Standard Poker Chip Values or Denominations

what are each color of poker chips worth

what are each color of poker chips worth - win

Turning Random League of Legends Champions into a DnD Build (Attempting) Until I've Done all 152 (and Counting) Day 8: Twisted Fate

If I’m being completely honest, Twisted Fate is probably the hardest time I’ve had trying to figure one of these builds and probably the least confident I’ve been on one, but mama didn’t raise no bitch and I’m shooting my shot.
submitted by BestBaconatorNA to 3d6 [link] [comments]

JoJo's Bizarre OC Tournament #4 - Round 3 Match 4 - Cabernet Sauvignon and Inch Nine vs Byte and Fira B

The results are in for Match 2.
Jade had been building, and building, managing to shrug past the bullets sent their way and just eating the chips in their quite literal armor, able to easily replenish it with yet more mud. The mud had stopped Dread from chasing them, and she had gone off and burned the place to scare the people off. Whatever. It complemented what it was they had desired…
All it would take now was this finishing touch, this last gesture of nonaggression towards Sentient Oona, who they were certain simply wished not to be bothered, did not care for any of this commodification of its very existence.
It was crass. It was sickening. It drove Jade, who just wished to live their own life, mad to think about, and now, nobody would follow, soon as they were a short swim through the basin away. The shrine itself would be a sinking island of concrete silk soon. All that would be left then was to use the cover of the dirtying water to avoid the bullets of the fan club, the last guard unit perched within the shrine.
Yet bullets never came, and above them, Jade felt instead a terrible heat, noted the appearance of spiked rubber on their mud-caked back. Something with an exoskeleton like an insect’s stood above them, they careened their head to see who was above them. It was Dread, barely swerving her body past dragonflies which had caught on to her malicious intent and meant to fry her.
“You again… I said fall down… Off.” They spoke with guttural contempt. “How did… You even…”
“You ruined my new boots, Antlerhead, but I am afraid that as much as the ground by which we did our battle had been soiled… You miscalculated in, I think, a fateful way, to utilize that ghastly terminology.” Briefly, indicatively, she looked to her side, and Jade understood as their opponent continued. “You didn’t destroy the bridge first. All I needed to do was walk across, watch your movements… And hop on.”
“You... still talk… too much.” Jade grunted, then, and spat at her, putting on their strongest face.
Then they saw so many dragonflies, flying towards both of them as fell bladed arms raised and descended.
The winner is Dread, with a score of 73 to Jade’s 71!
Category Winner Point Totals Comments
Popularity Tie 15-15 The first two matches in a row, up to the final moments, saw decent turnout while resulting in a tie by deadline.
Quality Red Carpet Renaissance 24-21 Reasoning
JoJolity Black Hill Estate 24-25 Reasoning
Conduct Tie 10-10
After a few futile moments trying to commune with the alien, Dread stepped over that bridge once more, back onto land and stood over the lake where they had left Jade. After that final confrontation, the dragonflies had all dissipated, Sentient Oona either sated or exhausted after that final exchange of blows, and for a few days, slumbering.
Both of the fighters had been covered in blood, covered in gore, covered in wounds. The fire raged on even as the trapped god’s rage quelled, heat counteracted by the cool of the muddy, bloody lake, which Dread, feeling theatrical, turned herself away from.
“How quaint! A beast such as yourself thinking you had a chance beating a woman of my stature. Cute, really. Your malodorous challenge was something indeed, and I will admit that you… That you…”
Dread’s lip began to quiver. Her trip was RUINED!
She didn’t even get a single souvenir! Her train of thought lost, tears well in her eyes. Joywave fell, and she turned away from Jade, beginning to sob. She needed to go hug someone.
To this end, then, she ran and ran, tromping across the edge of the marsh towards the direction of the evacuating town she’d last seen her friend head, who surely would be not judgmental over such a platonic request as consolation. Mr. Jones was surely-
Ah. He’d already left, huh?
All he had left behind, then, was the Green Flying Man, clutching a massive gash in his flickering, transformed torso, hand feebly fumbling with a rotary phone in one of the few buildings not on fire yet.
“H… H-hello? Matilda? It’s… Nngh, it’s an emergency situation! The… The Estate is empty, and the closest member’s here with me in Sentient Oona and I’ll try and get back with them, but a guy cut his own leg off and died and everything’s on fire and Memory… He grabbed Memory Management, and said he knew how to kill her, that he would if she doesn’t-”
Click!
A fell claw hung the phone up, then severed the line, and Green collapsed, having been tripped and sent to the floor.
“Y-you! But if you’re here, th-that means-” Green whined. “No… No, no, no…”
“Do not irritate me with your whining!” The crying Dread, using Joywave, brought her hand down, then the other, then raised them, then brought each down again, and repeated this, and repeated this. “I! Am in! A very bad mood!”
The Green Flying Man was not long for the world anyway thanks to the distinctive sabre wound which had gouged him (a normal man would have been dead already), despite what he had said to assure whoever he was on the phone with, already fading from being, but he practically disintegrated seconds into Dread’s onslaught, and she hardly registered this until she stood, breathing heavily in the aftermath of her tantrum.
If… If what he said was true, then the reason Mr. Jones has left me here, messy and with no souvenirs to my name… Still sniffling pathetically, Dread quivered, trying to stiffen her posture. Then he, at least, had his success…
There’s only a few hours left, as of posting this match, to vote in its predecessor, a duel between a cactus-mancer and a clone-summoner in a clock tower.
Scenario:
Elephant Bones 2 - Afternoon
The empty former diner and tax shelter, adjacent to the legitimate restaurant to which it was a sequel, had constantly had people watching after it since the incident before, when ANVIL militia members had occupied it with the intention of using it to raid and capture the restaurant proper. For Fira B, the place made for a fine space to do paperwork and generally not be easily found when she wasn’t outright needed, also serving double duty in how it kept hooligans from their hooliganry.
“I raise you better dental. It’s a top-secret dental plan - people like us normally don’t get to know about it. But... you gotta risk 8% of the raise you earned so far.”
Byte, sitting at the table opposite her, pondered it over, not typically the type to end up in poker games, but having wanted a raise and found himself very easily swayed by Fira, basically, implying he was afraid to handle it this way, worried he would lose. Sure, Fira was probably blatantly cheating, but hey, so was he, and as it was, his pay was about to go up 10%.
Thanks to his Stand, he already had everything he needed to make a perfect game… All saved in spades, card-counted to hell for the perfect moment, and this forbidden dental plan for teeth beyond compare had been his ultimate goal this entire time.
“Alright, I’ll call.” The final hands were dealt and played to, then, tensely, before he declared, putting it all down on the table, “royal flush, all spades! Those secret teeth are as good as-”
Fira, grinning, displayed her own hand, then, having prepared her own forbidden technique for this exact eventuality, this moment. Not one, two, three, or four Aces in her hand, nor even something so hackneyed as an errant fifth Ace. She had gone beyond Poker, and displayed a devastating, never-before-seen six Aces technique, all in different suits. Everyone in real Poker knew that that was even better.
“No way… Dammit, that’s cheating! No way you seriously got-”
“So were you. Don’t forget this loss, Byte. Work hard, and maybe one day you’ll be able to get any teeth you want. Even mine, if you’re ruthless enough.”
He was about to raise an objection, then, when another figure walked through the faux-restaurant doors, carrying with them a face-obscuring massive gift basket full of assorted soaps and candies that look like soaps. More troublingly, as both parties present immediately narrowed their eyes at, though, was the uniform the figure was wearing.
They were clad in body armor, aqua and blue with white accents, the unmistakable colors of VALKYRIE and its members, complete with the sidearm all were known for carrying idly resting at their side.
“What do you want.” Fira asked sternly, about to stand up.
“Oh, the boss asked me to drop these off to sweeten the deal!”
“Deal?” Her voice lowered, and she stood tall, Byte almost wanting to grin at the sight of what was to come. “I don’t know anything about a ‘deal’.”
“Oh, right, uh, probably should’ve led with that!” Awkwardly, the recruit, young-looking, Byte surmised, put the gift basket down on the table. “See, uh, he wants you to swing by the address on the card later, says he’s sure you could help with-”
Effie Linder was sitting outside, fiddling frustratedly with the wi-fi as she tried to remember exactly what the new password was, only to see the man who’d walked in in a VALKYRIE uniform literally thrown out, crying out and hitting the pavement like a ragdoll. It made her smirk, despite herself and her contempt for the boss.
Fira brushed her hands off, seething and staring before letting the doors shut. Byte, meanwhile, looked over the gift basket, smelling one of the soaps, and one of the candies, within.
“Not bad, actually… Whoever picked this out has some taste. Always bugged me how soap doesn’t taste like it smells…”
“Eugh, I swear… VALKYRIE is acting chummy with us now... It’s one thing for their enemies to fight us because of some bad timing, but we are not people VALKYRIE sends gift baskets to!”
“Never even heard of Ugo McBaise sending gift baskets to anyone…” Byte quipped, curious.
“Exactly. It’s a passive-aggressive thing, clearly. They’re trying to tell us to play nice.” Fira cracked her knuckles, turning to him then. “You can admire soaps later. What’s the address on that card? Let’s go there and beat the hell out of Ugo. Send a message that we’re not friends, and his bones should be broken right now.”
“Hey, alright, I’m down,” Byte said, finding some amusement in the situation as he stood, slowly, opening up the card. “Besides… I know, different branches and all, but you know what happened to Zebra… All because he was backing Peres up in her fight against this company. Like, dammit, I was on that trip, too… Like half of us were, and people risked their lives and died trying to get that Ocean Soul caught alive in the first place, and then some guys from this company show up and then it’s all for nothing. Maybe I’ll feel better calling this a sort of revenge.”
The Black Hill Estate - Afternoon
Inch Nine paced around her room rubbing her temples. Ever since the fight she’d had with Byron Oxbow, everything in her life had gotten more complicated. She’d brought it up with Klein once, and the conflicted expression in his face had stuck with her. Pretty much any friends she had made with connections to the Industrial District reacted that way, to various extents. Inch was a cool headed person, but even though she struggled to show it, it affected her.
Thoughts rushed through her head on who was at fault for this… Cairo, Fira, Byron, that commander of his. Even with all of that a thought kept flowing through her head. Maybe herself, even. If she had only been able to talk Byron down, been more forthright about where she stood, it might have been avoided. She could have worked something out and her relationships would all be fine and so much hurt could have been avoided.
No. No, that was stupid, too.
It was that bastard, Ugo McBaise, and that horrible company he ran. He couldn’t help but keep pushing and pushing forward, turning a security company into a household bogeyman. Of course everyone would have been less on edge, never would have been at war in the first place, had it not been for that lot.
Yes, saying that, Inch felt at peace again, if only for a moment.
As that thought finished a small knock came at the door. Soon enough, she heard a voice she recognized well - that of her teammate, Cabernet Sauvignon, who came through the other side of the door. “Hey, we just got a letter and a gift basket from these VALKYRIE guys… Actually quite a nice fellow at the door, said it was specifically for us.”
“Hm.” Inch tilted her head. It had an… Assorted smell to it, and everything did look quite delicious. To test the mettle of this goodwill, she thought to grab something, take a bite…
She was glad that nobody could see the lower half of her face, the expression on it, at the random item within that she had taken, the soapy taste overwhelming her senses now. With a continued coolheadedness as Cab sat there surely unawares, she asked, “did he say what occasion this was for? I am to understand that this is not a company known for actions such as this, even if many of us have helped ODIN.”
“Said he had somewhere to be, then ran off before I could possibly entertain him,” Cab answered, “though I suspect perhaps that he was intimidated by my attempts to strike up a conversation about the exotic cheeses and scented candles which would best pair with the provided basket…” His face darkened a moment, then, as he added in a suspicious, perhaps self-importantly quiet tone, “and aside from that, probably whatever this is is suspicious as hell.”
“We are in agreement, then. No matter how polite they act towards us,” Inch said, her eyes narrowing at the deceptively tasty looking contents of the basket, towards the letter within, apparently from the head of the company urging them to come, “we can not abide by working with a man like that, or even being seen as his allies.”
“You know, I don’t know much about this Mcbaise guy, except by the reputation you all gave him, and this may be an old hobby of mine talking, but…” Cab gestured for the card, then, to glance, for himself, over the address. “If they’re going to roll out the red carpet for us, what do you say we head over there just to knock some heads?”
“I could not have thought of a better message myself. Perhaps you are not all culinary knowledge and trivia, Cabernet.”
Business District, Noon
As one would naturally do when receiving a “suspicious as hell” gift basket, Inch and Cab soon decided to investigate further, going to the address mentioned in the card the next day, driving Cab’s truck over there.
That was a mistake; the two of them must have spent almost an hour trying to find any available parking spot afterwards. The odds were stacked against them, but they eventually managed to find an overpriced spot fifteen minutes from their destination that they could stay in for a while, and went on their way.
Inch and Cab made their way through the hustle and bustle of the district, but after a couple minutes of walking, Inch spotted something out of the corner of her eye that gave her pause - a teal-haired woman walking angrily through the street, whom she’d fought for her life alongside not long ago. Fira.
Inch casually walked over, Cab following along behind her, and made her way to Fira, waving. “Hello there, Fira!” She said, actually sort of pleased to see her.
She didn’t expect to see a friendly-ish face here, so it was a welcome sight. Per usual Fira’s expression right now wasn’t one many people would call “friendly,” which is to say that she seemed even more pissed off than she usually did.
“Oh, Inch. You’re here. Hello.” Verbose as ever, Fira B.
“I am. What brings you here, Fira? You live and work quite far west of here, non?”
Before Fira said anything, Byte stepped in, taking over from there. “Those VALKYRIE assholes sent us some kind of gift package filled with soap and candy... wanted to win us over, I guess, make us do something for them, so we’re heading over to tell them to fuck off and beat that Ugo asshole up.”
