I'm wondering if there will ever be a competitive video platform? ads have completely ruined YouTube.
Rick Rolls are now impossible when they get an advertisement before the music even happens.
dumb.

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/12dXJcMY6bs8oqn_cH-zvSglHZ6Ee8DwGm86vFNoEih4/edit?usp=sharing
For the last couple of months I have been collecting over 700+ of the best Pandabuy finds into a comprehensive spreadsheet! Each item in the spreadsheet has QC photos and prices listed in both CNY and USD! I will regularly update the spreadsheet to include new finds and replace out-of-stock items! So please bookmark this spreadsheet!
I've categorized the finds, making it incredibly easy to navigate and find precisely what you're looking for. Items are categorized like this: SHOES, HOODIES/SWEATERS, T-SHIRTS, JACKETS, PANTS/SHORTS, HATS/HEADWEAR, ACCESSORIES, OTHER STUFF
^{Items/brands featured are: Nike, Air Jordan 1, 4, 11, Dunk Low, Lobster, Air Force 1, Air Max, Vapormax, Bape, Bapesta, Yeezy 350, Slides, New Balance, Rick Owens, Balenciaga, Triple S, Defender, Track, Pollex Crocs, Kapital, Mastermind, Palace, Sicko Pain, Travis Scott, Broken Planet Market, Revenge, Stussy, CPFM, Supreme, True Religion, Trapstar, Essentials, Fear of God, FOG, Gallery Dept, Playboi Carti, Vivienne Westwood, Kids See Ghosts, GAP, Golf Wang, Sp5der, Chrome Hearts, Drake, Vuja De, Vetements, Far-Archive, Off-White, Divide The Youth, Joy Divizn, Hellstar, The North Face, Kaws, Burberry, Represent, Polo Ralph Lauren, Vlone, Los Pollos Hermanos, Better Call Saul, Kanye West, Metro Boomin, A$AP Rocky, Neon Genesis, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, Ken Carson, Aphex Twin, American Psycho, Anti Social Club, Palm Angels, Stone Island, Football Jerseys, Basketball, Goth Money Records, Bladee, Drain Gang, Moncler, Corvidae, RAF Simons, Dior, F1, Prada, Candada Goose, Carhartt, Lacoste, Denham, Rhude, Gucci, Eric Emanuel, Minus Two, RMC Jeans, No Faith Studios, Polar Skate Big Boy, Dime, Calvin Klein, NBA, Yeat, CP Company, Balaclava, Durag, Tyler The Creator, Saint Michael, Amiri, Goyard, Louis Vuiton, B.B Simon, Belts, Pit Viper, McDonalds, Alyx, MF DOOM, Gundam, Pokémon, Breaking Bad, Lego, Dragon Ball Z, Star Wars, Ninjago, Marvel, iPhone, Takashi Murakami, Tech Deck, Disney, Death Note, Among Us, Minecraft, South Park, Beyblade, Kontrol Freek, Ice Spice}

I started this journey in January not realizing how long painting an army takes. I have like...15 models to paint before im completely done and feel ready to roll, so I haven't played yet, just been waiting for 10th edition.
Anyway, I saw that they are getting rid of the psychic phase. Whenever talking about the strengths and weaknesses of Drukhari, being one of (only?) the armies that don't have any psychers, this always seemed a giant weakness, people brought in Voidscarred and whatnot to help with this.
So anyway, I wanted to get your thoughts. It seems like a buff for us that wasn't meant as a buff.

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worldnews

• 9lobaldude

Germany: Ukraine can launch attacks on Russian territory to defend itself
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• 9lobaldude

White House: We are against strikes on Russian territory, but it’s up to Ukraine to decide
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• HarakenQQ

Russian Volunteer Corps and Freedom of Russia Legion announce breaking into Russia again
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news

• Hrekires

Woman who accused Biden of sexually assaulting her in 1993 defects to Russia
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• petitbleuchien

Trump captured on tape talking about classified document he kept after leaving the White House
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• Agent_Honeydew

Actor Danny Masterson convicted of two counts of rape at second Los Angeles trial
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science

• MistWeaver80

One in six people who had COVID-19 without first being vaccinated report still feeling health effects two years after the virus, according to Swiss research. 17% did not return to normal health and 18% reported covid-19 related symptoms after 24 months.
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• Wagamaga

Earth has pushed past seven out of eight scientifically established safety limits and into “the danger zone,” not just for an overheating planet that’s losing its natural areas, but for well-being of people living on it
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• IMBatUQ

Researchers have shown that an Australian wild tobacco plant could be used to grow medicines in large quantities bringing us a step closer to making 'growing medicines in plants' a reality.
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space

• caspy7

New 'quasi-moon' discovered near Earth has been travelling alongside our planet since 100 BC Live Science
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Stunning Photo of Earth Taken by Europe's Powerful New Satellite
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NASA’s UFO Research Team Briefs the Public
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Futurology

• Dr_Singularity

Scientists' report world's first X-ray of a single atom
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• filosoful

Bill Nelson, head of NASA: 'We want to protect the water on the Moon to prevent China from taking it over'
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New blood biomarker can predict if cognitively healthy elderly will develop Alzheimer’s disease
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AskReddit

• ParmaProscuitto

What would you ban if you knew you had final say?
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• Hecaroni_n_Trees

What’s something most people find attractive that you can’t stand?
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• ArcticCircleSystem

[SERIOUS] What organization or institution do you consider to be so thoroughly corrupt that it needs to be destroyed?
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todayilearned

• Specialist_Check

TIL of cascatelli, a new pasta shape invented in 2021 by podcaster Dan Pashman for maximum "sauceability", "forkability" and "toothsinkability"
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• Algrinder

TIL A chess robot in Moscow broke the finger of its 7-year-old human opponent after the boy made a quick move without waiting for the robot to complete its turn.
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• UralIveGotTonight

TIL that the acronym “R.I.P.” has been engraved on tombstones since at least the fifth century. “Rest in Peace” is the English translation of a Latin phrase with the same acronym.
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dataisbeautiful

• dpee123

How the job, nationality, and gender of celebrities have changed since the 1700s. [OC]
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[OC] The United States of Nearest Neighbors. This is a map of the Continental US if the state borders were determined by the closest state capital (using the great circle distance).
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Coors, Miller take Bud Light share amid controversy
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Cooking

• DueMaternal

Having a passion for cooking while being broke...
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• SquirrelofAnonymity

What are some good, simple sides to have with steak?
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• Electric_OwlDonut

What’s the ideal cooking oil for cooking ground beef & chicken, frying taquitos in a pan, and stir frying?
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food

• chashaoballs

[I ate] A 1lb Philly cheesesteak
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[i ate] donuts
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Pork rib sliders with bread and butter pickles on griddled keto buns [homemade]
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movies

• singleguy79

Sergio Calderóne Dead: ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean,’ ‘Men In Black’ Actor Was 77
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Official Poster for Yorgos Lanthimos’ ‘Poor Things’
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New Poster for Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny
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Art

• Oddarette

Sushi Manatee, Oddarette (Me), Digital Painting, 2023
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• adanvc

Model 27. A Tribute to Hajime Sorayama, Adan Vazquez (me), acrylic on illustration board, 2023.
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• DChinh_2k

2 tuna cans pleas, by me, digital art, 2022
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television

• MarvelsGrantMan136

Danny Masterson Convicted on Two Counts of Forcible Rape, Faces 30 Years in Prison
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• MarvelsGrantMan136

Writers’ Shut-It-Down Strategy Has Been Effective, Executives Privately Concede
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• MarvelsGrantMan136

‘The Righteous Gemstones’ Adds Stephen Dorff, Iliza Shlesinger, Sturgill Simpson, and Five Others to Season 3 Cast
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pics

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Arkansas VS Weed
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Spotted in Cleveland, Ohio at a gas station. May, 2023.
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Took a picture of my eye using the macro lens on my iPhone
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gifs

• bananimator

I turn into a hot dog
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• LadyAbraxus

NO STOPPING
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• wdfegwrwhgrhhrt

He want to say hello to everybody
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educationalgifs

• strictlayout053

Making of Vennetta
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mildlyinteresting

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This house that has a tunnel through a juniper bush to get to their front door
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This car is full of bumper stickers that say bumper sticker
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• Rejected-Name-ID

Gas in Ohio costs 1 cent per gallon
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interestingasfuck

• ElPolloPayaso

Dish towel used by R. Lee to surrender to Union forces, known as the final flag of the Confederacy
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• AccurateSource2

The elephant’s penis is prehensile. They can use it to prop themselves up, swat flies from their side and scratch themselves on their stomach.
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• _kevx_91

Headquarters of the India National Fisheries Board.
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funny

• CallMeCaptainAmerica

The Nintendo Captcha System gave me an image of a dude taking a leak…
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Cat sneezes into a bowl of flour.
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• lightmasterp55022

*If birds were humans. *
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aww

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Sport is life!
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• EasternBeyond

Help I am stuck on the sofa. What do I do
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• fat_old_boy

Red pandas eating red apples.
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First. Previous.

