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A Deep Dive - Ghislaine Maxwell: Silver Spoons and Hard Times

A Deep Dive - Ghislaine Maxwell: Silver Spoons and Hard Times
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Ghislaine Maxwell – Silver Spoons and Hard Times

August 9, 2020
By Paul Serran
https://frankreport.com/2020/08/09/ghislaine-maxwell-silver-spoons-and-hard-times/
http://archive.is/by7md
Ghislaine Maxwell led much of her life under the world’s fascinated microscopic view, always enthralled by her – famous and infamous – as it watched her fortunes wax and wane.
From the celebrated miracle daughter of media tycoon Robert Maxwell; to the broken young woman who fled scandal in the UK to a small New York apartment, trying to launch a new life; the rebirth Jet-set Ghislaine, who was everywhere at once, longtime companion of Jeffrey Epstein, a man even richer and more shady than her father; the sophisticated middle age woman, a runaway alleged criminal trying hard to avoid detection by her pursuers – finally, to the incarcerated, indicted suspected sex trafficker and perjurer.
Ghislaine was Robert and Betty Maxwell’s miracle baby, born on Christmas Day, 1961. Two days after that, their eldest son suffered a fatal car accident.
In 24 hours, it all had been somehow foretold: joy – and then tragedy.
During the Swinging Sixties, Robert Maxwell served two terms as a Labour Member of Parliament (MP) for Buckingham. He led a multimillionaire lifestyle, and was the host of star-studded parties at Headington Hill Hall, his baronial fifty-three-room Oxford mansion.
The Maxwells spent a million dollars redecorating the mansion. In a stained glass window scene for the imperial staircase, Israeli sculptor Nehemia Azaz depicted Robert Maxwell as the biblical hero Samson tearing down the gates of Gaza: “a titan of luck, impossible achievement, and unlimited wealth”.
They had the use of chauffeured luxury cars. They traveled the world in Robert’s Gulfstream IV Jet and his sleek 180-foot yacht, named Lady Ghislaine.
“If Bob Maxwell didn’t exist, no one could invent him,” Labour Party leader Neil Kinnock celebrated the bombastic, demanding mogul who dined with kings and presidents and had a bottomless appetite for family, food, fortune, and fame.
The first brush with financial and professional hardship came at a age when young Ghislaine would have been mostly sheltered from it.
In the early seventies, after Robert Maxwell tried similar shenanigans in a failed attempt to swindle the American financier Saul Steinberg, who was interested in a strategic acquisition of Pergamon Press. Steinberg claimed that during negotiations, Maxwell falsely stated that a subsidiary responsible for publishing encyclopedias was extremely profitable.
At the same time, Pergamon had been forced to reduce its profit forecasts for 1969 during the period of negotiations, leading to a suspension of dealing in Pergamon shares on the London stock markets.
It was found that Maxwell had contrived to maximize Pergamon’s share price through transactions between his private family companies. This was a criminal practice he would utilize again in the future.
Inspectors from Britain’s Department of Trade and Industry declared Maxwell unfit to run a public company: “Notwithstanding Mr. Maxwell’s acknowledged abilities and energy, he is not in our opinion a person who can be relied on to exercise proper stewardship of a publicly quoted company.”
‘Captain Bob’ established the Maxwell Foundation in tax haven Liechtenstein, in 1970. By the 1980s he come back roaring, prompted by money later said to have originated in the Soviet Union. He bought the Mirror Group built and a massive media conglomerate.
The good times were on: Ghislaine was nicknamed “The Shopper” because of her wild spending funded by Robert’s millions. He also bankrolled her failed corporate gifts business.
During this period, she reportedly had a VERY close relationship with her father and was widely credited with being her father’s favorite child.
In Oxford, Ghislaine led a student life of wealth and privilege. Her father would send Filipino servants to the college house she shared to clean, arrange the table and cook, in the event of a party.
Her career piggybacked on her father’s businesses. She was made director of the Oxford United, and later, put in charge of “special projects” of the New York Daily News.
With her father’s money, she found her way into society, especially in New York — a haven where she could escape his complete control.
But the good times were not to last. Overextended and over-leveraged, Maxwell’s empire was about to crumble.
At this time, Maxwell reportedly was a regular at London’s casinos, playing three tables at once, even dropping $2.5 million in a single night. For years, he had been an inveterate gambler, but this was the behavior of a desperate man whose time was running out.
“He was a very crude man,” said a female writer for Time magazine. “His polish was not very deep. If you were with him for any length of time, it peeled away. I was in his library in the Maxwell House penthouse—a beautiful apartment with marble and servants all over the place—and while I was admiring his books, his valet said to me, ‘You should see Mr. Maxwell’s collection of pornographic tapes’.”
Ghislaine visited her father in his office before he flew off to Gibraltar. “He was looking for an apartment in New York—a sort of pied-à-terre, where he could talk and have meetings—and he wanted me to help him,” she told Vanity Fair. “He asked me to go see a particular apartment. He said, ‘If you like it, I’ll make time to see it and come to New York.’ ” But the next time Ghislaine saw her father, he was dead.
”Ghislaine is the baby of the family and the one who was closest to her father,” her mother Betty told Vanity Press. ”The whole of Ghislaine’s world has collapsed, and it will be very difficult for her to continue.”
When she finally appeared before the reporters, she had collected herself. “How did your father die?” a journalist shouted at Ghislaine Maxwell. “He did not commit suicide. That was just not consistent with his character. I think he was murdered. ”
Maxwell, it turned out, had debts of nearly $5 billion, and had stolen hundreds of millions from the Mirror Group’s pension funds to shore up his faltering companies. That left 32,000 employees exposed to retirement ruin.
The irony was not lost on the hard-hitting British press: Robert Maxwell, a socialist, stealing hundreds of millions of pounds from the Mirror’s pension fund!
He swindled money from two of his public companies, transferred millions in and out the secret family trusts in Liechtenstein, to manipulate the share price of his Corporation.
Robert was called “rogue,” “crook,” “bully,” “thief,” “megalomaniac,” and “gangster.” The press told lurid tales of his sex orgies with midget Filipino hookers.
He was seen as a 310-pound aberration gorging on spoonfuls of caviar. An erratic and cruel tyrant who used Turkish towels for toilet paper. Journalists wrote that he was a spy for the K.G.B. or Mossad or Czech intelligence—or all three.
