“Come any closer and I’ll shoot, don’t fucking tempt me. Daddypool over here could use a couple ‘a headshots.”
Even with the mask on, Peter knew Wade well enough to know that the other man had no intention of being cruel, his hard exterior little more than a front - a means of protection from those who stared at him with disdain.
To them, the jaded crowd of pedestrians, the ex-mercenary was inhuman; an otherworldly beast, present only to plague their collective existences. They didn’t see behind the bloodied mask, but when they could, they would muster nothing more than disgust, aiming it at the man like a barbed spear.
The irony was nothing short of painful- they saw him as a bloodthirsty murderer, but the only weapons drawing blood were those of which they so proudly held.
Equipped in full suit, katanas and all, Wade could only stand and watch as they circled him. They were no angry mob, brandishing not much more than cellphones and cameras, but they scowled at him with contempt and nothing less. They only came so close, retaining a couple of meters of distance, because at the end of the day, he’d end any of them if they stepped to close.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t affected by their resentment.
Peter stood to Wade’s left, the silver webbing along his suit glinting in the sunlight. The gunman him and Wade had just downed was curled at their feet, mouth bound by a gag and arms webbed to the pavement. He’d attempted to open fire three blocks down from Times Square, and if it hadn’t been for Wade spotting the poorly-concealed semi-automatic on his person, they wouldn’t have been able to stop him in time.
And that, unfortunately, was what the general public just couldn’t see- the side of Wade Wilson that was genuinely trying to change, to make a name for himself that didn’t just involve senseless contract killing. It was Deadpool that had potentially saved hundreds of lives, who had been on the ground and incapacitating the offender before Spiderman had even realized what was happening.
The truth of the matter was that these days, Deadpool did nearly as much good as Peter. He was out on patrols daily, covering for Peter when he had to put in extra hours at the Bugle, but regardless, his previous reputation stained every life he saved and innocent he protected like wine, insidiously seeping into each one of his actions and marring his perceived intentions.
Years prior, the media had a field day when they’d initially broke the story of the Spiderman-Deadpool partnership, taking the opportunity to make absurd claims about Spiderman’s ‘switch to the dark side’, and how they had been right all along about the hero’s intentions. There hadn’t been a paper in the greater New York area that wasn’t plastered with obscene rumours about the two of them. And yet, not one paper commented on Deadpool’s informal resignation from mercenary work, or the unofficial Avengers membership status granted by Stark himself.
Instead, the papers chose to continuously frame him as a killer- unchanging, unrelenting, and insane. They chose to ignore the dozens of lives he saved daily, chose to accuse Spiderman of endangering the city by inviting the mercenary to stay. The truth of the matter was that Wade had been working towards change, towards using his powers in a more socially responsible manner even though it meant going against his every instinct.
Peter could see the effort, could see how fucking hard the other man was trying in every way possible to be better. Wade tried, and though there were slip ups, and the occasional accidental murder, he was usually successful in refraining from maiming or permanently injuring enemies, instead opting to disarm them for the police to deal with.
And yet, regardless of his effort, of his blatant character change, the public still stared at him like some sort of freak, some sort of villain. Even standing next to their beloved Spiderman and the mass-murderer he’d just taken down, their loaded gazes firing loathing, disgust, hatred.
“C’mon, ‘Pool,” Peter muttered, motioning towards the sidewalk, “Police are gonna be here soon, they’ll take care of this guy. Lets head out for food or something, huh?”
It was a struggle to keep his voice gentle, the unadulterated judgement emanating from the crowd of pedestrians provoking the anger expanding against his ribs. He once looked at Wade like that- when they had first met, when he hadn’t yet gotten to know the tender person beneath the leather costume. Part of him resented himself for ever thinking such a thing about Wade, and the other part just wanted to slap some sense into the deluded onlookers, make them see what he saw in the older man.
Wade nodded, eyes trained defensively on their audience, before following Peter out of the commotion. The two of them were watched by wary eyes as they paced the streets, but there were no comments, no brave soul willing to approach.
No one wanted to bother Spiderman if Deadpool was around. It was both a blessing and a curse.
They stopped at some tiny pizza joint sandwiched between a dry cleaner’s and a convenience store, grabbing a box to go and bailing as soon as possible, knowing that shopkeepers didn’t exactly enjoy having mercenaries (ex or not) as customers.
