Norse Mythology in pop culture: Machiavellian manipulator Odin buts heads with chaos entity Loki as they manipulate and murder those around them ina bid to destroy and dominate the nine realms with ASoIaF level political plots and a foreboding prophecy of doom hangs over their heads.

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Actual Norse Mythology:

Freya: *asleep in her bed when the phone rings. She picks up the reciever without saying a word.*

Odin: FREYA! YOU HAVE TO HELP US! LOKI AND I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE EXTREMELY FUNNY TO DISGUISE OURSELVES AS DWARVEN PROSTITUTES AND INFILTRATE THIS GIANT KING'S PALACE BUT NOW LOKI IS PREGNANT I'M ENGAGED TO SEVEN DIFFERENT GIANTS, THERE'S THIS HORSE! CALL THOR SO HE CAN HIT THE PROBLEM REALLY HARD AND-

Freya: *hangs up the receiver, unplugs the phone, and goes back to sleep.*

They’ll never do a Hitman level set in a Furry Convention because gamers would absolutely ruin it but imagine. like the target isn’t a furry he just owns a hotel that happens to have one every year but you can disguise yourself in a fursuit and some guy will ask you “what species is your sona” and 47 would be like “a wolf. i always felt a connection with…hunters.” and then diana would be like “let’s see if you can sniff out some information, furrty-seven” and then he comes to my house and kills me for writing this

ok but imagine being the fursuit artist that he contracts to make his costume tho

He contacts you via an anonymous email and is very exacting and precise in his request. Money is no object, which isn't uncommon in your line of business, you're a professional and more than a few customers have been in the 1% range.

So you ask if he's local so you can meet and take measurements and he says no but he will meet you at (conveniently close local craft store) tomorrow after work (you did not mention where you live)

You're a little shaken but you meet him anyways because daddy needs to pay rent, and he's probably not a serial killer, right?

Right?

You had no idea what kind of person to expect, but a 6'2 bald white guy built like a fucken shit-brickhouse with a "FurCon2023" shirt wrapped around his brolic frame was rather on the shorter end of your list. His cargo shorts and pure white sneakers looked like they'd just been picked up off of the shelf and his glasses looked too small for his massive head.

You jump because you don't even notice him until he's tapping you on the shoulder and introducing himself. How did he know it was you?? Alarm bells are going off everywhere but there's cameras all over, he wouldn't try something in public right?? You take his measurements and look at fabrics together.

You ask about his fursona and he very seriously produces a laminated folder with several crudely drawn pictures of a polar bear suit. Well, you guess you shouldn't be mean, they were clearly drawn from references but you could tell this was someone who did not draw often. It didn't even have any accessories, it was just a normal polar bear... But the notes surrounding them were so neat they looked printed! And so in depth! There was one page solely dedicated to the visibility needs, with advanced notes on the camera and display system he wanted in the head. You'd only seen this sort of thing at the national cons, just who the hell was this guy??

You haltingly ask him if he was sure. You tell him this is really advanced stuff and he was looking at at LEAST 10k with all the specific modifications on it. When you first started making suits you would have never been this firm on pricing, lowballing and trying to make up the difference so as not to upset the customer with a hefty price, but you'd learned eventually that undervaluing your work was a waste of your time and effort so even though you couldn't gauge his reaction, you figured being upfront about the price would at least be a test to see how serious the guy was.

He nodded silently and reached into the fanny pack around his waist to produce the cleanest stack of hundreds you'd ever seen in your life, like straight printed from the treasury mint. He places it in your palm and you almost drop it out of shock.

"Will this be enough to get you started? I included some extra to compensate for lost wages as I do need this suit fairly quickly" he says, tone unreadable.

You stammer and try to look professional thumbing through the crisply banded notes and would you look at that, you think this will do just fine!

He nods again, shakes your hand and leaves without another word.

You exit the store, just trying to comprehend what in the hell you'd just gotten yourself into, zoning out so hard that you didn't even realize someone was yelling at you until the word "-fuckin furry faggot" pierced through your thoughts. You were looking at your phone so you didn't notice the band of truck bros creeping up behind you in their suped up pickup truck. There were three or four in the bed of the truck, dangling out over the side in between giant "TRUMP 2024" and "Lets Go Brandon" flags. They have their phones out, recording you and shouting slurs.

You raise double birds at them and turn to walk quickly in the opposite way, hoping you wouldn't see them as you walked home. You'd heard of a couple beatings happening locally and you didn't want to be around if that's what they had in mind.