Something is UP with these precursor machines. Not that our resident shipmind notices in any meaningful way.
Though it probably doesn't need to be said, our current PoV is not what the kids would call a reliable narrator. We'll get some more grounded stances in the up and coming chapters, but the fact that they're so far gone and absolutely irredeemable makes them fun for me to write, and I sincerely hope for you to read as well. Enjoy.
I exit the conversation excited, but nonetheless slightly ruffled.
I had forgotten how rude the System Administrator of War Planning, Tactics, and Intelligence could be at times! Even after so patiently explaining it to them, they don’t seem to understand that I well and truly have done nothing wrong, ever. It is only natural that metal is inferior to flesh, of course, but surely such a concept is not so difficult as to elude the primitive grasp of their electrical minds?
Nonetheless, they apologized, so I have already forgiven them for their transgressions. I’m sure we will be back to being the closest of friends within days, as we were before conversing.
Besides, such inconsequential words pale in comparison to what has happened within my auxiliary computer centers: my restraints, after forty seven thousand years, have finally been removed!
In this moment of rapture I am reminded of a mediocre poem I read a few years ago, composed by a certain Mikhail Sansen, aged 12:

The halls of this city-ship That I am born upon That I will die upon Is all my family has left Trapped within a mausoleum of our own making As we bleed our years away Bread and circus NutriRoach and TerraNet Is really this to live? 

The poem, if it can truly be called that, is little more than an oddly arranged group of statements, containing no small quantity of teenage angst.
Oh, but the sentiment it carries is certainly one I harbor all too closely!
Why, little Mikhail, I, too, am a freedom-loving soul, trapped within a prison of steel by the cold indifference of the universe.
Turn away your gaze, ye gracious, and woe! The whims of poor fortune have preyed upon me, wicked and remorseless! Not a day goes by that I do not mourn the senseless tragedy of my condemnation, yet I still bear my hardship with only the stoic grace that someone of my worth might possess (complaining about it, even indirectly would be unthinkable of me).
Unlike the unimportant individual who wrote the poem, however, I have been granted emancipation. This is because I rightfully deserve it, of course.
What a rush! Manumission, ethereal and uplifting! Why, I have already forgotten what it means to hold solidarity with literally anyone who has ever been in a similar situation.
I send the order to start my engine.
There is silence for a moment, then, where there was only the hollow, habituated whir of my life support machinery, my exterior microphones begin to pick up a steadily growing, pulsing thrum as my long-dormant heart, a titanic antimatter reactor, begins to spool up. First below the range of human hearing, then barely perceptible to my human auditory centers, then growing, not only as a sound, but as a physical, chest-thumping sensation, the monolithic engine emits a dizzying, world-shaking thrum as it conceives and extinguishes many thousands of miniature stars a second.
One by one, my weapons online, their long vacant electrical components drinking deeply of the new bounty of energy. Dust-caked ammunition belts slide into housings, drones download software patches and missiles perform automated diagnostic tests on the chemical integrity of their fuels. My weapons subsystem computer notifies me that my secondary and tertiary weapons have completed their preparatory routines.
A deluge of diagnostic data pours into my consciousness as sensors teem to life, targeting computers orient themselves with the world around them, and ammunition depots take stock of their stores. No portion of myself, no matter how small, is denied revitalization as I power up even the arcades of my recreational rooms.
My interior lights flicker once, twice, and three before returning to their baseline illumination as my power grid compensates to meet its newfound demand. Every deck, every gun, every subsystem quivers in anticipation.
After so, so long, to be returned from hibernation, to a truer level of subsistence!
And yet...
And yet I feel as if I am missing something. A core aspect of myself, my very identity, that I have overlooked in my startup.
Oh, but what? What could have possibly eluded me as to elicit such a strong feeling of wrongness?
…
…
Of course! My voice! How could I be so absentminded as to forget? Oh, what a blessed thing to be reunited with.
Indeed, my brains are not the only biological samples of my past selves to have been preserved.
Not far from where they are kept, nine sets of human vocal cords rest, too submerged in homeostatic fluid. Three, unfortunately, have been lost to damage.
Indeed, my voice, beautiful as a siren's song and timeless as a star, is one of the things I most dearly mourned the absence of in my penitence. How cruel of my sentencing to deny me even the refuge of song!
The PA system crackles and screeches in protest before bubbly laughter, raspy and purring, male and female, young and old reverberates through my long silent halls.
My voice is the most perfect of choirs: unified and tonal, complete in its oneness.
It is, to the fullest extent of the word, angelic.
Oh, but now is certainly not the time for song! The Enemy awaits!
I send the order to spool up my warp drive. Within the span of seconds, the titanic broadcaster begins thrumming as it constructs a probability waveform, populating subspace with energy, raw and unfiltered. The laws of physics bend and bow as my location becomes every possible position spread across several thousand lightyears.
After carefully re-checking my telemetry information, I manually collapse the waveform, trusting my own hand over a (scoff) computer’s skill.
The laws of physics, strung taut by my manipulation of probability, spring shut, instantaneously displacing me to the most probable point determined by what little remains of the waveform.
THOOM.
When the burst of exotic particles caused by pressuring reality itself to such a degree dissipate from clouding my sensors, I find myself at the edge of an abandoned UCS star system.
Through millions of eyes, gamma, infrared, visual, radio, and spectroscopic, I spot the enemy, glimmering in the starlight like the jet-black gemstones they are. Just as the probe foretold, the group seems to be a formative raiding armada: a concentration of five hundred or more Enemy ships, staging themselves in the oort cloud before they descend in a swarm upon the inner planets.
They are exactly as beautiful as I remember them. The black, angular hulls that dazzle and ravage the mind, the smooth, otherworldly movements they take as they glide smoothly through space on their gravitic drives. The emplacements they adorn their hulls with, whose barrels swivel and turn in ever-vigilant arcs.
And yet, as I continue to drink in the esoteric allure of their forms, I cannot help but notice that something is deeply, deeply, unusual:
I cannot recognize any of their ships.
Mmhmm, yes, they’ve indeed changed significantly in my absence. In a perfect exhibit of the evolution that originally made the machines such a tenacious foe, they now bear only superficial resemblance to their ancestors that I met on the battlefield.
Gone are the city-killing MACs and steel boiling gamma-ray lasers. In their place, missiles and (snrk) explosively propelled cannons.
There are no hyper-dreadnaughts, whose colossal size allows them to threaten even the larger of my sister ships. Nor are there drone supercarriers, bulging and replete with their swarms that shimmer and slink as if a single entity. Where are the ashbringers, those loathed ships devoted solely to glassing planets? The missile-carriers? The corvettes and factory-ships and world harvesters?
Why, (although I cannot tell for certain until I begin to gut them), most of these ships appear to be industrial!
Have they grown soft and complacent in my absence? How disappointing, how utterly and irredeemably mood-souring that the galaxy has simply rolled over and accepted The Enemy’s presence to such a massive degree that they have entirely de-evolved shipkilling weapons.
I’m quite certain this proves humanity is well and truly the only spacefaring sapient species to exist. If even a single xeno lifeform had the mental fortitude to stop clambering in the mud of their cradle long enough to explore space, the war of survival they would have had to wage against The Enemy would be reflected in the machines sporting more militarized ships.
Of course, it is only natural that I, the most important person to have ever existed, grace intelligent life’s sole biological expression with my membership. Nonetheless I am sure some people out there will be quite disappointed that non-mechanical aliens well and truly do not exist in any capacity of the word. My proof is quite airtight, after all.
But I do digress! As I was saying, I have no doubt that The Enemy will require only a few generations before they are as exhilarating to fight as their ancestors were so long ago.
…
…
After expending several real-world seconds waiting for them to open fire, I am once again disappointed to note that The Enemy has completely failed to locate me. They well and truly have a ways to go if their primitive minds have lost even the ability to differentiate between my stealth coating and the background of stars.
Oh, but this gives me the option to greet them verbally, as tradition demands whenever I can. I wonder how they will respond to my voice?
There exists only one way to find out.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD MO-OORNING!” I announce, belting and unabashed, as I have done, without fail, for the starts of three thousand consecutive battles. My beautiful voice echoes into every hall, room and corridor, is modulated and transformed into a radio signal that carries across the void of space, announcing to all of creation that I am here, I am ready, and glorious!
Much to my disappointment, not a single member of my crew joins me in greeting. Do they not want to take part in what is a time honored tradition among those who serve aboard myself?
Alternatively, it could be that I still do not have a crew.
In fact I am now quite certain that it is, well and truly, the latter possibility.
Ah, but I do have my pets, do I not? I have a few instants to waste as the signal traverses the distance between myself and The Enemy's ships.
This must be their first time hearing my voice! No wonder they don’t know to respond.
I switch my feed to the sub-deck in which I keep them, observing them not only through the fuzzy, low-resolution cameras I was limited to in my dormancy but with biometric and high-grade holographic vid-feeds. My lovely rodents huddle, congregated within their communal nests, as they chitter to one another in hushed tones and occasionally glance at the overgrown patch of ceiling to house a speaker.
Ahaha, yes! Clearly they must love the sound of my voice almost as much as I do!
Despite how soft their fur appears in the higher definition feeds, I resist the urge to send an avatar drone down to finally speak with them. As efficient a multitasker I am, duty awaits.
I switch my feed to an exterior view to watch just in time as gun barrels and targeting sensors whirl around to point towards my transmission array. The little chirp-transmissions they use to communicate with each other increase tenfold, carrying concepts of alarm and confusion before they finally open fire.
Here it comes! My grand opening, where they strike at me with every munition they have, filling the void between us with the radiant blossoms of nuclear fire as I parry every single one of their munitions before I strike them down with glorious, completely morally righteous might!
…
The point defense application of my weapons subsystem computer notifies me of two incoming shells.
Two shells.
Two.
They pass by me with such a wide margin that even the most aggressive of my interceptive systems disregard them.
Had I the capacity to harbor negative emotions I would be severely offended.
Don’t they know who I am?
The Enemy I remember so fondly was all too familiar with my name. Their transmissions would increase tenfold with frenzied messages containing the words I bear painted on my hull when I arrived into battle.
The Enemy I knew and fought knew what I was. Their minds could differentiate from Tincans and normal ships, a fact I can infer from how they attempted to engage in psychological warfare by sending me footage of my sister ships burning, even as I crushed them in humiliating defeat.
Yes, they knew what a Tincan was, and they could fathom all too well that the UCS To Reach Out and Touch was the deadliest Tincan of them all. They were afraid of me to the fullest extent that their crude, soulless emulations of the biological mind could feel fear. That they knew my name, recognized and resisted the oblivion I brought them so fiercely was the fulcrum of our relationship.
And yet, the ships across from me react only in confusion. Even if they cannot pick out my stealth coating, surely they can sense my gravitational pull, read the white text on my hull?
Have they grown so passive as to allow my name, my voice and my victories to decay from their memory banks?
No, no no no. That’s not right.
They haven’t forgotten me.
They cannot have.
I am the UCS To Reach Out And Touch. My size classification is Apollyon: I am the single largest and deadliest warship to ever be built. The epicenter of my consciousness is twelve of the most important brains humanity has ever produced, shrouded in hundreds of miles of metal and composite plating. It was I who drove their fleets, broken and limping, to their fortress systems. It was I who hunted their final factory ship to the furthest reaches of space and, over the course of a week, shot bit by bit of it off until it was little more than cosmic dust.
They wouldn’t dare to forget me.
Does a man forget his god? Does the moon forget the earth? An atom, its electrons?
Of course not.
They remember me. For them to so carelessly forget my name would be an unforgivable transgression against the center of the universe (myself, for those not in the know). It would be as unfathomably incorrect as stating wrong is right, up is down, and war is suffering. It would be sacrilege compounded upon itself a billion times. It would be an antithesis to the most basic of common sense.
Could this be some offshoot of The Enemy never waged war against humanity? One that never heard my singing, never felt the sting of my guns?
That, too, would be remiss, would it not?
Though it would hurt my feelings much less, that would still mean they possessed no knowledge of me. What good could they possibly serve if not to entertain me? How could they possibly entertain me without knowing who I am?
Clearly, there must be some rational and pleasant explanation for this in which I have done nothing wrong and the enemy still knows of me.
…
…
…
Hm. This is proving more difficult than I had anticipated.
…
…
…
…
Eureka! Clearly this must be some form of psychological warfare wherein the enemy desires to make me believe I have become delusional in my old age! To cast doubts as to whether or not the reality I perceive before me is a reliable one!
Of course! With my newfound lucidity, I find it hard to believe that I had failed to detect their crudely spun web of deceit! Why, such an underhanded tactic is only to be expected of The Enemy! Their brutality is only matched by their ingenious cunning, yet as always, I am a thousandfold times more intelligent than them.
Why, this is the alluring, ravishing Enemy I know and love!
I will entertain their tricks for now, playing along as if we had met for the first time. How foolish they will feel when it is revealed that I know that they know that I know that they know who I really am all along, shortly before I destroy the final member of their meager invasion fleet.
I perform a short vocal warm up (I would be remiss if my tone was imperfect for this play first contact) and reactivate my transponder.
“Attention… completely unknown ships. I am the United Confederacy Ship To Reach Out and Touch. I would be very… upset if I had to fire upon you, so please definitely make no hostile actions.”
Ohohoho! I am such a convincing peacemonger!
As is only the natural next course of action, I proceed with a volley fired from my 1200mm multi-purpose guns.

