Wat’s Carbon Water-N-Stuff Thread - Concepts In Iron And Wood!!!

[Wat_Tyler]

Maybe it is (past) time for the taxpayers to go on strike:


In ancient Rome, the Secessions of the Plebeians were dramatic collective walkouts in which commoners abandoned the city entirely to protest political inequality. These weren’t spontaneous riots but organized withdrawals, meant to show how essential plebeian labor and military service were to the state’s survival. By leaving en masse, they created an immediate crisis: no workers, no soldiers, no functioning city.

The plebeians used this tactic because they had little formal power within the early Republic. The patrician elite controlled most political offices, religious authority, and legal interpretation. When negotiations failed or abuses became intolerable, such as crushing debt, unfair laws, or lack of representation, the plebeians would retreat to a nearby hill, refusing to return until their demands were addressed. Their absence exposed how dependent Rome truly was on the people it marginalized.

These secessions worked. Each one forced concessions from the elite, including the creation of the Tribune of the Plebs, written laws, and greater political rights. What looks like a mass exodus was actually a sophisticated form of nonviolent pressure, an early example of collective bargaining on a civic scale, reshaping Roman politics for centuries.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Rebel5soul]

Formerly.

Clean it up and I'll build something on the action.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Clean it up and I'll build something on the action.

I suspect that the metal is entirely too pitted from rust to be remotely trustworthy under that kind of pressure. I sure as fuck wouldn't trust it.

 

[HumpDayHoratio]

 

[Rebel5soul]

I suspect that the metal is entirely too pitted from rust to be remotely trustworthy under that kind of pressure. I sure as fuck wouldn't trust it.

You don't know until you clean it up.

 

[HisArpy]

I suspect that the metal is entirely too pitted from rust to be remotely trustworthy under that kind of pressure. I sure as fuck wouldn't trust it.

I suspect that it wasn't found in a swamp as is, but rather had a bucket full of mud dumped on it for the photo shoot. Anyone who has carried a rifle in the field knows that dirt, grit, and mud get everywhere and you can't keep it out. Yet the elevation knobs are clean with perfectly readable markings and the bolt slideways look to be in the same condition. Note too that the mud is still damp yet the shooter's "uniform" is immaculate.

There's probably a steam cleaner and bathtub full of oil strategically placed somewhere out of frame for when the shoot is finished.


As a note, anyone who has looked at those "gun restoration:" videos should be familiar with the strange and unvaryingly uniform orange hue of the "rust" that's all over them. Rust isn't that color and wood/plastic certainly don't corrode like metal yet the same rust is on those parts too. This should indicate to most that it's all staged for clicks/youboob bux and not real.

They've even gone as far as coating entire cars made of aluminum/composites, including the tires, with the same "rust" so they can claim them as barn finds then do the "restoration."

 

[Wat_Tyler]

All I know is, rust is as bad as anyone thinks it is. I have played with a lot of of it.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Stuff which is guaranteed to baffle Lit libturds:

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Rebel5soul]

 

[Rebel5soul]

 

[Rebel5soul]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

View attachment 2585033

Maybe more like over 400,000,000 legally owned firearms, and maybe more. If we were the problem, there wouldn't be anyone to complain that we are the problem.


Just a thought . . . .

 

[Rebel5soul]

 

[Rebel5soul]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Do not overrate what you have received, nor envy others. He who envies others does not obtain peace of mind.

~ unknown



The truth knocks on the door and you say, "Go away, I'm looking for the truth," and so it goes away. Puzzling.

~ Robert M. Pirsig



The way out is through the door. Why is it that no one will use this method?

~ Confucius



I thought I could change the world. It took me a hundred years to figure out I can't change the world. I can only change Bessie. And honey, that ain't easy either.

~ Bessie Delany

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

What would you do? And could you live with it afterward?


Same damned thing, and Allah damned right. And we know that Lit Libturd weasels would sit in the dust hugging their knees and rocking and bemoaning the Cold Cruelty that is Life sometimes.