So when you hear tires screeching and and engine roaring behind you, you break out into a run, hoping to make it to the bus terminal across the parking lot.

But they catch up to you before you'd made it halfway. They all get out and one grabs your phone that you held out to record with. He smashes it on the ground and shoves you into the pavement. Hard.

They all stand over you, jeering and laughing and you try to escape but your limbs won't listen to you. You always figured if something like this happened you'd stand your ground, maybe get in a couple of hits yourself, but in reality you could barely breathe and your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, so your attempts to scream for help end up coming out as breathy wheezes. One of them levels a crowbar at you and thats when the screaming starts.

You curl up into a ball to protect your face but the pain never comes. You hear screaming and sneakers skidding across asphalt and oh god, wet crunchy impacts followed by something warm and wet being splattered across your arms and legs.

Its suddenly silent except for the drone of the truck engine but eventually you crack open an eye to get a look around, and for the second time that day you almost lose your lunch.

Its straight up something out of a video game, just absolute carnage surrounds you. All of the tall frat bros are out cold in varying stages of fucked up. You do actually start to hurl a little when you see one with his nose completely sideways like a gory Picasso.

And in the center of the carnage is -no fucking way- your fucking fursuit client, calmly wiping his hands of the blood with some baby wipes from his fannypack.

He looks over at you when he sees you're up and for a second there you see something, a slip in the mask, something angry, something violent. You flinch as you realize it, but oh fuck, this guys like.. killed people before. like, for fucken sure.

He walks towards you and you suddenly feel like a very small animal being stalked by a tiger. You try to stumble away but the mask is back on and he just looks down at you and offers you a babywipe.

"You alright?" He asks plainly.

Turns out the guy is "ex-military" and he hurt himself so he's back in the states and bored out of his mind. His daughter is a furry and wanted him to go with her to FurCon and insisted he get a suit as well. You keep on glancing at all the deep scars running up and down his arms and wondering how the hell you didn't see it before.

He's saying something to you but you only snap out of it when a phone is being placed into your hands. You look up and suddenly you're standing outside your apartment building (did you tell him where you lived???)

"This is a secure line, if anything happens to you or you have questions, I'll answer immediately." He says, pale blue eyes drilling into your skull with their intensity.

The tears start bubbling up in your eyes before you can stop them and you just lean forward, bumping your head into his chest and choking out a thank you as you clutch the phone to your chest like an amulet.

As you figured, his body is make out of steel and he stiffens at the contact, unsure of what to do.

He just lets you cry it out for a bit before eventually placing a heavy hand on your shoulder, pulling you off but he keeps the hand gentle.

He's not looking at you this time but he clears his throat and murmurs a quick "Take care" before turning around and disappearing into the night. You unlock your door and collapse into bed.

"What the fuck" you murmur to yourself as you pull out your tablet, and you start to sketch...

I dunno what I expected to find when I logged into tumblr today. Certainly not Hitman furry con fanfic. But I did. And it was glorious.

The house is rumoured to be located beyond the fields we know.

"The problem is no longer getting people to express themselves, but providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don’t stop people from expressing themselves, but rather force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or ever rarer, the thing that might be worth saying." -Deleuze, in Negotiations, 1993

youre so fuckign right

I would like to thank and indeed salute the netizens who step up every day to prove that comedy is still possible even in 2025

Happy Holidays! Don't forget to grab a knife :)

this was floating around my desk for a while, nebulously unfinished

apparently what it Really needed was holo glitter in the irises, slightly more reflection in the flesh tones, and probably eventually an ornate dark wood frame

i think we should be talking about the semi-recent advancements in cystic fibrosis treatment like all the time every day. there hasn’t been a drug like this since AZT medications for HIV infection it is truly fucking miraculous and very important

basically: cystic fibrosis is a genetic disease which makes the mucous a person generates extra sticky. it used to kill people in infancy, then with advancements in medical tech it killed people in young childhood, and until very recently cystic fibrosis patients could expect to live until about thirty years old with consistent painful lung infections and complications.

in 2019 the FDA approved a drug called trikafta (which is really three drugs in one) for cystic fibrosis treatment. what it essentially does is patch up the malfunctioning proteins that cause the extra sticky mucus. trikafta is effective on about 90% of cystic fibrosis patients.

people who had spent their entire lives in and out of hospitals, on and off of ventilators, suffering from pneumonia and sometimes treated through painful procedures like intubation took this drug, got out of bed, coughed up an entire lifetimes worth of mucus out of their lungs over the course of a few hours, breathed clearly for perhaps the first time in their lives, and now go on to live well into their seventies.

like isn’t that insane. isn’t that amazing. doesn’t that give you hope for the future of medical advancements and treatment. fuck. i think about it all the time……

There’s a WHAT.

