My Brain is Missing

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

My brain is probably under the sofa with the cats. Look, it’s been a very weird week. So weird that “dealing with cleaning up and fixing basement flood” is a minor inconvenience and definitely not the one that’s making it hard for me to sleep and eat.

As usual, if you’re the praying kind, keep me and mine in your prayers.

Meanwhile, yes, I like messing around with AI art, and so, there follow a few visual prompts for you to play with. Or not. I’m not the boss of you.

I just need a day to regain my equilibrium and stop being salty at the world.

123 thoughts on “My Brain is Missing”

  3. image 3… well after:

    They found the young man’s corpse tangled in the roots of the tree. They didn’t dare approach closely enough to extricate it, even if the tree was probably sated at the moment.

    The younger one spoke up, a bit tentatively “It’s been a while since this last happened.”

    The older one contemplated the scene. “Hn. Look at the clothes. Poor sod was an outlander, and probably never heard warning about the wood-wives.”

    Liked by 3 people

      2. Oh, well, I was about to pray for you but then I thought Tahiti and umbrella drinks sounds nice! 🍹🏖️🍹 How the hell do I get invited? At this point roasting mallows at a dumpster fire would be an upgrade for me. My brain has been kidnapped by the Gravedigger and is running out of oxygen.

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    1. van Gogh Screaming Starships.
    2. Queen Elizardbeth the 1st
    3. Some kind of fairy lover, not sure what the sinuous pointy things are in the background.
    4. Thor and Odin maybe?
    5. Space King of the Galaxy?
    6. Another couple where the relationship will never work out.
    7. Thor and Loki or Peter and Edmund Pevensie in Narnia.

    Liked by 3 people

    2. Re: 6

      My reaction was pretty much “I ship it.”

      However, there are two assumptions in how I read this, that are basically not strictly obvious and might not be brought to the image by every viewer.

      1. Moderns mores of female dress, like modern mores of male dress, are not an inevitable law of nature, or of physics. The 1920s through 1960s or 1970s shift is perhaps not merely a technology change, but also a social change, that does not have to occur. So, in principle, I can accept future sci fi worlds, or fantasy worlds, where women wear dresses that are fairly recognizeable, and men wear civilian suits that are a little, but not a lot, alien. I read this as a futurish sci fi world, where women happen to wear dresses that would maybe not be unusual for historical periods covering hundreds of years.

      2. I read this as a human man wearing armor, about to head off to war. An ordinary human man. Armor that has a certain amount of tech, but is either fantastical, or biological, or purely technical.

      Liked by 2 people

      2. Same. A long time ago, I either wrote and nuked or thought about writing some “woman saying goodbye to her lover who’s wearing scifi armor” ficlet for one anime or another. Had completely forgotten it until the vibe of this one brought it back.

        Number 3, on the other hand, says “even the Pre-Raphaelites know this is a bad life choice.” ;)

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    3. Number 5 is probably Elon Musk on his way to claim Mars. He’s really old in this picture, and just image-conscious enough to set the visor to one-way opaque.

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  8. Switch to water after noon? Lately I have discovered that my usual afternoon/evening ice tea consumption had become sleep depriving. Switching to ice water after noon did wonders.

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    1. Also discovered a gadget was making a noise at zero dark thirty and waking me. Something else woke me and I heard it CLICK! loudly once

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      4. That doesn’t sound like the beach side cocktails I thought I was missing out on. (dramatic sigh) Very well then. I’ll pray for you.

        Sincerely though. Hang in there.

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      2. Yup someone some time soon will portray Elizabeth I as a Nubian or similar, Why do they hate the Gingers ????

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  12. She’d always been fascinated by the human idea of cosplay. She carefully made the costume and posted a picture of herself wearing it, only to become an overnight sensation across the known universe.

    What was it about this Human race that led her normally calm and logical people to make utter fools of themselves?

    The humans were childish, illogical, impetuous, and her people were drawn to that, to use a human phrase, like moth to flame.

    If true contact was ever made, their civilization would be forever changed.

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        1. A step down in pay, but up in the honor accorded by the small landholders, from his days on Terra sculpting fine shooting ranges and deer woods into golf gardens for the effete elite.

          Some days he wished St. Peter had binned his AC-140-8 Form (“Application to Reincarnate”) and just sent him down to sit with his ex-wife for eternity. But they sure didn’t have flyers like this in the 20th century!