“Oh! We received a similar package too... I had just thought of what candles I might buy while out here to combine with it all, offer the perfect ambiance for some aged Caciocavallo Podolico, but we agree - something’s suspicious about this…” Cab said, Inch nodding along.
Inch spoke up again then. “If all of us are heading towards the same place… I suppose it is best for us to all go together, non?”
“Guess so.” Fira, though not exactly overjoyed at the idea, seemed receptive enough to it, and neither Byte nor Cab objected either, so the four stand users went on their way. Each, though imagining different melodies, were totally all picturing the scene as being paired with some kickass background music or another.
Making their way towards the address, they noticed that there seemed to be less and less of the tall skyscrapers common to the district surrounding them, and more and more buildings directly associated with VALKYRIE - that made sense, given that this was their part of the district.
As they went along, Byte kept looking around, even more so than the rest of them, always looking and commenting on whatever came to mind for him - “hey, that building seems like a pain in the ass to work in,” “oh, that dude actually looks kind of strong, I bet he could take those other guys over there. Not me though, obviously,” and other inane comments. Soon enough, everyone else simply started tuning it out, paying them no real heed and going on along their way.
Eventually, they reached the address - a building, larger than most others in the area, marking the entrance to a VALKYRIE training ground. Getting near the building, Byte noticed something - a man in a VALKYRIE outfit, walking towards them. He seemed quite well built, enough so that Byte figured he might even have to use BRB to beat him were things to come to that. “Hey, that VALKYRIE guy over there seems like he wants something with us, no?”
No response. The man got closer.
Byte wondered to himself how he could get the attention of Fira or the other two without pissing them off. Eventually, he decided to give Cab a light slap on the shoulder to grab his attention - he didn’t seem particularly threatening, especially when compared to Fira or Inch.
Cab, who seemed to be lost in thought looking at the building, turned to Byte with a sour expression. “What do you want, and why would it necessitate hitting me?!”. He seemed angry, but Byte simply shrugged in response. “Well, you weren’t responding to what I said, and-”
“Uh… excuse me? You’re the ones we called over, right? Inch Nine, Cabernet Sauvignon, Fira B, and-”
“What do you want from us.” Before the man, who seemed to be surprisingly docile considering his build and appearance, could finish, Fira interrupted him, and he found himself angrily stared down by all four of the stand users. The man stammered for a bit, unsure of how to respond or what to say...
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey… let’s all calm down, yeah?” The intense staredown was interrupted when a voice came from afar, one that was familiar to Fira.
“Hey, wait a sec…” She cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, grunting and adding as she turned, “no way… Is it seriously-”
A man clad in a dark suit colored like VALKYRIE’s armor, adorned with cute shapes had emerged now, clad professionally head-to-toe, dress shoes to black sunglasses, and lord, that hair.
Such long hair, vertical and striped.
Rushen Smith stood before the lot of them, strutting around like he’d owned the place or something. She’d beaten him once, but hadn’t been expecting to cross paths with him again.
“What do you want.”
“No need to be so hostile, yeah? We’re not calling you here to start trouble or nothing, so-”
“We’re?” Fira interrupted him. “You’re with VALKYRIE?” Well, if he was with VALKYRIE, at least Fira knew very well that she could still beat the shit out of him, given that she already had a good track record against him. Then, she’d move on to Ugo.
“So you’re like a… Miniboss, now.” Byte interjected, disappointed, yet ready to fight nonetheless.
“If I may finish.” Rushen sounded impatient
“To make a long story short… Ugo’s out. CEO fired him for everything he’s done. You’re not talkin’ to some crony to an NFL reject. You’re looking at the new head of VALKYRIE. For security and PR reasons, Allday has been been keepin’ quiet about it for now, preparing for just the right moment to tell the public, make sure I get revealed to the public with a good positive splash, but it is what it is. So… ready to talk now? Because I’m thinkin’ we can use your help, and we can definitely make it worth your while.”
Deeper within the premises - An Open-air training facility
Everyone had been disarmed by their confusion, and by Rushen’s goodwill, and by the thought that, just like that, one of the most threatening people in the city could just be fired like it was nothing, which made for Rushen a convenient situation. They were in line, following his lead, and as he did so, he brought them to a state-of-the-art training facility, one wherein dozens upon dozens of security officers in armor were walking around, shooting the shit, running, chatting by vending machines stocked with overpriced health food and sports drinks, and almost always giving Rushen a respectful nod and salute as he passed by, always meeting it with a cool, “at ease.”
“I still do not understand why we are here…” Inch, after some time being led around, spoke up. “I assume you sent those gift baskets to us, but even then, beyond wishing us here quickly, you did not say what you expect of us. Or even sign your name, beyond ‘the boss of VALKYRIE.’”
“Yes, like I said, my step into the private sector ain’t public knowledge yet… Trying to keep a lot under lock, ‘cuz I’ve inherited a backlog of things to take care of. Need-to-know basis… You know how it is.”
Fira nodded, saying bluntly, “so you’re planning something big. Want us to have a part. What? And why? Better not be wasting our time…”
“All Ugo ever taught people far as tactics went was a bullheaded, aggressive push forward… Rush, and rush, and rush, and just overwhelm opponents before they can think their way out.” Rushen explained. “It hasn’t been working, it got a lotta people on all sides or no sides hurt and killed who didn’t need to be, and while he used to have a man for handling stuff that took a brain, long story short… He’s no longer with us either. We’re trying to work on a way to save the people of this city from what’s up ahead, and no point in doing that if there’s no one to save, yeah? VALKYRIE needs to be better… We need to reorient, pick and choose better battles, get better at fighting them. No more bullcrap about raiding bars or stealing cows, yeah?”
“So you want us to… Help you retrain this security company?” Byte asked. “Why us?”
“The four of you felt right for it,” Rushen answered, looking each of them over in turn, “Byte, I know the part you played in that shipyard incident, and while I still ain’t pleased at what you were working for then, and it really messed Jesse up in a bad way, that’s all over now. The Ocean Soul business is done and in the past, and you’re real good at what you do.”
He was quiet, then.
“Fira,” he continued, “you’re another career criminal in this city, and you and I both know it, but we need someone who can think like that, someone with fight in her, for what I’m trying to get these guys ready for. Now ain’t the time to get picky… Long as you keep minding your business.”
“I try. Some people make it so hard.” Fira snorted, folding her arms.
“Inch, you used to be seen with Cairo a whole bunch, until right around when a certain incident happened… You know what I mean, don’t you?” She and Fira sneered, and Rushen raised a hand. “I’m not here to criticize, mind. I like your style, and that cool gator power thing you got going for you, hear you’ve got some real good learning techniques, and most important of all, I hear the two of you managed to survive bein’ in the dead center of Byron Oxbow at his angriest in thirty years.”
“You are… Praising me. It is appreciated, thank you.”
“And Cab,” Rushen continued, “you are the whitest man I have ever met, and I’ve got family in the same neck of New York as Douglas Jones. But hey, you’re a friend of Jesse’s, and these guys around here, they remember you at the battle on Capital Island, hurt and just popped outta this magic bottle, and still fighting with ‘em and helping people escape. You’re good people, and you got a particular edge to you I need too.”
“I saw I think a better side of VALKYRIE than most, by good circumstance,” Cab started, flattered by the mixed praise, ultimately happy to recognize it as stroking his ego, and a part of him warmed up for what was being praised turning out to be something besides the hobbies with which he’d filled the void. “Though I was just as willing to knock these guys’ heads in as everyone else here, you know… I certainly don’t mind this turnaround, though. And I think I’m starting to guess who it is you want to fight here, why you want a group like this in on it… Might you be planning to stake out the-”
“Not a word. Can’t let this get leaked.”
“Of course, of course,” Cab answered, quite confident in his mental answer nonetheless. “You mentioned this being worth our while… Can I ask what you mean by that?”
“The CEO’s gonna be watching this training sesh too, if you didn’t already guess… We’ll make sure all four of you are rewarded handsomely for this, of course, but if you really go above-and-beyond, she’s said she’ll throw even more bonus on top of all the dough. I recommend you shoot for that.”
“So we need to help train your guys better than these two, huh?” Fira answered, jerking her thumb at Inch and Cab.
“I mean, it probably is better for you to work with the person ya know primarily, but it’s not really a comp-”
“We are gonna blow whatever you guys are doing out of the water,” Byte interrupted, looking towards the Estate residents with a fiery look in his own eye. “We’ll show you the kind of training you can normally only see for a total premium at Dukes!”
“Yes, let’s one-up each other,” Cab agreed with an amused smirk, well aware that this competitive streak was unnecessary, but beginning to feel a certain fire in him, “what do you say, Inch? You up for the task of whipping these guys into crimebusting shape?”
“I suppose I am.” Inch herself was beginning to feel the air of competition, feel her blood pumping, “no hard feelings to either of you, if you are not selected for this… But we are simply going to do a phenomenal job.”
Rushen sighed, shaking his head. “Least you ain’t trying to kill each other… Alright! I’ll roll with it.” He clapped his hands, perking up quite a bit. “Both of y’all are in charge of sixteen recruits who need retraining fast, and we’re gonna compare what you did at the end. Just don’t kill ‘em or nothing, or do nothing stupid, and for four hours, soon as you got a plan together, what you say goes. Got it? Good.”
Man, now I’m feelin’ the competitive spirit a bit… Really is contagious, huh? Probably gonna make ‘em do a better job… Ah, hell, now I’m feelin’ a certain urge. I’m gonna say it. I’m gonna!
“Open the game.”
(credit to magistelles for the awesome art!)
Location: A VALKYRIE training facility in the middle of the business district.
The area consists of track fields, indoor gymnasiums, shooting ranges, training equipment storage, training towers and practical training buildings as well as other training sites. There is also general equipment storage and a small infirmary on site.
Essentially any sort of equipment or facilities you’d expect to find in a military style boot camp can be found here. Things like body armor and helmets, large tires, guns (both handguns and rifles), training dummies, etc. If you aren’t sure if something can be found here, just ask the judges.
There is also a large amount of spare wood used for building obstacle courses.
Goal: Train your group of recruits better than your opponents in a 4 hour training session!
Additional Information:
You can assume there is minimal downtime from getting area to area within the full facility.
Each team has a group of 16 VALKYRIE recruits to be trained. Each of them has 333 physicals and a 2 in gun handling and a 2 in hand to hand combat. While your session is a full 4 hours, you may still need to consider the stamina of the recruits and schedule breaks for them accordingly. They are in full uniform, with helmets, combat boots, and body armor as well as a pistol and baton each. They also have equipment that lets them see stands. They each have spare uniforms and can be refitted with training equipment from the equipment storage as needed. They also have assault rifles and walkie talkies in the equipment storage.
For the purposes of training they will generally agree to whatever you put them through short of anything that has significant risk of resulting in actual harm.
Teams are allowed to use/take anything from the facilities for the purposes of training.
In terms of Voting and Quality we are looking for a few different things:
  • Having effective training: This can mostly be boiled down to how well their training either strengthenings their bodies or helps them learn muscle memories or techniques that improve fighting.
  • Using your time effectively: Similar to having effective training, minimizing wasted time that could have been otherwise useful is also important.
  • Having your recruits last for as much of the training as possible: Having guys needing to be sent to the infirmary for injuries or overworking them before the 4 hours is up will affect your score negatively. While accidents can happen through say sparring or other mishaps, you should try to minimize any lasting damages to the recruits.
  • Having varied and well rounded training: Having them build skills in multiple areas, full body exercise over focusing on one or two muscle groups, and preparing them for a variety of scenarios.
  • Discipline: While your recruits will be following your orders for training, being able to command their attention and respect can go a long way on making an impression and bolster training effectiveness. On the flip side, doing things that make the recruits not take you or training seriously can defeat the purpose of training.
In terms of training, you can also consider anything security personnel should be trained in, not just strictly combat. That can include rescuing, defending people, perceptiveness, team coordination, etc.
Team Combatant JoJolity
The Graveyard Shift Fira B. “This pain-in-the-ass pillar is a reflection on that woman's personality...” You know, if you are going to be training these people, might as well make this fun for yourself. Personalize your training regiment as much as you can to make it unique with your abilities!
The Graveyard Shift Byte “Climb to the top of the pillar with just your hands. That's the only exit. If you can't climb out, you'll stay there until you die.” Anybody could just sit back and train people, that’s why you can’t bring yourself to do that. Be active and hands-on in your training!
Black Hill Estate Inch Nine “Climbing with something other than the ripple is not appreciated by the pillar... This "Hell Climb Pillar" only likes the ripple and knocks down everything else... Don't forget that.” No point in relaxing while they do all the training, might as well brush up on your own skills. Be active and hands-on in your training!
Black Hill Estate Cabernet “Cab” Sauvignon “It's the fault of the person who built that trap... whoever built this was really fucked up! Making me fall for that” While you could have them do just normal training, that is defeating both the point of the exercise and would be a complete waste of everybody’s time. Personalize your training regiment as much as you can to make it unique with your abilities!
Link to the Official Player Spreadsheet
Link to Match Schedule
As always, if you would like to interact with the tournament community and be among the first to get updates for the tournament, please feel free to PM a member of our Judge staff for an invite to our Official Discord Server!
submitted by boredCommentator to StardustCrusaders [link] [comments]