“My daughter Ghislaine has no money, no trusts, no funds anywhere.” her mother Betty told Vanity Fair. “Neither of [my children] had any money. Their father never gave them any money.”
Their assets were frozen. His son Kevin’s house was put up for sale, as were the Lady Ghislaine and the Gulfstream IV Jet. Their passports were seized.
A friend told The Times of London, “[Ghislaine] had always been the life and soul of the party wherever she wanted to go in the world and never had to worry about money.” Now she was the broken child of a monster, his name forever synonymous to scandal. “She was catatonic,” the friend said.
Forced to vacate her huge company-provided residence, she moved into a small apartment. When a friend came to visit, Ghislaine told her, “They took everything—everything—even the cutlery.”
Little did she know how many more times things in her life would shift from silver spoons to hard times. A woman brought up in luxury, she had everything taken from her, before she came to the United States to begin again.
“He wasn’t a crook,” Ghislaine told Vanity Press. “A thief to me is somebody who steals money. (…) Did he put it in his own pocket? Did he run off with the money? No. And that’s my definition of a crook.”
“I’m surviving—just,” she said. “But I can’t just die quietly in a comer. I have to believe that something good will come out of this mess. It’s sad for my mother. It’s sad to have lost my dad. It’s sad for my brothers. But I would say we’ll be back. Watch this space.”
Ghislaine Maxwell was also being hunted by the tabloids. The Maxwell name was so detested in London that she is said to have had to walk around in a blond wig so people wouldn’t recognize her.
Ghislaine Maxwell’s reinvention didn’t take long. Maxwell moved to the United States just after her father’s death. Her photograph boarding a Concorde to cross the Atlantic caused outrage – her father had just defrauded pensioners out of 750 Million Sterling Pounds.
According to the Mail on Sunday: “Unnoticed by almost everybody, traveling with her was a greying, plumpish, middle-aged American businessman who managed to avoid the photographers. It is to this man that 30-year-old Ghislaine has turned to ease the heartache of her father’s shame.”
“His name is Jeffrey Epstein.”
“Whose house is this, Ghislaine?” a friend asked her in the early 1990’s. “Who lives here?”
My friend,” Maxwell replied.
“Well, is he banging you?” the friend demanded. “What’s the scoop here?”
A trust fund is said to have provided her with an income of $145,000 a year. A far cry from her previous seemingly unending wealth. She “never, ever had any cash. Lots of credit, of course, but no cash”, one friend recalled to the press.
And yet, she lived the high life. She was known in New York as the “female Gatsby” for her lavish entertaining. Had a “reputation for being charming and funny, and a glittering lifestyle straight out of the pages of a society magazine”.
She was now “far from the ever watchful eye of the British press,” Hello! magazine wrote in 1997.
“She is proud of the fact that her new life is all down to her own hard work and has her elegant apartment to show for it,” the magazine mistakenly added. One day, she would “get married and have kids. But it has never been a focus: My focus is my business.”
Ghislaine’s presence added more fuel to the question: “How did Jeffrey Epstein amass his fortune?” For one of the most propagated theories is that Maxwell’s father Robert bankrolled him with funds hidden from the UK authorities.
Jeffrey Epstein built a 21,000-square-foot mansion on a massive ranch in New Mexico, which – he boasted – made his New York townhouse “look like a shack”. He named it the Zorro Ranch. He also acquired a 72-acre island in the Virgin Islands and an 8,600-square-foot home in Paris, with a specially built massage room.
She had found a path back to the lifestyle she’d lost when her father died. “She was used to living very well,” says a friend who knew her then. “She didn’t want to go back to where she was.” All she had to do to keep it was to give ‘the monster’ what he wanted.
Maxwell was expected to drop everything to serve Epstein.
She had to keep everyone in line, because one misstep would unleash the wrath of Epstein, one of the few people who could make Maxwell cry. “He would be screaming over the phone,” recalled an Epstein victim, “and she would burst into tears.”
The New York townhouse became a social nexus; guests could have included members of the Kennedy and Rockefeller clans, “along with the requisite sprinkling of countesses and billionaires,” according to The Times of London.
She was “a modern-day geisha” in a “domain filled with the richest people in the planet. “It’s a world frequented by young half-naked girls in bikinis, billionaires and lavish lifestyles, but it borders on the grotesque. You are never really sure what is going on behind closed doors.”
Royalty was specially prized, which is why her friendship with Prince Andrew became so treasured. In 2000, Maxwell and Epstein attended a Prince Andrew’s party at the Queen’s Sandringham House estate in Norfolk, England. It has been reported that the event was in honor of Maxwell’s 39th birthday.
And yet, Ghislaine began trying to distance herself from Epstein long before he went to jail. In the early 2000s, she hooked up in California with a man much richer than Epstein: Ted Waitt.
Waitt lived in a seven-bedroom, 14-bath mansion in La Jolla, sailed the world aboard a 240-foot mega-yacht, the Plan B. It was equipped with a helipad, Jacuzzi, elevator, gym, and HAD AN ONBOARD SUBMARINE, which Maxwell soon was licensed to pilot.
After Epstein went to prison in Florida for a short period, Maxwell saw the silver spoons turned into hard times again.
Acquaintances that crossed her path reported how she was almost unrecognizable. She was not stylish and attention grabbing anymore, seemed determined to go unnoticed. Her face had no makeup. There was a hint of gray in her black hair, she put on some weight.
“I was so shocked by her look,” a friend recalled to the British press. “I didn’t recognize her.”
She even gave up her once proud name, sometimes introducing herself to new acquaintances only as “G.”
“Where are you living, Ghislaine?” the friend asked. “I lost touch with you.” Maxwell suddenly went blank. “Oh,” she replied, “a little bit everywhere.”
December 2014: Virginia Roberts Giuffre filed a motion in the Southern District of Florida describing Maxwell as Epstein’s “primary coconspirator and participant in his sexual abuse and sex trafficking scheme.”
Maxwell made a huge mistake, issuing an “urgent” statement to the media dismissing the claims as “obvious lies.” That allowed Giuffre, to sue Maxwell for defamation in federal court in New York, a lawsuit “widely viewed as a vessel for Epstein’s victims to expose the scope of Epstein’s crimes,” according to the Miami Herald.