          Bobby looked out across the clear black fairway of stars as he cleared the ionosphere and marveled again at the glory of God’s creation, then rechecked the coordinates for “Ransom: eight large donner-and-peppers pizzas with extra onions,” and fired his afterburners. This part was fun.

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    4. (Collective voices) “We are Papajohns of Borg. This planet must prepare to assimilate supper.”

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  14. 4.

    I see you are wearing all the brightest and shiniest equipment in the land.

    Of course. They said, while it was no substitute for experience, it would help us live long enough to acquire enough.

    Liked by 3 people

  15. My brain is probably running down the rabbit path after yours. At least NOW I have an idea of where it went.

    Time to take an attitude adjustment day tomorrow, which is where I take a semi-unscheduled day off of paycheck work and just focus on at home items that have been accumulating. Doing a bunch of mini-projects knocked out that have been starring me in the face since Spring will do a whole lot to change my attitude of nuke the world from orbit to make sure.

    Liked by 1 person

  18. Bluebird of Bitterness does an occasional series called, “I Can’t Brain Today, I Have the Dumb.” Usually a collection of, um, unusual signage.

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  19. “Yes, a man’s home is his castle,” Johannson said expansively, “But it would be nice to be able to crack open the helmet in here.”

    Number 5.

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    1. Calculatus Eliminatus!

      er…

      With my luck, it would not be “Cat in Hat” version, but “Warhammer 40,000”.

      (grin)

      Liked by 1 person

  21. Stood in the Arizona August sunshine this morning and waved my little flag and Trump sign as he passed by in one of the 3 Suburbans on his way to the border here in Cochise County. There were hundreds lining the roadway for at least the 5 miles thru town. Every commercial truck that passed honked enthusiastically…

    Can’t get much more rural than out here, and have an airport, so I didn’t know what kind of crowd would come out on Thursday morning, but it felt like a heartfelt gathering of Americans, just, “ letting him know we’re here for him ”, said my neighbor on the side of the road.

    I will lift up you and your family in prayer this afternoon, everyone I talk with (that is paying attention)has a feeling of dread, but we must keep doing the next things.

    Liked by 2 people

  22. May you and yours be blessed with the strength and grace to endure what comes to us all. May there be moments of joy and fulfillment sprinkled throughout. Though the path may be crooked and the woods dark and deep, our destination further than ever our lives may be, I believe the journey be worth our sacrifices.

    To all who suffer and toil, be it near or far, be it in cozy rooms or sweaty, dusty lands, be it battle, brothel, or backbreaking labor, may you all find purpose through the pain and conviction despite the myriad voices of madness in this world.

    Though alone some of us may be, our hearts are as one. May Freedom ring forevermore! May the blessings of Liberty never leave these United States. And may our children (for those of us who have them, bless you) and the next generation not be found wanting when the inevitable trials of the world are upon them as well.

    We define ourselves in times of trial, loss, and pain. Stand up straight and bear the load, brothers and sisters. Lean on each other as we must, and support each other whenever possible. Be well as you can be. Be prepared, for the future will not be a simple one, easy to ride out. Face tomorrow proud, unburdened by the guilt others would happily pile upon you.

    If you can do all this, despite the hate and envy others lay upon you, may you be blessed with family, friendship, and a life filled with fulfilling meaning.

    Liked by 2 people

  23. 4. “3P0, the color change to black is fine, it will might be easier to keep looking somewhat clean than that gold, but I don’t care what those fancy new fabbers can turn out, you will put your correct head back on.”

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    1. This !!!!

      Probably one of the 3rd season of Star Treks most egregious episodes. And that is some tough company to win in.

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        1. -Nothing- Trek tops “Paradise Syndrome” for sheer cheeze.

          It is exceeded only by Shatner’s movie “White Comanche”, where he plays a dual role of mixed-parent twins raised separately in each culture. = Worst Western Evah 11!

          At least Kirk didn’t Jump the Gorn.

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        2. Yep. Aside, I have seen basements in Texas. Had to work in them a few times. They exist.

          If I weren’t in Southern Appalachia in my beloved little mountains, that’s where I’d be right now. That beautiful little area outside the big cities, back up against the little hills, sitting on the porch in the shade and sipping ice cold lemonade.

          Liked by 1 person

  27. #2 – “Why, Ted?”