Forbidden Cookies

“Those cookies are not for you."
"What?" The admonishing speaker was from the newest species to join the Allegium, a small mammalian race that called themselves humans. They were in the Grand Hall far too early for a species so new, but if the rest of this species had the ability to create things like the "cookies" Tl'ak had been stuffing himself with, the introduction was probably well granted. He grunted and continued to reach for the platter piled high with richly colored brown cookies studded with chunks of white.
"I said, those cookies are not for you. I brought thirteen platters of cookies as my Offering of Goodwill. Twelve of them are for anybody to partake in. That platter, however, is reserved for the Grand Advisor of the Allegium. If you like, you may take from the blue or flower-printed platters - those are my famous sugar cookies, and they are safe for everybody to eat. I also recommend the cinnamon hot-bites from the grey one or the fruit-and-nut oatmeal cookies off of the bird-printed one. You may not take anything off of the red platter." Tl'ak froze, absolutely floored at the audacity of the one who sat across the table from him. How dare she try to deny him? He was the High Warlord of the Tl'vank, the most cunning spy in the Allegium, and the most capable warrior in the universe. And beyond that, he was the most noble and competent ruler that had ever existed of all time. Who was this /insect/ to tell him what he could and could not have?
He snarled and grabbed a fistful of treats off of the red platter in spite of the warning. "You have no right to tell me what to do, you underbaked ape! I do what I want when I want! The only reason this "Allegium" exists is because I allow it to be so!"
With that, he stuffed one of the saucer-sized cookies into his scaly maw and started chewing noisily, daring her to say something.
"If you're looking for me to try and stop you, you're looking in the wrong place. I gave you your warning, and you'll be the one that has to deal with the fallout." The human settled back into her seat. "I'm sure the Grand Advisor will take your poor attitude into account when you submit your proposal today. /IF/ you submit your proposal today."
Tl'ak laughed, spraying saliva covered crumbs across the table, much to the disgust of the other attendees of the conference. "If? If? You must be delusional! I have always had my proposals accepted! This is because your so-called Grand Advisor knows that when I don't get my way, you lesser species start dying en-masse! I will be the FIRST to present, and it will be you who must fear that there will not be enough time to beg for scraps!"
He shoved the rest of the cookies into his mouth, relishing the discomfort of the rest of the individuals sitting around him. A wicked idea crossed his mind, and he pulled the forbidden platter from the middle of the table and placed it in front of him. It wasn't enough to merely tell the human that he was her superior. He would show her by defying her command and consuming every last treat right in front of her face. She was helpless to stop him. It also didn't hurt that they happened to be absolutely delicious. Tl'ak was going to have to modify his demands to include these delicacies by the metric ton. He had a feeling his mates would love them.
He made a show of consuming them, making loud enjoyment noises that bordered on lewd. This went on for several minutes, and Tl'ak made sure to maintain eye contact the entire time. The human heaved a resigned sigh but did not look away or move from her seat. "I can tell you right now if you continue to eat those things you will absolutely not be the first person to present to the Grand Advisor."
"Oh? And who is going to stop me? You? You can't even stop me from eating them in the first place! How do you intend to stop me from making my demands?" With that, Tl'ak tipped the platter over his mouth and slid the contents into his mouth. "Now you have no offering for the Grand Advisor, and he will ignore your pleas!"
The human wrinkled her nose. "You seem to be under the impression that I will be the one to stop you. The truth of the matter is that it is your hubris that is going to prevent you from achieving your goals, no matter what those goals might be."
Tl'ak stood up from his seat, banging his fists on the table. He lumbered around the table, tossing every representative out of their chair as he made his way to the little wretch who dared to insult him. While his hulking reptilian frame normally towered over everybody in the room, compared to the human seated before him, he seemed positively gargantuan. He bent over, placing one clawed hand on each of the armrests, and trapping the human in her seat, giving her a toothy grin.
"Really? My hubris? I think you may want to think long and hard about which one of us is suffering from that. It seems to me that between the two of us, I'm the only one here capable of making good on every single one of my promises. And I promise you that I'm going to make sure your pathetic species suffers for your smart mouth."
The human didn't seem to be the least bit intimidated by Tl'ak, her expression showing nothing less than an impressive poker face. "And it seems to me that between the two of us, I'm the only one who knew what kind of cookie you just gorged yourself on."
"Eh? What kind of cookie? What does that have to do with anything? There's nothing your planet produces that I can't eat. There is nothing alive that exists in this entire galaxy that I can't consume!" Tl'ak boasted proudly. "So go ahead, tell the rest of these insects what kind of poison you tried to foist on the Grand Advisor. I'll be sure to tell him when he gets here!"
"There was no poison. That was a plate of chocolate cookies. I call them my quadruple chocolate explosion cookies."
"Chocolate? Psh! I've heard of that. It's perfectly safe for everybody in this room to eat! Even those pathetic little rats, the Clincinn, can eat it without any ill effects. It's only your pitiful pets that have issues with the stuff."
"Mmm... that's true. But do you know why I call them chocolate explosion?"
"Because you lack imagination, and want to make your offering sound more impressive than it actually is?"
"No. I call them my quadruple-chocolate explosion cookies because they have four chocolate ingredients in them. Chocolate powder. White chocolate chips. Dark chocolate chips." She counted each one of the ingredients with her fingers, extending an extra finger with each one for punctuation until a gurgling in Tl'ak's gut interrupted her. The human smiled wickedly. "And of course... chocolate laxative. You should be coming to the "explosion" portion quite soon, from the sounds of it."
Another audibly loud gurgling rumbled through, cutting through the silence in the room with ease. The reptilian doubled over, clutching his abdomen. His limbs felt weaker than the time his brother had given him a triple dose of the poisonous y'reb from his home system. He survived the attempted coup. His brother did not.
"Wh-what have you put in these?"
"I just told you. They've got a healthy dose of chocolate laxative mixed into the batter. The chocolate masks the taste of the laxative. I made this batch by request of the Grand Advisor, as apparently his house has been hit with a nasty case of Grilliu recently. If you or I were infected with this nasty germ, it would cause nothing more than slight gas, and maybe a little loose stool. The poor Grand Advisor, however, has the opposite problem and is unable to eliminate without a little extra help. He asked me if I could work my magic to make the stuff more palatable. From the destruction you wrought upon that batch of cookies, I'd say I succeeded."
Tl'ak groaned miserably, feeling the very familiar sensation of gastric upset coming up quickly within him. He jammed his legs uncomfortably close together as he looked desperately around the room. There, across the Grand Hall, was the ostentatiously named Elimination Chamber. Praying that his cloaca would hold out long enough for him to relieve himself, he made a mad dash for the bathroom.
"You wretch! You scoundrel! You unclean son of a Tilbek's daughter!" Several attendees gasped at the rude expression. "When I get done in there, I swear upon my mother's fangs that I will deal with YOU!"
And still, the human looked nonplussed. "Good luck with that"
A murmur rippled through the Grand Hall, and the whispers that reached Tl'ak's ears spoke of uprisings, weakness, and defiance. He would be sure to make a spectacle of destroying the nasty little insect that inspired them. And after that, he'd make an even grander show of subjugating the species that created her.
Finally reaching the door, he made a motion to push it open, only to have his momentum carry him snout first into an immovable object. Despite the sizable THUMP, the door did not budge. Frantically he alternated pushing and pulling the door, the inevitable evacuation of his insides bearing down on him. It refused to move.
With a mighty roar, Tl'ak embedded his claws into the face of the door, and gave a mighty heave. He intended to rip it completely off its hinges. The door creaked in defiance before completely shattering into thousands of filigreed pieces, many of them still embedded into the slab of solid grey blocking the doorway and preventing access to the bathroom.
Tl'ak felt as though somebody had just dumped a bucket of ice water over him. "Wh-what in the name of Sithrak is this?"
"Cement."
He slowly turned his head to face the human still seated in her chair at the table. "What."
"Cement.", she repeated. "It wasn't easy to get ahold of enough cement to plug up the entire bathroom, and it certainly won't be cheap to pay for the repairs. But it was absolutely worth it to banish you from the conference room."
What should have been a fierce snarl turned instead into an agonized whimper as a fresh reminder of his hubris roiled his gut.
"Unless of course, you intend to relieve yourself behind the potted plant before the Grand Advisor arrives?" The suggestion was met with a smattering of uncomfortable giggles from the peanut gallery. "If I'm not mistaken, there is another restroom two floors down. If you hurry, you might make it there before your insides make it to the floor beneath your feet."
"You... you'll pay for this..." Tl'ak gasped, stumbling towards the exit. "I swear it. You'll pay for your trickery, and your people will pay for daring to send something as treacherous as you into the Grand Hall as their representative!"
Nobody spoke as the sound of the Tl'vank warlord's curses grew ever fainter as he departed down the long hallway leading out of the Grand Hall.
"Um... If I might beg your pardon Grand Representative Erin of the Humans..." A tiny Clincinn hopped up on the table, his fat furry shoulders shaking with anxiety. Gossamer puffs of soft, silvery fur wafted around him as he spoke. "But I seem to recall that the Elimination Chamber located two floors below this floor was ALSO filled with cement. Have you somehow switched the chambers with your magic?"
Erin stared at him for a moment, before his question seemed to register in her mind. A wide smile spread across her face, and she laughed. "Oh...! Oh! Oh, no booboo. I don't have any actual magic. It's just a bit of human terminology that means I'm very good at what I do. But I did fill both bathrooms with cement. Even if he manages to reach the one downstairs, he isn't going to be able to use it. I fully intend to make sure Tl'ak doesn't come back to the Grand Hall, and if that means paying for a few new bathrooms, then so be it."
"A few?", the Clincinn on the table asked, his tail swishing in curiosity. "How many did you fill?"
The smile on Erin's face hardened as the Grand Advisor to the Allegium finally entered the room, signalling the start of the Grand Conference.
"All of them."
submitted by DogButtScrubber to HFY [link] [comments]

