Five hours until midnight on Halloween in Scotland. Do you have your green mantle ready? Know your way to Miles Cross?
Three and a half hours. Keep a change of clothes handy. Maybe two.
Two hours until midnight in Scotland. Please check time conversion charts to see if and how the Faerie Troop observes daylight savings to prevent embarrassing scheduling errors.
One hour. If you are planning in pulling your true love from his horse when you are heavily pregnant, please consider how this may alter your center of gravity and reach capacity. Be safe.
It is the mirk and midnight hour. Don’t be afraid of change, help out those you love, and remember that applied stubbornness will get you through a lot. It’s no one else’s decision who you love or how you transform, and remember, we’re at our best when we rescue each other.
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
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.
“You’re in good hands.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD I just read insurance commercial fan fiction and it was so good, bless you, I’m going to remember this day forever.
IT COMES BACK TO ME! *preens*
Part 2:
It’s not too long later—-State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—-and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—-is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—-where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
I had to explain WHY insurance fanfiction should exist to an Australian who has not seen American insurance commercials. This is fucking gold.
When your three year old decides the day before a dress-up party that she absolutely MUST be a witch-fairy Black Widow, ya just gotta do your best to make it happen. Unfortunately I didn’t have the time or resources to get some wings together, but Elsa didn’t mind one bit. A discount store dress, some cardboard, glue, glitter, paint, and some red hairspray, and she was ready to take on the world.
Women’s anger isn’t pretty or useful to men. It prevents them from cheering their male superhero on from the peanut gallery; it makes them unattainable in a way that’s not because the hero is being admirably noble. Also, it makes their faces go all scrunchy, and we can’t have that; never forget Jessica Alba being told to “cry pretty” on the set of Rise of the Silver Surfer, or, more recently, Joss Whedon telling Elizabeth Olsen to keep her face calm during Age of Ultron’s fight scenes because an angry, combative face was unattractive.
There’s a reason women love Agent Carter, a show powered by a subtextual engine of Peggy’s grief, frustration, and rage. There’s a reason Laurel Lance never clicked as a character until her largely incoherent but still deeply satisfying Season 2 rage spiral; life has done her wrong, and she’s finally, finally hitting back. There’s a reason so many readers are proudly labeling themselves non-compliant. We so rarely get to see our own anger reflected in mass media, and when we do, it’s deeply cathartic.
I’m so ready for Jessica Jones to be furious for a whole 13 episodes of her first season. I’m hoping Karen Page gets to be as livid as Foggy was when she finds out that Matt is Daredevil. I want Sara Lance to come back from the grave as spitting mad as she was when she went in, and I want Laurel and Thea and especially poor Felicity, sadly defanged by her romantic entanglement with Oliver in Season 3, to get and stay angry with Oliver when he inevitably does something dishonest or ethically dubious. Even Supergirl – as sunshiney as Kara seems, and as I want her to be, I also want her to be allowed to get pissed when the situation warrants it. Girl’s got laser-eyes for a reason.
I’m so excited for this coming year of superhero TV to bring me Supergirl, and Jessica Jones, and Peggy Carter, and Speedy and Hawkgirl and two different Canaries. And I’m excited for the supporting stories of Iris West and Karen Page and Felicity Smoak and Caitlin Snow and Alex Danvers and Angie Martinelli.
But God, I hope they get to be angry this year. Because these women have been through enough to make them mad as hell. And I don’t want them to have to take it anymore.
”
- SUPERHEROES AND THE GENDER POLITICS OF ANGER (x)
As a single mother who once relied on food stamps, Rep. Donna Edwards (D-Md.) didn’t have a trust fund to dip into or wealthy donors pushing her to enter politics. She didn’t have prior political experience before her first campaign for Congress in 2006. But, one morning she woke up and asked herself, “Why not me?” Now she’s hoping to make history again.
If Hamilton, a very successful musical about the very WHITE and very REAL founding fathers, can cast people of color in those roles without taking anything vital away from the story, then no one has any reason to write a completely whitewashed SCI-FI/FANTASY story in order to meet some totally bullshit historical accuracy criteria.
Captain Von Trapp and I are very sorry to inform you that we no longer plan to wed. We offer our deepest apologies to those of you who have already made plans to travel to Salzburg this summer.
Those of you on the Captain’s side of the guest list are probably aware of the reason for the change of plans. I’m sure by now you have received that charming “Save the date!” card in the shape of a mountain goat from the Captain and his new fiancée, Maria.
I must confess to being rather blindsided by the end of our relationship. It seems Captain Von Trapp and I misunderstood each other. I assumed he was looking for a wife of taste and sophistication, who was a dead ringer for Tippi Hedren; instead he wanted to marry a curtain-wearing religious fanatic who shouts every word she says.
But I don’t want you to be angry at him. We are all adults here. “But Baroness,” so many of my friends have said, “you must be devastated. You yourself are fabulously wealthy, so you cannot have wanted the Captain for his money—you must have truly loved him.” It’s true. But so, I am sure, does his new fiancée, his children’s nanny. Her wardrobe is made of curtains. She’s definitely not a gold digger or anything.
I’m sorry. That was crude of me. She seems like a lovely person, and she and the children have a great deal in common.
A great, great, great deal.
Since I will no longer be a part of their lives, I do hope you will all keep an eye on the Captain’s children. I am not terribly maternal but I was very fond of them in my own way and I must admit I am worried what will become of them now that I have gone. I had planned to send them to boarding school, since their education at the moment seems to consist mostly of marching around Salzburg singing scales. I think it would have been particularly helpful for the eldest daughter, who seems intent on losing her virginity to the mailman.
Please, friends, don’t worry about me. While I was a bit startled to be thrown aside for someone who flunked out of nun school, I assure you that I will be fine, and my main pursuits in life shall continue to be martinis, bon mots, and looking fabulous. You’ll also be glad to know I have retained custody of the Captain’s hard-drinking gay friend, Max. Anyone who gets tired of sing-a-longs should feel free to look us up.
Again, my deepest apologies for this disruption to your plans. I am currently sorting through the wedding gifts we’ve already received and I will send them back as soon as possible. The Captain would help, but he is busy learning to play a song about cuckoo clocks on his guitar.
Washington: We meant "stronger" here, right?
Hamilton: What does it say?
Washington: I'm proud to report our country's "stranger" than it was a year ago.
Hamilton: That's a typo.
Washington: Could go either way.
Can we talk about how ALL THE MEN sat there and let that woman be harassed while ever woman in earshot called his as out and finally one knocked him the fuck out.