Frontier legend — inspired by the realities of the Arizona Territory.
Arizona Territory, 1883.
The sky was still black when the gunshot came.
Catherine “Cat” Dawson had been stacking hay in the loft, dust in her hair, when she heard it—one sharp crack that cut the night in half. She knew that sound. Everyone on the frontier did.
She looked down and saw her brother James, twenty-two and strong as desert ironwood, standing in the corral with his hands raised. He was talking. Reasoning. Buying time the way decent men always believe they can.
The rustlers listened.
Six of them. Faces wrapped. One with a scar splitting his left eyebrow like a bad promise.
The scarred man lifted his pistol and fired without changing expression.
James fell straight back into the dirt.
Cat didn’t scream. She didn’t move. She watched as the men drove off two hundred head of cattle, laughing, hooves pounding the ground that had fed the Dawsons for fifteen hard years. She watched her father kneel in the dust, cradling his son, making a sound no parent should ever make.
Out here, the law was a rumor.
The territorial marshal was three days away and famously useless. By the time he rode out, the killers would be gone—Mexico, the Chihuahuan Desert, swallowed by distance and indifference.
Justice, on the frontier, was something you made yourself.
Before Dawn
Cat saddled her Appaloosa before the sun rose.
She packed jerky and hardtack. Filled two canteens. Loaded her father’s Winchester—the rifle she’d learned to shoot at eight years old, picking off rattlesnakes and playing cards nailed to fence posts. She could hit what she aimed at. Her father had made sure of that.
He found her as she mounted.
He saw the rifle. The bedroll. The set of her jaw.
He opened his mouth to forbid it.
Then he closed it.
Whatever lived in her eyes made him step back.
“Four days,” he said. “You’re not back in four days, I’m coming after you.”
Cat nodded once.
Then she rode into the dark.
Four Days of Desert
Tracking men through desert country isn’t about speed. It’s about attention.
Cat followed broken creosote branches, disturbed sand, the way dust settles differently after hooves pass. Apache traders who sometimes stopped at the ranch had taught her what to look for—lessons meant for survival, not vengeance.
Day one was pure determination.
Day two brought thirst and doubt.
Day three was grief.
She cried while riding, then wiped her face and kept moving—because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant breaking.
On the fourth morning, she found them.
A box canyon north of the Dragoon Mountains. Rock walls on three sides. One narrow exit. Six men. Three asleep. Two cooking. One tending horses.
The scarred leader stayed alert.
Cat watched from the ridge above, counting rifles, measuring distances, waiting.
She waited until the sun rose directly behind her.
Then she fired.
Justice, the Frontier Way
The first shot dropped the man tending horses. Strategy before rage. No pursuit.
Chaos exploded.
Men shouted. Scrambled. Fired blindly into glare. Cat moved along the ridge, changed position, fired again. The cook fell. Then another—stumbling half-awake, dying before understanding what was happening.
Three left.
They returned fire, bullets chipping rock near her boots. Cat waited. Patience was a weapon too.
She wounded one in the shoulder, then finished him when he tried to run.
Two remained.
They broke for their horses. Cat shot one mount instead of the rider. The man fled on foot into a desert that kills slowly.
The leader made it to his horse.
Cat had one shot.
She thought of James’s smile that morning. His plans. The life that would never happen.
She fired.
He fell hard. Gut-shot. Alive.
Cat climbed down, rifle steady. He recognized her then.
“You’re the girl,” he rasped. “From the ranch.”
“I’m James Dawson’s sister.”
He reached for his pistol. She kicked it away.
“Please,” he said.
Cat considered mercy. Considered that he hadn’t. Considered what justice meant where law never arrived in time.
She didn’t shoot him again.
She took his gun. His knife. His water.
And left him with the desert.
Some punishments don’t need bullets.
After
Three days later, Cat rode home with every head of cattle.
Blood had dried dark on her shirt. Dust coated her boots. Her eyes were different—older, carrying weight no seventeen-year-old should hold.
The marshal arrived a week later. Asked questions. Heard nothing.
The territory developed a sudden, complete amnesia.
No charges. No investigation.
Cat never spoke of the four days.
She worked the ranch. Broke horses with hands still gentle. Married later. Raised daughters who learned to shoot, ride, and track.
When one asked why, Cat answered simply:
“Because the world doesn’t always protect you. Sometimes you protect yourself.”
She died in 1932, sixty-six years old. Her obituary mentioned horses and community work. Not the summer of 1883.
But old men at her funeral knew. One was heard to murmur:
“She rode out alone at seventeen.
Brought justice back with her.”
History remembers outlaws and lawmen.
It rarely remembers the girl who loved her brother enough to become what she had to become—and spent the rest of her life living with it.
The question isn’t whether Cat Dawson was right or wrong.
The question is this:
If the law was four days away,
and justice was a choice only you could make—

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Vengeance can take many forms. Here is a tale of one of them from relatively recent history, but even WW2 is dimming as those who were alive to remember it are dying like flies.


While the vast majority of the German soldiers were home by 1950, the Soviets retained the high ranking officers. They referred to them as special prisoners. Some were kept for what they knew, others they sent to labor camps, convicted of war crimes. Life was hard. I always think of General Helmuth Weidling, who gave up Berlin to the Russians. He spent ten years in prison and died at prison in 1955. He was close to being released, but he never again saw his home.

The major change came in 1955. West German leader Konrad Adenauer went to Moscow to negotiate peace. He negotiated for the release of the Last Ten Thousand prisoners who included the surviving generals to be brought home.

When they finally got off the trains in 1956, they were gone for eleven years. Most were old men. They came back to a Germany divided by the Cold War. Some went to the West to live quietly, but a few remained behind in the East and helped the Soviets to establish the new East German military. It is a bizarre, melancholy section of history.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[Wat_Tyler]

We need to lay in stores.


By the way, which day is the internet being shut down?