[MF] Monochrome Metro Blues

Air bubbles explode inside the water cooler, jolting him out of castles he built in the air. At 9 pm, the office is ghost-quiet except for the overworked air conditioner struggling to live up to its 3-star reputation. On his laptop screen, a newsletter email draft lies unfinished. "Who the hell is going to read this?" he whimpers, scratching his forehead. He makes an attempt to change the headings and design elements, but he knows that they will get him to adhere to the brand guidelines. An 'electronic focus' playlist plays in his headphones, but in vain.
The desk chair squeals after every sentence he types. Accepting his indifference, he copy-pastes text from a used draft. Sends it in. And bangs the laptop shut. He packs up and goes to the pantry for a protein bar, which would be the one thing that made him glad about his daily fiber intake. Unfortunately, someone has had his share of fiber. When will they start respecting labels here? He stomps out, hoping to grab a chicken roll in time before the eatery closes. He waves a labored goodbye to his senior colleagues who have made themselves at home on their desks.
"I need to get out of this place," he remembers whining to Salina this afternoon. The office becomes a tolerable place in her presence. A gentle pat on the shoulder followed by cheery morning wishes from her is a remedy for facing the monotonous day. He admired that they didn't need small talk to have a conversation. 'How are you doing? How's it going? How was your weekend?', none of that crap. "You need to take a break," she reminds him every day as she brings two cups of coffee, and they head out for a walk.
She talks about how she'd rather be on a beach, go for a trek or play the piano at a café than be here. She reveals a little more about how she ended up in this place each day. The scanty shocks that sprout up when their hands brush against each other validate his futile existence. Walking with Salina on blazing concrete around the corporate neighborhood is the highlight of his day. "If only I could walk with her forever..." Since he is learning to lower expectations these days, he promptly puts an end to his wishful thinking. Asking her out would be a swift ax to a treasured friendship, he assumes. Why are they stuck together in the same place, escaping their stale present while coping with their distressful pasts?
Trap songs about money, drugs, and bitches play in his earphones as he shoulders through a huddle of white collars on the pavement. "I could use a smoke. It's been a long day," he assures himself, avoiding the gaze of the loosie seller on the corner. "No, not again. Can't give in every other day." He acknowledges the loosie seller with a faint smile and hurries past him.
Through the cuboid canyons of skyscrapers and shopping malls larger than factories, he walks in compliance with his navy blue formal attire whenever the glass panes reflect him. The retina-burning halogens on billboards illuminate the poker-faced barbie models of elite fashion brands. Dating apps and condoms have replaced advertising spaces once reserved for chips, biscuits, and sodas. ATMs outnumber dustbins at every corner.
He crosses the road and heads under the overpass where lost vehicles and forgotten people sleep, wrapped in the dust. The other side of the town fades in and engulfs him in its chaos. The pallor of the chawls in juxtaposition with the warm hues of hawker stalls develops into an eerie ambiance of despair. Yellow tungsten bulbs dangle inside stores, and the odor of overused cooking oil lingers. Dirt and sweat clothe everyone here, and one cannot tell the immigrants apart from the natives. He notices the miniature temple built below an enormous and friendless banyan tree. Islamic prayers echo above the never-ending urban noise. The people here, albeit their misery, have time for God. They make the food that gets delivered to the offices on the other side of the overpass. The masses help each other survive, and the classes remain in check.
The chicken roll eatery being on this side of town does put its hygiene standards in question. But it's something he looks forward to after an awful day at work. When it comes to street food, ignorance is bliss.
He glances at his watch to calculate the hours of sleep he will be getting tonight. The lack of it doesn't surprise him anymore. Once home, getting ready for bed is another strenuous routine.
That reminds him of the discussion the guys were having in the smoking-room this morning: deepfakes, which, in a matter of minutes, became a gabble about deepfake porn. As immoral as it sounds, it piqued his interest. Maybe he will check it out tonight; another attempt to spice up jerking off to sleep every night. Which hasn't been great either because every time he achieves the point of sweet release, his ex-girlfriend's face pops up in his head. And she happens to be getting hideous with each passing day. He doesn't remember her being repulsive, or he didn't realize it then. "Good riddance, I guess?"
At this late hour, the eatery has a dense, diverse crowd upfront. The eatery owner, a stout, middle-aged man, welcomes him with a familiar smile. The owner hands him a menu card with its laminated corners crumpled up. He pretends to go through it, then orders a chicken roll with cheese and chilies, pays the owner, and steps away from the booth.
A friend from university who gives company for dinner is conveniently absent when smoking weed isn't involved. Fuck fake friends, sure. However, getting stoned by yourself suggests that you have a problem. He checks his cellphone: no new notifications or messages. "I wish I could just quit tonight and disappear." What will he do after leaving his job? He doesn't know that yet. He plans to paint every weekend. Years of delaying and hesitation later, he is now oblivious to the liberating sentiment of creating art.
A furry waggle against his shin startles him; a ginger-spotted cat marks its territory. When he decides to take in the scenery around him, the eatery owner going about his business intrigues him. The owner addresses his work with impressive gusto, makes a lasting impression on customers, introduces new flavors to the menu, manages his kitchen without a slip in quality. In a way, they both share the same job: marketing. Except, the owner has an immense passion for his work.
A server calls out his name, and he proceeds to grab his roll. He takes out a decent piece of meat and tosses it to the cat; it meows back with gratitude. A deep inhale, a huge bite, and - an explosion of flavors. The soft, grilled flatbread crumbles as the blended sauces flood his taste buds. The cool veggies bring the extra crunch, the chilies and cheese tickle the roof of his mouth. The zesty, peppery, slow-cooked chicken with all its juicy tenderness melts in, filling his parched soul. Worth every penny spent, another terrible day saved.
In her overbleached nightgown, a middle-aged woman emerges from the back of the booth. She places her cellphone over the owner's ear. She must be his wife. The owner expresses annoyance for being disturbed from his work, but the voice on the other end gets his attention. The owner's wife rests her hand on his shoulder as his face loses its color. Maintaining his composure, the owner gestures to the jumpy customers to excuse him.
"Oh...What stage is it?... What did the doctor say?... Don't worry; everything will be fine. I'll be there soon."
The owner and his wife share a brief gaze, eyes filled with sanguine hope. The kitchen comes to a halt, and the assistants stare at their boss with concern.
"It's my sister," the owner answers, "She's diagnosed with cancer, pancreatic."
Before he can gauge their reactions, the owner turns to his wife, nods at her, and leaves the booth. The owner's wife takes over, gets the kitchen up and running, and attends to the swarm of customers with the same commitment.
Having eavesdropped on their private conversation, he stands appalled, and his self-centered musings come to a pause. At that moment, his life shrinks down to a freckle in time. Why does fate strike its rusted sword and inflict irreparable wounds on us all? His appetite vanishes, and he gives the leftover bits to the cat. Does being at that place, time, and listening in on their conversation mean anything for him?
A heartfelt impulse ignites, which propels him towards the booth. He scans the QR code sticker of a payment app and transfers a few thousand bucks. Before the owner's wife figures out the unusual transaction, he disappears into the throng heading towards the train station.
When the rush of spontaneous action fades away, he understands that his well-intended offering won't be a notable contribution. But it was worth having this occasional feeling of contentment. This disease had robbed him of his aunt and wrecked the lives of quite a few of his friends. The people living in these chawls, how do they handle being diagnosed with cancer? Despite their chances of survival, one foot's always in the grave without the necessary funds and healthcare.
He walks on a narrow and sludge ridden alleyway, surrounded by a sequence of putrefied wooden planks, cobalt-blue aluminum sheets, and chipped brick walls. He turns around for a peek; there is no horizon, but more people, more vehicles, and a curtain of concrete elevations. Above this cityscape, however, the ethereal moon shimmers in the inky skies. Pleased about catching its glimpse, he looks forward to appreciating it some night.
Reaching the train station, he collapses on the first bench he finds. "I can't believe I'm panting like a bitch from that walk." The dreadful realization of your health slipping out of control. He recalls his university days of admirable stamina, appetite, and libido. Aware of their absence now, he rubs his eyes. A long weary sigh. Followed by a blaring horn, the train whooshes by the platform; the gust cools the sweat off from the eager commuters. He trots towards a first-class compartment and hops in.
In the compartment, men play cards and mobile games, eat rice puffs, sleep like invertebrates, and watch raunchy movies on their phones. Amidst them, he sits pondering over the events of the day against the railroad noise. "There isn't enough luck for everyone out here." The train seems full of mindless zombies, existing in their constricted, conformed lifestyles, innocently diverted from their realities. Drooping heads, slouching shoulders, and protruding bellies. But who's he to judge, for he belongs to the same spectrum of the living dead. Alas, a self-aware zombie doesn't cease to be an abomination.
An automated voice announces his destination over corroded speakers. He gets down at a deserted platform; the indicator for visually impaired passengers beeps with an unsettling tempo. As he heads home, chirping crickets and dogs howling afar welcome him. The air here is crisp, with trees arching above him. Streetlights make dainty amber halos, and he walks under them ruminating over the absurdities of his life. A quarter of his presumed lifespan has passed by him with nothing to show for it. If he dies tonight, who would care to attend his funeral, and who would miss him years later?
The error of his ways begins to froth his spirit. Why does he sabotage the chances of getting his shit together by procrastinating? Why does he give in to distractions instead of getting better at things that matter? Why does he fail to check up on his loved ones until it's too late? Why does he spend money on stuff he doesn't need? Why does he comply with peoples' opinions who don't have their own lives figured out? Why does he fall into relationships only to become desperate to end them? And expect them to solve all his problems and fix him? Why doesn't he realize valuable lessons right away and avoid this perpetual regret?
Why don't epiphanies occur when you need them?
Keys turn a rusted door lock open, and he steps into his studio apartment. He drops his laptop bag and sinks into the sofa. His house appears to be what a failed minimalist would have, but there's some niceness about it. He stretches his swollen toes that pop out of socks' holes. While he garners the strength to shower and call it a day, his eyes land on a puffed-up spot on the ceiling. The longer he stares at it, a crack in the paint becomes visible to him.
He stands engulfed by steam as the warm water hits his body and rejuvenates him. Newfound courage courses through his veins to break out of this self-built prison and get back on track. He must live on his own terms. Life is about the choices we make, and hence he's going to make the right ones from now onwards.
He opens up his laptop and emails a sick leave, the well-deserved break he needs. "I should draft my resignation letter as well...Maybe too soon for that. Better to wait for a few months' worth of paychecks."
And now, to end this night on a high note, he's going back to his calling. His passion. His art. A wide drawer hoards brushes, palettes, paint tubes and bottles, canvases, and other tools wrapped in plastic with cobwebs surrounding them. Taking them out, he dusts them and assembles the set up in a nook. He adjusts the lighting of the room to his desire. He takes a seat in front of the canvas, his fingers tingling with hope. His prowess is coming back to him.
It's a new beginning. What will he paint tonight? Should he paint something that pays homage to the surrealists that inspired him? Or pour out his emotions through colors to create an abstract composition? Or should he focus on forms using a monochromatic color scheme? There are plenty of options. A little too many.
The fatigue of a long day starts kicking in. An empty canvas is intimidating; his anticipatory anxiety magnifies. Legs bounce with unease. A fluttering heart; sweat cascading inside his nightwear. "This looks harder than I thought." If only there were a way to calm his nerves down.
Memory serves to be a curse when he remembers - deepfake porn. Like a moth to a flame, he grabs his cellphone and advances to the bedroom. Smack! A frail hand clasps his neck from behind and holds him down. Slender arms reveal a pale, sickly woman; struggling to hold herself up on the floor. Her sapped eyes mirror what once used to be her alluring figure. "Resist, you fucker!" she wails, clawing into him.
It's been quite a while since she showed up. She is his muse. They used to be at one with each other as she guided him through chaos and nurtured his gifts with innocence. Her breathtaking charm inspired works of art. She was an embodiment of his creative expression and ambition.
He can't stand watching her starved to the brink of death. It's a lost cause. With no effort, he shakes her arm off of him and leaves the room for his frivolities. Her bones crack as she drops to the floor. Blood trickles out of her nose.
Minutes turn into hours. Unrequited, she waits. Silvery hair soaked in blood, her chest wheezing.
She rests in peace, at last. Her existence dissipates from the room. The paints remain caked, and the canvas lies barren.
A momentary relapse for gratification foreshadows his continual turmoil, and another 'could have been' artist bites the dust.
​
Written By: Purple.Musings
submitted by purple4711 to shortstories [link] [comments]

Monochrome Metro Blues

Air bubbles explode inside the water cooler, jolting him out of castles he built in the air. At 9 pm, the office is ghost-quiet except for the overworked air conditioner struggling to live up to its 3-star reputation. On his laptop screen, a newsletter email draft lies unfinished. "Who the hell is going to read this?" he whimpers, scratching his forehead. He makes an attempt to change the headings and design elements, but he knows that they will get him to adhere to the brand guidelines. An 'electronic focus' playlist plays in his headphones, but in vain.
The desk chair squeals after every sentence he types. Accepting his indifference, he copy-pastes text from a used draft. Sends it in. And bangs the laptop shut. He packs up and goes to the pantry for a protein bar, which would be the one thing that made him glad about his daily fiber intake. Unfortunately, someone has had his share of fiber. When will they start respecting labels here? He stomps out, hoping to grab a chicken roll in time before the eatery closes. He waves a labored goodbye to his senior colleagues who have made themselves at home on their desks.
"I need to get out of this place," he remembers whining to Salina this afternoon. The office becomes a tolerable place in her presence. A gentle pat on the shoulder followed by cheery morning wishes from her is a remedy for facing the monotonous day. He admired that they didn't need small talk to have a conversation. 'How are you doing? How's it going? How was your weekend?', none of that crap. "You need to take a break," she reminds him every day as she brings two cups of coffee, and they head out for a walk.
She talks about how she'd rather be on a beach, go for a trek or play the piano at a café than be here. She reveals a little more about how she ended up in this place each day. The scanty shocks that sprout up when their hands brush against each other validate his futile existence. Walking with Salina on blazing concrete around the corporate neighborhood is the highlight of his day. "If only I could walk with her forever..." Since he is learning to lower expectations these days, he promptly puts an end to his wishful thinking. Asking her out would be a swift ax to a treasured friendship, he assumes. Why are they stuck together in the same place, escaping their stale present while coping with their distressful pasts?
Trap songs about money, drugs, and bitches play in his earphones as he shoulders through a huddle of white collars on the pavement. "I could use a smoke. It's been a long day," he assures himself, avoiding the gaze of the loosie seller on the corner. "No, not again. Can't give in every other day." He acknowledges the loosie seller with a faint smile and hurries past him.
Through the cuboid canyons of skyscrapers and shopping malls larger than factories, he walks in compliance with his navy blue formal attire whenever the glass panes reflect him. The retina-burning halogens on billboards illuminate the poker-faced barbie models of elite fashion brands. Dating apps and condoms have replaced advertising spaces once reserved for chips, biscuits, and sodas. ATMs outnumber dustbins at every corner.
He crosses the road and heads under the overpass where lost vehicles and forgotten people sleep, wrapped in the dust. The other side of the town fades in and engulfs him in its chaos. The pallor of the chawls in juxtaposition with the warm hues of hawker stalls develops into an eerie ambiance of despair. Yellow tungsten bulbs dangle inside stores, and the odor of overused cooking oil lingers. Dirt and sweat clothe everyone here, and one cannot tell the immigrants apart from the natives. He notices the miniature temple built below an enormous and friendless banyan tree. Islamic prayers echo above the never-ending urban noise. The people here, albeit their misery, have time for God. They make the food that gets delivered to the offices on the other side of the overpass. The masses help each other survive, and the classes remain in check.
The chicken roll eatery being on this side of town does put its hygiene standards in question. But it's something he looks forward to after an awful day at work. When it comes to street food, ignorance is bliss.
He glances at his watch to calculate the hours of sleep he will be getting tonight. The lack of it doesn't surprise him anymore. Once home, getting ready for bed is another strenuous routine.
That reminds him of the discussion the guys were having in the smoking-room this morning: deepfakes, which, in a matter of minutes, became a gabble about deepfake porn. As immoral as it sounds, it piqued his interest. Maybe he will check it out tonight; another attempt to spice up jerking off to sleep every night. Which hasn't been great either because every time he achieves the point of sweet release, his ex-girlfriend's face pops up in his head. And she happens to be getting hideous with each passing day. He doesn't remember her being repulsive, or he didn't realize it then. "Good riddance, I guess?"
At this late hour, the eatery has a dense, diverse crowd upfront. The eatery owner, a stout, middle-aged man, welcomes him with a familiar smile. The owner hands him a menu card with its laminated corners crumpled up. He pretends to go through it, then orders a chicken roll with cheese and chilies, pays the owner, and steps away from the booth.
A friend from university who gives company for dinner is conveniently absent when smoking weed isn't involved. Fuck fake friends, sure. However, getting stoned by yourself suggests that you have a problem. He checks his cellphone: no new notifications or messages. "I wish I could just quit tonight and disappear." What will he do after leaving his job? He doesn't know that yet. He plans to paint every weekend. Years of delaying and hesitation later, he is now oblivious to the liberating sentiment of creating art.
A furry waggle against his shin startles him; a ginger-spotted cat marks its territory. When he decides to take in the scenery around him, the eatery owner going about his business intrigues him. The owner addresses his work with impressive gusto, makes a lasting impression on customers, introduces new flavors to the menu, manages his kitchen without a slip in quality. In a way, they both share the same job: marketing. Except, the owner has an immense passion for his work.
A server calls out his name, and he proceeds to grab his roll. He takes out a decent piece of meat and tosses it to the cat; it meows back with gratitude. A deep inhale, a huge bite, and - an explosion of flavors. The soft, grilled flatbread crumbles as the blended sauces flood his taste buds. The cool veggies bring the extra crunch, the chilies and cheese tickle the roof of his mouth. The zesty, peppery, slow-cooked chicken with all its juicy tenderness melts in, filling his parched soul. Worth every penny spent, another terrible day saved.
In her overbleached nightgown, a middle-aged woman emerges from the back of the booth. She places her cellphone over the owner's ear. She must be his wife. The owner expresses annoyance for being disturbed from his work, but the voice on the other end gets his attention. The owner's wife rests her hand on his shoulder as his face loses its color. Maintaining his composure, the owner gestures to the jumpy customers to excuse him.
"Oh...What stage is it?... What did the doctor say?... Don't worry; everything will be fine. I'll be there soon."
The owner and his wife share a brief gaze, eyes filled with sanguine hope. The kitchen comes to a halt, and the assistants stare at their boss with concern.
"It's my sister," the owner answers, "She's diagnosed with cancer, pancreatic."
Before he can gauge their reactions, the owner turns to his wife, nods at her, and leaves the booth. The owner's wife takes over, gets the kitchen up and running, and attends to the swarm of customers with the same commitment.
Having eavesdropped on their private conversation, he stands appalled, and his self-centered musings come to a pause. At that moment, his life shrinks down to a freckle in time. Why does fate strike its rusted sword and inflict irreparable wounds on us all? His appetite vanishes, and he gives the leftover bits to the cat. Does being at that place, time, and listening in on their conversation mean anything for him?
A heartfelt impulse ignites, which propels him towards the booth. He scans the QR code sticker of a payment app and transfers a few thousand bucks. Before the owner's wife figures out the unusual transaction, he disappears into the throng heading towards the train station.
When the rush of spontaneous action fades away, he understands that his well-intended offering won't be a notable contribution. But it was worth having this occasional feeling of contentment. This disease had robbed him of his aunt and wrecked the lives of quite a few of his friends. The people living in these chawls, how do they handle being diagnosed with cancer? Despite their chances of survival, one foot's always in the grave without the necessary funds and healthcare.
He walks on a narrow and sludge ridden alleyway, surrounded by a sequence of putrefied wooden planks, cobalt-blue aluminum sheets, and chipped brick walls. He turns around for a peek; there is no horizon, but more people, more vehicles, and a curtain of concrete elevations. Above this cityscape, however, the ethereal moon shimmers in the inky skies. Pleased about catching its glimpse, he looks forward to appreciating it some night.
Reaching the train station, he collapses on the first bench he finds. "I can't believe I'm panting like a bitch from that walk." The dreadful realization of your health slipping out of control. He recalls his university days of admirable stamina, appetite, and libido. Aware of their absence now, he rubs his eyes. A long weary sigh. Followed by a blaring horn, the train whooshes by the platform; the gust cools the sweat off from the eager commuters. He trots towards a first-class compartment and hops in.
In the compartment, men play cards and mobile games, eat rice puffs, sleep like invertebrates, and watch raunchy movies on their phones. Amidst them, he sits pondering over the events of the day against the railroad noise. "There isn't enough luck for everyone out here." The train seems full of mindless zombies, existing in their constricted, conformed lifestyles, innocently diverted from their realities. Drooping heads, slouching shoulders, and protruding bellies. But who's he to judge, for he belongs to the same spectrum of the living dead. Alas, a self-aware zombie doesn't cease to be an abomination.
An automated voice announces his destination over corroded speakers. He gets down at a deserted platform; the indicator for visually impaired passengers beeps with an unsettling tempo. As he heads home, chirping crickets and dogs howling afar welcome him. The air here is crisp, with trees arching above him. Streetlights make dainty amber halos, and he walks under them ruminating over the absurdities of his life. A quarter of his presumed lifespan has passed by him with nothing to show for it. If he dies tonight, who would care to attend his funeral, and who would miss him years later?
The error of his ways begins to froth his spirit. Why does he sabotage the chances of getting his shit together by procrastinating? Why does he give in to distractions instead of getting better at things that matter? Why does he fail to check up on his loved ones until it's too late? Why does he spend money on stuff he doesn't need? Why does he comply with peoples' opinions who don't have their own lives figured out? Why does he fall into relationships only to become desperate to end them? And expect them to solve all his problems and fix him? Why doesn't he realize valuable lessons right away and avoid this perpetual regret?
Why don't epiphanies occur when you need them?
Keys turn a rusted door lock open, and he steps into his studio apartment. He drops his laptop bag and sinks into the sofa. His house appears to be what a failed minimalist would have, but there's some niceness about it. He stretches his swollen toes that pop out of socks' holes. While he garners the strength to shower and call it a day, his eyes land on a puffed-up spot on the ceiling. The longer he stares at it, a crack in the paint becomes visible to him.
He stands engulfed by steam as the warm water hits his body and rejuvenates him. Newfound courage courses through his veins to break out of this self-built prison and get back on track. He must live on his own terms. Life is about the choices we make, and hence he's going to make the right ones from now onwards.
He opens up his laptop and emails a sick leave, the well-deserved break he needs. "I should draft my resignation letter as well...Maybe too soon for that. Better to wait for a few months' worth of paychecks."
And now, to end this night on a high note, he's going back to his calling. His passion. His art. A wide drawer hoards brushes, palettes, paint tubes and bottles, canvases, and other tools wrapped in plastic with cobwebs surrounding them. Taking them out, he dusts them and assembles the set up in a nook. He adjusts the lighting of the room to his desire. He takes a seat in front of the canvas, his fingers tingling with hope. His prowess is coming back to him.
It's a new beginning. What will he paint tonight? Should he paint something that pays homage to the surrealists that inspired him? Or pour out his emotions through colors to create an abstract composition? Or should he focus on forms using a monochromatic color scheme? There are plenty of options. A little too many.
The fatigue of a long day starts kicking in. An empty canvas is intimidating; his anticipatory anxiety magnifies. Legs bounce with unease. A fluttering heart; sweat cascading inside his nightwear. "This looks harder than I thought." If only there were a way to calm his nerves down.
Memory serves to be a curse when he remembers - deepfake porn. Like a moth to a flame, he grabs his cellphone and advances to the bedroom. Smack! A frail hand clasps his neck from behind and holds him down. Slender arms reveal a pale, sickly woman; struggling to hold herself up on the floor. Her sapped eyes mirror what once used to be her alluring figure. "Resist, you fucker!" she wails, clawing into him.
It's been quite a while since she showed up. She is his muse. They used to be at one with each other as she guided him through chaos and nurtured his gifts with innocence. Her breathtaking charm inspired works of art. She was an embodiment of his creative expression and ambition.
He can't stand watching her starved to the brink of death. It's a lost cause. With no effort, he shakes her arm off of him and leaves the room for his frivolities. Her bones crack as she drops to the floor. Blood trickles out of her nose.
Minutes turn into hours. Unrequited, she waits. Silvery hair soaked in blood, her chest wheezing.
She rests in peace, at last. Her existence dissipates from the room. The paints remain caked, and the canvas lies barren.
A momentary relapse for gratification foreshadows his continual turmoil, and another 'could have been' artist bites the dust.
​
Written By: Purple.Musings
submitted by purple4711 to shortstory [link] [comments]

