csyphrett

I am going to pick Huck for my draft.
CES

I am going to pick Huck for my draft.
CES

I still owe the IRS from last year. I guess I will be using the check to pay that if we qualify for it. Paul Ryan is on my hate list for the way he screwed up my deductible stuff.
  CES

The hero known as Levin is a flying puppet made of pieces of triangular crystals. He doesn't have much strength, but he's tough and can cut through most any substance in his way with his body
CES

I'm taking Shego this round.
CES

I'll take Zealot. I can't have Grifter without the love of his life.
CES

The people I work with don't appreciate the scale a virus can work on, or have any ability to judge reality. I envy people who work with normal people that understand the basis of reality.
CES

I would like to pick Tesladyne Island
CES

45 is a painfully stupid person.  Not painful for himself, but for everyone else.  Unfit for the job in every possible way and on every level.  

They did lock up a guy a couple of years ago for food tampering because he was mad at one of his customers and wiped his butt with the guy's pizza and handed it to him. Who knew that was 30 years in the hoosegow?
CES

I have recently read a handful of articles and social media posts arguing that shelter in place declarations and similar restrictions on public gatherings are a violation of the First Amendment right to freedom of assembly. Here are a few thoughts on the matter from me.
 
1. I take the Constitution of the United States of America very seriously. And unlike a lot of people who like to argue about what it says, I have actually read it. Multiple times. I acknowledge the Constitution as the supreme law of the land. And I believe that its creation was a divinely-inspired process.
 
2. Having said that, the rights guaranteed by the Constitution are not and have never been absolute. Yes, the First Amendment guarantees freedom of expression. But when people use expression to harm or threaten others, that's against the law, and people can be held civilly or criminally liable for doing so.* The old adage is true. You can't yell "Fire!" in a crowded theater.
 
Similarly, the Second Amendment guarantees that individuals have the right to own firearms. Some have argued that the specific wording of the Second Amendment means that there can never be any kind of regulation on firearm ownership or sales, but the Supreme Court has ruled on multiple occasions that this isn't the case.
 
So yes, the First Amendment to the Constitution does guarantee freedom of assembly. But that doesn't mean, and in my opinion, cannot reasonably be interpreted to mean, that all gatherings of all types at all times and in all places and under all circumstances are okay.
 
3. The focus on rights is inherently one-sided. Rights are always, always counterbalanced by responsibilities. While we have the right to free expression, we also have the responsibility not to use that right to harm others or to spread false information. We have the right to own a firearm, but if we use that firearm to threaten or injure someone else, that right can be taken away.
 
4. The Bill of Rights specifically outlines a number of protections to individual liberty. But in no case does it give an individual license to put the people around them at unnecessary risk. And to me, this is really where the rubber meets the road. Large gatherings present an unnecessary risk where the spread of a highly virulent disease is concerned.
 
So yes, by all means, wear a mask if you have to go out. Wash your hands. Use hand sanitizer. All of these things will help. But it doesn't take a rocket scientist, or an epidemiologist, to understand that the most effective way to stop the spread of disease is to reduce contact between people who may have it and people who may get it. And for right now, that means staying at home and avoiding large groups.
 
And to be clear: This is not an either-or situation. This is, by all accounts, the worst outbreak of disease this planet has seen in a century. If we want to keep as many of us as possible alive through this thing, we need to use every available remedy to fight COVID-19. Even the ones we find personally inconvenient or distasteful to our political sensibilities.
 
Politically, I admit that the idea of quarantine may not be popular. But I'm not a political scientist. I'm an actual scientist. And scientifically speaking, the argument for reduced contact is sound.
Be safe and well, everyone.
 
--
 
* I find it interesting that the current Administration has used this idea--threats of legal action for allegedly false statements--to try to silence its critics on more than one occasion.

Somebody put up a news story that the Gov of Mississippi opened up all the businesses again after the local authority shut them down. Basically exposed people who were too dumb to stay home
CES
 

Since we just did the Birds of Paradise, maybe we should do their opposite number. Let's have six Jaguars of Inferno from South America
CES   

Farley Gruant devised a railgun like system for people. The problem was the people had to be augmented enough to survive the ride. The project was considered a failure, but Farley kept working on making it feasible until he had a working model for himself. Deep in debt, he accepted the offer of employment by using his system as Slide Right as a human sized projectile.
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Pincoya operates off the coast of Chile. Her control of the weather and natural flight allows her to arrive with fury of a storm
CES

This week's session played over Roll20.
 