    “Well, you said we were going to move away from just insuring cars and houses to doing events, and the SCA is looking for additional coverage, so why not run an ad campaign aimed at them?”

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          1. Preview suppressed in Firefox, but the sample was entertaining.
            Kek.

            [Wonders how many lefties spent $6.99 to get trolled.]

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              2. I had to go to the Amazon site for the sample. For some reason, the embedded version wouldn’t come up on ATH. (It never works for my main browser, but just got nothing with Firefox.) Shrugs.

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                1. Oh, I never realized embeds could do samples off Amazon. Then again, I not only use Firefox, I have a suite of plugins that stop underhanded code from doing things I don’t want it to do.

                  I’m not paranoid, they literally are trying to track everything I (and you) do. I just make an effort to stop the nosy sumbitches.

                  Liked by 1 person

                  1. My main browser is the Pale Moon fork from Firefox (I moved when Mozilla added lots of Shiny! to the interface.) It’s good for maybe 98% of my web, and between Adblock Prime and eMatrix, I can block most crud.

                    Some things just don’t work with PM, and I keep a bog standard FF browser as backup.

                    Liked by 1 person

      2. (laughing) My coworkers are now concerned for my sanity.

        Well, moreso than usual.

        Glad I am not at home. The cat would be under the couch for an hour.

        Liked by 2 people

  29. Well, I’ll be a sonofa…. First, they steal your shocked face, then someone takes your brain?? I’d look at either Insty or Kim du T.

    Don’t AI trust I. I’ve spent a few days trying to design a cover for my sf novel and keep getting crap out of Tensor Art and MS Designer. It puts in half the stuff I want and leaves out the rest, or it completely ignores the prompts. I say desolate domed city, and I get a city with tall spires lit up like a Christmas tree. How does it not understand “dead city?” Took a while to get something semi decent. Sarah, it’s posted in ALH under Tensor Art, if you wanna take a look.

    Liked by 1 person

  30. #5:

    “OK, you’ve conquered the entire universe. Stars and planets are your playthings, your word is law on quadrillions of planets, septillions of sentients kneel before you.”

    “Now what?”

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    1. It kind of feels like it ought to be a cover for one of the lensmen Series c. 1960 ( Gray Lensman, or Second Lensman, the one with the Sunbeam) except the ships are the wrong shapes, big battlewagons are tear drop shaped in the Lensman universe as drag from the interstellar medium is your limiting factor in ship speed.

      Liked by 1 person

  32. (#6, the embrace)

    “But I’m going to miss you so much, J, down on the Big White Marble.”

    His voice from the darksuit was decently close to the real thing; but of course his very breath was already air from the recycler, not the free and familiar air of Mars. And as supple and sensitive as the suit was, strong and sure as his hands were around her, of course there was nothing of him that genuinely touched anything of her…

    It was still, even this close to his ascension for another six-month tour down on partially Venus-formed Earth, a slightly-faded little slice of heaven. Jessica could not fault her rival, the war against the Kaviriznan, much at all… for she’d be back to her own homefront role soon enough.

    “If you quote that line about ‘loved I not duty more’ at me, even as much as I’m trying to jar up all these minutes for the next half-year, I swear by our hopes of the Grand Restoration I’m going to kick you in the balls as hard as I can,” she said, sultry-sure.

    “Won’t make too much difference in one of these,” he reminded her with a ghost of a genuine smile. “You can walk on the raw surface of Venus with this, or take a hit from a heavy free-electron laser. As you well know, my dear, having helped to steal its alien-tech once’t or again yourself.”

    And she drew back a moment and smiled. “So, Will, then I can get something out of my system, without even making you sore as you soar upward and away?”

    Without even thinking about it Jess looked to the dazzling-white globe of Earth, frozen still near the horizon, then upward to the far less bright but pleasantly blue-green sphere of the Moon, both locked in place in the sky by the new order of things.

    The Kaviriznan had just — moved in and started renovating, with a purely stunning command of the physical. Mars moved to co-orbit with the Moon around Earth, in a trojan Lagrange triangle. Breathable atmosphere brought to the two smaller bodies, from trans-Plutonian volatiles, and enough far dark-matter to Earth and Moon to stabilize the atmosphere and new orbit.