Monochrome Metro Blues

Air bubbles explode inside the water cooler, jolting him out of castles he built in the air. At 9 pm, the office is ghost-quiet except for the overworked air conditioner struggling to live up to its 3-star reputation. On his laptop screen, a newsletter email draft lies unfinished. "Who the hell is going to read this?" he whimpers, scratching his forehead. He makes an attempt to change the headings and design elements, but he knows that they will get him to adhere to the brand guidelines. An 'electronic focus' playlist plays in his headphones, but in vain.
The desk chair squeals after every sentence he types. Accepting his indifference, he copy-pastes text from a used draft. Sends it in. And bangs the laptop shut. He packs up and goes to the pantry for a protein bar, which would be the one thing that made him glad about his daily fiber intake. Unfortunately, someone has had his share of fiber. When will they start respecting labels here? He stomps out, hoping to grab a chicken roll in time before the eatery closes. He waves a labored goodbye to his senior colleagues who have made themselves at home on their desks.
"I need to get out of this place," he remembers whining to Salina this afternoon. The office becomes a tolerable place in her presence. A gentle pat on the shoulder followed by cheery morning wishes from her is a remedy for facing the monotonous day. He admired that they didn't need small talk to have a conversation. 'How are you doing? How's it going? How was your weekend?', none of that crap. "You need to take a break," she reminds him every day as she brings two cups of coffee, and they head out for a walk.
She talks about how she'd rather be on a beach, go for a trek or play the piano at a café than be here. She reveals a little more about how she ended up in this place each day. The scanty shocks that sprout up when their hands brush against each other validate his futile existence. Walking with Salina on blazing concrete around the corporate neighborhood is the highlight of his day. "If only I could walk with her forever..." Since he is learning to lower expectations these days, he promptly puts an end to his wishful thinking. Asking her out would be a swift ax to a treasured friendship, he assumes. Why are they stuck together in the same place, escaping their stale present while coping with their distressful pasts?
Trap songs about money, drugs, and bitches play in his earphones as he shoulders through a huddle of white collars on the pavement. "I could use a smoke. It's been a long day," he assures himself, avoiding the gaze of the loosie seller on the corner. "No, not again. Can't give in every other day." He acknowledges the loosie seller with a faint smile and hurries past him.
Through the cuboid canyons of skyscrapers and shopping malls larger than factories, he walks in compliance with his navy blue formal attire whenever the glass panes reflect him. The retina-burning halogens on billboards illuminate the poker-faced barbie models of elite fashion brands. Dating apps and condoms have replaced advertising spaces once reserved for chips, biscuits, and sodas. ATMs outnumber dustbins at every corner.
He crosses the road and heads under the overpass where lost vehicles and forgotten people sleep, wrapped in the dust. The other side of the town fades in and engulfs him in its chaos. The pallor of the chawls in juxtaposition with the warm hues of hawker stalls develops into an eerie ambiance of despair. Yellow tungsten bulbs dangle inside stores, and the odor of overused cooking oil lingers. Dirt and sweat clothe everyone here, and one cannot tell the immigrants apart from the natives. He notices the miniature temple built below an enormous and friendless banyan tree. Islamic prayers echo above the never-ending urban noise. The people here, albeit their misery, have time for God. They make the food that gets delivered to the offices on the other side of the overpass. The masses help each other survive, and the classes remain in check.
The chicken roll eatery being on this side of town does put its hygiene standards in question. But it's something he looks forward to after an awful day at work. When it comes to street food, ignorance is bliss.
He glances at his watch to calculate the hours of sleep he will be getting tonight. The lack of it doesn't surprise him anymore. Once home, getting ready for bed is another strenuous routine.
That reminds him of the discussion the guys were having in the smoking-room this morning: deepfakes, which, in a matter of minutes, became a gabble about deepfake porn. As immoral as it sounds, it piqued his interest. Maybe he will check it out tonight; another attempt to spice up jerking off to sleep every night. Which hasn't been great either because every time he achieves the point of sweet release, his ex-girlfriend's face pops up in his head. And she happens to be getting hideous with each passing day. He doesn't remember her being repulsive, or he didn't realize it then. "Good riddance, I guess?"
At this late hour, the eatery has a dense, diverse crowd upfront. The eatery owner, a stout, middle-aged man, welcomes him with a familiar smile. The owner hands him a menu card with its laminated corners crumpled up. He pretends to go through it, then orders a chicken roll with cheese and chilies, pays the owner, and steps away from the booth.
A friend from university who gives company for dinner is conveniently absent when smoking weed isn't involved. Fuck fake friends, sure. However, getting stoned by yourself suggests that you have a problem. He checks his cellphone: no new notifications or messages. "I wish I could just quit tonight and disappear." What will he do after leaving his job? He doesn't know that yet. He plans to paint every weekend. Years of delaying and hesitation later, he is now oblivious to the liberating sentiment of creating art.
A furry waggle against his shin startles him; a ginger-spotted cat marks its territory. When he decides to take in the scenery around him, the eatery owner going about his business intrigues him. The owner addresses his work with impressive gusto, makes a lasting impression on customers, introduces new flavors to the menu, manages his kitchen without a slip in quality. In a way, they both share the same job: marketing. Except, the owner has an immense passion for his work.
A server calls out his name, and he proceeds to grab his roll. He takes out a decent piece of meat and tosses it to the cat; it meows back with gratitude. A deep inhale, a huge bite, and - an explosion of flavors. The soft, grilled flatbread crumbles as the blended sauces flood his taste buds. The cool veggies bring the extra crunch, the chilies and cheese tickle the roof of his mouth. The zesty, peppery, slow-cooked chicken with all its juicy tenderness melts in, filling his parched soul. Worth every penny spent, another terrible day saved.
In her overbleached nightgown, a middle-aged woman emerges from the back of the booth. She places her cellphone over the owner's ear. She must be his wife. The owner expresses annoyance for being disturbed from his work, but the voice on the other end gets his attention. The owner's wife rests her hand on his shoulder as his face loses its color. Maintaining his composure, the owner gestures to the jumpy customers to excuse him.
"Oh...What stage is it?... What did the doctor say?... Don't worry; everything will be fine. I'll be there soon."
The owner and his wife share a brief gaze, eyes filled with sanguine hope. The kitchen comes to a halt, and the assistants stare at their boss with concern.
"It's my sister," the owner answers, "She's diagnosed with cancer, pancreatic."
Before he can gauge their reactions, the owner turns to his wife, nods at her, and leaves the booth. The owner's wife takes over, gets the kitchen up and running, and attends to the swarm of customers with the same commitment.
Having eavesdropped on their private conversation, he stands appalled, and his self-centered musings come to a pause. At that moment, his life shrinks down to a freckle in time. Why does fate strike its rusted sword and inflict irreparable wounds on us all? His appetite vanishes, and he gives the leftover bits to the cat. Does being at that place, time, and listening in on their conversation mean anything for him?
A heartfelt impulse ignites, which propels him towards the booth. He scans the QR code sticker of a payment app and transfers a few thousand bucks. Before the owner's wife figures out the unusual transaction, he disappears into the throng heading towards the train station.
When the rush of spontaneous action fades away, he understands that his well-intended offering won't be a notable contribution. But it was worth having this occasional feeling of contentment. This disease had robbed him of his aunt and wrecked the lives of quite a few of his friends. The people living in these chawls, how do they handle being diagnosed with cancer? Despite their chances of survival, one foot's always in the grave without the necessary funds and healthcare.
He walks on a narrow and sludge ridden alleyway, surrounded by a sequence of putrefied wooden planks, cobalt-blue aluminum sheets, and chipped brick walls. He turns around for a peek; there is no horizon, but more people, more vehicles, and a curtain of concrete elevations. Above this cityscape, however, the ethereal moon shimmers in the inky skies. Pleased about catching its glimpse, he looks forward to appreciating it some night.
Reaching the train station, he collapses on the first bench he finds. "I can't believe I'm panting like a bitch from that walk." The dreadful realization of your health slipping out of control. He recalls his university days of admirable stamina, appetite, and libido. Aware of their absence now, he rubs his eyes. A long weary sigh. Followed by a blaring horn, the train whooshes by the platform; the gust cools the sweat off from the eager commuters. He trots towards a first-class compartment and hops in.
In the compartment, men play cards and mobile games, eat rice puffs, sleep like invertebrates, and watch raunchy movies on their phones. Amidst them, he sits pondering over the events of the day against the railroad noise. "There isn't enough luck for everyone out here." The train seems full of mindless zombies, existing in their constricted, conformed lifestyles, innocently diverted from their realities. Drooping heads, slouching shoulders, and protruding bellies. But who's he to judge, for he belongs to the same spectrum of the living dead. Alas, a self-aware zombie doesn't cease to be an abomination.
An automated voice announces his destination over corroded speakers. He gets down at a deserted platform; the indicator for visually impaired passengers beeps with an unsettling tempo. As he heads home, chirping crickets and dogs howling afar welcome him. The air here is crisp, with trees arching above him. Streetlights make dainty amber halos, and he walks under them ruminating over the absurdities of his life. A quarter of his presumed lifespan has passed by him with nothing to show for it. If he dies tonight, who would care to attend his funeral, and who would miss him years later?
The error of his ways begins to froth his spirit. Why does he sabotage the chances of getting his shit together by procrastinating? Why does he give in to distractions instead of getting better at things that matter? Why does he fail to check up on his loved ones until it's too late? Why does he spend money on stuff he doesn't need? Why does he comply with peoples' opinions who don't have their own lives figured out? Why does he fall into relationships only to become desperate to end them? And expect them to solve all his problems and fix him? Why doesn't he realize valuable lessons right away and avoid this perpetual regret?
Why don't epiphanies occur when you need them?
Keys turn a rusted door lock open, and he steps into his studio apartment. He drops his laptop bag and sinks into the sofa. His house appears to be what a failed minimalist would have, but there's some niceness about it. He stretches his swollen toes that pop out of socks' holes. While he garners the strength to shower and call it a day, his eyes land on a puffed-up spot on the ceiling. The longer he stares at it, a crack in the paint becomes visible to him.
He stands engulfed by steam as the warm water hits his body and rejuvenates him. Newfound courage courses through his veins to break out of this self-built prison and get back on track. He must live on his own terms. Life is about the choices we make, and hence he's going to make the right ones from now onwards.
He opens up his laptop and emails a sick leave, the well-deserved break he needs. "I should draft my resignation letter as well...Maybe too soon for that. Better to wait for a few months' worth of paychecks."
And now, to end this night on a high note, he's going back to his calling. His passion. His art. A wide drawer hoards brushes, palettes, paint tubes and bottles, canvases, and other tools wrapped in plastic with cobwebs surrounding them. Taking them out, he dusts them and assembles the set up in a nook. He adjusts the lighting of the room to his desire. He takes a seat in front of the canvas, his fingers tingling with hope. His prowess is coming back to him.
It's a new beginning. What will he paint tonight? Should he paint something that pays homage to the surrealists that inspired him? Or pour out his emotions through colors to create an abstract composition? Or should he focus on forms using a monochromatic color scheme? There are plenty of options. A little too many.
The fatigue of a long day starts kicking in. An empty canvas is intimidating; his anticipatory anxiety magnifies. Legs bounce with unease. A fluttering heart; sweat cascading inside his nightwear. "This looks harder than I thought." If only there were a way to calm his nerves down.
Memory serves to be a curse when he remembers - deepfake porn. Like a moth to a flame, he grabs his cellphone and advances to the bedroom. Smack! A frail hand clasps his neck from behind and holds him down. Slender arms reveal a pale, sickly woman; struggling to hold herself up on the floor. Her sapped eyes mirror what once used to be her alluring figure. "Resist, you fucker!" she wails, clawing into him.
It's been quite a while since she showed up. She is his muse. They used to be at one with each other as she guided him through chaos and nurtured his gifts with innocence. Her breathtaking charm inspired works of art. She was an embodiment of his creative expression and ambition.
He can't stand watching her starved to the brink of death. It's a lost cause. With no effort, he shakes her arm off of him and leaves the room for his frivolities. Her bones crack as she drops to the floor. Blood trickles out of her nose.
Minutes turn into hours. Unrequited, she waits. Silvery hair soaked in blood, her chest wheezing.
She rests in peace, at last. Her existence dissipates from the room. The paints remain caked, and the canvas lies barren.
A momentary relapse for gratification foreshadows his continual turmoil, and another 'could have been' artist bites the dust.
Written By: Purple.Musings
submitted by purple4711 to writers [link] [comments]