<On finding out that local law requires cutting off a thief's hand for a first offense>
Assassin-subclass Rogue: Oh man I'm sure glad that I'm just a professional killer and not a pickpocket.
 
The eldritch knight can't show his face in town, but his shield was recently broken. For reasons that defy all sense, the cleric and druid have decided that this shield -must- be repaired, not replaced. They polymorph the eldritch knight into a rat, keep him in a bag, and go to the armorer. They work out all the details for payment, materials, delivery, they come up with alibis and needlessly complicated stories of how it came to be broken in the first place.
Shopkeep: Okay, so where's the shield.
Druid and Cleric: stare dumb at each other.
DM: was it on the Knight when you polymorphed him?
Cleric: ... yes.
DM: So now it's part of him until he reverts to his own shape?
Druid: ... Yes.
Shopkeep: So... the shield?
Cleric: Ah, we, uh, forgot it. We've got to run real quick, we'll bring it right back to you.
 
DM: Okay, so you're looking for the beggar's dog. We're gonna take this quick and easy, just a couple of up-down investigation rolls. Give me all the results and we'll see how you do.
Druid: Okay, so I bombed it. But, uh, I can use the probability warp of my clockwork pendant to change my roll to a ten, so... ten?
Sorceror: I rolled a one. But, I have advantage because of this magic item, so .. a twenty.
DM: Uh-huh. One more for each of you, you're getting close.
Druid: A one. I'm spending inspiration to re-roll. And... a nineteen.
DM: Double-You-Tee-Eff with these rolls.
Sorceror: I know, right? Okay, that's a nineteen.
DM: Roll again for your advantage, you may get a crit after all.
Sorceror: Nope, it's a one.
DM: Hmm. One more investigation roll. Either of you.
Sorceror: That's a two, and... a four. Screw it, I'm spending the sorcery points to succeed automatically.
DM: Fine. Okay. Let me describe what you see. First, have any of you seen the movie CATS?
<Full round of horrified screeching and protests from all the players>
 
No specific quote for this one, but the cleric blew out most of his good spell levels curing a homeless roughneck going through drug withdrawals and severe malnutrition. Asks the down-and-out-er how he came to be this way, NPC reveals that he used to be an acolyte of the evil god that is opposed to the cleric's god. Lots of pointed glaring at the DM over that.
 
<Evil cultists barge into inn room, looking for good-aligned priest.>
Warlock: What? Who? No, I'm... uh... Carrie. <gives name of prominent local family that is known by every resident of the town>
other player: Good trope: when someone is just AGGRESSIVELY bad at lying.
Druid: Oh, yeah, we'd love to help you find those good-aligned priests. Hey, Carrie, why don't you help these guys get some tea?
Warlock: ..
Druid: -Carrie-, go get them some tea.
Warlock: ...
Druid: -ahem-, -Carrie!-
Warlock: Oh, me?
other player: AGGRESSIVELY BAD AT LYING
<good-aligned priest in the next room over tries to escape through the window, rolls a hilariously bad stealth check>
DM: That's a loud crashing noise.
<Simultaneously> Warlock: I throw myself down the stairs to cover up the noise. Sorceror: I cast minor illusion of a crash to cover up the noise.
DM: So, let's look at this. The cultists have heard a loud crashing coming from this direction, this direction, and over here, all at the same time.
Player: SO BAD AT LYING
Cultists go to investigate the noises. Sorceror, Warlock and Druid all roll Deception checks. Druid rolls high af, convinces cultist that that busted window frame was always there. Sorceror rolls high af and convinces that cultist that he's a wild mage and always wakes up with a sound of thunder. Warlock rolls hilariously poorly, tells cultist she had never seen stairs before.
Player: I'm dying.

The Blot is a murderer for hire that leaves a card with an ink blot on it. His other identity, Jimmy Torrance, is believed dead and buried after his hotel exploded during a Mafia conference busted by Richards and his colleagues, Paul Pauldron and Ted Tookem.
CES 

BOP is just the name for the family of birds that live in that part of the world so it's no surprise when Busiek needed heroes for that part of the world he would use flying carnival dancers and name them after the prevalent birds.
 