Maxwell affirmed her innocence with fury, at one point of her testimony banging her fists on the table. She also, according to charges filed by the DOJ SDNY, committed two counts of perjury.
2019: when the SDNY reopened the criminal investigation into Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine was far away, living the high life.
She met with her friend Prince Andrew in Buckingham Palace, and participated in “Cash & Rocket”, an annual charity road rally. Between races of the rally, she joined the super rich in attending a Masquerade Ball in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, as well as a White dinner at La Reserve in Geneva and the Red party at the Yacht Club de Monaco.
Those were to be her last reported events. Cash & Rocket scrub Maxwell’s photo from its website once Epstein was arrested and the scandal assaulted the headlines again.
On July 6, 2019, Epstein was arrested by federal agents at Teterboro Airport, arriving from Paris. The FBI raided his mansion, and charged him with sex trafficking of minors.
“Epstein’s pimp girlfriend, Ghislaine Maxwell, a very well-connected Brit socialite cannot just walk free,” actress Ellen Barking tweeted the day after Epstein’s arrest. “This woman is his pimp. She pilots planes [sic] to and from the island. I know because she told me.”
Maxwell again went into hiding, unreachable during legal proceedings. It surfaced in December 2019 that Maxwell was among the people under FBI investigation for facilitating Epstein’s crimes.
She was faced with a tabloid frenzy even bigger than the one that accompanied the death of her father. She again uprooted herself and tried to start over in Manchester-by-the-Sea, a quiet village 30 miles north of Boston, she lived for a time in the $3 million, five-bedroom colonial home of Scott Borgerson, CEO of CargoMetrics, a hedge fund investment company involved in maritime data analytics.
Since Epstein was found dead in jail, last August, she is reported to have moved 36 times, out of fear for her safety. Credible Death threats arrived by social media, email, phone, text, and postal service. It began in earnest with Epstein’s arrest, multiplied with his death, and accelerated in the months that followed. They soon became a routine part of her life.
She hired a professional security firm, with operatives that are veterans of intelligence and law enforcement agencies.
This photoshopped photo of Maxwell surfaced last year to mislead the public into thinking she was in Los Angeles. Frank Report was the first to report the photo a fake, a story that went viral.
“Where in the world was Ghislaine Maxwell? Everyone, it seemed, had a theory, each wilder than the last. She was said to be hiding deep beneath the sea in a submarine, which she was licensed to pilot. Or she was lying low in Israel, under the protection of the Mossad, the powerful intelligence agency with whom her late father supposedly tangled. Or she was in the FBI witness protection program, or ensconced in luxury in a villa in the South of France, or sunning herself naked on the coast of Spain, or holed up in a high-security doomsday bunker belonging to rich and powerful friends whose lives might implode should Maxwell ever reveal what she knows—all the dirty secrets of the dirty world that she and Epstein shared.”
(Vanity Fair – Jul 3, 2020)
Maxwell remained at large, beyond the reach of attorneys, tabloid reporters, and a 10,000-pound reward from The Sun in London.
“It’s a little bit like Elvis—you get lots of reports but they’re hard to verify,” a victim attorney said in May.
She was periodically said to have been spotted around the world, usually in places where she was not. Reporters scoured the globe. Some said she was in Russia trying to get a Oligarch to protect her. Others pointed to Israel or Brazil, China, Singapore, the Middle East, England.
She was “both everywhere and nowhere,” lamented UK’s The Guardian.
On August 2019, she was apparently photographed eating a burger and fries in the Cahuenga Boulevard, in the San Fernando Valley. She held The Book of Honor: The Secret Lives and Deaths of CIA Operatives. Given Ghislaine and her father Robert’s alleged ties to Intelligence Services, this choice does not seem accidental.
Papers were running out of incredible stories to account for her disappearance. A bizarre new theory emerged she could be hiding in a submarine which – as we saw – was not downright impossible, since she DID have a license to pilot underground vehicles.
On July 2nd 2020, Maxwell was arrested by the FBI and NYPD in the small New England town of Bradford, New Hampshire. It is situated at driving distance of the NYSD. They finally found her in a luxurious four-bedroom, 4,365-square-foot home on a wooded lot, called Tuckedaway.
Ghislaine Maxwell was charged with six federal crimes: luring and enticement of minors, sex trafficking of children and perjury.
The crimes took place between 1994 and 1997, the years of her “intimate relationship with Epstein,” when she “assisted, facilitated, and contributed to Jeffrey Epstein’s abuse of minor girls.”
One of the three unnamed victims was “as young as 14 years old when they were groomed and abused by Maxwell and Epstein, both of whom knew that certain victims were in fact under the age of 18.”
FBI assistant director William F. Sweeney Jr. described Maxwell as “one of the villains of this investigation,” who had “slithered away to a gorgeous property” in New Hampshire, where she was “continuing to live a life of privilege while her victims live with the trauma inflicted upon them years ago.”
“I am optimistic about my future,” she said in 1997, “and believe things will continue to improve for me as time passes.”
Now, according to sources close to her, “I don’t think [Ghislaine] sees there is a future,” came the reply.
If found guilty of all charges, Maxwell could face a prison sentence of 35 years. She denies the accusations, and has pleaded not guilty to all six charges.
She will await trial locked up in the Metropolitan Detention Center, in Brooklyn. A dreadful prison that is as removed from her previous “silver spoon” upbringing as it’s possible in the US. Hard times.
She used to be a larger than life character, who once hosted a dinner for NY socialites on ‘the fine art of giving a blow job’. But then, she really blew it.
A report from a source familiar with the Metropolitan Detention Center gives a glum picture of Ghislaine Maxwell’s present conditions.
She is in the women’s section and believed to be confined to a solitary cell. Because of the past history of the MDC, it is not impossible to suspect that Ghislaine could be having sexual relations with one or more corrections officers, either male or female. Her available wealth would permit her to buy some privileges directly from the corrections officers who could smuggle in items for her.
MDC has a history of guards, male and female, enjoying sex with prisoners and smuggling in everything from alcohol to cell phones to drugs. While she is not enjoying what anyone would call a privileged life, and is most likely [because of Covid protocols] confined to her cell, dank and cold [in summer] perhaps as much as 23-24 hours per day and possibly getting only one hot meal per day, our source says, with her wealth and talent to charm, if there is any privilege, any opportunity, any luxury to enjoy at MDC, she is enjoying it.