The two men only travelled a couple of paces further before scaling an apartment complex, because unless they were unfairly high up, eating in peace as Deadpool and Spiderman wouldn’t go without garnering some sort of negative attention.
Peter reached the top of the building first, tossing the pizza box onto an air conditioning unit as he waited for Wade, who threw his body over the roofs edge with little reserve. He pulled himself to his feet, adjusted one of his swords, and sauntered over to where Peter had settled. Wade left a few meters of space between them, and the distance was beyond uncomfortable for Peter, who was more than accustomed to Wade’s penchant for being as close as he could possibly get away with.
Muscles still rigid from before, the ex-merc hardly reacted as Peter yanked his mask off, pitching it to the side and grabbing a slice of pizza. It was unusual, Wade not reacting in some capacity when the mask finally came off. At the very least, there should’ve been a whistle, a wink- something. The dead silence didn’t sit well, caused his stomach to stir.
He took a bite, dark eyes watching as Wade continued to stand still. “Hey man, take a slice. There’s no way you’re not starving after all that.”
Only four storeys up, the wind wasn’t substantially stronger than it had been when they were level. But Wade’s continued wordless demeanour cut right through him, sent chills up his spine.
When the other man finally opened his mouth, his voice was hard, vulnerable in a way Peter hadn’t ever heard before.
“What’s the point, Pete?”
The sun was beginning to set, casting a pale orange hue over the maroon planes of Wade’s suit. He stood with his back straight, chest puffed, a sign of external pride and confidence even though Peter knew that he was feeling neither of those things internally. For Wade, it was all about appearance, what others thought of him- more specifically, what others hated about him. He fed off of the negativity, took every bad thing said about him and convinced himself it was true. He truly, truly believed he was a monster- an irredeemable creature that was better off with a bullet through the skull.
It broke Peter’s heart.
“If I’m killin’ the people they pay me to kill, they call me a maniac. If I’m savin’ their sorry asses, they call me disgusting. If I’m on my own, they think I’m about to shoot ‘em up or something. And if I’m with you, they’re convinced that I’ve brainwashed you or hurt you or turned ya evil and-” Wade, who’d been frozen in space up until that moment, began to pace back and forth, creating a warped oval of footsteps as words tumbled out of his mouth, “And there’s no point, is there? Me doin’ this? I could be fucking hot dudes in Australia, eating like a fucking king in Dubai- what am I doing here? If no one gives a shit, what the fuck am I doing here?”
Peter watched as he ripped a dagger from its hip-sheath, glaring at it only briefly before whipping it forwards into the ground. It stood up, perfectly adjacent to the roof it stuck out of.
Having dropped his slice of pizza at the beginning of Wade’s rant, Peter waited until the man marinated in his temper before approaching, movements slow and steady and careful. The last thing he wanted was to make this harder than it needed to be.
“You’re here with me, yeah? Figured out a long time ago that I couldn’t take New York on my own- actually have a shot now, with you as my partner.”
Wade’s shoulders hunched forwards, spine curving as he shifted his weight. Peter interpreted the motion as permission to take another few steps forwards, reaching a hand out to delicately brush at the other man’s wrist.
When Wade didn’t throw himself off the building at the contact (which had, in fact, happened in the past, and wasn’t something Peter ever needed a repeat of), Peter moved even closer. He could feel the warmth radiating off of Wade’s chest, could smell the thick aroma of leather that wafted from his suit.
“You’re here for me, being a better person for me and like- hey, maybe I’m not the best person out there but like, everything you’re doing? Just because they can’t see it doesn’t mean I don’t. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it more than I’d like to admit.” Carefully, so as to not startle the man, Peter leaned forwards, pressing his forehead against Wade’s collarbone. His enhanced hearing picked up a nearly imperceptible increase in heart-rate, but otherwise Wade didn’t react.
“Doesn’t matter if they don’t see it, Wade,” Peter insisted, eyes fluttering shut as he close the little distance between their bodies in a barely-there hug, “Because I see it, all of it, and I love it. I love how you’re trying, how much good you’ve been doing. It’s unfair that they can’t see it and I’m sorry, they fucking suck, I get it. But I see it, and I’m sorry if that’s not enough.”