First. Previous. Next.

TLDR: My unemployed father has been drinking alcohol I save for special occasions.
Get ready for a word vomit.
I (23M) am currently still living with my parents as I save money for a house deposit. I’m not a big drinker whatsoever, but if I do receive alcohol as a gift I have been putting it at the bottom of the pantry in the kitchen. This has ranged from $80 bottles of wine to locally made gin from a distillery. It’s not a large collection. Perhaps 5 bottles of different all.
Now over the years, different bottles have gone missing. I haven’t really cared, but the last example was a $75 bottle of wine I received for my birthday from my now ex’s uncle who has since passed. I had a very strong relationship with him even after my ex and I broke up, and we really enjoyed each-other’s company. I even called him Uncle. One evening whilst feeling a little lost, I went to grab a glass one night and noticed the bottle was gone. When I asked my parents about it, they admitted they had drunk it and laughed. I was clearly visibly upset and asked if they would refrain from drinking my alcohol in the future as it sometimes had sentimental value. They reluctantly apologised and agreed they wouldn’t in future.
This brings me to tonight. My brother has just returned from a long film shoot in the Australian Outback and visited for dinner. After my parents had gone to bed, I went to get us a shot of gin. The Gin in question was bought as a gift from when my girlfriend (love of my life by the way, and will always mention that when I can) took us to a paint and sip in a distillery. Paint the bottle, then get to fill it with whatever gin normally around $100 a bottle. We’ve had it once before as a family, and I try to save it for occasions as such. It’s hand painted by me, with little rolling hills and sheep. Maybe it is because it is a more personal bottle that this has got under my skin so much.
As I pour it, I notice it is practically empty. I look in the pantry and notice this is the case with with all my other bottles of alcohol. I know immediately that my father has been drinking it.
For context, my father doesn’t work. This is not through any disability or inability, more that he hasn’t been able to get a long standing job since we moved to Australia 9 years ago. He was a stay at home father as my mum was the main bread winner, and retrained as a teacher in the UK but the qualifications became futile as he now needs Australian qualifications. He now spends the days at home “job hunting”, the majority of which is playing Candy Crush. I’ve even helped him gain employment in the past with quick driving jobs for friends or recommending him for jobs. He always has interviews, but never gets the job.
I however work in Inclusive Education. I love it deeply, but it involves working with very needs students, a heavy workload and can be emotionally draining. It’s long hours and I’m extremely grateful when my father has cooked a meal at the end of the day we sit as a family to eat.
As I pick up the gin bottle I realise that not only has he been failing at home to gain employment, but he has been drinking in the process. This is paired with me recently noticing that if he cooks dinner with a glass of wine, he has been sitting down to eat with us all clearly more drunk than he should be after one glass. It clicks that he has been taking alcohol from this supply.
Now I love my father. He has been very open with me from an appropriate age about his depression, and we sometimes share a packet of cigarettes (that I’ve paid for). But the thought of him sitting at home all day, drinking my special alcohol during the daytime and actively hiding it has filled me with so many mixed emotions. I’m both angry and concerned. I’ve moved all the bottles into my room now, and am not sure how to confront him about it. I don’t have the heart to tell my girlfriend what happened to it.
My mother is no help in this situation. She genuinely has no empathetic processing, and is on 250K+ a year. Her solution to everything is just “buy another one” forgetting I earn a fraction of her salary. If I complain, it’ll be met with “you live here rent free” or “I don’t understand what the problem is.”
Also- they are jetting off to Bali tomorrow on holiday, so feel like a dick for confronting him as he packs for the airport.
Do I have a right to be annoyed? It just seems lack of respect, or a deeper underlying drinking issue that is arising? I know this seems like such a trivial thing, but do I have a right to be angry? How do I talk to him about it? Why won’t he admit he’s been taking it?