Of course, she is probably under near-constant surveillance, for no guard wants to go to prison for letting her get murdered or commit suicide – as did her former lover Epstein. It is not known how frequently she is meeting with lawyers in special rooms set aside for the purpose. But an MDC source tells Frank Report that prison officials are known to eavesdrop on those conversations with lawyers and defendants and do so on high profile cases. Whether they report to the prosecution what they learn is unknown.
In the end, Maxwell has a hard road to hoe and will remain in the brutal and unsanitary MDC until she stands trial or makes a plea deal or dies. The possibility of additional charges other than those currently charged against her – for hebephilia crimes in the last century – remain a possibility.
The late Jeffrey Epstein was a convicted hebephile, a person who has urges for post pubescent but under the age of consent children. Is Ghislaine one also? And are there others, famous and prominent men of power who have indulged as Jeffrey and allegedly Ghislaine have done?
The ace in the hole for her, obviously, is, if she has info on other prominent hebephiles that the DOJ for its own partisan or PR reasons might like to selectively prosecute, she can trade that info for a lenient sentence and hopefully not be murdered for doing so.
Her former lover, Jeffrey Epstein, might have committed suicide, as the Mainstream Media and the US Govt. urges you to believe, but there are some who find the coincidences, cameras being off, bones broken indicating he was strangled, guards happening to fall asleep as they were assigned to watch the most famous prisoner in the world, such that that it just might cause reasonable people to doubt the official narrative a little more than the corporate media and prison officials would wants us to doubt.
The same fate might befall Ghislaine and we may never know just what she did. Whether her crimes were confined to herself and Epstein or whether there was a vast network of hebephiles joining in – or – in fairness to her – she is innocent as she claims, something that a trial, if she makes it to trial, might help us determine.


stretcher during the funeral service in Jerusalem’s main convention hall on Nov. 10, 1991. The body is laying on a stretcher, draped in a white Jewish prayer shawl with black stripes as is it tradition of Jewish burials in Israel. (AP Photo/Natik Harnik) Ghislaine is fourth from the left.


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submitted by ALiddleBiddle to Epstein [link] [comments]

Opening story for my game. What does it make you think about the system?

Sorry for clumsy translation, the text is originally written in Polish.
„DATE WITH THE REAPER”
The assassin's bullet hits its mark. I feel no pain as the projectile penetrates my chest, and then I fall on wet, neon-lit asphalt. Vital forces escape me like water from a pierced bottle, and with surprising indifference I stare at the stain of red growing around me. Blood mixes with rainwater and creates intricate patterns reminiscent of Art Déco. In the background, I hear the distant city noise, the shooter's footsteps hurrying away, and the steady, soothing sound of rain.
I try to get up, but all I can do is crawl up to the wall and rest my back against the bricks. With a trembling hand, I take a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of my pocket. I take one out and put it in my mouth. When I finally manage to light up and rise the gasoline lighter, the cigarette softly slips from between my lips and lands in a pool of my own blood. Damn. This was not how I imagined the end. This fucking alley is no good place to die, much less such a stupid one.
It looked like a trivial order. When Jureczek Konus, a minor pimp taking care of a few well-worn whores asked me for help, the alarm light should have turned on. The motherfucker never liked me (with a vengeance), and the tale of a Poltergeist scaring his girls was barely holding up. Life, however, plays tricks sometimes. An empty wallet lowers vigilance, the alarm hasn't been set off, and I'm now lying in the back of an abandoned warehouse with an unsightly hole in my chest and wonder how much I will have to pay to clean my coat. Suddenly I burst out in hoarse laughter; soon I'll never have to pay for anything again.
I lie in this damn alley and wonder why my whole life hasn't passed before my eyes yet. After all, they say that when you die it is an obligatory part of the agenda. Maybe the shot was not that dangerous and I can recover? Or is it all just nonsense? After all, only the dead really know something about dying, and they usually aren't very talkative. Those who talk always have something more interesting to say than the impressions of the last moments in the mortal coil. For example, they point to their killers or beg to take care of their children. In their repertoire there is no place for reports on dying. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised… It's such a personal matter that there is probably no reason to share it with just anyone. Or maybe is it so irrelevant that it is not worth mentioning at all? I close my eyes and curl my lips into a slow smile. Soon I will join the respectable group of the dead and see for myself how much overrated death is.
I wonder what Nina would say to all of this. She would probably hit me with clenched fists on the chest and scream through tears, "You stupid, selfish bastard! You can't just die and leave me here, you understand?! You can’t!". Then she would cling to me with her whole body, to accompany me as closely as possible on this last journey, and with a trembling voice she would reproach fate that somehow we never got to be together. And I would go away happy in her arms, because the last sight I would remember would be the loving look of her green eyes. And for once, this one time, I would have the certainty that no words can give, that all these years I was someone important to her...
But she's not here, and the gentle heat radiating from the wound slowly turns into excruciating pain. Suffering sobers me up enough to make me realize that I don't want to die at all. And that if I just lay here and feel sorry for myself, I would be going on a date with the Reaper soon. Konus’ gunman made sure I had an appointment.
Aware of the importance of every second, I press my hand to the wound in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. I know I should have done this before. I curse the awkwardness that has already cost me a lot of precious blood. I gather my strength for a moment to finally get back to my feet and stand on shaky legs. Leaning against the wall, I breathe heavily and I know that I have little time left. The brain works at an increased speed, as it always does when I'm under stress. On an imaginary map of Polis, I mark my own location and start figuring out the ways to a hospital or at least some less-than-legal clinic. Then I realize how far away I am from the nearest medic.
But there has to be some other solution - the awakened will to exist prevents capitulation and forces me to consider further options. From the sea of nonsense, one concept emerges at last, shining like a beacon in the dark: Nina. My angel, my friend, my femme fatale. She had helped me before. Before she was drawn into the world of nightclubs, dodgy entertainment and easy money, she worked in a hospital as a nurse. She learned to help in emergencies. Yes, she will definitely help me. And if she fails - well, maybe at least my vision will come true...