And, as though he’d done it thousands of times before, Wade pulled Peter tightly against his chest, masked face buried into the fluff of his hair.
“Course you’re enough, baby boy,” Wade rumbled, grip against the younger man’s bones tight- comforting in a way that couldn’t be put into words.
The sun had disappeared behind a high-rise by the time the two of them parted, their hands still entwined after their bodies separated. They ate together in silence, the contact feeling as natural as anything.
The headlines and the disgust and the judgement would always be brutal, Peter knew, but watching as Wade tugged his own mask off to smile over at Peter, he had a feeling they’d be just fine.
debrief - spideypool
After a rough night on patrol, Peter needs a hug. And Wade? He’s just happy to help.
//
Wade knew something wasn’t quite right when Peter entered through the front door, slipping into the apartment with little more than the sound of the lock clicking back into place. Because, first of all, if there was anything Wade Wilson knew, it was that Peter Parker would avoid using doors as much as possible, if possible, and that, second of all, he was raised by his lovely aunt to always say hello, even to half-crazed immortal mercenaries.
A blur of blue and red, Peter was across the threshold and belly-down on the couch in seconds, hardly giving Wade any time to process what exactly was going on from where he stood in the kitchen. He’d been in the middle of putting together a quesadilla of epic proportions, complete with seven cheeses, three different salsas, a lovely homemade pico de gallo, and chicken prepared three ways, and had to force himself away from the glorious creation to see what was going on with his favourite spider-themed super-buddy.
Peter, flattened against the black leather of the den’s couch, didn’t even lift his head when Wade approached, his features hidden behind the Spiderman mask. Alongside two discarded webshooters was a box of takeaway Chinese that must’ve been on the couch before Peter had come, its day-old contents seeping into the mostly clean carpet Wade had just put in. And had just had cleaned, in an effort to make the other man more comfortable when he was around- which, lately, was pretty damn often. Wade didn’t mind the mess, so used to living in it himself that he stepped over the spilled food without another thought.
“Hey, Petey-boy,” He drawled, uncertainty heavy in his voice. Peter didn’t react that time either, his body endlessly tense, curling in on itself. The taste of dread lay thick on his tongue, not used to seeing the usually-charismatic man so unresponsive. A catatonic Spidey was a sad Spidey, and Wade didn’t like it one bit. “Not that I don’t like you all folded up on my couch, but uh, everything alright?”
No answer- not verbal, not physical. Still as the dead, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Okie dokie, uh,” Wade whistled, nudging Peter’s spandex-clad legs over a couple of inches and taking a seat. The old piece of furniture squeaked unhappily. “Not alright, I mean, I could tell- you’re a creature ‘a habit, baby boy. Never ever come in without showin’ mama a little love.”
And, if it’d been anyone else curled up on his couch, in the middle of the night, refusing to answer him or even like, look up at him (although the looking part was excusable, Wade knew he wasn’t exactly the prettiest apple in the orchard), there’d be no doubt that he’d beat the shit out of them until they showed some damn respect. But this was Peter, and Wade would do anything for Peter because honestly? Peter made him better. Without Peter around, he’d probably just go back to his old ways, killing for nothing, making money that meant nothing, being with people that made him feel nothing.
Wade had become too accustomed to somtimes feeling good to go back to that, didn’t want to resort to existing in that way ever again. He wasn’t a changed man, not completely, but Peter had him well on his way to something better, something worthy of being around someone like Peter Parker. Almost.
Unlike Peter, Wade wasn’t in his suit, opting for a more comfortable getup consisting of sweats and a pullover, and for a moment, he felt too naked, too exposed to be physically comforting the other man. But the moment passed, mostly without issue, and he brought his hand forwards to press against Peter’s thigh, the lean muscle beneath his fingertips perpetually tense. Touching Peter should’ve been weird or unwelcome or something, but for the last couple of months, Peter had been surprisingly okay with Wade’s touch, be it on patrol or during game nights or whenever, really.
They were more physical with each other than two friends should have been, Wade knew, the distance between them non-existent on most days. It had taken him a while to warm up, but Peter was a hands-on type of guy that, and if possible, would almost always have some part of his body touching Wade’s, whether through light brushes of their forearms as they ate together or with legs tangled together during movie nights. If Wade were being honest with himself, the fact that Peter not only accepted, but encouragedthe physicality made his heart soar and his brain ache.