    Huge slices of surface and crust moved from Earth to Mars and Moon, to be the habitable core for a new biosphere, along with much of the human and animal populations. Before the Earth had been bell-jarred in a Heinlein field, to let the light in but not let out the heat.

    So a clouded “moist greenhouse” had come naturally enough and quickly.

    If they’d only thrown the life of Earth off the planet, things would still be dire. But they’d wanted human servants, in and out of their much hotter and higher-pressure habitat; so they simply grabbed people up again from the places they’d been dropped, trained and ordered them to serve.

    Humans did not say the script, did not follow directions; and millennia of normalcy-bias did not fit the hoary Kaviriz Imperium well at all to cope.

    Most of all, fine as their smug command of the inanimate world was, their grasp of military arts was far behind. They literally did not know how to fight a stubborn enemy, who did not kneel in dizzy awe at the juggling of planets and the casual making and unmaking of their habitability.

    They did not learn the lesson of human history, that to close-fight a foe with superior technology was, slowly but inexorably, to begin to share it.

    “Still hard to believe, sometimes, how different it was in the time of our grandparents — we thought ourselves alone in the universe, we thought the planets would spin in their old circles always,” she said, turning back to him, warm in his looser embrace. “We thought we’d have to climb up all the long ladder, all by ourselves. Not fight every rung of the way, but win a prize for each step we survived upward.” Warm, in the cooling wind off the stark, rugged crags of unstolen Marsland; heartened by the wild beauty of the unforgiving land where they’d both been born.

    “Now it’s just the planets, Jess. We won space back a score of years ago, bottled them on Earth and Venus. They still have a few farportals left, but unless something new and big happens — they’re going to lose even on the kind of home-ground where we need suits and they don’t.” He stated the obvious in the old familiar way, standing on its solidity like a mountain.

    The deep, almost-mournful horn’s call echoed over the hillocks, dunes, and canyons. It was redundant to the timers and commlinks built into his suit and her pocket handheld, of course; but it was also traditional, by now.

    “Be safe,” said Jessica fiercely. “Or if you can’t be safe, my heart, then be most deadly instead.”

    He smiled, though he knew she could not see; he knew she could hear it in his suited voice quite well enough. “‘In my suit or beside it,’ my well-beloved.”

    And the darksuit’s gravitics hurled him up to the waiting transport above.

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    3. She watched him as he climbed, through the clear white Earthlight into the yellowing, brightening sunglow of a young dawn. Him, with his brother and sister warriors (many fewer the second), rising into the upper air like a material echo of the original Rising itself.

      “We are not yours,” she said, matter-of-factly but strongly. The words of the most popular Credo, then and now. Something you could say, aloud or to yourself, even if your previous words had had to be “I hear and obey, my master” — without, either time, making yourself a liar. Jessica Guernicke shivered a little as she said it, in the wide open air of the patio, none of it from the morning chill.

      And she glanced back to the old words, perhaps imperfectly transcribed, carved into the doorlintel of the house and stained in red. From the man who’d originated the idea called “evolution” centuries before the Advent.

      Man is and always will be a wild animal.

      She fancied perhaps she could hear the didgeridoos from the next village over, counterpoint blessing to the ships’ horns. Though over a distance of miles, especially in the thinnish upland Martian air, it was a stretch.

      “Walk always in love, Wilhelm Auguste Barnes,” she said further, a brief but fervent echo of the Greater Blessingway she and he had said together last night, as the Navajo chaplains had taught so widely in the earliest years, when nothing was sure, and everyone took every wellwish possible.

      “Because only love is strong enough to bear the strain. Not hate or anger or desire, nor especially fear, but always and only love.” Never mind she was stating again the obvious; the unconscious, too, often needs to hear.

      And then the long, far, lowing call of the Muster horns had fallen silent, followed (this time) by the skirling, incandescent organ notes of the old Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. And the hovering, stationary trio of ships had begun to move, further southward, pitching gradually up and up and up till they’d clearly gone into gravity-bubble drive and disdained all their surroundings as they chased past sound, driving easy and swift for orbit.

      “And now once again I’m a chateleine,” she said. “A cat-lady alone; but I find it bearable enough for now.” And laughed, at such triviality. Looked around the patio, built on the very edge of the original flat top of the hill, that had been here when Mars had been an arid, un-airy desert. Over an utter magnificence, to her eyes; the old Outback left between the Shards of Earth when they’d been Dropped here, so swiftly but so carefully.