***
The clash of heavy gears is heard. The hands on the tower meet at one o'clock and the silence of the night is interrupted by a single clock strike, awakening from an alcoholic stupor a group of unfulfilled artists resting at the Fountain of Life. As I pass their resting place, absinthe-hazy eyes follow me with persistent attention. Painters reek of urine, turpentine and anise.
Out of curiosity, I peek at the Astral to see in their auras a chaotic mixture of poignant sadness and self-uniqueness. For a moment I feel a fleeting affinity for these pathetic creatures - just like mine, their stories will go unnoticed and forgotten. Desires, fears, regrets and hopes will all be washed away by the rain leaving no trace of them. Because in Polis XIII, this damned behemoth straight from a nightmare, thousands of such feelings are born and die every day. The tragedies of individuals, large and small, are lost among hundreds of thousands of others. And the City looks at everything with the stony calm of the Sphinx. It knows it was here long before us, and will remain here long after us.
- Dear Sir, please support art! - one of the painters calls after me.
Driven by this strange sense of community, I throw him the wallet away and hobble on. A screaming, knife-branding dwarf cuts my way. He rushes away from imaginary enemies with passion, then disappears just around the corner without warning. I turn and hit the main avenue. I pass glowing casinos and nightclubs pulsating with music. I penetrate the shapeless mass of people pouring through the entertainment center, where no one pays attention to me. I feel regret when I look at the light-filled windows of a zeppelin - there is an elegant banquet on its deck, and I would give anything to be there, instead of dying like a dog on this damn street. I am getting weaker and weaker with each passing moment and I only concentrate on going. Time is measured by drops of blood dripping from between the fingers. The seconds pass steadily in the rhythm of drip, drip, drip...
I finally manage to get to the right address. Darkness and silence cover the tenement houses with a soft shroud of peace. The shuffle of my feet echoes among the sleeping buildings, and only a pair of cat eyes, green like Nina's, is watching me. I lift my head and look at the dark windows of her apartment. Suddenly, a terrible thought strikes me - what if she’s not there? If she's gone to the cinema or is having fun somewhere?
Ignoring the excruciating pain, I enter the building and climb the stairs to the first floor. On the way, I stumble several times and only miraculously avoid falling. The effort paints black spots in front of my eyes and I bleed with a stream as wide as a waterfall, but I know I must not give up now, not when I am so close! Glued to the wall, I cross the corridor plunged into the darkness and a moment later I stand at her door. The bell rings twice, and in the silence that follows, I listen to the restless rhythm of my heart. Please, let her be home ... Let her open up, pull me in and take care of this damned wound ... I don't want to die just yet ... And then, after I recover maybe we'll try again. It used to be bad, but never like that… Maybe when she sees me now, she will understand that she could lose me. Maybe this time we will finally make it and we will...
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the latch sliding back. A warm feeling of relief floods me. I want to get down on my knees and pray to all the gods of this world.
And when the door opens, a stranger is standing inside. He is wearing a wife-beater and white cotton boxer shorts. I feel a sudden pressure in my chest and I freeze like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car.
- Are you crazy? Do you know what time it is? - the guy asks in a conspiratorial whisper.
Eternity passes before I finally manage to utter the words.
- I think ... I think I mistook the apartment - I take a step back, and a small part of my soul still deludes that it is true.
- You look peculiar - the stranger tilts his head and watches me sway on my feet - You are drunk!
- I'm not. I'm sorry for the trouble. It will be better, if I go.
Then he opens the door wider. The light from the hall falls on my silhouette.
- Are you okay? Oh my god, is that blood?
- No.
- You're hurt! Mother of God, we have to call for an ambulance!
- Alfred, who is this? What happened? - I hear Nina's alarmed voice coming from the depths of the apartment.
The guy turns to say something, but I'm already making my way to the stairs. Alfred orders me to wait until he calls for an ambulance. Says that Nina should stay in the bedroom and not look, because there's blood everywhere.
I leave the tenement house before Alfred manages to stop me or actually do anything at all. My legs are carrying me in a direction that I am completely indifferent to. I can hear Nina calling my name, but it's not enough for me to turn back. And when the darkness opens its arms and welcomes me tenderly like a lover, I find solace.
And I know one thing - gunshots hurt, but there are things that are even more painful.
submitted by AnoxiaRPG to RPGcreation [link] [comments]

Opening story for my game. What does it make you think about the system?

Sorry for clumsy translation, the text is originally written in Polish.
„DATE WITH THE REAPER”
The assassin's bullet hits its mark. I feel no pain as the projectile penetrates my chest, and then I fall on wet, neon-lit asphalt. Vital forces escape me like water from a pierced bottle, and with surprising indifference I stare at the stain of red growing around me. Blood mixes with rainwater and creates intricate patterns reminiscent of Art Déco. In the background, I hear the distant city noise, the shooter's footsteps hurrying away, and the steady, soothing sound of rain.
I try to get up, but all I can do is crawl up to the wall and rest my back against the bricks. With a trembling hand, I take a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of my pocket. I take one out and put it in my mouth. When I finally manage to light up and rise the gasoline lighter, the cigarette softly slips from between my lips and lands in a pool of my own blood. Damn. This was not how I imagined the end. This fucking alley is no good place to die, much less such a stupid one.
It looked like a trivial order. When Jureczek Konus, a minor pimp taking care of a few well-worn whores asked me for help, the alarm light should have turned on. The motherfucker never liked me (with a vengeance), and the tale of a Poltergeist scaring his girls was barely holding up. Life, however, plays tricks sometimes. An empty wallet lowers vigilance, the alarm hasn't been set off, and I'm now lying in the back of an abandoned warehouse with an unsightly hole in my chest and wonder how much I will have to pay to clean my coat. Suddenly I burst out in hoarse laughter; soon I'll never have to pay for anything again.
I lie in this damn alley and wonder why my whole life hasn't passed before my eyes yet. After all, they say that when you die it is an obligatory part of the agenda. Maybe the shot was not that dangerous and I can recover? Or is it all just nonsense? After all, only the dead really know something about dying, and they usually aren't very talkative. Those who talk always have something more interesting to say than the impressions of the last moments in the mortal coil. For example, they point to their killers or beg to take care of their children. In their repertoire there is no place for reports on dying. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised… It's such a personal matter that there is probably no reason to share it with just anyone. Or maybe is it so irrelevant that it is not worth mentioning at all? I close my eyes and curl my lips into a slow smile. Soon I will join the respectable group of the dead and see for myself how much overrated death is.
