Rule 34 - Charlie's Diary
O 58 2 rule paheal. net rule #34 If it exists there IS porn of it Posts Comments Tags Wiki Documentation minion Search Contact Serving posts. [ICO], Name · Last modified · Size · Description. [TXT], magnitolka.info, May , Apache/ (Debian) Server at magnitolka.info Port "Rule 34" should be showing up in shops in days (depending where you live). . But you know this guy of old: He's one of the rare memorable cases. .. and international internet based rings for the exploitation of children. .. weeks before the publication date, which can lead to some early.
Ci ha portato un modo posteriore anche se leggermente meno scenica, che e la sua guida tranquilla dove molto rilassante dopo le corse del taxi a Napoli. Ci ha anche fermato a ci permette di fare alcuni generi alimentari veloci e osservare la Grazie Antonio e grazie Alex per essersi presi cura di noi!
Buona fortuna a voi sia in futuro! We highly recommend this company!!! Alessandro was great enough to book the tour one day before the arrival and he answered vright away every email. Enzo the tour guide was great!!! Marco our driver took us to Sorrento and he was really kind and great for suggesting lunch and the best places Overall an amazing tour!!!
We were collected from the Napoli airport, had a tour around the city and delivered to our accommodation in Sorrento.
Our driver Antonio was very knowledgeable about Naples and the history - he took us to the town square where we took some photos and bought a fabulous coffee before seeing more of the sights.
The Vehicles was a Mercedes van which was very roomy and high so it made the sightseeing easy and enjoyable. On our return journey we had Roberto who was punctual and had us returned to Ha deciso di utilizzare questa impresa per portarci da qualche parte per la prima colazione, quindi a Pompei e poi da qualche parte per il pranzo e un luogo di degustazione vini.
Ci hanno anche offerto di organizzare una guida per Pompei che non abbiamo bisogno. Marco, il nostro autista, era giusto in tempo, era educato, simpatico, parla un buon inglese, ha commentato ampiamente su quello che abbiamo visto, anche se lui non era tecnicamente una guida, e solo un piacere essere con. Le visite si sono dimostrati molto interessante, in alcuni casi molto.
All this explained by our driver.
He was not only a great driver but made our day by telling us about the places we visited. I have no hesitation in recommending this company. Drivers and tour guides were punctual and greeted my customers every morning in the different port. The guide were very knowledgeable and made the excursions fun and interesting for all age groups.
Cars were clean and stocked with drinks and my customers were very happy. Would definitely book with them again. The latter was much better! It could be worse: At least they don't expect you to pound the pavement in person. Except Jason McDougall has called you out to do some rare on-site supervision on— A two-wetsuit job.
Back in the naughty noughties a fifty-one-year-old Baptist minister was found dead in his Alabama home wearing not one but two wet suits and sundry bits of exotic rubber underwear, with a dildo up his arse.
The cover-up of the doubly-covered-up deceased finally fell before a Freedom of Information Act request. It's not as if it's like isnae well-known in Edinburgh, city of grey stone propriety and ministers stern and saturnine with the most surprising personal habits. But propriety—and the exigencies of service under the mob of puritanical arseholes currently in the ascendant in Holyrood—dictates discretion. If Jase is calling it openly, it's got to be pretty blatant.
Which means— Enough of that. Let's see if we can blag a ride, shall we? What can I do for ye? What have you got? Not a bike, though. It's not dignified, and in these straitened times, your career needs all the dignity it can get.
A couple of minutes later you're standing on top of a Lothian and Borders Police segway, the breeze blowing your hair back as you dodge the decaying speed pillows on the driveway leading past the stables to the main road. You'd prefer a car, but your team's carbon quota is low, and you'd rather save it for real emergencies. Meanwhile, you take the path at a walk, trying not to lean forward too far. Police segways come with blues and twos, Taser racks and overdrive: But if you go above walking pace, they invariably lean forward until you resemble a character in an old Roadrunner cartoon.
Looking like Wile E. Coyote is undignified, which is not a good way to impress the senior management whether or not you're angling for promotion, especially in the current political climate. Not that you are angling for promotion, but. So you ride sedately towards Comely Bank Road, and the twitching curtains and discreet perversions of Stockbridge. Crime and architecture are intimately related.
In the case of the red stone tenements and Victorian villas of Morningside, it's mostly theft from cars and burglary from the aforementioned posh digs. You're still logged in as you ride past the permanent log-jam of residents' Chelsea Tractors—those such as live here can afford to fill up their hybrid SUVs, despite the ongoing fuel crunch—and the eccentric and colourful boutique shops.
You roll round a tight corner and up an avenue of big stone houses with tiny wee gardens fronting the road until you reach the address Sergeant McDougall gave you. Here's your first surprise: It's not a tenement or a villa—it's a whole town house, three stories high and not split for multiple occupancy. It's got to be worth something north of half a million, which in these deflationary times is more than you'll likely earn in the rest of your working life.
And then there's your next surprise: When you glance at it in CopSpace, there's a big twirling red flag over it, and you recognize the name of the owner.