      Jessica reminded herself she ought to find time, even sometime this very afternoon, to visit some of the mountain highmeadows, where the sheep were grazing on the abundant late-spring feathermoss. (That from Curra, if she remembered rightly, fifty light-years off.) She’d have to change clothes then, no doubt, to ride the hovercycle; and also take Cleopatra along for care of range-rats. (The sidearm was obvious.)

      And she smiled. As much as the wool-brains were some of the most Obstinate Stupid or even self-destructive creatures in all creation, it’d been once again spectacular to see how something as ordinary and low-tech as being shepherd to a flock could bring peace to the hammered and highly troubled souls of those who’d been too much and too recently in combat.

      All things in Balance, she thought, one more way out of all the many.

      There was another reason she’d have to change clothes anyway; tonight she had an appointment to meet with some of the Essenes, the Renunciates, the Clostered Ones who’d begged and been granted sanctuary on Mars. In five or six standard atmospheres of water vapor, one of nitrogen, one or two of oxygen and whatnot, all at boiler-hot temperatures — she’d have to wear a darksuit, to survive. Or have them in the equivalent, to live in her thin air and lethal chill. At least it “only” took her a half-hour or so to get one of those Suits on or off, not the days for the military long-duration models like Will wore this morning.

      Still… better her than them, who’d never worn any Suits at all. And the darkmatter-pressure suits were sure-enough old hat to Jess, after all her work Inside, before she’d left the service to work on hoch-tech and marry Will and “settle down” to her wee sheep-station and its hacienda.

      And she sighed and headed inside, under the big double-doors lintel with its old defiant words; and her gaze snagged as it did so often on a frame with a piece of her teenager’s needlework, part of her dowry-bay gifts to Will. (The little-dowry that people marrying gave each other. The “bay” on the end for small, from the Scottish, as “more” signified great.)

      It was “only” a few quotes. None of them, perhaps, even absolutely true; yet still together reflecting some of the truth, as a scatter of broken bits of glass will glitter here and there of the sun.

      It is the business of the future to be dangerous.

      The hottest fires brew the purest steel.

      The purpose of war is to explore each other.

      Teenaged work, perhaps not unfamiliar to the likes of the Austens or the Brontes; with words almost as old. Still, quite non-trivial.

      Man was now a carnivore, a warrior, in species and culture. Perforce.

      So, a testament of cultural faith, an earnest of cultural evolution.

      Man had still not transcended tribalism. But his new meta-tribe was now no less and no fewer than all his species, itself. At the level of instinct. Which is (as always) inescapably upstream of culture, not down.

      And she looked to the other side, on the other cabinet which framed the entry to the eating saloon, at Will’s matching gift. A simple rude little poem by Iain Richardson of the original Rising, carefully calligraphed.

      Two roads diverged on a raw hillside,

      A crossroad made of three.

      One led in but not away,

      Two led out up and down.

      The Luminous Upward Way was steep,

      Rocky, tough, and obscure.

      The Easy Downward Way was clear,

      Fair and paved and slick.

      Man swore to follow the goats up in faith,

      And’s not looked back e’er since.

      Again in vertical-written Japanese; along with Nakayama’s Fourth Precept. As he’d said it last decade. Translated again in English at the bottom.

      We are surely all of us expendable, because in the end all of us will be surely expended. How, and for what, is the question. Sell ourselves cheap or dear; die well or die poorly; live for the long and the large, or not.

      Life is war. Fight to win, samurai or peasant. Make your journey count.

      Then, below that, a very different sort of theme: the two of them on the Hellenic Sea, where the dunes of old Hellas Basin used to drift. A flat still picture, cam-drone caught, from their short honeymoon. As Will had shown Jess how well he knew to sail, at least a small main-and-jib.

      And suddenly Jessica knew exactly what she wanted, perhaps even needed in some ways, to do now. “Cleopatra?” she called, knowing her name was One of Her Words. Quickly, in a patter of soft feet, Jess was alone no more. The blue lynxcat braked to a stop, looked up as if to inquire pointedly what her treat was going to be this time, then meowed in stronger question, not very low-pitched at all for one massing four or five Maine Coons’ worth of alien-genemixed feline.

      “Go for a walk?” asked Jess, in the usual way.

      “Rrrowww!” called Cleopatra, with the intonation that said “Of course!”