I wonder what Nina would say to all of this. She would probably hit me with clenched fists on the chest and scream through tears, "You stupid, selfish bastard! You can't just die and leave me here, you understand?! You can’t!". Then she would cling to me with her whole body, to accompany me as closely as possible on this last journey, and with a trembling voice she would reproach fate that somehow we never got to be together. And I would go away happy in her arms, because the last sight I would remember would be the loving look of her green eyes. And for once, this one time, I would have the certainty that no words can give, that all these years I was someone important to her...
But she's not here, and the gentle heat radiating from the wound slowly turns into excruciating pain. Suffering sobers me up enough to make me realize that I don't want to die at all. And that if I just lay here and feel sorry for myself, I would be going on a date with the Reaper soon. Konus’ gunman made sure I had an appointment.
Aware of the importance of every second, I press my hand to the wound in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. I know I should have done this before. I curse the awkwardness that has already cost me a lot of precious blood. I gather my strength for a moment to finally get back to my feet and stand on shaky legs. Leaning against the wall, I breathe heavily and I know that I have little time left. The brain works at an increased speed, as it always does when I'm under stress. On an imaginary map of Polis, I mark my own location and start figuring out the ways to a hospital or at least some less-than-legal clinic. Then I realize how far away I am from the nearest medic.
But there has to be some other solution - the awakened will to exist prevents capitulation and forces me to consider further options. From the sea of nonsense, one concept emerges at last, shining like a beacon in the dark: Nina. My angel, my friend, my femme fatale. She had helped me before. Before she was drawn into the world of nightclubs, dodgy entertainment and easy money, she worked in a hospital as a nurse. She learned to help in emergencies. Yes, she will definitely help me. And if she fails - well, maybe at least my vision will come true...
***
The clash of heavy gears is heard. The hands on the tower meet at one o'clock and the silence of the night is interrupted by a single clock strike, awakening from an alcoholic stupor a group of unfulfilled artists resting at the Fountain of Life. As I pass their resting place, absinthe-hazy eyes follow me with persistent attention. Painters reek of urine, turpentine and anise.
Out of curiosity, I peek at the Astral to see in their auras a chaotic mixture of poignant sadness and self-uniqueness. For a moment I feel a fleeting affinity for these pathetic creatures - just like mine, their stories will go unnoticed and forgotten. Desires, fears, regrets and hopes will all be washed away by the rain leaving no trace of them. Because in Polis XIII, this damned behemoth straight from a nightmare, thousands of such feelings are born and die every day. The tragedies of individuals, large and small, are lost among hundreds of thousands of others. And the City looks at everything with the stony calm of the Sphinx. It knows it was here long before us, and will remain here long after us.
- Dear Sir, please support art! - one of the painters calls after me.
Driven by this strange sense of community, I throw him the wallet away and hobble on. A screaming, knife-branding dwarf cuts my way. He rushes away from imaginary enemies with passion, then disappears just around the corner without warning. I turn and hit the main avenue. I pass glowing casinos and nightclubs pulsating with music. I penetrate the shapeless mass of people pouring through the entertainment center, where no one pays attention to me. I feel regret when I look at the light-filled windows of a zeppelin - there is an elegant banquet on its deck, and I would give anything to be there, instead of dying like a dog on this damn street. I am getting weaker and weaker with each passing moment and I only concentrate on going. Time is measured by drops of blood dripping from between the fingers. The seconds pass steadily in the rhythm of drip, drip, drip...
I finally manage to get to the right address. Darkness and silence cover the tenement houses with a soft shroud of peace. The shuffle of my feet echoes among the sleeping buildings, and only a pair of cat eyes, green like Nina's, is watching me. I lift my head and look at the dark windows of her apartment. Suddenly, a terrible thought strikes me - what if she’s not there? If she's gone to the cinema or is having fun somewhere?
Ignoring the excruciating pain, I enter the building and climb the stairs to the first floor. On the way, I stumble several times and only miraculously avoid falling. The effort paints black spots in front of my eyes and I bleed with a stream as wide as a waterfall, but I know I must not give up now, not when I am so close! Glued to the wall, I cross the corridor plunged into the darkness and a moment later I stand at her door. The bell rings twice, and in the silence that follows, I listen to the restless rhythm of my heart. Please, let her be home ... Let her open up, pull me in and take care of this damned wound ... I don't want to die just yet ... And then, after I recover maybe we'll try again. It used to be bad, but never like that… Maybe when she sees me now, she will understand that she could lose me. Maybe this time we will finally make it and we will...
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the latch sliding back. A warm feeling of relief floods me. I want to get down on my knees and pray to all the gods of this world.
And when the door opens, a stranger is standing inside. He is wearing a wife-beater and white cotton boxer shorts. I feel a sudden pressure in my chest and I freeze like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car.
- Are you crazy? Do you know what time it is? - the guy asks in a conspiratorial whisper.
Eternity passes before I finally manage to utter the words.
- I think ... I think I mistook the apartment - I take a step back, and a small part of my soul still deludes that it is true.
- You look peculiar - the stranger tilts his head and watches me sway on my feet - You are drunk!
- I'm not. I'm sorry for the trouble. It will be better, if I go.
Then he opens the door wider. The light from the hall falls on my silhouette.
- Are you okay? Oh my god, is that blood?
- No.
- You're hurt! Mother of God, we have to call for an ambulance!
- Alfred, who is this? What happened? - I hear Nina's alarmed voice coming from the depths of the apartment.
The guy turns to say something, but I'm already making my way to the stairs. Alfred orders me to wait until he calls for an ambulance. Says that Nina should stay in the bedroom and not look, because there's blood everywhere.
I leave the tenement house before Alfred manages to stop me or actually do anything at all. My legs are carrying me in a direction that I am completely indifferent to. I can hear Nina calling my name, but it's not enough for me to turn back. And when the darkness opens its arms and welcomes me tenderly like a lover, I find solace.
And I know one thing - gunshots hurt, but there are things that are even more painful.
submitted by AnoxiaRPG to RPGdesign [link] [comments]

W¯¯ - 该水总把它带走 | Samples Used, Song Titles Explained, Concepts and Themes Analyzed

Greetings,
On the birthday of each album I try to make I normally post a long write up of the album's deeper meanings. On June 25th 该水总把它带走 turned 1. Its the sequel to 该水流有其言力 and you can read the first write up on that album here.