For my own part, I offer the Steamer Duck. This hero is capable of flying and speeding through water with the ability to blow hot steam on a target.
CES

BOP is just the name for the family of birds that live in that part of the world so it's no surprise when Busiek needed heroes for that part of the world he would use flying carnival dancers and name them after the prevalent birds.
 
For my own part, I offer the Steamer Duck. This hero is capable of flying and speeding through water with the ability to blow hot steam on a target.
CES

The mercenary desert of death Flan worked security for the building. When everything went down, he was the first to try to move things outside away from the building. This Cube of Custard used his powers to try to push the villains away from the building as much as possible, and to rally the normal security guards on duty to help save the day.
 
If you need an amazing amorphous arm of justice, you know who to hire.
CES 

The Blot is a murderer for hire that leaves a card with an ink blot on it. His other identity, Jimmy Torrance, is believed dead and buried after his hotel exploded during a Mafia conference busted by Richards and his colleagues, Paul Pauldron and Ted Tookem.
CES 

epilogue
Buck Clinton and Deshawn Barden met at Maulton Mall. It was neutral ground for
all of the gangs, not just the Aardvarks and Razorbacks. No one wanted to get kicked
from the Mall.
 
“What you want, Clinton?,” asked Barden. His group had spread out in a rough
crescent around him. He frowned at the number of Aardvarks that had arrived with
their leader.
 
“I want to get rid of Log Man,” said Clinton. “He’s hurting my business, and I know
he’s hurting yours.”
 
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?,” said Barden. “The cops will be all over you
if you try to make that happen.”
 
“He’s all over me now,” said Clinton. “And I want him gone.”
 
“So what you want from me?,” said Barden. He didn’t like the look of this.
 
“I feel like I need something to draw Log Man out,” said Clinton. “Then I can get him
to come after me on my terms. He won’t be able to back down even if he knew it was
a trap. He’ll still have to do something.”
 
“And what do you think you can do that will make him hound you more than what he
is already doing?,” asked Barden.
 
“I was thinking I could wipe all of you out,” said Clinton. “That would send a
message. Then when Log Man comes at me, I could wipe him out. All I would have
to do is get rid of the weapons and any witnesses after the deed’s done.”
 
“So you’re drawing down on us here?,” said Barden. His hand reached for his
waistband.
 
Clinton raised a hand. More cars lit their lights. Gangsters got out, hauling serious
hardware with them. They pointed the weapons at the Aardvarks.
 
“I know a guy,” said Clinton. He waved a hand at the light machineguns he had
procured. “He steals weapons from the Army and Marines. I told him about my
problems with you and Log Man. He gave me these to deal with it. They fire a couple
thousand rounds a second. They’ll chew up that wood gimp, just like they’re going
to chew you up. What do you think of the plan now?”
 
“I have one question,” said Barden. His hand never strayed from his waistband. If he
got a chance, he was going to put one in his rival’s head.
 
“What’s that?,” asked Clinton.
 
“Did you tell Log Man about your plan?,” asked Barden. He pointed at the other
group of Aardvarks.
 
Clinton turned to look at what he was pointing at across the parking lot. He growled
in anger as he saw the Log Mobile rolling right at the triggers on the Razorbacks.
Some of the group turned to fire at the wooden car coming right at them.
 
A silent explosion of discs slicing through cars and people sent some of the gunners
ducking for cover. Then the Log Mobile rolled over one of the cars, crushing it under
the wooden shaft of a wheel.
 
Clinton turned. He couldn’t let this chance get away from him. He had to at least get
rid of Barden. That was the end goal for this.
 
Barden shot him before he could get his weapon out and ready. The distraction had
been enough for him to draw his own weapon and start shooting and his first target
had been the other gang leader.
 
Barden felt an explosion of pain in his leg. He started limping away. He had to get
looked at before something else happened. He fired into the general melee to cover
his escape.
 
Clinton sat up. Foam dripped from his mouth. He fired at Barden until the bullets
stopped coming out of his gun. He jumped to his feet and charged his enemies with
the empty gun to be used as a hammer against anyone in his way.
 
The bullet holes in his shirt weren’t bleeding. Crushed bullets dropped to the ground
as he moved.
 
“I’ll teach you,” said Clinton. He dropped the magazine out of his pistol. He reloaded
with a snap of his hands. “I’m going to be the one running things now.”
 
