in 1830 that David Douglas finally arrived at the Columbia River.   He had departed from England on October 31st, 1829 after visiting his mom.  Before he got on the boat, he wanted to make sure that he got his hands on a Bible with large enough font for him to be able to read it as his vision was feeling him   Douglas was excited to go on this trip. He wanted to get to the interior of California to discover the botanical treasures there.   But apparently, plant exploration was taking a toll on Douglas. He ran into someone at Fort Vancouver who thought he was 48 years old; he was 30.   Despite his physical challenges, Douglas was eager to get going. When he reached the Columbia, he immediately thought about botanizing in the area.   In just a few weeks, he was able to send home three chests of seeds and plants. In a letter to Prof. Hooker, he wrote:   "You will begin to think that I manufacture pines at my pleasure.”   One of the pines Douglas sent back was the Pinus nobilis. It commanded a hefty price tag at the time– 15 to 20 guineas per plant.       #OTD It's the birthday of Josephine Baker, one of the greatest entertainers of the past century.   Josephine's path led her to Paris where she became an instant sensation. By 1929, she was the highest paid entertainer in Europe.   Baker bought a Château just outside of Paris and she loved to garden there. She also loved to throw glamorous parties on the lawns of the estate which were flanked by magnolia trees and the enormous rhododendrons. The property boasted its own orchards, multiple greenhouses, vegetable plots, and even a rivulet.         Unearthed Words Here's a little snippet about June from Nathaniel Parker Willis.   He was an American author and poet. During the mid 1800s, he was the highest paid magazine writer of his day.   It is the month of June, the month of leaves and roses.   When pleasant sights salute the eyes, and pleasant scents the noses.       Today's book recommendation: Kiftsgate Court Garden by Vanessa Berridge The subtitle of the book is intriguing; three generations of women gardeners. It features the influences of Heather Muir who began gardening at Kiftsgate a century ago with her husband. Heather's daughter Dianny took over the estate, including the garden, in the 1940s. Four decades later, in the 1980s, Dianny's daughter took over the property and she owns it to this day. If you like gardens, garden history, and mix in some personal biographies - this gorgeous book is right up your alley. You can click the link above to purchase it.     Today's Garden Chore   It's time to find perennials for those wet but sunny areas in the garden.   There are a number of plants that like these kinds of conditions and many of them are favorites of mine:   Ligularia Filipendula (rubra is known as Queen of the Prairie - with the pink tops. I love this one!) Lysamachia Rodgersia   btw - I fell in love with Rodgersia a few years ago. The magnificent leaves of this plant are huge and look positively prehistoric once it gets established.     Something Sweet  Reviving the little botanic spark in your heart   On this day in 1909 at the Irish immigration reformer Charlotte to Grace O'Brien died. After a life devoted to improving the lot of others, O'Brien at devoted her leisure time to writing and to the study of plant life. O'Brien had found a place for herself along the river Shannon which she called at Ardenoir - which means the height of gold; in reference to the golden gorse that covered the hillsides in spring. She once mused: "The baby heather that blossoms so soon, in the splendid heat that comes after June."   When one considers O'Brien's humanitarian work across both sides of the Atlantic, as well as her genius for gardening, it's stunning to discover that by the time O'Brien reached adulthood, she was completely deaf. In 1879 she wrote about her deafness, saying,   "Oh bitter loss! all natures voice is dumb Oh loss beyond all loss! About my neck the children cast their arms. No voices break upon my ear, no sounds of laughter come - Child's laughter wrought of love, and life, and bliss; Heedless, I leave the rest, had I but this."   In the last half of her life, O'Brien firmly established herself as a writer, a poet, and a plant collector.   Her last article contained these prophetic lines"   "I will puzzle the botanists of another generation, and when my bones are dust and my good spade rust, when my house is pulled down and my garden asphalt and bricks, my extra special wild briars and my daffodils will still linger on the hillside and scent the bloomy air for generations that know me not, nor mine."     Thanks for listening to the daily gardener, and remember: "For a happy, healthy life, garden every day."

