Carrite wrote:Nah, that's arcane history at this point. That ship has sailed.
Bullshit. It's because you're scared, she's above your pay grade, you can't be bothering the likes of her with silly questions like what the fuck was this bullshit you wrote in your capacity as my elected representative in the autonomous self-government of en.wiki
What a useless sack of shit you're turning out to be Timmy. Failing to meet some already pretty low expectations.
Carrite wrote:The bottom line is this: Eric quit working on WP and the scale tipped against him fairly rapidly, because as an obnoxious fuckwit with a thin skin and a belligerent personality, weight kept getting stacked on the other side of the fulcrum. Every red flag was up, Arbcom was clearly locked and loaded, but Eric blundered forward instead of slinking off into the bush.
Really? You're gonna come here telling me what time it is? Me
? You know you can't pull that shit.
Eric's situation was as complicated as ever. He had become less active, but he was erratic, like a drunk in recovery. He couldn't seem to decide what he wanted to fuck with. He had quit, and come back, and quit and come back again.
There was no scale, there never has been a scale. It's only you and your girl who won't take your calls who have even been talking about his reduced output recently like it was relevant. Everyone else knows the score, Eric gained full immunity years ago, thanks primarily to NewYorkBrad. He knew he never had to lift a shovel again, they'd always have his back. Lifetime immunity. He barely cracked a hundred edits in the winter of 15-16, presumably because of the ass-cancer. Last article creation was March '18.
All that significantly changed these last couple of years, was his overt belligerence and taunting of the guards, and his willingness to push the envelope of his sanctions, to poke here, prod there, see what would happen, see how much disruption they really allowed him to cause, once he had wrapped his head around the fact they could be used and abused as three separate allowances, because that's what appeasers like Brad wanted. A special framework for a special little boy.
All this was done under the overall shadow of a man who was clearly sick of his situation, and basically just wanted out, but couldn't think how. He wanted martrydom, but after people kept refusing to rise to his bait, he realized that was probably out of reach. He knew a block was coming eventually, but he didn't really want to make it easy for anyone. Although I'm sure even he looks back now and can't quite believe what he was allowed to get away with.
No scales at all, no active monitoring of any kind. If anything, he was becoming an institution. Oh, what's that over there, gnawing the table leg? Oh, don't mind him, that's just Eric. Isn't he dangerous? Well, yeah, but we have this rule. You go near him, it's on you. See the sign? Where? Up there. Where? Right there! *squints* Oh yeah. "Beware. Bear."
No red flags, just institutional acceptance of the manchildbear that lived among the villagers. His fate was in his own hands. He could eat them, he could fuck them, he could do anything he wanted.
The only threat was the brave German gamekeeper, who was known to come around the village now and again, doing his civic duty. They'd done their best to scare him away, they spat at him, hurled racial slurs, told him he wasn't wanted, wasn't one of them, all that nasty shit. But he was not for turning.
ArbCom weren't gonna do shit, wasn't nobody on that Committee for years who really wanted any part of the Bear Management problem that Brad and Co. had shat into their laps, didn't want to hear a damn word about what he's been eating, where he's been shitting.
The German, he persisted. Made it clear that not only was he not going anywhere, but because he had seen the city folk despatch a grizzly over yonder this Summer, he knew he now had options. If the village council didn't want to back him, and were too chicken shit to sack him, he knew he could now call the city folk to get some of that serious hardware.
Even then, ArbCom really weren't gonna do shit except have one of their legendary three month gab fests about whether Bears are people too, and whether they should give their strategy of hopes and prayers just one more try.
The Bear, he knew what time it was. He knew the outcome of the hearing would not be what he wanted, no sweet release of death, nor a glorious charge into a hail of bullets, but something far worse. He would probably be moved to a small enclosure near the center of town, only allowed to occasionally feed on children scared toward him by the sheer ugliness of the village idiot, some half breed who goes by the name Davenport.
He didn't want that, so with all the mammalian intelligence he could muster, he finally figured out how to both aim the shotgun at his head, and pull the trigger with his bearclaw.
Everybody wins. The only losers are the sickos who liked having a half-tame bear around the village, as some kind of weird mascot, a reminder of olden times, when men were men, and women shut the fuck up and stopped their whinin' about all the Bears eatin' their younguns, for they could just keep popping' out more, like what they were made for.