CopSpace—the augmented-reality interface to all the accumulated policing and intelligence databases around which your job revolves—rots the brain, corroding the ability to rote-memorize every villain's face and back story.
But you know this guy of old: He's one of the rare memorable cases.
You ride up to the front door-step and park. The door is standing ajar—Jase is clearly expecting company. High hall ceiling, solid oak doors to either side, traditional whitewashed walls and cornice-work and maroon ceiling. Someone's restored this town house to its early-nineteenth-century splendour, leaving only a handful of recessed LED spots and covered mains sockets to remind you which century you're standing in.
A constable sticks her head around the door at the end of the hall. Medium build, blond highlights, and hazel-nut eyes behind her specs. I'm taking a statement from the witness. Are you here to take over?
We see that you're using an ad-blocker!
You do a three-sixty as Sergeant McDougall comes to the top of the stairs: Then you take the stairs as fast as you can. Little details stick in your mind. The picture rails in the hall from which hang boringly framed prints depicting the city as it might once have lookedthe discreet motion detectors and camera nodes in the corners of the hall ceiling. The house smells clean, sterile, as if it's been mothballed and bubble-wrapped. Jase takes a step back and gestures across the landing at an open door through which enough afternoon daylight filters that you can see his expression.
You whip your specs off, and after a momentary pause, he follows suit. Thirtyish, sandy-haired, and built like a rugby prop, he could be your classic recruiter's model for community policing.
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But at least it serves notice of intent to invoke the Privacy Act—"This'n's a stoater, boss. But it looks like 'e did it to 'isself, to a first approximation. The first thing you clock is that the bathroom's about the size of an aircraft hangar.
Slate tile floor, chrome fittings and fixtures, expensively curved-glass shower with a bar-stool and some kind of funky robot arm to scoosh the water-jet right up your fanny—like an expensive private surgery rather than a temple of hygiene.
About the stainless steel manacles bolted to the wall and floor inside the shower cubicle we'll say no more.
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It is apparent that for every euro the late Michael Blair, esq. But that's just the beginning, because beyond the shower and the imported Japanese toilet seat with the control panel and heated bumrest, there stands a splendid ceramic pedestal of a sink—one could reasonably accuse the late Mr.
Blair of mistaking overblown excess for good taste—and then a steep descent into lunacy. It's clearly a plumbing appliance of some kind, enamelled in pale green trimmed with chrome, sprouting pipes capped with metal gauges and thumb-wheels that are tarnished down to their brass cores, the metal flowers of a modernist ecosystem.
The letters CCCP and a red enamel star feature prominently on what passes for a control panel. Mikey is connected to the aforementioned plumbing appliance by a sinuous, braided-metal pipe leading to a chromed tube, which is plugged straight into his— Jesus.
It is a two-wetsuit job. You glance at Jase. Middle-aged man, dead on bathroom floor: That stuff's modal for Morningside. It's the other circumstances that are the issue.
Mikey is mostly naked. You suppose "mostly" is the most appropriate term, because he is wearing certain items that could pass for "clothed" in an SM club with a really strict dress code: His veined cock is purple and engorged, as hard as a truncheon. That, and the hose up his arse and the puddle of ming he's leaking, tell you all you need to know. You're going to miss your after-work hairdresser's appointment.
I want that thing—"you gesture at the Cold-War-era bathroom nightmare—"taken in as evidence. The fluid, whatever, get it to forensics for a full report: Ten to one there's something dodgy in it. With a sinking feeling, you realize what's up. Jase was hoping you'd take it off his plate, eager-beaver ready to grab an opportunity to prove your chops in front of head office so he can go home to his end-of-shift paper-work and wind down.
Well, it's not going to happen quite like that. You are going to take it off his plate—as duty DI, it's your job.
But that's not the end of the game. And I find the circumstances of his death highly suggestive. Until we can rule out foul play, I'm tagging this as probable culpable homicide, and until CID move in and take over, you're on the team.
At least one other person was involved—unless you think he trussed himself up then slipped and fell on that thing—and I want to ask them some questions.
Sighing lugubriously, he pulls out his phone and prepares to take notes. You won't see it in CopSpace without criminal intelligence permissions. He did five years in Bar-L and forfeiture of proceeds of crime to the tune of 2 million euros, if I remember the facts correctly.
Illegal online advertising and sale of unlicensed pharmaceuticals. That was about six years ago, and he went down for non-violent, and I don't think he's currently a person of interest.
91: r/weeabootales, u/itsyerdad records from Japan, and Trevor humps Machu Picchu
And the security contractors—" "'E's with Group Four. I served 'em a disclosure notice, and they coughed to one visitor in the past two hours—the cleaner.
The quid pro quo is that you need to show reasonable cause. Luckily cause doesn't get much more reasonable than a culpable homicide investigation. You glance at Mikey again. He went down as a non-violent offender but did his time under Rule 45, like he was a kiddie-fiddler or a snitch or something similar.
Something similar is exactly what he was. You walk towards the door, talking. Jase, I want you to call Sergeant"—Elvis, your memory prompts—"Sorensen, and tell him we've got a probable culpable homicide I want to hand off to the X Division duty officer. Next, call SOC, and tell them we've got a job.