DILF WOLF FRENOR

I did not appreciate DS9 when i first watched it but ive changed my opinion recently after a revisiting. 

Massive Mental Health PSA:

Don’t be afraid to reach out to your loved ones if things get tough.

They are literally there to help if they are your loved ones...

because they care.

Simple, right?

You’d be surprised at how difficult it can be sometimes.

At any rate, show some love to the homies!!!

Things are going nuts lately, ya never know how long they’ll be here, man.

Tell them you love them while you can😊

Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.

The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.

There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.

She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.

“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.

“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”

“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”

As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.

“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”

“That’s my name,” the man says.

She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”

He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.

Nowadays you can play anything you want and never have to worry about getting kicked or rejected from dungeons, groups, what have you, but back then if you weren’t one of the favorites you really did struggle. 

Monks had it the worst in the beginning, it felt. They didn’t have great skillchain synergy with anyone and despite having really good DPS, their numbers “looked” low due to each individual punch counting as its own damage and when you add in being a Galka which, due to the bizarre kind of in-game racism that existed back then could actually get you kicked from parties because ew, a galka 

so, I spent a lot of time just.. lonely, lookin’ for party, soloing as best as I could given the circumstances. I had just had a huge falling out with some friends at the time, too, so it was just crushing for awhile.

I was just coming up to lv40, and I forget why but I was wandering around in this one area called King Ranperre’s Tomb that was mostly empty and unpopulated save for the undead monsters roaming around. I figured I might be able to get some EXP while I’m there but.. I was quickly overwhelmed. 

I called for help, but no one else seemed to be around. Just when it seemed I was gonna die and lose the meager EXP I had just struggled to earn a Lv75 Monk came running up and provoked the skeleton off of me. It was an elvaan lady, and she was decked out and then some. She destroyed this thing with ease and just, left me in total awe

I was just a dumb kid at the time but it was such an awesome sight I kinda just.. lingered around watching them destroy undead mob after undead mob like they were tissue paper

Finally after a bit I asked them

“Was it hard to get to 75?”

they said yeah, it was, but it’s worth it. Because now they get to help people like me easier, they get to help other Monks get stronger and it lets them see more of the world

I was just, awestruck. Every frustration I had, every sadness I had, just melted away and got replaced by my resolve to be like them. I want to get stronger so I could help people too 

They waved goodbye and said “Don’t give up! Just keep punching!”

so I did

I didn’t give up, I REFUSED to give up. Even when times were at their toughest I kept punching and punching and punching. Slowly but surely I made my way to 75 

I remember being sad that I never saw them again after that, never even seen ‘em come online but I always remembered them. I remembered to just keep punching and how I felt that day, why I wanted to get stronger

I devoted a LOT of my in-game time to helping others. I gave away gear to fledgling Monks along with advice and positivity. I cheered ‘em on and promised them it was worth toughing it out. I helped people through the stories, through the trials and tribulations. I wanted to give back to the world what they had given me that day.

Just keep punching.

Years later, I ended up becoming quite literally the most powerful Monk in the game and conquered enemies that no one else in the world could even come close to defeating

one day a friend of mine and I were talking about how rough it was to be a Monk in the old days so I told them my story

Turns out that my friend had known them, rather, knew someone who was related to them. Not long after I had met them they died in a car accident, and that’s why I had never seen them again. Back then, social media wasn’t what it is now, they weren’t a big community figure or anything and the internet was just, kind of a more wild west place where info didn’t always travel as well.

I think about that a lot. How one fleeting moment, one chance encounter, dramatically changed how I played the game and how I felt. This one small moment changed me for the better, and I’ll always be thankful to them for that.

I’ll always remember you, Calypso. I kept punching, just like you said to and I spread your positive message to anyone who would listen.

Commission - Kalyne

According to his birth certificate, anyway. She just kind of accepted that the details were a little fudged. Relativity, and all.

Maybe the stranger would have succeeded in whatever it was he wanted to do, except that he really did just show up. Appeared, like a ghost made flesh, right in the backyard. Clark, thank goodness, was out in the fields with Jonathan. He couldn’t bear to be alone, that boy, and they could never bear to leave him.

Which left Martha free to shoot the ghostly intruder in the face.

Martha had not always considered herself a shoot first, ask questions later sort of a person. But that was before she found a baby in a spaceship where her corn was supposed to be.

They’d switch off, Jonathan and her, who got Clark and who got the shotgun. Martha got the shotgun more often than not. Guns made her husband uncomfortable. She was hardly a fan, but she’d always been a terrible pacifist. Too determined to defend herself.

The sight of all that blood and brain and bone was still nauseating. She compartmentalized, told herself it was no different from slaughtering a cow; didn’t think about riot gear or tear gas or the friends she’d lost or all the things she’d moved away from when her heart couldn’t take it any longer. This was different. This was her son.

She prodded the corpse with her foot. It remained a corpse. A real nasty looking corpse, all big and burly and holding a gun much too large. She didn’t like making assumptions based on appearances, but she didn’t imagine he’d been coming for anything nice. She bent down to search his pockets, found a metal wallet and flipped it open.

Born 2018.

Well, hell. Wasn’t that just a kick in the pants?

Probably she ought to have been a bit more unsettled than she was. But she’d been waiting two years for someone to show up on her doorstep, men in black or UFOs or something. Hell, she’d half expected her sweet little boy to hatch into something worse.

Just because she brought home space babies didn’t mean she was a damn fool.

Jonathan had rejoined her in long strides, was holding Clark in such a way that he couldn’t see the corpse on the ground. “Well, shit,” he said.

“Eyup,” Martha agreed.

“Don’t look government.”

“Nope.”

“We burying him?”

“I’ll bury him,” Martha said, standing up. “You get Clark inside and read him a book or something. I don’t want him seeing any of this, getting him messed up in the head.”

“You sure? Looks heavy.”

“That’s why we have a wheelbarrow. I’ll stick him out behind the barn, might as well keep all our secrets in one place.”

Martha had a long time to think as she dug a time traveler’s grave. There were a lot of reasons someone might travel back in time trying to kill her kid. The first was her instinct as a mother, which was: he was a fucking asshole. Who killed a kid? Fucking assholes, that was who.

Now, it was also possible that her sweet little boy grew up to be some kind of space Hitler. She didn’t think she’d raise that kind of a kid, but she didn’t suppose there was any parent who set out to raise a Hitler.

Still didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t much like the idea of killing baby Hitler, either.