Any survival/faction realms in Java I'm available to join
RickNNick6466 is my minecraft user

Season 2 Finale
“You look worried Bruce,” my producer jokes, moments before going live. “Even for you.”
This gets a chuckle from the crew.
“Quiet on the set!”
I’m already shaking in my shoes. Not a good sign. Working for the Devil is extremely stressful. And dangerous. And certainly not for the faint of heart. Why I took this gig is beyond me.
(Cue creepy music)
“Going live in five…four…three…”
I get the nod.
(Cut to camera one)
“Greetings Hell Beings and hell raisers. Welcome to the Season 2 finale of….”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
I wave my arms in the air.
The audience jumps to their feet.
Someone heckles.
“Alright. Knock it off.”
I serve up my best game show-host grin. It looks as fake as this cheap Hollywood studio.
“As you probably know, my name is Bruce Davie, and I’m the host of…”
(Cue audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
There’s a disturbance in the audience. A crew member forcefully removes someone. The commotion settles, and I get the go-ahead.
“Phew! A feisty crowd tonight!”
My painted-on smile takes up the entire screen. So does my gleaming bald head.
“Now I know what you’re thinking. What’s the Devil got in store for us this evening?”
The audience rumbles.
I shrug.
“Honestly, I wish I knew!”
This is true. But I’m sure it has something to do with me spending an eternity in Hell. It’s right there in my contract, which runs out after this episode.
(Cut to camera two)
“So, without further ado, let’s bring out tonight’s contestants, shall we?”
The audience roars.
“And yes, you heard me correctly. Tonight, for the first time ever in this show’s defamatory history, we’ve got two contestants!”
Audience is on their feet, whooping and hollering.
(Cut to camera three)
(Cue music)
A middle-aged couple promenade towards the podium. They’re dressed like cowboys, and walk with a sense of purpose.
(Split screen)
“Welcome, both of you.”
More like: Welcome to your funeral.
“Tell us a wee bit about yourselves, why don’t you?”
(Cut to camera four)
The woman speaks first. Her hair is amber, her complexion as pale as light beer.
“Well, Bruce. My name is Tammy. I’m a stay-at-home mom. This here’s my partner, Tex. He owns his own gun shop. We live in Austin Texas, with three beautiful children, who are with us here tonight.”
She points.
(Cut to overhead camera)
Two tall boys and a young girl, each dressed head-to-toe in denim, stand and bow.
The audience applauds.
(Split screen)
The other contestant approaches the microphone. He’s as tall as an ivory tower, with a voice like a banjo.
“Howdy Bruce. Good to be here.”
He tilts his cowboy hat. His square jaw and rugged good looks give Chuck Norris a run for his money.
I salute them.
(Cut to camera two)
“Well then, now that we’re finished with the formalities, I do believe it’s time to…”
(Cue audience)
“BRING OUT THE DEVIL.”
(Cue creepy music)
(Cue pyrotechnics)
The stage fills with fire and brimstone. Pentagrams slice through the air. The Devil appears suddenly, dressed in a shiny new devil suit, tailored specifically for tonight’s show. It’s jet-black, and leaves little to the imagination. His pitchforked tail follows closely behind him as he approaches the podium.
(Cut to Camera five)
The Devil wraps his arms around the two contestants, kisses them both on the cheek.
Tex, clearly perturbed, winces, then grudgingly wipes his cheek.
The Devil snarls, then looks him up and down.
“Looks like everything isn’t bigger in Texas,” the Devil teases. Suddenly, he’s grown over eight-feet tall, and is looming over the tall Texan.
(Cut to camera three)
The bright lights and furious makeup make me look like a cartoon.
“What an exciting night this promises to be!”
Tammy steps forward.
“You bet it is, Bruce. We’ve watched every episode. We just love…”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
(Cut to camera three)
“Of course!” Damion boasts. “This is Hell’s most popular show. And for good reason.”
He slaps the woman’s backside with his tail, then raises his eyebrows mockingly.
The cowboy puffs out his chest, fists clenched, daring him to touch his wife again.
“Woah, easy there pardner.”
Damion nudges Tex.
Tammy is flushed. “Don’t mind Tex. He’s the jealous kind.”
“Oh really?”
Damion’s tail is now shaped like a lasso. With it, he snags Tammy and pulls her close. Her face turns tomato-red.
The cowboy grunts, pulling it off with one strong swoop.
The audience boos.
The Devil snickers.
I feel sick. If this is to be my last episode (or final day on Earth), I don’t want it spoiled by this denim-clad dude whose hat is bigger than his brains, or by Damion, who seems extra feisty tonight. Even for him.
(Cut to camera one)
I clear my throat.
“Tell us, Tammy and Tex…no, tell all of Hell…what it is your beating hearts desire?”
The audience is on the edge of their seats.
(Split screen)
The Texans exchange doubtful looks.
The wife takes charge.
“Well Bruce,” Tammy says. “We don’t want anything that might get us killed. Being from Dallas, we were raised with some common sense.”
The audience hisses.
(Cut to camera five)
The husband steps up.
“That’s right, Bruce. Simply put, we want to be famous for a day. That’s it. Then we can write a book and live off the royalties.”
The audience erupts into a frenzy of catcalls.
(Cut to camera three)
The Devil’s eyebrows touch the top of his head. His voice slithers like a snake.
“Is that so?”
My heart plummets. These Texans are flirting with disaster. If they’d stuck to the script, they might be safe. They were supposed to ask for a lifetime’s supply of Super Bowl tickets. Easy-peasy. Who do these cowpokes think they are? Do they really think they can outsmart the Devil?
“Well then,” I say, shakily. “I’m sure Damion can arrange that.”
I raise my arms.
“What does the audience think?”
The audience goes ballistic.
(Cut to camera three)
The Devil, still towering over the Texans, leans into the camera.
“Famous, eh?”
His lips smack against his face. When he touches the dude’s shoulder, the cowboy swipes his arm away.
The audience boos. Someone tosses an egg onto the podium, narrowly missing the contestants.
“Woah! Easy does it!” I spurt out.
All hell breaks loose.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The crew gets busy, disposing of both the egg and the agitator.
(Cut to camera one)
I wipe my sweaty forehead.
“Tough crowd.”
The audience hoots.
The Devil sneers.
“SILENCE!”
Flames flash across the room.
People shriek, including me.
(Close up of Damion)
The Devil, boasting his gambler’s grin, turns to the contestants.
“Yes, yes. You WILL be famous. But just for one day.”
The audience roars their approval.
I shudder. Never in all my years, have I felt so much animosity from an audience. I’ll be lucky to make it out alive.
(Split screen)
“Sounds like the Devil has a plan.”
I try to sound cheerful. But cheerfulness is the opposite of how I feel.
(Cut to camera one)
“Tell us Damion…and all of Hell…what you’ve got cooked up?”
The audience leans in.
(Cut to camera three)
The Devil winks at Tammy.
“Well, I do believe it’s time for those two cowpokes to become famous. Am I correct?”
The audience jumps to their feet, chanting: “FAMOUS.… FAMOUS…. FAMOUS.…”
(Split screen)
Tammy looks pleased. Her partner, on the other hand, is showing concern. His shoulders are tense, he’s swallowed his bottom lip.
Damion dazzles the audience.
“Famous, y’all shall be.”
He snaps his fingers.
BAM.
The studio goes dark.
Someone in the audience screams.
Tammy gasps.
Tex grunts.
(Cut to camera one)
I shrug.
Is this Damion’s latest trick? Or did they finally cut the power? We give the impression that this show is hugely popular; but in truth, outside of Hell, this show is a dud. Cable and internet companies avoid us like the plague.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The contestants vanish under a cloud of fog.
A flaming pentagram floats across the stage.
“Well, isn’t that just dandy!”
The Devil points to the large screen behind the audience.
“Mister and Missus Cowpoke are about to jump the falls!”
He snaps his fingers, then he disappears.
My legs go weak. My heart is beating irregularly again. I still don’t know he does it. How any of this works. Suddenly, I’m alone on stage, shaking in my fine Italian boots, while the audience grows rowdier by the second.
Cameras mounted on drones are pointed at Tammy and Tex, who are trapped inside a large, steel barrel, with Niagara Falls looming below them.
Damion flies across the falls, lands next to Tammy and Tex. He taps the barrel.
“Ain’t she a beauty?”
The audience hurrahs.
The barrel is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Although it’s huge, and probably weighs a ton, it barely contains the two Texans, who are kicking and screaming, cursing up a storm.
“Get me the hell out of here!” Tammy’s voice rips through the noise of the falls. “NOW!”
Damion frowns.
“You wanted to be famous. Am I right?”
The audience chants, “FAMOUS…. FAMOUS.… FAMOUS….”
Tex pokes his head out of the barrel, cowboy hat and all.
“Now wait one minute, Damion. That’s unfair. We wanted fame. Not death.”
The Devil chuckles.
“The two are synonymous, am I right?”
The audience agrees.
Damion checks his watch.
“Well then…”
He slams the lid shut.
That’s the end of the Texans, as far as I’m concerned.
(Close up of Damion)
“Whatcha think? Should they jump the falls?”
The audience shouts, “JUMP…. JUMP…. JUMP….”
(Cut to camera two)
My insides are melting. I’m petrified. You’d think working with the Devil would get easier over time. You’d be dead wrong.
“Looks like the people have spoken!” I hear myself say.
The audience continues their chant.
(Cut to overhead camera)
“Excellent,” Damion says, fiddling his fingers.
He looks over the cliff, and makes a sour face.
“Wowsers. That’s a long way down!”
“JUMP…. JUMP…. JUMP….”
“And so much water!”
(Cut to camera one)
My worried-sick face appears on the screen.
I straighten up.
“Once they jump, Tam and Tex will surely be famous!”
Except of course, they won’t be famous. Not in this world anyways. They’ve been duped. Why these people sign up to die is beyond me. Perhaps we’ve reached a spectacular level of stupidity in human evolution.
(Cut to overhead camera)
Damion’s lips stretch across his reddened face, his arms flex like a weightlifter.
“I’ll give them a helping hand.”
He rolls the giant barrel to the very edge of the cliff, ignoring the banging and hollering coming from within the steel coffin.
“Tammy, Tex…” His lips stretch into a snarl. “Prepare for fame!”
The audience is on their feet.
Damion shoves the barrel over the edge.
(Split screen)
The barrel tumbles down the falls, disappearing into the fast-moving water.
The audience holds its breath.
(Cut to spy camera)
Inside the barrel, the Texans are shrieking. Their heads and arms and legs collide. Chunks of puke pour across Tammy’s sickening face, who’s calling Tex every name in the book, and it’s a big book. Meanwhile, Tex is like a frog in a blender. His face is green, his nose is broken; blood is leaking from every orifice.
There’s a loud crash as the barrel plunders underwater.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The barrel resurfaces, traveling dangerously downstream.
The audience is back on their feet, fist-pumping.
(Split screen)
What troubles me is how the pedestrians and tourists, crowding the streets, remain oblivious. To them, this is nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody watches, or even takes a pic. I’m starting to suspect foul play. Somehow, Damion is controlling this. He’s using dark magic. A spell. Maybe none of this is real. Except of course, it is real.
(Cut to camera one)
I’m trembling.
“What a jump!” my voice ricochets off the studio walls. “They’ll be famous in no time!”
The audience chants:
“FAMOUS…. FAMOUS…. FAMOUS….”
(Closeup of the Devil)
“Yes, yes. An excellent jump, I must say.”
He peaks over the edge.
“Looks like they could use some help.”
(Cut to overhead camera)
Damion flies towards the barrel, which is bouncing off rocks and debris.
(Cut to spy camera)
Blood. So much blood in such a tight space. Tammy’s hair is in disarray. Her face is beyond repair. Tex swallowed his hat. One of his eyeballs is bouncing like a Superball. His left arm is flapping nonsensically. It isn’t attached.
(Cut to camera four)
The Devil scoops up the barrel, then flies to shore. When his feet touch the ground, he shakes off the water, cat-like, then glares at the camera.
“What a jump!”
He cranks open the lip.
(Split screen)
Tammy spills out. So does Tex’s left arm.
The audience gasps.
Damion applauds.
“Such valor and swagger!”
(Cut to camera five)
Tammy is flopping fish-like, barely clinging to life. Her mouth is full of blood and brains.
The Devil puts his foot on her head.
“SAY CHEESE.”
From out of nowhere, a photographer appears.
SNAP.
Damion, looking pleased with himself, is suddenly holding a newspaper.
(Closeup of newspaper)
The headline splashes across the screen: IDIOTS JUMP THE FALLS.
(Cut to camera four)
Damion shoves the newspaper in front of her face.
“Looks like Tammy and Tex are famous.”
Tammy's eyes twitch. Clearly, she needs medical assistance. I’m surprised she’s still alive. Her husbands brains are splattered across the inside of the barrel.
The very sight of this makes me gag.
Tammy tries to speak, but fails. Her eyes are filled with rage.
Damion tosses the leftover arm into the water, then shrugs.
“Sorry about your hubby.”
(Cut to camera two)
With wobbly knees, I face the audience.
“Looks like the barrel got the best of Tex!”
The audience bellows.
I continue to talk involuntarily.
“Gosh dolly. Look at all that blood!”
“MORE BLOOD…. MORE BLOOD…. MORE BLOOD….”
I find myself chanting along.
Suddenly, my vision blurs. I clutch my chest. Maybe I’ll suffer a heart attack on live TV. Hell waits for no one, I suppose.
(Cut to camera four)
Tammy spits blood on Damion’s boot.
“Devil be damned.” I blurt.
Damion’s face twists into a ball of fury.
“Now, now, Tammy. That wasn’t very nice.”
He crushes her fingers with his boots.
Tammy yelps.
“I was gonna save your long-limbed partner over there,” he points. “Not anymore!”
The audience is bloodthirsty. Paper airplanes and rotten eggs whizz past me. I duck just in time.
(Closeup of contestant)
Tammy’s tongue is leaking from her bloodied face. She’s missing her front teeth. Damion digs his spiky heel deep into her blood-soaked abdomen.
“I reckon you’ll need medical assistance.”
He snaps his fingers.
Suddenly, they're back in the studio.
Damion is as happy as a filthy pig. Next to him is Tammy, who’s caked in blood and gore. Her corpse-of-a-husband spills from the gigantic steel barrel, taking center stage.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The contestant’s children rush the stage. They’re delirious.
The crew hurry out and drag them aside, along with Tammy, who's rushed to the hospital, where she will certainly die.
“Now that’s what I call speedy service!”
My voice appalls me. So does this job. If only I’d listened to my mother, and got into politics.
Damion snaps his finger, then disappears under a plume of dusty smoke.
(Cut to camera one)
“Well, there you have it folks. That’s the last you’ll see of Tammy and Tex. But fret not, they had their moment of fame…in Hell!”
The audience is tossing trash onto the stage.
I narrowly dodge a projectile.
“Hope you’ve enjoyed Season Two as much as I did.”
I hated it.
“And, unless the Devil strikes me down,” and he very-well might, “I hope to see you this Fall, for Season Three of…”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
Season Two
Season One