He fired into Barden as the other gang leader tried to get into his car and make his
getaway. He fired until he ran out of bullets. He threw the empty gun at another
Razorback trying to get to his own car and drive away. He needed more bullets to
shoot.
 
Clinton looked around. There had to be a gun he could use. He needed to kill Log
Man before he ran for it. Everyone else was trying to get to their cars and drive off.
Flying wood was everywhere.
 
Clinton had Barden’s car right there. All he had to do was get behind the wheel and
take off. He could ditch it somewhere else and claim he had lent his car to one of his
friends who had been dropped during the fighting.
 
It wasn’t a perfect plan. It was better than getting hammered by the flying logs raining
down on the lot.
 
He ran to the driver’s side of the Cobalt and pulled open the door. The keys hung
from the ignition. He smiled.
 
Let them try to prove he had shot Barden. How were they going to do that when he
fixed himself an alibi across town.
 
Clinton slipped inside the car and slid the seat back. He turned the key and listened
to the engine. He dropped the gear into drive and pushed the gas pedal all the way
down. He needed to head for the exit and run from the mall as fast as possible. He
couldn’t claim to be innocent if he got caught driving a dead man’s car from the scene
of a gunfight.
 
Something exploded behind him. He ducked his head, and kept going. Other cars 
ahead of him ran for the street just like he was. None of them got hostile with him as
they all wanted to escape.
 
Clinton glanced at his rearview mirror. He grimaced as the Log Mobile filled the
glass. He wished he had something to deal with the masked man.
 
He spotted a whirling piece of wood flying through the air. He yanked on the wheel.
The log bounced off the rear passenger fender. He knew he had saved himself from
a takedown. If that thing had come through the window, there was no telling what it
would have done to him.
 
Clinton decided to split off from the running group. Log Man couldn’t chase them all.
He would probably go after the ones that stuck together. By the time he got back
to chasing a lone driver, the gangster planned to have dumped the car and gone
somewhere he couldn’t be touched.
 
The Log Mobile rolled up on his left. He looked over. That kid waved at him. Then
the kid exploded in a storm of wooden discs slicing through the air. His tire came
apart, dropping the car on its rim. The wheel jerked in his hand. He hit a telephone
pole before he could put on the brakes.
 
Clinton pushed the air bag out of his face as he tried to get out of the wrecked car.
He hated vigilantes. They were worse than cops. He hated them more than anything.
Why couldn’t they have left him alone? Now everything was in ruins thanks to
two geeks in wooden costumes.
 
He got out of the wreck. He could still get away from the scene if he could get away
from Log Man. He still had a chance.
 
“It’s over, Clinton,” said Log Man. The vigilante climbed out of his strange car with
his cape waving around him. “You killed Barden, and you’re going to jail over it.”
 
“You’re not taking me anywhere, puppet boy,” said Clinton. “I’ll take you apart.”
 
“I don’t have time for this,” said Log Man. He pointed his hand at his enemy. A
stream of logs flew across the feet separating the two men. Clinton went down under
the assault. “I told you to get out of town. You should have listened. Now the police
are going to hand you to people to cart you out of town. Congratulations.”
 
Sirens filled the air. Log Man dropped a column on Clinton to keep him from going
anywhere. He shook his head as he walked back to the Log Mobile and drove off
into the night.
 
Clinton struggled to get out from under the weight. He swore as he pushed on the
wood. He had to get away before the police arrived and took him away. Everyone
would say he killed Barden. He was in deeper trouble than just a prison sentence if
he went in.
 
He tried to push to one side. If he could get most of his torso out of the way, he could
just roll it off his arm. Then he could get up and run.
 
Flashing lights told him he was too late. Uniforms approached. They examined his
situation without saying anything.
 
“How you doing?,” said one of the uniforms. “I’m Officer Crookshanks. It looks
like you have a problem, bud. You want to tell me how you wound up under what
looks like a telephone pole next to a wrecked car?”
 
“No, I don’t,” said Clinton. “Can you get this thing off me?”
 
“I think we’ll need firefighters to do that,” said Crookshanks. “Call this in, will you,
Jerry? We’ll get someone out here who can lift that log up and take him down to the
ER. I think he’s going to be booked and put in a cell after that.”
 
“I’ll say,” said Jerry.
The End