They weren’t a thing, was the thing, and it wasn’t that Wade didn’t want them to be - God knows how far from the truth that was - but Peter had always been so against it all, right from when they’d first met. Wade hadn’t really expected anything less, his status as the famously dreadful Deadpool not exactly charming to most people, much less someone as morally-rigid as Spiderman.
Really, there weren’t many reasons Wade could come up with as to why Spiderman had spent so much time with him those first few months, why he’d revealed his face and name and personality within the year. He wasn’t complaining, wouldn’t ever complain that the most perfect mutant being on the planet hung around, but he’d be lying if he denied that it confused him relentlessly.
Yet, after a long while of further curling in on himself, Peter eventually began to lean into Wade’s touch, his joints loosening incrementally. He didn’t truly move, but Wade could feel the weight of Peter’s thigh gradually increasing against his palm.
“That’s it, Pete, I’m right here,” He chattered, sliding his hand up until it cupped the sharp edge of a hip bone, “Wanna tell mean ol’ Deadpool who he’s gotta slaughter for makin’ you so sad?”
It was a joke, really, he didn’t mean it- Spidey hated when he killed people so he’d sworn the practice off (so long as it wasn’t absolutely necessary), but Peter flinched nonetheless, an almost undetectable movement that he wouldn’t have been able to notice had he not been so close.
Lowering his voice, Wade tightened his grip on Peter, something guilty and metallic ringing in his ears as he spoke. “You know I didn’t mean that, hun. Tryin’ to make you feel better, can’t stand to think that those pretty lips are pouting under that mask’a yours. Could be doing something else, I reckon, bet ya if we just-”
Peter’s abrupt and muffled-beyond-comprehension voice interrupted his ramble, quiet and hardly a whisper, but there nevertheless.
“I can’t hear you, Pete, gotta sit up, maybe take that mask off or somethin’, you’re mumbling and gagging yourself on the couch isn’t helping. But y’know, if you want a gag that’ll really do ya some good I’ve got a couple of things we could use in the bedroom, if you catch my drift?”
Relief swept along Wade’s spine as Peter moved ever so slightly, head turning just enough so that his masked face became visible.
Scratchy and wet, Peter’s voice cut through the dim room like a dagger. “Whole dorm full of kids went up in flames.” He paused, dragged his head against the couch’s arm to hike up the mask just enough to free his lips. “Couldn’t save them all.”
And- oh, did the anguish in Peter’s tone strike a chord deep in Wade’s psyche, bringing memories of young children he didn’t get to in time, couldn’t protect, hadn’t saved into his field of vision. Years on a job where saving people wasn’t the priority had taught him to cope with the loss and get over it, but kids had always been different, more difficult. He couldn’t remember most of their names or even their faces, and yet the pain throbbed on anyways.
“I’m so sorry, Pete.” Wade murmured, abandoning his uncertainties to reach over and grab at Peter’s inward shoulders. With little effort he pulled the other man up and against his chest, gathering his limbs tightly in his arms. He didn’t risk saying anything else- Wade hadn’t always been the smartest when it came to talking but he knew that nothing else he could say would be beneficial to Peter. This wasn’t the first time Peter had fallen into despair after an unfortunate time as his alter ego, nor would it be the last. Spider-man, in Wade’s opinion, was the best superhero this earth had to offer, strict morals and arachnoid mutation and all, but his coping skills were dismal- the result of an overly compassionate heart. Peter wanted to rescue every soul that needed it, regardless of how impossible that was.
All Wade could offer was company, and that was alright. For Peter, he’d do just about anything, even if it meant silencing his infamously abhorrent mouth.
Some time passed without much movement from either man, the digital clock flashing on Wade’s cable box counting as the hours went by in near-total silence. The only thing interrupting their mute bubble were the faraway sounds of the city below, cars accelerating and voices rising because there never really was a minute in New York where something wasn’t happening.
At some point, Peter’s mask had come all the way off, Wade gently tugging the offending fabric off of the younger man’s head and tossing it behind the couch. Of course, Peter had let him do it, sparing him only a momentary glance before tucking his face into the junction of Wade’s neck without another thought. Skin against skin, Peter’s forehead against Wade’s exposed throat should’ve been terrifying, but all Wade could think about was making Peter feel better- and if that meant, for whatever reason, letting Peter get physical with his grotesque flesh, so be it.