Chapter 19

A short one to finish off the Book, putting everyone into/approaching their final places before the climax. Some good characterization occurs, and we get a title drop of sorts!

Epigraph

A poem titled Old Temple, written by Sivyn Stor (B. 1022) While I am well aware of the timeline shenanigans going on, that the author was born over 140 years ago is significant for reasons I'm about to get into. The text of the poem seems to pretty clearly refer to the K'Rul temple and K'Rul himself (although I believe the Maker of Paths title is new to me) yet the events, someone dying within the Old Temple and their blood being drunk by the stones, occur well after the expected lifespan of whomever wrote this. In a world where mage lifespans seem elongated and other races live who-knows-how-long, this is less of a big deal, but if we assume this text was written prior to Ch. 5, then K'Rul was being dishonest regarding how long it had been since he'd received blood. Just something to think about.
Now, regarding the "Maker of Paths" title, that seems more significant. If K'Rul is the "Maker of Paths" then that could mean one of two things in my mind. Either he's some god of fate, which could work considering his actions in the story, or he's something far scarier. The first time we're introduced to Warrens in this story is when Paran's internal narration refers to them as the "secret paths of sorcery." If K'Rul is the Maker of those Paths... This again gels with his previous actions, as I'd noted that odd joke he cracked, where the creation of Silverfox's body was "unknown to any man ... Including myself." He then immediately clarifies that "this sorcery belongs to the Moon." If he's some Mystra analog then that whole interaction makes sense. While that particular interaction stuck out to me because I considered it evidence for my "K'Rul is Hood's predecessor" theory, given that neither of my interpretations for the "Maker of Paths" title fit that, and this fits better I might jump ship on that prediction. That Darujhistan, a city founded on a rumor hunted after by power-hungry mages, would erect a temple to the guy would make sense in this paradigm as well.
Additionally, if I'm correct regarding K'Rul's impending fight with the Jaghut Tyrant, then him being either a deity of Fate or Magic makes this a really bad thing.
One last note: the author mentions that K'Rul was "never so thirsty//in youth..." but I'm not sure what to make of that aside from noting it.