Monochrome Metro Blues

Air bubbles explode inside the water cooler, jolting him out of castles he built in the air. At 9 pm, the office is ghost-quiet except for the overworked air conditioner struggling to live up to its 3-star reputation. On his laptop screen, a newsletter email draft lies unfinished. "Who the hell is going to read this?" he whimpers, scratching his forehead. He makes an attempt to change the headings and design elements, but he knows that they will get him to adhere to the brand guidelines. An 'electronic focus' playlist plays in his headphones, but in vain.
The desk chair squeals after every sentence he types. Accepting his indifference, he copy-pastes text from a used draft. Sends it in. And bangs the laptop shut. He packs up and goes to the pantry for a protein bar, which would be the one thing that made him glad about his daily fiber intake. Unfortunately, someone has had his share of fiber. When will they start respecting labels here? He stomps out, hoping to grab a chicken roll in time before the eatery closes. He waves a labored goodbye to his senior colleagues who have made themselves at home on their desks.
"I need to get out of this place," he remembers whining to Salina this afternoon. The office becomes a tolerable place in her presence. A gentle pat on the shoulder followed by cheery morning wishes from her is a remedy for facing the monotonous day. He admired that they didn't need small talk to have a conversation. 'How are you doing? How's it going? How was your weekend?', none of that crap. "You need to take a break," she reminds him every day as she brings two cups of coffee, and they head out for a walk.
She talks about how she'd rather be on a beach, go for a trek or play the piano at a café than be here. She reveals a little more about how she ended up in this place each day. The scanty shocks that sprout up when their hands brush against each other validate his futile existence. Walking with Salina on blazing concrete around the corporate neighborhood is the highlight of his day. "If only I could walk with her forever..." Since he is learning to lower expectations these days, he promptly puts an end to his wishful thinking. Asking her out would be a swift ax to a treasured friendship, he assumes. Why are they stuck together in the same place, escaping their stale present while coping with their distressful pasts?
Trap songs about money, drugs, and bitches play in his earphones as he shoulders through a huddle of white collars on the pavement. "I could use a smoke. It's been a long day," he assures himself, avoiding the gaze of the loosie seller on the corner. "No, not again. Can't give in every other day." He acknowledges the loosie seller with a faint smile and hurries past him.
Through the cuboid canyons of skyscrapers and shopping malls larger than factories, he walks in compliance with his navy blue formal attire whenever the glass panes reflect him. The retina-burning halogens on billboards illuminate the poker-faced barbie models of elite fashion brands. Dating apps and condoms have replaced advertising spaces once reserved for chips, biscuits, and sodas. ATMs outnumber dustbins at every corner.
He crosses the road and heads under the overpass where lost vehicles and forgotten people sleep, wrapped in the dust. The other side of the town fades in and engulfs him in its chaos. The pallor of the chawls in juxtaposition with the warm hues of hawker stalls develops into an eerie ambiance of despair. Yellow tungsten bulbs dangle inside stores, and the odor of overused cooking oil lingers. Dirt and sweat clothe everyone here, and one cannot tell the immigrants apart from the natives. He notices the miniature temple built below an enormous and friendless banyan tree. Islamic prayers echo above the never-ending urban noise. The people here, albeit their misery, have time for God. They make the food that gets delivered to the offices on the other side of the overpass. The masses help each other survive, and the classes remain in check.
The chicken roll eatery being on this side of town does put its hygiene standards in question. But it's something he looks forward to after an awful day at work. When it comes to street food, ignorance is bliss.
He glances at his watch to calculate the hours of sleep he will be getting tonight. The lack of it doesn't surprise him anymore. Once home, getting ready for bed is another strenuous routine.
That reminds him of the discussion the guys were having in the smoking-room this morning: deepfakes, which, in a matter of minutes, became a gabble about deepfake porn. As immoral as it sounds, it piqued his interest. Maybe he will check it out tonight; another attempt to spice up jerking off to sleep every night. Which hasn't been great either because every time he achieves the point of sweet release, his ex-girlfriend's face pops up in his head. And she happens to be getting hideous with each passing day. He doesn't remember her being repulsive, or he didn't realize it then. "Good riddance, I guess?"
At this late hour, the eatery has a dense, diverse crowd upfront. The eatery owner, a stout, middle-aged man, welcomes him with a familiar smile. The owner hands him a menu card with its laminated corners crumpled up. He pretends to go through it, then orders a chicken roll with cheese and chilies, pays the owner, and steps away from the booth.
A friend from university who gives company for dinner is conveniently absent when smoking weed isn't involved. Fuck fake friends, sure. However, getting stoned by yourself suggests that you have a problem. He checks his cellphone: no new notifications or messages. "I wish I could just quit tonight and disappear." What will he do after leaving his job? He doesn't know that yet. He plans to paint every weekend. Years of delaying and hesitation later, he is now oblivious to the liberating sentiment of creating art.
A furry waggle against his shin startles him; a ginger-spotted cat marks its territory. When he decides to take in the scenery around him, the eatery owner going about his business intrigues him. The owner addresses his work with impressive gusto, makes a lasting impression on customers, introduces new flavors to the menu, manages his kitchen without a slip in quality. In a way, they both share the same job: marketing. Except, the owner has an immense passion for his work.
A server calls out his name, and he proceeds to grab his roll. He takes out a decent piece of meat and tosses it to the cat; it meows back with gratitude. A deep inhale, a huge bite, and - an explosion of flavors. The soft, grilled flatbread crumbles as the blended sauces flood his taste buds. The cool veggies bring the extra crunch, the chilies and cheese tickle the roof of his mouth. The zesty, peppery, slow-cooked chicken with all its juicy tenderness melts in, filling his parched soul. Worth every penny spent, another terrible day saved.
In her overbleached nightgown, a middle-aged woman emerges from the back of the booth. She places her cellphone over the owner's ear. She must be his wife. The owner expresses annoyance for being disturbed from his work, but the voice on the other end gets his attention. The owner's wife rests her hand on his shoulder as his face loses its color. Maintaining his composure, the owner gestures to the jumpy customers to excuse him.
"Oh...What stage is it?... What did the doctor say?... Don't worry; everything will be fine. I'll be there soon."
The owner and his wife share a brief gaze, eyes filled with sanguine hope. The kitchen comes to a halt, and the assistants stare at their boss with concern.
"It's my sister," the owner answers, "She's diagnosed with cancer, pancreatic."
Before he can gauge their reactions, the owner turns to his wife, nods at her, and leaves the booth. The owner's wife takes over, gets the kitchen up and running, and attends to the swarm of customers with the same commitment.
Having eavesdropped on their private conversation, he stands appalled, and his self-centered musings come to a pause. At that moment, his life shrinks down to a freckle in time. Why does fate strike its rusted sword and inflict irreparable wounds on us all? His appetite vanishes, and he gives the leftover bits to the cat. Does being at that place, time, and listening in on their conversation mean anything for him?
A heartfelt impulse ignites, which propels him towards the booth. He scans the QR code sticker of a payment app and transfers a few thousand bucks. Before the owner's wife figures out the unusual transaction, he disappears into the throng heading towards the train station.
When the rush of spontaneous action fades away, he understands that his well-intended offering won't be a notable contribution. But it was worth having this occasional feeling of contentment. This disease had robbed him of his aunt and wrecked the lives of quite a few of his friends. The people living in these chawls, how do they handle being diagnosed with cancer? Despite their chances of survival, one foot's always in the grave without the necessary funds and healthcare.
He walks on a narrow and sludge ridden alleyway, surrounded by a sequence of putrefied wooden planks, cobalt-blue aluminum sheets, and chipped brick walls. He turns around for a peek; there is no horizon, but more people, more vehicles, and a curtain of concrete elevations. Above this cityscape, however, the ethereal moon shimmers in the inky skies. Pleased about catching its glimpse, he looks forward to appreciating it some night.
Reaching the train station, he collapses on the first bench he finds. "I can't believe I'm panting like a bitch from that walk." The dreadful realization of your health slipping out of control. He recalls his university days of admirable stamina, appetite, and libido. Aware of their absence now, he rubs his eyes. A long weary sigh. Followed by a blaring horn, the train whooshes by the platform; the gust cools the sweat off from the eager commuters. He trots towards a first-class compartment and hops in.
In the compartment, men play cards and mobile games, eat rice puffs, sleep like invertebrates, and watch raunchy movies on their phones. Amidst them, he sits pondering over the events of the day against the railroad noise. "There isn't enough luck for everyone out here." The train seems full of mindless zombies, existing in their constricted, conformed lifestyles, innocently diverted from their realities. Drooping heads, slouching shoulders, and protruding bellies. But who's he to judge, for he belongs to the same spectrum of the living dead. Alas, a self-aware zombie doesn't cease to be an abomination.
An automated voice announces his destination over corroded speakers. He gets down at a deserted platform; the indicator for visually impaired passengers beeps with an unsettling tempo. As he heads home, chirping crickets and dogs howling afar welcome him. The air here is crisp, with trees arching above him. Streetlights make dainty amber halos, and he walks under them ruminating over the absurdities of his life. A quarter of his presumed lifespan has passed by him with nothing to show for it. If he dies tonight, who would care to attend his funeral, and who would miss him years later?
The error of his ways begins to froth his spirit. Why does he sabotage the chances of getting his shit together by procrastinating? Why does he give in to distractions instead of getting better at things that matter? Why does he fail to check up on his loved ones until it's too late? Why does he spend money on stuff he doesn't need? Why does he comply with peoples' opinions who don't have their own lives figured out? Why does he fall into relationships only to become desperate to end them? And expect them to solve all his problems and fix him? Why doesn't he realize valuable lessons right away and avoid this perpetual regret?
Why don't epiphanies occur when you need them?
Keys turn a rusted door lock open, and he steps into his studio apartment. He drops his laptop bag and sinks into the sofa. His house appears to be what a failed minimalist would have, but there's some niceness about it. He stretches his swollen toes that pop out of socks' holes. While he garners the strength to shower and call it a day, his eyes land on a puffed-up spot on the ceiling. The longer he stares at it, a crack in the paint becomes visible to him.
He stands engulfed by steam as the warm water hits his body and rejuvenates him. Newfound courage courses through his veins to break out of this self-built prison and get back on track. He must live on his own terms. Life is about the choices we make, and hence he's going to make the right ones from now onwards.
He opens up his laptop and emails a sick leave, the well-deserved break he needs. "I should draft my resignation letter as well...Maybe too soon for that. Better to wait for a few months' worth of paychecks."
And now, to end this night on a high note, he's going back to his calling. His passion. His art. A wide drawer hoards brushes, palettes, paint tubes and bottles, canvases, and other tools wrapped in plastic with cobwebs surrounding them. Taking them out, he dusts them and assembles the set up in a nook. He adjusts the lighting of the room to his desire. He takes a seat in front of the canvas, his fingers tingling with hope. His prowess is coming back to him.
It's a new beginning. What will he paint tonight? Should he paint something that pays homage to the surrealists that inspired him? Or pour out his emotions through colors to create an abstract composition? Or should he focus on forms using a monochromatic color scheme? There are plenty of options. A little too many.
The fatigue of a long day starts kicking in. An empty canvas is intimidating; his anticipatory anxiety magnifies. Legs bounce with unease. A fluttering heart; sweat cascading inside his nightwear. "This looks harder than I thought." If only there were a way to calm his nerves down.
Memory serves to be a curse when he remembers - deepfake porn. Like a moth to a flame, he grabs his cellphone and advances to the bedroom. Smack! A frail hand clasps his neck from behind and holds him down. Slender arms reveal a pale, sickly woman; struggling to hold herself up on the floor. Her sapped eyes mirror what once used to be her alluring figure. "Resist, you fucker!" she wails, clawing into him.
It's been quite a while since she showed up. She is his muse. They used to be at one with each other as she guided him through chaos and nurtured his gifts with innocence. Her breathtaking charm inspired works of art. She was an embodiment of his creative expression and ambition.
He can't stand watching her starved to the brink of death. It's a lost cause. With no effort, he shakes her arm off of him and leaves the room for his frivolities. Her bones crack as she drops to the floor. Blood trickles out of her nose.
Minutes turn into hours. Unrequited, she waits. Silvery hair soaked in blood, her chest wheezing.
She rests in peace, at last. Her existence dissipates from the room. The paints remain caked, and the canvas lies barren.
A momentary relapse for gratification foreshadows his continual turmoil, and another 'could have been' artist bites the dust.
​
Written By: Purple.Musings
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Who is Scott Borgenson? Profile from 2016 in “Institutional Investor”