It wasn’t until Peter began to shift against him, body restless and sore, that Wade made the executive decision to relocate the two of them elsewhere, if not for Peter’s comfort then for Wade’s own.
Indefinitely regenerating mercenary or not, Wade Wilson still very much got uncomfortable, and regardless of the adorable spider cuddled against him, he couldn’t sit still for that long without his back’s complaints increasing in volume.
“I’m gonna move us, alright?” He muttered into Peter’s ear as he tightening his hold on his back. Peter’s response came in the form of hands grasping the cotton of Wade’s sweater, dull fingernails ghosting against the scarred skin below with little reserve. Wade had to suppress a shiver as he carefully hoisted the other man up, needing only to support the light frame with very little effort.
Within a couple of paces, they were in Wade’s bedroom, which was really only considered a bedroom because of it’s furniture contents and not because Wade ever actually slept there or used the bed for much else other than getting off. Regardless, the mattress itself was some expensive bullshit he’d purchased in the rare case Peter ever needed to crash- something that had mostly ever happened when the other man found himself too worn down from patrol to swing himself home.
Peter didn’t react as Wade lowered their bodies down onto the bare mattress, their combined weight sinking low into the soft upper layer. “This okay?” He grumbled, maneuvering his limbs so that Peter was free from as much unwanted contact as possible.
It came as a surprise when Peter shook his head, a deft movement that made little noise, and reattached himself to Wade’s larger body, their points of contact increasing dramatically. Leave it to Peter Parker to deny a king-sized bed and all the room he could’ve dreamed of in favour of closeness with America’s ugliest bachelor.
“There, there, little spider,” Wade soothed, moving past the initial reactionary discomfort with the closeness to smooth his hands along the spider-man suit’s textured spandex. Peter, whose cheek was flush against Wade’s chest, only curled in further, his thighs slotting in between the larger’s, fingers knotted in the soft fabric of Wade’s sweater. Despite his constant innuendos and sexual prowess, not one atom in Wade’s being made any move to transition their intimate position to something beyond what it was. He was so far beyond wanting to disrespect or upset Peter in any way it sometimes scared him. Peter only seemed to move closer, press tighter, as Wade kept his hold steady.
Another beat of silence, and then; “I wish I could’ve saved them all.”
“I know.”
“They were just kids.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not fair.”
“It never is, baby boy.”
And really, that was all Peter needed- the acknowledgement, the unconditional understanding. There wasn’t anyone else in his life that could comprehend the grief like Wade could, that knew just how hopeless the losses could make someone feel. Wade didn’t push for conversation and he didn’t try to console him - he stayed and held Peter’s hand as he figured out how to cope with the casualties.
Neither were sure how long they lay together for, the dim room gradually lightening as the sun began to rise.
Peter slept briefly, his evened-out respiratory cycle putting Wade’s mind at ease. He was still too concerned to truly let himself relax, let his focus linger on the weak snoring of the younger man occupy his ever-running thoughts.
When Peter woke, the tension in his muscles had loosened considerably, slowly lifting with the crushing weight atop his shoulders. He reveled in the feeling of Wade wrapped around him, the warmth emanating from the larger man an indefinite source of relief.
“Hey, Petey,” Wade whispered as the other shifted in his arms, head pulling back to get a look at Peter’s waking face. Even with his hair flattened to his head and eyes cushioned by dark bags, Peter looked gorgeous as ever as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. “How’re you feeling?”Popping his shoulder without slipping from Wade’s arms, Peter smiled softly, the action nearly reaching his eyes. “Better, I think. Still hurts, but-” he tilted his head to the side, peering up through dark eyelashes, “You know how it is, takes a little while, always does.”
A grin and a sly, “Nothin’ sleeping with good ol’ DP can’t fix, you know,” earned Wade a smack to the shoulder, the other man rolling his eyes in mock-annoyance.
“You’re terrible,” Peter accused, chuckling under his breath. The barely-there sound was like music to Wade’s ears, which had been deprived of Peter’s infectious laugh for much too long.Without so much as waiting for Wade to respond, Peter closed his eyes and brought his face forwards to press his cheek to Wade’s, smooth skin easing against rough, sighing as the older man’s breath caught.