      She fetched her sidearm from the cabinet with her stitchery, with its big holster and belt; it would go fine over her dress. And the walk would warm her as she went. Her handheld was still in her pocket. Her lynxcat would likely enjoy dispatching a lone range-rat, even the size of an Old World squirrel.

      Beauty was, as ever, also a tool and a weapon.

      She’d signal the brewer on the way, and have an English Breakfast cup of good(-ish) machine-made tea hot and ready on her return.

      Even a cat-lady chateleine could well enjoy her life, even in this Time of the Mutable Heavens.

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  33. (#4, the young & old warriors/kings)

    It was always a round of Russian roulette, the treatment; even more than an inescapable roll of the dice. The lesser antiagathics — the telomere twiddling and the anti-oxidant expression, and all the rest — were fine all or nearly all the time. But the full-bore rejuvenation, even if you could make contact with the elusive, reclusive Vizhnathi to talk about it at all, was always and ever chancy. Never even mind the insane expense.

    At first, they’d kept each other scrupulously “in the loop” every single time and every step of the way. Later, they’d waited till it was mostly done, and you could tell for at least near-certain sure it would not this time, after all, end in systemic cancers and assorted dysregulations and general somatic, genetic instability (as the “true sex change” procs still did, over half the time).

    By now they had, by unspoken mutual consent, just showed up. Years by the Universe’s clocks, at least (faster than light did not mean “fast”) after their leave-taking, that also had become more catlike than operatic.

    If by contrast, the news had been bad, then and only then would the warp radio come into play… and then, likely as a telemessage not a videorec. But that could only happen once. The war effort was too urgent, and also too essential in its relations with the allied species. While there was a succession plan in place, none better to be a battle-arranger (as the old Welsh called it) had ever arisen in their family.

    And military-diplomacy with non-human allies — could not be rushed.

    He walked up, silent in soft but heavy boots, a spring in his step and a warsong in his heart, wearing some of the latest light-duty armor.

    There was a grin on his face. “Good noon, Richard, how’s it goin’?”

    The grizzled-looking man, his younger brother, turned around. Grey beard and hefty middle-aged solidity faced near-boyish litheness. A wide smile split his face, too; you could tell almost from that alone they’d been twins, fraternal but together almost all their time since before birth.

    All the time, that one wasn’t in transit, or in a tank on Vizhnath-ah.

    “Arthur, I don’t believe you’ve ever looked better. And you know how very good and likely a picture you make; mirrors are!” He raised his hands to waist height so they could shake hands in the old fashion, both left to right and right to left. And then, of course, embrace.

    “Richard, I hear you’ve been doing wonderful things. Still a hard and a long road, even from where we are, till the Grand Empire kneels to us all. But well done, and well indeed, brother. I look forward to talking to you in detail soon.” Reports told much, and he’d studied. But, never told all.

    “Arthur, I will tell you one thing now. There is an ebb and flow to this, as I know you know — and it’s a promising time now, for us both to work in harness together. The Kiarenn are finally roused, in their feline and unpredictable way; and the Empire’s legional succession is a bit unhearty this go-round. But enough of that for now, my young older brother; it’s also the season here for aged-sharp cheese from the highlands, and plenty of it for cheese and bread after your stellar travels. So?”

    “You know I’ll go for that, Richard! Let our generational long-war wait just long enough for us to break bread together, once again.”

    (And yes, writing these is a tonic, after a week of Demo-vention and media-ganda to shame the ghost of Goebbels…)

    Liked by 2 people

      1. Yes, perhaps, and thank you. Though, gateway writing.

        Also… your pictures are just-about-perfect reverse illustration bait. Veritable gateway-muse catnip. Literally, just writing out what was/is implicit in these pictures. (“Plotbunnies Illustrated, Vol. 1”? I mean, you not only could do it, you pretty much already have done it, at least for those of us who are… susceptible.)

        Between us, the 4th picture, we seem to have extracted the essence of Le Guin’s “young and old monarch” scene (“Winter’s King”??) and put in a different and arguably more interesting context.

        “Two Dragons Against the Night”..? (British-mythologically, in SF, not shifters-wise, of course.)

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      2. Can’t find it right off, but it was the road full of illegals tagged with “you have alerted the horde. Prepare for ambush.” Pic 6 is the one that made me remember it, oddly enough.

        Liked by 1 person

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