For WHAT.

It's been amazing!

My ward is the respiratory ward - CF is one of the things we specialize in.

Since this med came out we haven't had a SINGLE CF admission to the ward

There used to always be a CF patient spending a couple of months with us at a time

There's a man who is 23 years old who I was sure would not survive his next admission (aim saturations 85% is end stage lung disease)

There's a set of the local frequent flyers that we all know so well

Except

No we don't

On the CF specialist ward (with reasonable staff turnover)

Half the staff have probably never even seen a CF patient

They are going to live

For the people asking "well how do we know people are living that long if it's so new????" Here's a page from the CF foundation about life expectancy.

Additionally, it should be noted that metrics like life expectancy are in no way a guarantee of... Anything. There are significant outlier CF patients who are at an advanced age now despite the odds due to a variety of different factors, having lived the majority of their lives before the development of modulators.

But the fact remains that the odds are better now than they have ever ever been before, by leaps and bounds. It isn't cured, and many patients still need significant treatment in addition to Trikafta, but it is so much better than anyone could have dreamed of twenty years ago, and that is a triumph.

Promethea (Alan Moore, J. H. Williams III and Mick Gray)

— Freddie Mercury

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Nine Nights for Odin, 2. Hávamál:

2. Hávamál: The High One dishes out a lot of advice, even if he’s sometimes low on the actual instructions. What’s the wisest thing you’ve learned from Odin or his exploits?

Oh, I’ve learnt a lot - both directly and indirectly. But the most important/wisest is this: “Learn Every Trick You Can.” Seems a little glib, but hey, a lot of his advice sounds like that at first. I mean, what exactly is a trick?   trick (n.) early 15c., “a cheat, a mean ruse,” from Old North French trique “trick, deceit, treachery, cheating,” from trikier “to deceive, to cheat,” variant of Old French trichier “to cheat, trick, deceive,” of uncertain origin, probably from Vulgar Latin *triccare, from Latin tricari “be evasive, shuffle,” from tricæ “trifles, nonsense, a tangle of difficulties,” of unknown origin.Meaning “a roguish prank” is recorded from 1580s; sense of “the art of doing something” is first attested 1610s. Meaning “prostitute’s client” is first attested 1915; earlier it was U.S. slang for “a robbery” (1865). To do the trick “accomplish one’s purpose” is from 1812; to miss a trick “fail to take advantage of opportunity” is from 1889; from 1872 in reference to playing the card-game of whist, which might be the original literal sense. Trick-or-treat is recorded from 1942. Trick question is from 1907.

We are all given different cards in life. Each round is made of playing, holding, gaining, losing. That’s life, right up until we go into the earth or end up ash. To cheat at a game is to deal unfairly with all those playing the game and abiding by the rules. But what if the game is rigged? What if there is no way for you to win, or even to play fair? What if it’s impossible to deal straight, to do things ‘properly’? That’s when the tricks come in, where the crooked, bent techniques that shorten distances to goals come in. The weird ways which turn in strange fashion, bending space and time and meaning to save you time and energy. Because time is limited, and it’s always better to live than be a corpse. weird (adj.) c. 1400, “having power to control fate, from weird (n.), from Old English wyrd “fate, chance, fortune; destiny; the Fates,” literally “that which comes,” from Proto-Germanic *wurthiz (source also of Old Saxon wurd, Old High German wurt “fate,” Old Norse urðr “fate, one of the three Norns”), from PIE *wert- “to turn, to wind,” (source also of German werden, Old English weorðan “to become”), from root *wer- (2) “to turn, bend.” For sense development from “turning” to “becoming,” compare phrase turn into “become.”

Every knack, every quirk that allows you to do the otherwise impossible. To gain that edge, to bend and manipulate your becomings. The Nights of sacrificing self to Self? Of placing yourself at your weakest, most terrified extent? These are tricks.  And just because they’re tricks, doesn’t mean they’re easy by a long chalk - sometimes it would be far easier if you could keep to the straight and narrow. But would you be able to do what you do, and otherwise, if you went that way? Sometimes the only way to win the game is not to play. But that’s only if you abide by the rules. Of course, sometimes the best way to cheat is also to understand the rules better than anyone else. To know something about the game that they do not. That’s the Mystery.