This album eventually made the /Vaporwave Best Album of 2017 list and was eventually picked up by Geometric Lullaby for a cassette release just last month. (Which sold out yay!)
But before all that started I was intrigued by the label 首都 TAPES INC. They were a label dedicated to releasing conceptual and story based albums. The follow text is a revised email excerpt I submitted explaining the story themes and concepts of this album. I hope you enjoy reading while listening! Please dont read if you rather let the music speak for itself.
The Story
TRACK 1: On the topic of uncertainty, like on the last album I sampled James Bond Casino Royale (2006), This time I wanted to also open with a movie sample. The first track of the album is a sample from the ending of the movie The Revenant (2015) (Spoilers Ahead). The movie ends with Robert Glass, finally getting his revenge after massive struggle through the American frontier. After losing everything, he focused his life solely on revenge and once he finally got it his life lost all meaning, the movie ends with a continuous shot of Robert Glass looking into the camera. No words were spoken but the emotion I captured in the final scenes of the movie was a simple look of purposelessness, doom and absolute turmoil. I wanted to begin this album with that exact feeling, the feeling of purposelessness. I felt like after saying goodbye in the ending of the first album, I sort of found myself at peace with the situation but life goes on, and finding meaning again in life again was an unnerving ordeal. The song title is a poor translation of the number four hundred, zero and four. I wanted the title to be 404 but I also wanted every single song title of the album to have four characters, representing the unlucky Chinese number which is often associated with death or loss. Which more or less has a tie to each song in the album, in this case having lost my purpose. And everyone knows 404 or HTTP 404 the common error message of “page not found”.
TRACK 2: The next song is fairly long and I wanted to represent this song as the sequel to the last. After losing my purpose. I wanted to paint the picture of many days passing. I wanted to convey the story of moving through life without any reason. I wanted every swell in the song to be a reminder of the crushing truth of having no direction in life. I was very much in this place for a while and I wanted this song to express the uncertainty of how life can be. I wanted to express the feeling of not knowing when the turmoil will end. The simple question of “What now?” and the extreme realization of never finding out and never escaping this paralyzing fate of mystery. The song title is a poor translating of “How Fragile it is”, which was an observation of my mental psyche, and how sometimes, the simplest questions in life can drive you mad. The song ends beautifully representing me finally finding the solution to my crisis after many days of moving through life, lost. There was a point in my life where I thought killing myself would bring the answers to my questions. I thought it would put my mind at ease and it would finally free from seeing the next meaningless morning.
The song sampled is from this album called, Hymn to the Immortal Wind (2009) by MONO. The album and band were a strong influence on my emotional journey and many of the track titles and emotions of the album were related to moving on to the next life and the beauty that comes after death, at least in my opinion.
TRACK 3: The next song picks up from where the last song leaves. I more or less found the answer to my problems. Suicide. The song itself has many pretty sounding string arrangements and the music itself conveys a sort of sincerity. For a while I felt at peace again with my dark answer to my problems but at the same time I was torn between the choices. The song climaxes with my ultimate choice of choosing death or seeing the next meaningless morning. I wanted this song to express an extra level of drama in my crisis. The slow build up and climax are literally the choice between my own life or my own death, all for the sake of finding meaning in my life. Choosing life was a difficult in that I would be returned to my former problems, purposelessness. The song title is poorly translated to, “the former” which is a vague expression of my ultimate choice and sort of an observation of my current life or rather how my life was formally.
The song sampled is from the movie Princess Mononoke (1997), there was a powerful quote in the film in Iron town where a very sick leper says,
Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed, but you still find reasons to keep living.
I wanted that to ultimately be a reminder when I personally would listen to this song. I wanted this song to tell the story of contemplation of suicide but also a reminder of reason why I choose to keep living.
TRACK 4: The story continues with the next song in my search for meaning or in this case, a new way to escape my problems, Alcoholism. I wanted to paint a picture of a quiet but classy bar scene. I wanted this song to express a sort of twisted bliss, or a beautiful tragedy. I wanted this song to be a break from the drama of the last three songs. Although I see it as a break I still wanted to convey a sense of darkness in the story. Alcoholism isn’t a positive remedy to my problems, but at the same time I wanted this song to be a temporary solution in escaping one’s own issues and the false joy it brings. Even for just a little,
The song title is poorly translated to “Abandon the world”. Which was another way of expressing my temporary escape from my mental qualms though the consumption of alcohol.
TRACK 5: The next song returns to the darkness in a different approach. Being that it’s the beginning of the 2nd half of the album I wanted the album to exit the perspective of my mind and slowly pan out into 3rd person. I wanted the story to have an element of sexiness. The entire album is heavily based on film noir themes that I will elaborate on afterwards, but I wanted this song to be a representation of admiring my former solutions of suicide. Although I choose not to enact on it I still find some twisted joy that there is still technically a way out. A distinct memory I associate with is song is being in my bath tub in very warm water. I recently watched the film La Noire de… (1966) where Diouana kills herself in the in the family bath tub. The scene depicts only her head above the water resting on a pillow in a tub full of red blood. I remember thinking about that and how at peace she looked. I remember thinking how comfortable the water was and of course how I could bathe there forever. I thought about how the warm water could wash away all my problems. I thought about how the water could just take it all away, which was the inspiration for the, poorly translated, title of the album.
The song itself is poorly translated to “Imagine blood” which were my thoughts in the tub. The symbolism of water in this song calls back to the first song on my first album. The observations of water and how water is a living force. I saw water in this sense as the feminine fatal in my story. The alluring desires of the water tempted me with seeing death as the solution, as if the water was a living person alongside me, naked in the tub.
(Heres the music video!)
TRACK 6: Exiting the tub of temptations. In the next song, I continue my search for meaning. I wanted this song to return to feelings of sobriety similar to track 2, where I’m faced with the feelings of purposelessness but this time, I have more of a refined aim. I still wanted to convey the lost feeling the music brings but also bring the subtle expression of hope, similar to my situation of knowing what I don’t want to do but also the hardship of having no meaning yet. The song is supposed to paint the picture of the beauty in "trying" itself. The act of not giving up and having determination.