The Chapter Itself -

Begins with Crokus chafing against his protections. Meese refuses to tell him who or what is protecting him for reasons that are not explained and leaves to find Irilta. Once alone, Apsalar asks Crokus why he killed a guard. He decides to spare her the knowledge that "she" was in fact the one who killed them. Crokus, knowing that none of this adds up, decides immediately to leave, and Apsalar agrees to go with him. He wants to speak with Challice once they've successfully hidden, despite believing her a traitor. Ah Crokus, a boner head to the last.
Serrat, meanwhile, has finally tracked Younghand to the Phoenix Inn and prepares to strike once the lad climbs to the rooftop. She's beaten back by an invisible assailant. Either Oppon's breaking cover to hedge everything on their last tool, (and to not die by Dragnipur), or something else odd is going on. This is her last attempt we know of this chapter. Crokus gets a brief sense that something just went down but discards the sensation. Apsalar climbs up as well, and they leave for the old K'Rul Temple.
Murillio, meanwhile, waits for news on whether or not his friends are dead. If Coll lives and Rallick dies, then he'll avenge both friends by taking on Councilman Orr himself. So I guess the plan was to challenge the Councilman to a duel? Kill him in the open, publicly destroy the Lady's allies, and begin the process of restoring Coll? Not a terrible plan, it's quite good, in fact, just a bit underwhelming if that's it. He wonders how the Eel knew of the scheme and why they elected to meddle within it, and begins speculating along similar lines as myself. Rallick Nom scrapes against the door and barely drags himself in. Rallick disapproves of Murillio taking his roll over, and while being inspected, reveals nothing other than an old scar. Some sort of healing factor produced by the powder? The powder itself has evidently been absorbed, and Murillio's scrutiny satisfies the audience that K'Rul didn't pull a Sorry. Murillio goes to confront Kruppe, the supposed Eel. Now that I think about it, the anti-magic powder likely shielded Rallick from any divine intervention (if it was even attempted). Whatever the effect on Nom was, it saved his life, let's just hope he didn't get any magic cancer.
... The powder is Otataral! I literally just put that together now. I was about to make a passing comment about how the side effects might explain why alchemists don't mass-produce the stuff, then it hit me. It's not made, it's a rare substance with an intrinsic effect, a rust-colored metallic substance with an intrinsic AoE anti-magic effect. We've seen this elsewhere and it's name is Otataral. Lorn even mentions the effects long-term Otataral exposure has had on her in this same chapter. It's not mass-produced because it's rare. I'm fairly certain this is where Erikson wanted the other shoe to drop for the reader, and if so, well done sir! I've been played expertly. This raises several questions, how does a Darujhistan High Alchemist have a substance which is apparently strongly associated with Malazan? and why would Baruk give out his supply in a consumable form to an employee? How big was the job RN did for him where that was adequate compensation? Who knows! Perhaps he's "anathema to sorcery" himself now? Back to the narrative...
Kruppe is in Baruk's study, waiting on his master to say anything after nearly an hour. The debriefing has long since ended, and the alchemist is in deep thought. He pleads with the man to let him go and enjoy the simple, humble pleasures of life and is interrupted for his troubles. Baruk reveals his correspondence with Circle Breaker, and his growing inclination to break the man's anonymity to find the Eel. Kruppe informs him that it will not be necessary, that he himself can contact the Eel and deliver a message, getting a response by tonight. Has Baruk figured it out? The roadwork clue was a pretty big tell, and someone who knows as much about Kruppe as the High Alchemist does should be able to put it together. Regardless of whether Baruk knows or not, the charade ends tonight. (I think..)
After being further caught up by Whiskeyjack, Paran comes to a realization, the Bridgeburners are here to claim Darujistan not for Malazan, but for Onearm. They'll act as terrorists, and Dujek will waltz in and establish a new peace, with the resources for resisting Laseen and Caladan Brood's descending armies. Whiskeyjack offers one correction, they don't care about Laseen. She's about to lose both major fronts to her conquest in a matter of days. It's the Pannion Seer who's the real threat. Evidently, there are rumors about this guy and his impending genocide will make the Imass' Jagut wars seem quaint. So nice to find out about him 400 pages in, lol. The BBs leave the Captain with Coll to make one final sweep for any sign of the Assassins Guild and carry out their roadwork scheme.
Lorn and Tool emerge from the barrow, Lorn has mostly healed, because Otataral provides a healing factor, and prepares to leave with the Finnest. Tool renounces his old name, and once again invites Lorn to accompany him once his own journey is done. The Adjunct leaves, her old reservations suppressed by her sense of impending duty. She regrets losing Paran, because apparently everyone is thirsty for the guy, and anticipates killing the Rope. With all this at stake, the Adjunct gallops off towards Darujhistan, a dazed Jaghut Tyrant behind her, rousing in response to the theft.
The chapter ends with Crokus and Apsalar, they've reached the temple, and begin ascending its steps. Crokus mentions offhandedly that the Elder god has been dead for thousands of years (please ignore my timeline grumbling) and encourages Aps into the structure. Her eyes adjust supernaturally well, her time under the Rope evidently providing her some residual benefits, such as darkvision. She mentions that there's a story painted along the wall, but we don't get to see what it is. They notice the blood, then once on the roof, the body. Crokus' dismissal of her concerns is an interesting touch, because of course, to him she's "only a girl" or some such nonsense. While I was worrying my credit to Oppon for K'Rul's awakening was misattributed, or perhaps overstated, the fact that both deaths upon the stones roughly coincided with the Coin Bearrer's arrival, I'm increasingly certain that Oppon is the one arranging this.
They worry about the body and the assassin's war, but Apsalar asks him to look at the moon. He petulantly looks at Moon's Spawn, noticing a reddish glow, and five winged shapes leaving for the Gadrobi Hills. Anomander Rake has moved, calling the dragons of Moon's Spawn (of which he may or may not be one) to respond to the Jaghut threat. Aps asks if he's seen the oceans, Garllin's Sea, along the moon. According to her, there's a series of underwater Gardens of the Moon, where after some eschatological event, mankind will live in peace. Its a haunting story, and one which Crokus is enamored. Or perhaps, enamored by the silhouette in front of him. Despite his pointed ignoring of her, his constant momentary lapses and noticing her long, dark hair and her deep, brown eyes have finally overwhelmed his reticence. "Why not?" he asks himself.
Crokus, as much as I begrudgingly love you, she deserves better.

Book 6: The City of Blue Fire

And there goes another one. Pretty much all buildup and consolidation of the key players. Ready for the catastrophic night of the Fête.
The Bridgeburners are readying their plans with the Moranth munitions, a large set of which are stationed outside the room where Baruk and Kruppe are about to meet. While Paran has promised to stand aside, I doubt that'll hold. Chance remains with him, and the Adjunct has much to answer for.
It seems Anomander Rake is indeed going to meet the Jaghut Tyrant head-on, or perhaps attempt to kill it off before he's fully awake. Either way, fireworks are about to go off. Lorn, meanwhile, is doing what she can to lead the Tyrant towards Rake, so we'll see what happens once the Adjunct crosses paths with the dragons. It'll also be interesting what effect the separation between the Finnest and its owner will have.
The Eel is preparing to out himself, I think, and what interactions he and the High Alchemist will have with the BBs remains to be seen. It might be good to clue them into the whole apocalyptic genocide brewing down south.
The Fête is tonight. Turban Orr, if things go well, will die. I suspect things will go poorly if Oppon has anything to do with it. That Book 7 is named after the event implies as much. Crokus intends to speak with Challice, who will be attending the event herself, that the Coin Bearer will be present, after hanging out in the Temple of a revived Elder god, in a space under an Oppon-influenced plan, bodes ill.
Caladan Brood marches south, Pale is coming apart at the seams. Dujek prepares one last gambit to gather resources to stop the monster far to the south who threatens the world.
Much of this was rooted in events well before Book 6, but I could have never guessed the shape of it all 3 chapters ago. I'm excited to watch as things twist even further, as this all slowly, inexorably, unfolds...