Verse 1 I've believed in God for so long but have not pursued the truth. It fills my heart with remorse. I've missed the chance to be perfected, many times over, and yet, worse, I've hurt God's heart in this course. God showed lenience and mercy time and time again. He gave me chances to repent. Judgment, chastening and discipline— they made my numb heart feel. Pre-chorus 1 By understanding the truth, I experience God's love and live before Him. His kindness is great, yet I've not given anything back to God. I'm too ashamed to face Him when I've given Him no love. Chorus 1 To pursue the truth and be born anew, repaying God's love, this is my one true wish, this is my one true wish. Verse 2 I keep God's exhortations firmly in my heart, to accomplish the mission He's given me. I practice the truth, fulfill my duties every day to satisfy God's heart. By His holy plan and sovereignty, I face trials meant for me. How can I give up or try to hide? What's first is God's glory. Judgment, chastening and discipline— they made my numb heart feel. Pre-chorus 2 In times of adversity, God's words guide me and my faith is perfected. I am utterly and completely devoted, devoted to God with no fear of death. His will is always above all. Bridge I pledge completely to repay God's love. I praise Him without interruption in my heart. I've seen the Sun of righteousness, the truth controls all that is on earth. God's disposition is righteous (and deserves mankind's praise). My heart will love Almighty God forever, and His name on high I'll raise. Chorus 2 Heedless of my future, no thought for gain or loss. I wish only that God be satisfied. I bear resounding witness and shame Satan to the glory of God.

In this podcast Shaykh Faraz Rabbani continues with the text, “Blameworthy Traits and Their Cure” (‘Uyub al-Nafs wa Mudawatuha) by Imam Abu Abdulrahman al-Sulami (died 412 A.H.). This work deals with states of the self, and how to rid oneself from blameworthy traits. In this episode, Shaykh Faraz Rabbani discusses the blameworthy trait of having […] The post 164- Blameworthy Trait of Being Heedless When Allah Withholds Punishment From Immediate Sins and It’s Cure- Shaykh Faraz Rabbani appeared first on SeekersGuidance.

Sheikh Hazem describes who is the one who is Heedless, and what can be done to overcome it.

When we last left Hercules he was busy being awesome, this week he tries hard to prove he isn't in Hercules Episode 28: Headless Hearts. Join us in crying as the show presents us no less than 3 other glorious plots it could be exploring, hear Brian contemplating breaking in to his own home, Mark try to seriously derail the podcast and turning it into muppetcast, and Meg and Lucas start Headcannoning how close this was to Xena's last adventure. Also something something baby upsetting podcast schedules.   Mount Olympus is an episode by episode review of the smash 90s television programs "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys" and its spinoff "Xena: Warrior Princess," which still enjoy unparalleled cultural relevance today! Or ... at least they do in the hearts of our hosts. Kevin Sorbo, Lucy Lawless, Michael Hurst, Renee O'Connor and friends (along with fan favorite Bruce Campbell!) stomp, fight, and flirt their way through the New Zealand countryside - and we break it down week by week. Mount Olympus is a product of Retrograde Orbit Radio, and is brought to you by the following Retrograde Orbit Radio players: Our Own Hercules of Radio: Producer? Brian His Faithful Sidekick: Producer Mark The Xena of Podcasts: Meg Her Devoted Partner: Lucas

17. Deck the Hall Traditional Old Welsh Air Featuring the New Mexico Christmas Choristers and Mark O’Connor Piano and production Deck the hall with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Don we now our gay apparel, Fa la la, la la la, la la la. Troll the ancient Yule tide carol, Fa la la la la, la la la la. See the blazing Yule before us, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Strike the harp and join the chorus. Fa la la la la, la la la la. Follow me in merry measure, Fa la la la la, la la la la. While I tell of Yule tide treasure, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Fast away the old year passes, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Hail the new, ye lads and lasses, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Sing we joyous, all together, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Heedless of the wind and weather, Fa la la la la, la la la la. ...

Friday Khutbah of February 12, 2016 from brother Rateb Marai warning against being heedless and having the wrong attitude. YOLO (you only live once) is a fallacy. The truth is YODO you only die once, and you will be raised again to an afterlife.