The song is poorly translated to “can not keep up” which is a feeling I’ve been doused with. I haven’t mentioned hell in a while but hell is another big theme in both my albums. I wanted to paint a picture, again where the setting isn’t just inside my head anymore. I wanted the imagery of this song to continue to pan out. I want the focus to be my surroundings not so much what’s going on inside my head anymore. “Can not keep up” was a visual observation of how big and lonely the world is and how finding meaning or love in this massive world at first glance may seem simple but in reality it can be very difficult. But everyone still finds reasons to live on.
The past three songs were sampled from the video game Bayonetta (2009), which was fitting since the game is about Bayonetta’s relationship to hell etc.
TRACK 7: Moving forward with the visuals and settings, I’m from New York City, and it’s the city that made me who I am. Its been the back drop I tie many many emotions to. The next song is a further zoom out of the frame leaving my mind. I wanted the focus to be about New York, hence the very Batman-esque sort of sounds. I wanted this song to bring a point of view experience for the listener. I wanted them to be immersed in my walk forwards in the city I come from. I wanted to paint this complex idea to the listener.
I’ve tied too much to this city, and I’ve lost too much as well. I’m constantly reminded of memories that no longer carry joy. I’m only reminded of the pain of loss. Every date, every kiss, every happy moment shared with my loved one is speckled across the city walls. The roads, the skies, the water. The view of the city is has become difficult to look at. Its become difficult to see. I wave my hand quickly across my point of view, turning away, closing my eyes. It’s become very much a blur to me. I no longer want to look at it, for it only brings a reminder of every crushing feeling I’ve experienced before. This city was the setting of all of our pain and all of our our joy. It continues on without us. The un-moveable back drop I choose to blur out. The speckled memories I choose not to see anymore. I tell myself if I paint the city a different color I might find new meaning in my life. But one step at a time, I haven’t even smudged out all the colors yet.
The song title is poorly translated to “How Blurred”. Which is a view point in the monologue of how my search for meaning might be solved if I just forget or if I blind myself by blurring my surroundings.
TRACK 8: The last song, is titled translated to “recalled efforts”, representing the conclusion and summary of the album. I had another monologue written that I wanted to be used as the description of the album but also the meaning of this song.
A return to water. To wash away and endure the suffering. A return to the blank meaningless pavement. Mailed through the blur of all these inconceivable moments. The water always takes it away. Maybe I’ll find home. Here. Why rush for the man to come around. I already know where I’m going. The colors are all so clear.
In terms of meaning, this monologue calls back to a few themes and ideas across the other songs in the album. I wanted this last song to convey the color I wanted to repaint the city. Repainting eventually became my solution in my search for meaning. In a way, I wanted repainting to represent starting a new, forgetting the past and really, painting over a part of myself I could no longer mend.
In a way I wanted this ending to be the closest thing to suicide. Not so much the destruction of my physical being but more so the erasing of one’s self from all recognizability. I wanted to remind the listener of the scary truth that sometimes, we need to pretend like everything is okay even though its not. The pain of knowing there are problems in the world and sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it. In the end, I never really found the answer or meaning in my life. I just do what I had to do to keep moving on. I wanted to leave the listener with a disturbed sense of content. The song itself is a beautiful piece. Its calm and is a drastic difference from the very first track on the album. Yet the feeling is more collected in the sense that I’m feeling less astray, although my dreadful problems technically still never went away.
Samples used in tracks 7 & 8 are from The Big O (1999). the show took place in Paradigm City also know as The City of Amnesia, where after "The Event" everyone lost their prior memories, similar in my choice to erase myself.
RECAP:
All in all the story of the album is sequel to my last album. After saying goodbye, I found myself lost in my own life, surrounded in a city constantly reminded me of memories I no longer hold dear. I was trapped in my own mind, meaning for life quickly became groundless. Contemplations and temptations of suicide came close, but I found it in myself to search for meaning. I rejected my surroundings and repainted the world I wanted to see. I painted over everything that reminded me of the pain. I repainted myself to the point of unrecognizability. The paint was clear, the same color of water. The same color of hell. Meaning was never found. Problems were never solved and the city I stood upon appeared untouched. I looked at my refection in the water, and all I can see was a blur.
Themes
Noir: In this album common themes found in film noir can be found in each of the songs on the album.
Track 1: Ambivalent Endings
Track 2: Existential crisis effects main character, Mystery and the search for answers
Track 3: Moral ambiguity, Anyone can die
Track 4: The alcoholic
Track 5: Joy of self-destructive acts, Femme Fatale
Track 6: Alienation, City Narrows
Track 7: City noir, Descent into shadows
Track 8: Black and grey morality
Yin and Yang: The positivity and darkness in this album shine purposefully in each song as well as the cover art plus title character lengths and track number total.
Track 1: Pain of being lost, Joy of last album's closure
Track 2: Pain of the existential crisis, Joy of finding a solution
Track 3: Pain of choosing life, Joy of choosing death
Track 4: Pain of self destruction, Joy of escapism
Track 5: Pain of temptation, Joy of relaxation
Track 6: Pain of loneliness, Joy of determination
Track 7: Pain of abandoning one's self, Joy of new surroundings
Track 8: Pain of never finding the answer, Joy of forgetting
All Track titles carry four characters, but there are eight track in total. Four being unlucky, 8 being the opposite.
The cover art I intentionally made 50% black and 50% a mix of reds.
Art Themes: I wanted the art to convey the imagery of the blurred city. The photo itself is a long exposure shot on a moving camera. The streaks were made by car headlights in the city of New York. But I also wanted the red streaks to be a reminder of the blood or the temptation of suicide. The two seals on the top right corner were inspired by classic Chinese signature or poetry seals. I stacked them on top of each other symbolizing the story inside my head (the beginnings of the album) and the story with my relationship with my surroundings (2nd half). The seals are also the song titles, having poetic nature.
The excerpt ends here.
I hope you enjoyed reading this write up. This album has become something I'm really proud of and hopfully one day I'll release this on vinyl. I want to thank 首都 TAPES INC., Geometric Lullaby, The Vaporwave community and anyone who ever gave this album a listen. I poured my very soul into this album and I hope its moved you in some sorta way. You're not alone.
Best,
W¯¯
submitted by l_l_l-- to Vaporwave [link] [comments]

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