(Note the connections)
CargoMetrics Cracks the Code on Shipping Data
Scott Borgerson and his team of quants at hedge fund firm CargoMetrics are using satellite intel on ships to identify mispriced securities.
By Fred R. Bleakley February 04, 2016
Link to article
One late afternoon last November, as a ping-pong game echoed through the floor at CargoMetrics Technologies’ Boston office, CEO Scott Borgerson was watching over the shoulder of Arturo Ramos, who’s responsible for developing investment strategies with astrophysicist Ronnie Hoogerwerf. At Ramos’s feet sat Helios, his brindle pit-bull-and-­greyhound mix. All three men were staring at a computer screen, tracking satellite signals from oil tankers sailing through the Strait of Malacca, the choke point between the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea where 40 percent of the world’s cargo trade moves by ship.
CargoMetrics, a start-up investment firm, is not your typical money manager or hedge fund. It was originally set up to supply information on cargo shipping to commodities traders, among others. Now it links satellite signals, historical shipping data and proprietary analytics for its own trading in commodities, currencies and equity index futures. There was an air of excitement in the office that day because the signals were continuing to show a slowdown in shipping that had earlier triggered the firm’s automated trading system to short West Texas Intermediate (WTI) oil futures. Two days later the U.S. Department of Energy’s official report came out, confirming the firm’s hunch, and the oil futures market reacted accordingly.
“We nailed it for our biggest return of the year,” says Borgerson, who had reason to breathe more easily. His backers were watching closely. They include Blackstone Alternative Asset Management (BAAM), the world’s largest hedge fund allocator, and seven wealthy tech and business leaders. Among them: former Lotus Development Corp. CEO Jim Manzi, who also had a long career at IBM Corp.
Compelling these investors and Borgerson to pursue the shipping slice of the economy is the simple fact that in this era of globalization 50,000 ships carry 90 percent of the $18.5 trillion in annual world trade.
That’s no secret, of course, but Borgerson and CargoMetrics’ backers maintain that the firm is well ahead of any other investment manager in harnessing such information for a potential big advantage. It’s why Borgerson has kept the firm in stealth mode for years. In its earlier iteration, from 2011 to 2014, CargoMetrics was hidden in a back alley, above a restaurant. Now that he’s running an investment firm, Borgerson declines to name his investors unless, like Manzi and BAAM, they are willing to be identified.
“My vision is to map historically and in real time what’s really going on in economic supply and demand across the planet,” says the U.S. Coast Guard veteran, who prides himself and the CargoMetrics team on not being prototypical Wall Streeters. “The problem is enormous, but the potential reward is huge.”
According to Borgerson, CargoMetrics is building a “learning machine” that will be able to automatically profit from spotting any publicly traded security that is mispriced, using what he refers to as systematic fundamental macro strategies. He calls the firm a new breed of quantitative investment manager. In unguarded moments he sees himself as the Steve Jobs or Elon Musk of portfolio management.
Though his ambitions may sound audacious, one thing is certain: Borgerson doesn’t lack in self-confidence. Over the past six years, he has secretly and painstakingly built a firm heavy in Ph.D.s that can manage a database of hundreds of billions of historical shipping records, conduct trillions of calculations on hundreds of computer servers and systematically execute trades in 28 different commodities and currencies.
For his part, Borgerson seems an unlikely architect of such a serious, ambitious endeavor. Easygoing and fond of joking with his colleagues, he is a hands-off manager who credits CargoMetrics’ investment prowess to his team. His brand of humor comes through even when he’s detailing the series of challenges he had starting the firm. After using the phrase “It was hard” several times, he pauses and adds, “Did I mention it was hard?” Although Borgerson declines to provide any specifics about Cargo­Metrics’ portfolio, citing the advice of his lawyers, performance during the three years of live trading apparently has been strong enough to keep his backers confident and his team of physicists, software engineers and mathematicians in place. “Hopefully, it won’t be too long before we can make a more significant investment,” says BAAM CEO J. Tomilson Hill. Former Lotus CEO Manzi is optimistic about the firm’s prospects: “It has an unbelievable edge with its historical data.”
CargoMetrics was one of the first maritime data analytics companies to seize the potential of the global Automatic Identification System. Ships transmit AIS signals via very high frequency (VHF) radio to receiver devices on other ships or land. Since 2004, large vessels with gross tonnage of 300 or more are required to flash AIS positioning signals every few seconds to avoid collisions. That allows Cargo­Metrics to pay satellite companies for access to the signals gleaned from 500 miles above the water. The firm uses historical data to identify cargo and aggregation of cargo flow, and then applies sophisticated analysis of financial market correlations to identify buying and selling opportunities.
“We’re big-data junkies who could not have founded CargoMetrics without the radical breakthroughs of this golden age of technology,” Borgerson says. The revolution in cloud computing has been instrumental. CargoMetrics leverages the Amazon Web Services platform to run its analytics and algorithms on hundreds of computer servers at a fraction of the cost of owning and maintaining the hardware itself.
At his firm’s headquarters — where the lobby displays a series of colored semaphore signal flags that spell out the mathematical equation for the surface area of the earth —Borgerson leads the way to his server room. It’s the size of a closet; inside, a thick pipe carries all the data traffic and analytic formulas CargoMetrics needs. That computing power alone would have cost $30 million to $40 million, Manzi says.
CargoMetrics is pursuing a modern version of an age-old quest. Think of the Rothschild family’s use in the 19th century of carrier pigeons and couriers on horseback to bring news from the Napoleonic Wars to their traders in London, or, in the 1980s, oil trader Marc Rich’s use of satellite phones and binoculars for relaying oil tanker flow.
Other quant-focused Wall Street firms are latching onto the satellite ship-tracking data. But, Borgerson says, “I would bet my life on a stack of Bibles that no one in the world has the shipping database and analytics we have.” The reason he’s so convinced is that from late 2008 he was an early client of the satellite companies that had begun collecting data received from space and on land to build a large database of all the world’s vessel movements in one place.
That’s what caught Hill’s eye at Blackstone when he learned of Cargo­Metrics a few years ago. BAAM now has a managed account with the firm. “If anyone else tries to replicate what CargoMetrics has, they will be years behind [Borgerson] on data analytics,” Hill says. “We know that a number of hedge fund data scientists want his data.”
But too much reliance on big data can go wrong, say many academicians. “There is a huge amount of hype around big data,” observes Willy Shih, a professor of management practice at Harvard Business School. “Many people are saying, ‘Let the data speak; we don’t need theory or modeling.’ I argue that even with using new, massively parallel computing systems for modeling and simulation, some forces in nature and the economy are still too big and complex for computers to handle.”
Shih’s skepticism doesn’t go as far as to say the data challenge on global trade is too big a puzzle to solve. When informed of the Cargo­Metrics approach, he called it “very valid and creative. They just have to be careful not to throw away efforts to understand causality.”
Another big-data scholar, Massachusetts Institute of Technology professor of electrical engineering and computer science Samuel Madden, also urges caution. “What worries me is that models become trusted but then fail,” he explains. “You have to validate and revalidate.”
Borgerson grew up in Southeast Missouri, in a home on Rural Route 5 between Festus and Hematite. His father was a former Marine infantry officer and police official, and his mother a high school French and Spanish teacher. The family traveled 15 miles to Crystal City to attend Grace Presbyterian Church, which was central to young Borgerson’s upbringing: There he was a youth elder, became an Eagle Scout and received a God and Country Award. The church was across the street from the former home of NBA all-star and U.S. senator Bill Bradley, whose backboard Borgerson used for basketball practice.
When it came to choosing what to do after high school, Borgerson was torn between becoming a Presbyterian minister and accepting an appointment to the U.S. Coast Guard Academy or West Point. He went with the Coast Guard because, he says, “the humanitarian mission really appealed to me, and I had never been on a boat before.”
At the academy, in New London, Connecticut, Borgerson played NCAA tennis and was also a cutup, racking up demerits for such antics as placing a sailboat on the commandant of cadets’ front lawn and leading bar patrons in a rendition of “Semper Paratus,” the school’s theme song. Still, he graduated with honors and spent the next four years piloting a 367-foot cutter — which seized five tons of cocaine in the Caribbean — then captaining a patrol boat that saved 30 lives on search-and-rescue missions. From 2001 to 2003 the Coast Guard sent Borgerson to the Fletcher School at Tufts University to earn his master’s of arts in law and diplomacy. While at Tufts he volunteered at a Boston homeless shelter for military veterans and founded a Pet Pals therapy program for senior citizens.
Following graduation, from 2003 to 2006, Borgerson taught U.S. history, foreign policy, political geography and maritime studies at the Coast Guard Academy, and co-founded its Institute for Leadership. While there he would get up at 4:00 each morning to work on his Ph.D. thesis exploring U.S. port cities’ approaches to foreign policy. He would also travel to Boston to complete his course work at Tufts and meet with his adviser, John Curtis Perry.
Borgerson’s military allegiance runs deep. One weekend last fall he played football in a service academy alumni game. On another he attended the Army-Navy game. Still militarily fit at age 40, the 6-foot-5 Borgerson works out regularly at an inner-city gym aimed at helping youths find an alternative to gang violence; a few weeks ago he was there boxing with ex-convicts and lifting weights.
Leaving the Coast Guard was a hard decision for Borgerson, resulting in part from his frustration with the military bureaucracy’s stymieing of his bid to get back to sea for security missions. With his degrees in hand, he applied for a fellowship at the Council on Foreign Relations. During the application process he met Edward Morse, now global head of commodities research at Citigroup. Morse was on the CFR selection committee in 2007 and recommended Borgerson as a fellow.
Morse introduced Borgerson to commodities, and to trading terms like “contango” and “backwardation.” Morse himself had, earlier in career, gotten the jump on official oil supply data by hiring planes to take photos of the lid heights of oil tanks in Oklahoma’s Cushing field.
Working for the CFR in New York reconnected Borgerson with his Missouri roots. Bill Bradley’s aunt called the former senator to say: “The son of a family who went to our church in Crystal City is in New York. Would you welcome him?” Bradley did — and would later play a part in Borgerson’s career development.
While at the CFR, Borgerson became an expert on the melting of the North Pole ice cap, writing numerous published articles on its implications; this led him to co-found, with the president of Iceland, the Arctic Circle, a nonprofit designed to encourage discussion of the future of that region. Borgerson recently spoke to 50 international generals and admirals about the Arctic and is co-drafting a proposal for a treaty between the U.S. and Canada that would help resolve the differences the two countries have in allowing international ship and aircraft travel through the Northwest Passage.
His Arctic research led to an aha moment early in 2008, while he was still with the CFR, on a visit to Singapore and the Strait of Malacca with his Fletcher School classmate Rockford Weitz and their former Ph.D. adviser, Perry. Seeing the mass of ships sailing through the strait, Borgerson and Weitz decided to build a data analytics firm using satellite tracking of ships.
Like many successful entrepreneurs, the two struggled to find financing before reaching out to a network of friends and their contacts. One was Randy Beardsworth, who had sat with Borgerson at a 2007 Coast Guard Academy dinner, where Beards­worth, then the Coast Guard’s chief of law enforcement in Miami, was the guest speaker. Borgerson “made references to history and literature, and I thought, ‘Here is a sharp guy,’” recalls Beards­worth. “We have been friends ever since.”
But Borgerson didn’t turn to his new friend in his initial fund-raising. “He came to me in 2009, after he had been turned down by 17 VCs, was maxed out on his credit card, was married and had a newborn son,” says Beardsworth, who was reviewing the Department of Homeland Security as part of the Obama administration’s transition team. Beardsworth came to the rescue, not only committing to invest a small amount but introducing his friend to Doug Doan. A West Point graduate and Washington-­based angel investor, Doan took to Borgerson right away. “To be honest, it wasn’t his idea, it was Scott I invested in,” says Doan, who provided $100,000 in capital and introduced Borgerson to a few friends, who added $75,000. Manzi came on board as an investor in 2009, having been asked by Bradley to check out Borgerson’s plan for a data metrics firm. (Manzi knew Bradley from the late 1990s, when the latter was considering a run for U.S. president.)
With Doan, Doan’s friends and Manzi as investors, CargoMetrics was finally able to garner its first venture capital commitment in early 2010, from Boston-based Ascent Venture Partners. That gave the start-up the capital it needed to hire a bevy of data scientists to build an analytics platform that it could sell to commodity-trading houses and other commercial users. In 2011, CargoMetrics added Summerhill Venture Partners, a Toronto-based firm with a Boston office, to its investor roster, raising roughly $18 million from venture capital and angels for its data business.
By then Borgerson had already begun to contemplate converting CargoMetrics from an information provider into a money manager; he saw the potential to extract powerful trade signals from its technology rather than share it with other market participants for a fee. Among those he consulted was serial entrepreneur Peter Platzer, a friend of one of CargoMetrics’ original investors. Platzer, a physicist by training, had spent eight years as a quantitative hedge fund manager at Rohatyn Group and Deutsche Bank before co-founding Spire Global, a San Francisco–­based company that uses its own fleet of low-orbit satellites to track shipping, in 2012. “We had lengthy conversations on how to set up quant trading systems and how [commodities giant] Cargill had made a similar decision to set up its own in-house hedge fund to trade on the information it was gathering,” recalls Platzer. So Borgerson reset his course. Doan describes the decision as a “transformative moment” for the CargoMetrics co-founder. “The military trains you to be a strategic thinker,” Doan explains. “Scott had been tactical until then, making small pivots, and like a general who sees the theater of war, he moved into strategic mode.”
Borgerson’s ambition to succeed was in no small part fueled by the early turndowns by many venture capital firms and a fierce determination to best the Wall Street bunch at their own game. “There’s a lot that motivates me, including — if I’m honest — I have a big chip on my shoulder to beat the prep school, Ivy League, MBA crowd,” he says. “They’re bred to make money, but they’re not smarter than everyone else; they just have more patina and connections.” (Bred differently, he spent last Thanksgiving visiting his parents in rural Missouri. After breakfast he and his father were in the woods, shooting assault guns at posters of terrorists, with Gunny, his father’s Anatolian shepherd dog.)
Borgerson’s plan was not met with enthusiasm from the company’s then co-CEO, Weitz. CargoMetrics had been gaining clients and meeting its goals, and was on its way to becoming a successful data service provider. Weitz, who now is president of the Gloucester, Massachusetts–based Institute for Global Maritime Studies and an entrepreneur coach at Tufts’ Fletcher School, did not return e-mails or phone calls asking for comment. For his part, Borgerson says: “A ship cannot have two captains. The company simply matured and evolved into a streamlined management structure with one CEO instead of two.”
Eventually, Doan went along with Borgerson’s plan. “We believe in Scott and that shipping holds the no-shit, honest truth of what the economy is doing,” he says. But buying out the venture capital firms several years ahead of the usual exit time would require a hefty premium over what they had invested.
Once again Borgerson’s early supporters played a key role. Manzi, a fellow Fletcher School grad who had mentored Borgerson since the company’s early days, put up more money (making CargoMetrics one of his single largest investments) and introduced him to a powerful group of wealthy investors. Separately, the CFR’s Morse suggested that Borgerson meet with Daniel Freifeld, founder of Washington-based Callaway Capital Management and a former senior adviser on Eurasian energy at the U.S. Department of State. Impressed by Borgerson’s “intellectual honesty, vigor and more than four years of historical data,” Freifeld brought the idea to a billionaire third-party investor, who took his advice and became one of CargoMetrics’ largest backers. “I would not have suggested the investment if CargoMetrics had not done the hard part first,” adds Freifeld, declining to name the investor.
A chance encounter in the fall of 2012 gave the CargoMetrics team its first taste of real Wall Street trading. Attending an Arctic Imperative conference in Alaska, Borgerson met the CIO of a large investment firm, whom he declines to name. When Borgerson confided his ambition and that CargoMetrics had developed algorithms to trade on its shipping data once it was legally structured to do so, the CIO suggested CargoMetrics provide the analytical models for a separate portfolio the money manager would trade. Live trading using CargoMetrics’ models began in December 2012. Manzi brought in longtime banker Gerald Rosenfeld in 2013 to craft and negotiate the move to make CargoMetrics a limited liability investment firm. Rosenfeld acted in a personal role rather than in his position as vice chairman of Lazard and full-time professor and trustee of the New York University School of Law. The whole process took a year and a half. During that time Blackstone checked in as an investor.
Bradley, now an investment banker, has yet to invest in CargoMetrics, explaining that he is unfamiliar with quantitative investing. But he may eventually invest in Borgerson’s firm, he says, because “we are homeboys. I believe in him and that things are going to work out ” — pausing to add with a smile, “based on my vast quant experience, of course.”
Borgerson has been in stealth mode since CargoMetrics’ early days, when he moved the firm from an innovation lab near MIT because the shared space was too open. He is much more forthcoming when boasting of the firm’s “world-class talent.” The team includes astrophysicists, mathematicians, former hedge fund quants, electrical engineers, a trade lawyer and software developers. Hoogerwerf, who has a Ph.D. in astrophysics from the Netherlands’ Leiden University, built distributed technical environments for scientists and engineers at Microsoft Corp. Solomon Todesse, who works on quant investment strategies, was head of asset allocation at State Street Global Advisors. Aquil Abdullah, a team leader in the engineering group, was a software engineer in the high-performance-computing group at Microsoft. And senior investment strategist Charles Freifeld (Daniel’s father) has 40 years’ experience in futures and commodities markets, including nine with Boston-based commodity trading adviser firm AlphaMetrics Capital Management.
“All were self-made people; none were born with a silver spoon,” Borgerson notes. One of his blue-collar-­background hires was James (Jess) Scully, who joined as chief operating officer in 2011, after his employer Interactive Supercomputing was acquired by Microsoft.
“The team we built treasures team success, which is Scott’s motto,” Scully says. “We want shared resources, one P&L, not ‘How much money did my unit make?’” Both Scully and Borgerson say Cargo­Metrics is like the Golden State Warriors, a leading NBA basketball team known for putting aside personal glory and playing as a band of brothers having fun.
Borgerson says he fosters a no-ego policy with “lots of play because investment teams are built on trust, and playing together builds trust.” Team building at CargoMetrics includes pub crawls, picnics at Borgerson’s house, poker nights, volunteer work in a soup kitchen for the homeless, Red Sox games and visits to museums.
Trips to the Boston docks or Coast Guard base are intended to remind the CargoMetrics team of the real economy. There are also occasional “touch a tanker” days. On one visit to a tanker, everyone was amazed that the ship was the size of a city building, Borgerson says. “They could smell the salt on the deck,” he recalls. “Wall Street can lose sight of the real fundamentals in the world. I don’t want that to happen here.”
Unlike the Rothschilds 200 years ago, only a small percentage of the trades that CargoMetrics makes relate to beating official government data. Most simply are aimed at identifying mispricings in the market, using the firm’s real-time shipping data and proprietary algorithms.
At a whiteboard in his conference room, Borgerson sketches out CargoMetrics’ general formula. He draws a “maritime matrix” of three dynamic data sets: geography (Malacca, Brazil, Australia, China, Europe and the U.S.), metrics (ship counts, cargo mass and volume, ship speed and port congestion) and tradable factors (Brent crude versus WTI, as well as mining equities, commodity macro and Asian economic activity). Using satellite data with hundreds of millions of ship positions, CargoMetrics makes trillions of calculations to determine individual cargoes onboard the ships and then to aggregate the cargo flows and compare them with historical shipping data. All that leads to the final comparisons with historical financial market data to find mispricings. If CargoMetrics observes an appreciable decline in export shipping activity in South Africa, for example, its trading models will determine whether that is a significant early-warning sign by considering that information alongside other factors, such as interest rates. If Cargo­Metrics believes a decline in the rand is forthcoming, it might short it against a basket of other currencies. “This is like a heat map showing opportunity,” Borgerson says, noting that CargoMetrics is not trading physical commodities. “We are agnostic on whether to be long or short, and let the computers spot where there is a mispricing and liquidity in the markets.” He sums up his simple, but still less than revealing, process by writing on the whiteboard “Collect, Compute, Trade.”
Borgerson says CargoMetrics is building a systematic approach that will work even when cargo cannot be identified — on containerships, for instance. It already knows a large percentage of the daily imports and exports into and out of China and island economies such as Japan and Australia. And although the firm cannot glean from its calculations on satellite AIS data the type of cargo, such as iPhones from China, it can measure total flow, which shows present economic activity. Cargo­Metrics’ data scientists are working on linking such activity to the firm’s data set of the past seven years to measure the evolving global economy. That will lead, Borgerson maintains, to more trades on currencies and equity index futures and, eventually, trades on individual equities. “Uncorrelated” is a mantra of Borgerson and his team. Well aware that correlated assets sent the performance of most asset managers, including hedge funds, plunging in the financial crisis, CargoMetrics is determined to come up with an antidote. Careful not to say too much, Borgerson lays out the simple principle that the process starts with placing many bets among uncorrelated strategies in different asset classes, like commodities, currencies and equities.
The goal is diversification, staying as market neutral as possible and remaining sensitive to tail risk in different scenarios. CargoMetrics’ analytic models help find asset classes that are outliers. Those may include a publicly traded instrument such as oil, another commodity or an equity for which shipping information was a leading indicator during times when other asset classes marched in lockstep. The historical ship data is then blended with this new information to seek opportunities. Identifying mispriced spreads among different trades within an asset class is another way of avoiding the calamity of correlation. Borgerson says the firm’s models will find instances where one type of oil should be a short trade and another a long one. The same goes for whole asset classes — shorting one that will benefit if virtually all asset prices plunge and buying another that will rise when oil prices gain. “We’re counting cards with the goal of being right maybe 3 percent more than we are wrong, as a way of making profits during good times and staying afloat during times of sudden, unpredictable but far-reaching events,” Borgerson says. The key, he adds, “is to know your edge and spread your risk.” CargoMetrics’ uncorrelated approach worked during the dismal first three weeks of this year, says Borgerson. Dialing down risk as volatility in the markets soared, the firm was on track in January to have its best month since it began trading.
To improve the firm’s models, eight of its data scientists hold a weekly strategy meeting, nicknamed “the Shackleton Group” after the band of sailors shipwrecked in the Antarctic from 1914 to 1917. Hoogerwerf and Ramos co-lead the group. At one recent meeting they were deciding how much risk, including how much liquidity, there was in a possible strategy; reviewing whether to keep previous strategies; and assigning who would research new ones.
The Shackleton Group’s meetings are free-form, with a lot of “I’ve got an idea” interjections that disregard official roles. “We hit the restart button a lot,” says Ramos, a former director of business intelligence and a quantitative economist at law firm Dewey & LeBoeuf who joined CargoMetrics in late 2010. “That’s why our motto is ‘Never lose hope.’” A bet on oil, related to Russia’s production, was stopped at the last minute in 2014, when Russia invaded Ukraine. Some currency-trading strategies have been abandoned in theory or after failing. Strategies the Shackleton Group likes are passed on to the firm’s investment committee of Borgerson, Scully and Ramos for a final decision. CargoMetrics has a unique set of big-data challenges. Historical shipping patterns may not be as useful in the new global economy now that shipping freight prices are plunging, a sign that trade growth rates may be changing. And analysts point out how hard identifying oil cargo can be in certain locations and instances, even in more-­predictable economic times. “While it may be easy to say that ships leaving the Middle East Gulf are typically carrying crude oil, knowing the type of crude is sometimes quite difficult,” says Paulo Nery, senior director of Europe, Middle East and Asia oil for Genscape, a Louisville, Kentucky–based company that analyzes satellite tracking of ships. Borgerson maintains his team is well aware of the dangers of data mining and getting swamped by noise. “If you run computers hard enough, you can convince yourself of anything,” he says. To make sure CargoMetrics’ algorithms for identifying cargo are valid, the firm spot-checks manifest data filed at ports and imposes statistical confidence checks to guard against spurious correlations.
Getting the jump on official government statistics is likely to become tougher too thanks to the recently formed High-Level Group for the Modernization of Official Statistics. Although the U.S. is not a member, Canada is a key player helping to lead the mostly European nation group (including South Korea) in coming up with a global blueprint for measuring and reporting economic activity.
Reflecting on his journey to Wall Street — raising money, hiring employees with different skill sets, making changes to Cargo­Metrics’ culture, overcoming legal and regulatory hurdles — almost gives Borgerson second thoughts about whether he would do it again. “I’ve sailed ships through tropical storms, captured cocaine smugglers and testified before Congress [on his Arctic research],” he says, “but this was the hardest.”
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what are each color of poker chips worth video