Commander Dale Brown is the founder of the Threat Management Center in Detroit, where his organization provides an alternative to the local police in the areas of safety and security. I'm intrigued by the work Commander Brown is doing, as his focus is on prevention and non-violence. Today's show, part one of three, covers a lengthy discussion we had together. In this episode, we talk about Commander Brown's story and the story of his organization, but our talk goes far beyond that! We get into the nature of police work, where police are failing, and how his strategies are superior. Heedless of avoiding controversy, we then dive right into the topics of racism, racial profiling, Nazism in modern Germany, and sexism. In addition, we cover altruism, law, and the importance of conquering fear. Stay tuned for the rest of the series, where we discuss police shootings, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and much more! Find out more about Commander Dale Brown and the Threat Management Center here: http://www.threatmanagementcenter.com 800-525-3491   Please subscribe, rate and review on itunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/choice-conversations/id315666764?mt=2 Join my new facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1741413262765523 Like my facebook page and share with your friends: https://www.facebook.com/ChoiceConversationsPodcast Follow me on twitter and please retweet: https://twitter.com/ChoiceConvo Subscribe to my youtube channel. Like and share my videos: http://www.youtube.com/c/ChoiceConversations   Bumper music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiKiNecNBiY&list=PLoe-H2xJOW56v_XOx1oJnZXOfCIr4YfSy  

Imagine, for a moment, that you're passing through a little Harney County town when you see, in a used-car lot, a DMC DeLorean that someone has modified as a replica of the car from Back to the Future. It even has a replica flux capacitor, and the readout of the dates in old-school LED readouts on the dash. The price is right, so you buy it, and immediately you want to take it out on the highway and see what the replica equipment does when you hit 88 miles an hour. Twiddling the knobs, you set the red “Destination Time” readout for something random, which turns out to be “July 15, 1908.” Then you punch it, and watch the speedometer needle rise towards 88. There is a sudden flash of light and then the car starts shaking vigorously. You think you must have had a blowout, but as you slow down you realize the pavement on the highway has run out and you're rocketing over a potholed, washboarded dirt road at 88 miles an hour. You quickly slow to a stop. And that's when you realize that the car isn't a replica, or even a movie prop. It's an actual working time machine, and it has brought you back to — what was that date again? July 15, 1908? You've come to a stop in a part of the road that overlooks a shallow canyon, close by the rim. You see something moving in the canyon below, so you get out for a better look. In the canyon below, you see a line of people — probably 200 of them — moving through the sagebrush, beating at it with clubs. And the ground at the people's feet is quick with little furry creatures — running, hopping, bounding away toward the end of the canyon, which someone has closed off and enclosed with a portable fence. Looking through your binoculars (don't leave home without ‘em!) you see that the creatures are jackrabbits. There are literally thousands of them. And the people — men, women, and children, some of them as young as 5 or 6 — are smashing them with their clubs when they can, and driving them toward the portable-fence corral when they can't. You're close enough to see the joy, enthusiasm, and occasional vengeful fury on the faces of the people with the clubs. Little kids are jumping up and down waving bloody cudgels and carefully dressed ladies are daintily dabbing gore off their blouses, and everyone who is not a jackrabbit is having a thundering good time. Looking above the fray, past the tightly woven fence where a small heap of dead bunnies has been piled up, you see some other folks setting out what looks like a big multi-family picnic with, as they say, all the fixin's. Everyone looks just as happy as a toddler at Disneyland. Except, of course, the terrified bunnies. Cold sweat stands out on your brow as you wonder if your DeLorean actually brought you not into the past, but into a David Lynch movie. In a panic you leap back into the car, start it up, and twiddle knobs until today's date is in the red numbers. Heedless of the rough road surface, you gun the car up to 88 miles an hour, hoping desperately that the whole “lightning has to strike the car for this to work” thing isn't also real .... (Central and Eastern Oregon; 1900s, 1910s, 1920s) (For text and pictures, see https://offbeatoregon.com/2501c.rabbit-drives-in-eastern-oregon-685.513.html )