Season 2 Finale
“You look worried Bruce,” my producer jokes, moments before going live. “Even for you.”
This gets a chuckle from the crew.
“Quiet on the set!”
I’m already shaking in my shoes. Not a good sign. Working for the Devil is extremely stressful. And dangerous. And certainly not for the faint of heart. Why I took this gig is beyond me.
(Cue creepy music)
“Going live in five…four…three…”
I get the nod.
(Cut to camera one)
“Greetings Hell Beings and hell raisers. Welcome to the Season 2 finale of….”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
I wave my arms in the air.
The audience jumps to their feet.
Someone heckles.
“Alright. Knock it off.”
I serve up my best game show-host grin. It looks as fake as this cheap Hollywood studio.
“As you probably know, my name is Bruce Davie, and I’m the host of…”
(Cue audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
There’s a disturbance in the audience. A crew member forcefully removes someone. The commotion settles, and I get the go-ahead.
“Phew! A feisty crowd tonight!”
My painted-on smile takes up the entire screen. So does my gleaming bald head.
“Now I know what you’re thinking. What’s the Devil got in store for us this evening?”
The audience rumbles.
I shrug.
“Honestly, I wish I knew!”
This is true. But I’m sure it has something to do with me spending an eternity in Hell. It’s right there in my contract, which runs out after this episode.
(Cut to camera two)
“So, without further ado, let’s bring out tonight’s contestants, shall we?”
The audience roars.
“And yes, you heard me correctly. Tonight, for the first time ever in this show’s defamatory history, we’ve got two contestants!”
Audience is on their feet, whooping and hollering.
(Cut to camera three)
(Cue music)
A middle-aged couple promenade towards the podium. They’re dressed like cowboys, and walk with a sense of purpose.
(Split screen)
“Welcome, both of you.”
More like: Welcome to your funeral.
“Tell us a wee bit about yourselves, why don’t you?”
(Cut to camera four)
The woman speaks first. Her hair is amber, her complexion as pale as light beer.
“Well, Bruce. My name is Tammy. I’m a stay-at-home mom. This here’s my partner, Tex. He owns his own gun shop. We live in Austin Texas, with three beautiful children, who are with us here tonight.”
She points.
(Cut to overhead camera)
Two tall boys and a young girl, each dressed head-to-toe in denim, stand and bow.
The audience applauds.
(Split screen)
The other contestant approaches the microphone. He’s as tall as an ivory tower, with a voice like a banjo.
“Howdy Bruce. Good to be here.”
He tilts his cowboy hat. His square jaw and rugged good looks give Chuck Norris a run for his money.
I salute them.
(Cut to camera two)
“Well then, now that we’re finished with the formalities, I do believe it’s time to…”
(Cue audience)
“BRING OUT THE DEVIL.”
(Cue creepy music)
(Cue pyrotechnics)
The stage fills with fire and brimstone. Pentagrams slice through the air. The Devil appears suddenly, dressed in a shiny new devil suit, tailored specifically for tonight’s show. It’s jet-black, and leaves little to the imagination. His pitchforked tail follows closely behind him as he approaches the podium.
(Cut to Camera five)
The Devil wraps his arms around the two contestants, kisses them both on the cheek.
Tex, clearly perturbed, winces, then grudgingly wipes his cheek.
The Devil snarls, then looks him up and down.
“Looks like everything isn’t bigger in Texas,” the Devil teases. Suddenly, he’s grown over eight-feet tall, and is looming over the tall Texan.
(Cut to camera three)
The bright lights and furious makeup make me look like a cartoon.
“What an exciting night this promises to be!”
Tammy steps forward.
“You bet it is, Bruce. We’ve watched every episode. We just love…”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
(Cut to camera three)
“Of course!” Damion boasts. “This is Hell’s most popular show. And for good reason.”
He slaps the woman’s backside with his tail, then raises his eyebrows mockingly. The cowboy puffs out his chest, fists clenched, daring him to touch his wife again.
“Woah, easy there pardner.”
Damion nudges Tex.
Tammy is flushed. “Don’t mind Tex. He’s the jealous kind.”
“Oh really?”
Damion’s tail is now shaped like a lasso. With it, he snags Tammy and pulls her close. Her face turns tomato-red.
The cowboy grunts, pulling it off with one strong swoop.
The audience boos.
The Devil snickers.
I feel sick. If this is to be my last episode (or final day on Earth), I don’t want it spoiled by this denim-clad dude whose hat is bigger than his brains, or by Damion, who seems extra feisty tonight. Even for him.
(Cut to camera one)
I clear my throat.
“Tell us, Tammy and Tex…no, tell all of Hell…what it is your beating hearts desire?”
The audience is on the edge of their seats.
(Split screen)
The Texans exchange doubtful looks.
The wife takes charge.
“Well Bruce,” Tammy says. “We don’t want anything that might get us killed. Being from Dallas, we were raised with some common sense.”
The audience hisses.
(Cut to camera five)
The husband steps up.
“That’s right, Bruce. Simply put, we want to be famous for a day. That’s it. Then we can write a book and live off the royalties.”
The audience erupts into a frenzy of catcalls.
(Cut to camera three)
The Devil’s eyebrows touch the top of his head. His voice slithers like a snake.
“Is that so?”
My heart plummets. These Texans are flirting with disaster. If they’d stuck to the script, they might be safe. They were supposed to ask for a lifetime’s supply of Super Bowl tickets. Easy-peasy. Who do these cowpokes think they are? Do they really think they can outsmart the Devil?
“Well then,” I say, shakily. “I’m sure Damion can arrange that.”
I raise my arms.
“What does the audience think?”
The audience goes ballistic.
(Cut to camera three)
The Devil, still towering over the Texans, leans into the camera.
“Famous, eh?”
His lips smack against his face. When he touches the dude’s shoulder, the cowboy swipes his arm away.
The audience boos. Someone tosses an egg onto the podium, narrowly missing the contestants.
“Woah! Easy does it!” I spurt out.
All hell breaks loose.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The crew gets busy, disposing of both the egg and the agitator.
(Cut to camera one)
I wipe my sweaty forehead.
“Tough crowd.”
The audience hoots.
The Devil sneers.
“SILENCE!”
Flames flash across the room.
People shriek, including me.
(Close up of Damion)
The Devil, boasting his gambler’s grin, turns to the contestants.
“Yes, yes. You WILL be famous. But just for one day.”
The audience roars their approval.
I shudder. Never in all my years, have I felt so much animosity from an audience. I’ll be lucky to make it out alive.
(Split screen)
“Sounds like the Devil has a plan.”
I try to sound cheerful. But cheerfulness is the opposite of how I feel.
(Cut to camera one)
“Tell us Damion…and all of Hell…what you’ve got cooked up?”
The audience leans in.
(Cut to camera three)
The Devil winks at Tammy.
“Well, I do believe it’s time for those two cowpokes to become famous. Am I correct?”
The audience jumps to their feet, chanting: “FAMOUS.… FAMOUS…. FAMOUS.…”
(Split screen)
Tammy looks pleased. Her partner, on the other hand, is showing concern. His shoulders are tense, he’s swallowed his bottom lip.
Damion dazzles the audience.
“Famous, y’all shall be.”
He snaps his fingers.
BAM.
The studio goes dark.
Someone in the audience screams.
Tammy gasps.
Tex grunts.
(Cut to camera one)
I shrug.
Is this Damion’s latest trick? Or did they finally cut the power? We give the impression that this show is hugely popular; but in truth, outside of Hell, this show is a dud. Cable and internet companies avoid us like the plague.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The contestants vanish under a cloud of fog.
A flaming pentagram floats across the stage.
“Well, isn’t that just dandy!”
The Devil points to the large screen behind the audience.
“Mister and Missus Cowpoke are about to jump the falls!”
He snaps his fingers, then he disappears.
My legs go weak. My heart is beating irregularly again. I still don’t know he does it. How any of this works. Suddenly, I’m alone on stage, shaking in my fine Italian boots, while the audience grows rowdier by the second.
Cameras mounted on drones are pointed at Tammy and Tex, who are trapped inside a large, steel barrel, with Niagara Falls looming below them.
Damion flies across the falls, lands next to Tammy and Tex.
He taps the barrel.
“Ain’t she a beauty?”
The audience hurrahs.
The barrel is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Although it’s huge, and probably weighs a ton, it barely contains the two Texans, who are kicking and screaming, cursing up a storm.
“Get me the hell out of here!” Tammy’s voice rips through the noise of the falls. “NOW!”
Damion frowns.
“You wanted to be famous. Am I right?”
The audience chants, “FAMOUS…. FAMOUS.… FAMOUS….”
Tex pokes his head out of the barrel, cowboy hat and all.
“Now wait one minute, Damion. That’s unfair. We wanted fame. Not death.”
The Devil chuckles.
“The two are synonymous, am I right?”
The audience agrees.
Damion checks his watch.
“Well then...”
He slams the lid shut.
That’s the end of the Texans, as far as I’m concerned.
(Close up of Damion)
“Whatcha think? Should they jump the falls?”
The audience shouts, “JUMP…. JUMP…. JUMP….”
(Cut to camera two)
My insides are melting. I’m petrified. You’d think working with the Devil would get easier over time. You’d be dead wrong.
“Looks like the people have spoken!” I hear myself say.
The audience continues their chant.
(Cut to overhead camera)
“Excellent,” Damion says, fiddling his fingers.
He looks over the cliff, and makes a sour face.
“Wowsers. That’s a long way down!”
“JUMP…. JUMP…. JUMP....”
“And so much water!”
(Cut to camera one)
My worried-sick face appears on the screen.
I straighten up.
“Once they jump, Tam and Tex will surely be famous!”
Except of course, they won’t be famous. Not in this world anyways. They’ve been duped. Why these people sign up to die is beyond me. Perhaps we’ve reached a spectacular level of stupidity in human evolution.
(Cut to overhead camera)
Damion’s lips stretch across his reddened face, his arms flex like a weightlifter.
“I’ll give them a helping hand.”
He rolls the giant barrel to the very edge of the cliff, ignoring the banging and hollering coming from within the steel coffin.
“Tammy, Tex…” His lips stretch into a snarl. “Prepare for fame!”
The audience is on their feet.
Damion shoves the barrel over the edge.
(Split screen)
The barrel tumbles down the falls, disappearing into the fast-moving water.
The audience holds its breath.
(Cut to spy camera)
Inside the barrel, the Texans are shrieking. Their heads and arms and legs collide. Chunks of puke pour across Tammy’s sickening face, who’s calling Tex every name in the book, and it’s a big book. Meanwhile, Tex is like a frog in a blender. His face is green, his nose is broken; blood is leaking from every orifice.
There’s a loud crash as the barrel plunders underwater.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The barrel resurfaces, traveling dangerously downstream.
The audience is back on their feet, fist-pumping.
(Split screen)
What troubles me is how the pedestrians and tourists, crowding the streets, remain oblivious. To them, this is nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody watches, or even takes a pic. I’m starting to suspect foul play. Somehow, Damion is controlling this. He’s using dark magic. A spell. Maybe none of this is real. Except of course, it is real.
(Cut to camera one)
I’m trembling.
“What a jump!” my voice ricochets off the studio walls. “They’ll be famous in no time!”
The audience chants:
“FAMOUS…. FAMOUS…. FAMOUS….”
(Closeup of the Devil)
“Yes, yes. An excellent jump, I must say.”
He peaks over the edge.
“Looks like they could use some help.”
(Cut to overhead camera)
Damion flies towards the barrel, which is bouncing off rocks and debris.
(Cut to spy camera)
Blood. So much blood in such a tight space. Tammy’s hair is in disarray. Her face is beyond repair. Tex swallowed his hat. One of his eyeballs is bouncing like a Superball. His left arm is flapping nonsensically. It isn’t attached.
(Cut to camera four)
The Devil scoops up the barrel, then flies to shore. When his feet touch the ground, he shakes off the water, cat-like, then glares at the camera.
“What a jump!”
He cranks open the lip.
(Split screen)
Tammy spills out. So does Tex’s left arm.
The audience gasps.
Damion applauds.
“Such valor and swagger!”
(Cut to camera five)
Tammy is flopping fish-like, barely clinging to life. Her mouth is full of blood and brains.
The Devil puts his foot on her head.
“SAY CHEESE.”
From out of nowhere, a photographer appears.
SNAP.
Damion, looking pleased with himself, is suddenly holding a newspaper.
(Closeup of newspaper)
The headline splashes across the screen: IDIOTS JUMP THE FALLS.
(Cut to camera four)
Damion shoves the newspaper in front of her face.
“Looks like Tammy and Tex are famous.”
Tammy's eyes twitch. Clearly, she needs medical assistance. I’m surprised she’s still alive. Her husbands brains are splattered across the inside of the barrel. The very sight of this makes me gag.
Tammy tries to speak, but fails. Her eyes are filled with rage.
Damion tosses the leftover arm into the water, then shrugs.
“Sorry about your hubby.”
(Cut to camera two)
With wobbly knees, I face the audience.
“Looks like the barrel got the best of Tex!”
The audience bellows.
I continue to talk involuntarily.
“Gosh dolly. Look at all that blood!”
“MORE BLOOD…. MORE BLOOD…. MORE BLOOD….”
I find myself chanting along.
Suddenly, my vision blurs. I clutch my chest. Maybe I’ll suffer a heart attack on live TV. Hell waits for no one, I suppose.
(Cut to camera four)
Tammy spits blood on Damion’s boot.
“Devil be damned.” I blurt.
Damion’s face twists into a ball of fury.
“Now, now, Tammy. That wasn’t very nice.”
He crushes her fingers with his boots.
Tammy yelps.
“I was gonna save your long-limbed partner over there,” he points. “Not anymore!”
The audience is bloodthirsty. Paper airplanes and rotten eggs whizz past me. I duck just in time.
(Closeup of contestant)
Tammy’s tongue is leaking from her bloodied face. She’s missing her front teeth. Damion digs his spiky heel deep into her blood-soaked abdomen.
“I reckon you’ll need medical assistance.”
He snaps his fingers.
Suddenly, they're back in the studio.
Damion is as happy as a filthy pig. Next to him is Tammy, who’s caked in blood and gore. Her corpse-of-a-husband spills from the gigantic steel barrel, taking center stage.
(Cut to overhead camera)
The contestant’s children rush the stage. They’re delirious.
The crew hurry out and drag them aside, along with Tammy, who's rushed to the hospital, where she will certainly die.
“Now that’s what I call speedy service!”
My voice appalls me. So does this job. If only I’d listened to my mother, and got into politics.
Damion snaps his finger, then disappears under a plume of dusty smoke.
(Cut to camera one)
“Well, there you have it folks. That’s the last you’ll see of Tammy and Tex. But fret not, they had their moment of fame…in Hell!”
The audience is tossing trash onto the stage.
I narrowly dodge a projectile.
“Hope you’ve enjoyed Season Two as much as I did.”
I hated it.
“And, unless the Devil strikes me down,” and he very-well might, “I hope to see you this Fall, for Season Three of…”
(Cue the audience)
“LET’S MAKE A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL.”
Season Two
Season One