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25,000 Chips and Higher. Tournament poker chips at 25,000 and higher vary widely from casino to casino. Even the WSOP uses vastly different colors for high-denomination tournament chips across its multiple chipsets. The WSOP Main Event chipset uses forest green for 25,000 chips, and lavender for 100,000 chips. For 500,000 and above, bigger chips are used. These chips are often referred to as “mini-frisbees” by WSOP announcer Lon McEachern due to their larger physical size. There will be so many chips that you will have to “color up” the lower denomination chips at some point during the tournament. So, you will need to have higher denomination chips than the initial starting poker chips.Let’s look at an example set up:Total players: 20Starting blinds: 25/50Starting stack: 5000 (100 BB)Number of poker chips to start with: 21Initial chips that each player has These poker chips are very versatile because they can be used for different currencies and values. For instance, you could use it for Euros instead of Dollars, or use the 100 chip to mean 100 pennies, the possibilities are many. In summary, any color can be used for any value on poker chips without denominations but if you would like a guideline on what colors to use for what values, use the These are followed by casinos and poker rooms throughout the world. Standard poker chip values. Here is a 'Poker chip colors and values' Chart: White chip: 1 unit or $1. Red chip: 5 units or $5 A complete basic set of poker chips used in private poker games or other gambling games is usually comprised of white, red, blue, green, and black chips. Larger, high-stakes tournaments may use chipsets with many more colors. How much are each color poker chips worth? The value of each chip differs from casino to casino, as there is no officially regulated standard that exists. There is a loose standard, with four to five basic colors that many casinos follow, but for security reasons many casinos employ their own patterns and colors. You can sidestep the confusion For a cash game, working this out is much easier. A simple $1-2 No Limit Hold’em game with six to eight players should be fairly easy. One might decide to make white chips worth $1 and red chips worth $2. A player buying in for $100 might receive: Chips used for poker are among the most iconic parts of gambling overall. One complete basic set of poker chips usually consists of red, white, blue, green, and black chips. In addition, other larger high stakes tournaments also use other chipsets with more colors. Poker chips are available in different colors, with each color being equivalent to a certain amount of money. At one-time, instead of poker chips, games were played with gold nuggets, coins, and all sorts of materials. It wasn't until 1930 that venues wherein poker games were hosted began to require that individuals play with poker chips. They were generally made out of metal, clay, plastic Common chip colors are red, white, black, blue and green, and most poker sets will keep to this simple color scheme. Ultimately it doesn't matter what value each color represents; it won't have any effect on the game. Choose whichever makes sense for you, whether that be copying your local Casino, or the ones in Las Vegas.

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Poker Ranges Explained - YouTube

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what are each color of poker chips worth

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