Wade could feel Peter’s jaw move against his own as he spoke, still-gloved hands reaching up and around his exposed neck. “No one else gets it but you.” Peter mumbled simply, ignoring the fact that Wade had yet to breathe. “I can’t thank you enough, for any of this.”
And then, lacking any distinguishable warning, Peter rotated his head just enough to join their lips. There was no hesitation in the action, nothing less than urgency and need in the way Peter’s grip tightened against Wade’s shoulders as he pressed forwards and waited for the other man to kiss him back.
It took Wade a moment too long, perhaps, to get over the initial shock and return the kiss, but when he was finally able to regain control over his body, he met Peter’s desire with that of his own. Peter hummed against his mouth, the pads of his fingers dancing across uneven skin.
Despite the arousal burning in Wade’s veins, things remained chaste and slow, tongues staying put as lips stayed mostly dry. Mostly.
Peter withdrew, chestnut eyes trailing the outline of Wade’s solid body. “Thank you,” he breathed out. Exhaustion settled numbly in his bones and his throat was dry, breath most definitely stale from the hours spent unmoving, so his words were little more than a croak. He ignored whatever Wade had to say next, instead opting to mold his body back against the other man’s, returning to sleep in under a couple of minutes.
If Wade had beamed for nearly an hour after Peter had passed out, he wouldn’t have admitted it, not even to himself. And if Wade had kissed Peter senseless when he’d woken up again, it really wasn’t anyone else’s business.
There’s more to WARM BODIES than you think. Read the “epic” and “frighteningly relevant” sequel #TheBurningWorld thndr.me/tuk7gc http://thndr.me/tuk7gc
“I would expect all of you to have seen the matrix- it should be a required watch” - Sociology 101
IMO the boundary between critique, purity culture, and censorship is this:
it is responsible, and the mark of a good audience, to critique problematic elements in the media we consume. For example, I love gothic lit - but a lot of it is incredibly sexist and racist. I can acknowledge that these elements are a problem and objectionable while still enjoying the piece for a multitude of other reasons. I can also say to myself “if I ever want to write my own gothic lit, here are some elements I should avoid.” Or, if I do want to tackle the issues of racism and sexism in my future gothic lit, then I can say “I will avoid writing in a way which implicitly or explicitly condones racism or sexism, while still emulating the praiseworthy elements of gothic lit.”
In essence, the fundamentals of intersectional media critique is this: “these elements of [x media] are problematic and we should rethink them in future media, both as audiences and as creators.” By rethinking these elements, I don’t mean utterly doing away with them, but rethinking how we approach them and how we read them.
We enter purity culture when our statement moves from “these elements of [x media] are problematic and we should rethink them in future media, both as audiences and as creators,” and becomes “these elements of [x media] are problematic and therefore anyone who consumes or creates [x media] is condoning everything about [x media].” The implication here is that, if one wants to be a good person, one should avoid [x media], because to do otherwise is to either implicitly or explicitly condone everything in [x media]. This type of attitude towards media is very common in conservative religious circles.
It moves fully into censorship when the statement moves from “these elements of [x media] are problematic and therefore anyone who consumes or creates [x media] is condoning everything about [x media]” and becomes “these elements of [x media] are problematic and therefore nobody can consume or create [x media] for any reason.” Those who break this rule are seen as evil and shunned. This type of attitude toward media is very common in fundamentalist circles.
A culture of censorship is the natural outcome of purity culture, because purity culture by its very nature seeks purity until even the whisper of objectionable content, in any context, is suppressed.
I would wager a guess that many people who are against anti culture are familiar with either these toxic conservative or fundamentalist attitudes towards media, and we are alarmed by their striking similarity with antis’ attitudes towards media. It is most certainly why I am against anti culture.
putting tape over my Webcam thinking about how the CIA agent watched me cry everyday for a year and didn’t once check up one me: cut toxic people out in 2018
TINY TURTLE INVESTIGATORS: THE CASE OF THE LARGE STRAWBERRY
GOOD MORNING EVERYONE
“HAVE YOU TRIED BALANCING ON IT”
“YES OF COURSE I TRIED BALANCING ON IT JENKINS THIS IS NOT MY FIRST DAY AS A TINY TURTLE INVESTIGATOR”