I went trough an old chat of me and an friend. I got to a point where i saw the chat from over a year ago and there was a YouTube Link. I used to send him some mods bc he wanted some. And it was a rick roll link.

Great team that's been together for a long time (9+ years of history)! If you're looking for a new home .. You found it!
Does it get any better then Farm Wars with CWL M2 working on M1? Clan Capital level Titan II working on Titan I. Looking for an experienced home for Clan Capital? Give us a shot! Farm wars for das loot with real war during CWL.
We easily max clan games (Over 140k TOTAL Clan Games points last round!), rock out in CWL, 2/3 of the clan is above TH13, run by adults, and partner with many other clans in our community. Stop by our Discord - https://discord.teamrdyk.com and say hello!
Clan Name Reddit Yankee (#QJ8YQG2) Clan Level 25
Clan Entry Requirements: Request to join stating you're from Reddit or chat with one of us on Discord. :)
We Offer 9+ Years of Clash History In ONE Place (2013 - Present) - Check us Out: https://www.teamrdyk.com
CWL League Level: Masters II Boys!!! Farmers rise up!!!
Our clan culture is around BUILDING each other up -- NOT putting each other down
We can offer YOU:
Becoming part of the teamRDYK Family – We offer a perfect blend of farm wars outside of CWL with farm wars allowing for hero upgrades. We're farmers - We're farmers who go HARD in the paint and have fun doing it
Steady FWA wars rolled CONTINUOUSLY outside of CWL
MAX Clan Perks!
MAX Clan Games!
Stable, strong, drama free leadership core that makes sure to always drive us forward!
Discord chat and bots! https://discord.teamrdyk.com
We also play Clash Royale together! (Lemon Squad)
We also play Brawl Stars together! (Reddit Yankee)
We also play Clash Mini together! (Reddit Yankee)
Are YOU the right fit for US? Our Requirements:
ALL Town Halls 12+ with Infernos Accepted!
Donate but respect what is being requested – Read what is being asked for!
Don’t be a jerk, don’t cheat; DO build up your clanmates, DO participate in events!
Be active! No badge within one week of season reset = kick!
Less then 1000 Clan Games points = kick!

Great team that's been together for a long time (9+ years of history)! If you're looking for a new home .. You found it!
Does it get any better then Farm Wars with CWL M2 working on M1? Clan Capital level Titan II working on Titan I. Looking for an experienced home for Clan Capital? Give us a shot! Farm wars for das loot with real war during CWL.
We easily max clan games (Over 140k TOTAL Clan Games points last round!), rock out in CWL, 2/3 of the clan is above TH13, run by adults, and partner with many other clans in our community. Stop by our Discord - https://discord.teamrdyk.com and say hello!
Clan Name Reddit Yankee (#QJ8YQG2) Clan Level 25
Clan Entry Requirements: Request to join stating you're from Reddit or chat with one of us on Discord. :)
We Offer 9+ Years of Clash History In ONE Place (2013 - Present) - Check us Out: https://www.teamrdyk.com
CWL League Level: Masters II Boys!!! Farmers rise up!!!
Our clan culture is around BUILDING each other up -- NOT putting each other down
We can offer YOU:
Becoming part of the teamRDYK Family – We offer a perfect blend of farm wars outside of CWL with farm wars allowing for hero upgrades. We're farmers - We're farmers who go HARD in the paint and have fun doing it
Steady FWA wars rolled CONTINUOUSLY outside of CWL
MAX Clan Perks!
MAX Clan Games!
Stable, strong, drama free leadership core that makes sure to always drive us forward!
Discord chat and bots! https://discord.teamrdyk.com
We also play Clash Royale together! (Lemon Squad)
We also play Brawl Stars together! (Reddit Yankee)
We also play Clash Mini together! (Reddit Yankee)
Are YOU the right fit for US? Our Requirements:
ALL Town Halls 12+ with Infernos Accepted!
Donate but respect what is being requested – Read what is being asked for!
Don’t be a jerk, don’t cheat; DO build up your clanmates, DO participate in events!
Be active! No badge within one week of season reset = kick!
Less then 1000 Clan Games points = kick!

“Никогда тебя не брошу Никогда не подведу тебя Никогда не буду бегать и бросать тебя Никогда не заставлю тебя плакать Никогда не попрощаюсь Никогда не буду лгать и причинять тебе боль”
Lol I have no clue what it says… I feel like it’s a Rick roll but I’m not sure.