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​Why Are So Many Mass Shootings Committed by Young White Men?

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Dylann Storm Roof after his arrest Thursday. Photo via Charleston County Sheriff's Office

When Dylann Roof ended Bible study at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal in South Carolina and unleashed a hurricane of bullets, he secured himself a place in the dark history of young, white American males who kill strangers indiscriminately. Of course, we've known for some time that most violent crimes are committed by young people, and that men are more violence-prone than women, but in recent cases like Roof's, Sandy Hook's Adam Lanza, and the Aurora Theater's James Holmes, it seems like this newer breed of psychopath is more dangerous than its predecessors.

When trying to decipher gun violence, it's tempting to focus on impoverished minority neighborhoods defined by structural woes like mass incarceration, poverty, lack of education, and so on. But research shows that mass shootings are primarily committed by white males—the most privileged class in society. So why are they the ones who snap? And is calling them "mentally ill" a way to avoid talking about race?

"If you look at how the James Holmes case has played out, it's amazing how the themes [of other shootings] line up," true crime author Stephen Singular, who collaborated with his wife Joyce on the new book The Spiral Notebook: The Aurora Theater Shooter and the Epidemic of Mass Violence Committed by American Youth, tells VICE. "Most of these young white shooters—they're not underprivileged, they have so many advantages, particularly in the Holmes case. He was dealing with an inner reality that he didn't know how to contend with."

As Mother Jonesreported, "Since 1982, there have been at least 70 mass shootings across the country... Forty four of the killers were white males. Only one of them was a woman." So white men have been responsible for about 63 percent of mass shootings in that span, despite comprising a far smaller portion of the total population. And while the motives for mass murder vary from perpetrator to perpetrator, since the Columbine school shooting in 1999, there has been a remarkable consistency—if not uniformity—in the age, gender, and race of the people who carry out these egregious crimes.

According to FBI arrest data, the peak ages for violent crime are 16-24. "This is a period of substantial transition in an individual's life, when they're less likely to have significant attachments in their life that deter them from criminal violence," Pete Simi, an associate professor of criminology at the University of Nebraska, tells VICE. "Those who are not committing crimes on a regular basis is largely because there are constraints in our lives—we have things to lose."

When attempting to prove Holmes was insane at the time of the Aurora, Colorado, movie theater shooting in April, his defense team pointed out that he was the typical age at which schizophrenia tends to present itself in young men—teens to late 20s.

In their book, the Singulars write that Holmes knew he was ill before the shooting, had sought out therapy—where he admitted having obsessive, homicidal thoughts—and was given medication as a remedy. "If you look at the list of mostly male shooters, they were all on some type of antidepressant or anti-anxiety drugs," Stephen Singular says.


Check out our documentary on a white student union in suburban Baltimore, Maryland.


The Singulars looked at a number of factors that could potentially unwrap the complexity of young male shootings, particularly the issue of young males experiencing a crisis of masculinity in the 21st century. "Holmes didn't want to tell his parents about he was going through because he didn't want to appear weak," Stephen Singular says.

"I think we're dealing with how we socially construct masculinity, and the extent to which being masculine means being aggressive," adds Simi, the criminologist. "It's not a simple cause and effect, but it certainly sets up a context that makes men much more likely to engage in violent behavior."

A 2013 study at the University of Washington looked at the disproportionately high numbers of mass killings—defined as having at least three or more victims during a single episode—committed by young white men in America, and found a correlation between feelings of entitlement among white males and homicidal revenge against a specific demographic.

"Among many mass killers, the triple privileges of white heterosexual masculinity which make subsequent life course losses more unexpected and thus more painfully shameful ultimately buckle under the failures of downward mobility and result in a final cumulative act of violence to stave off subordinated masculinity," the authors wrote.

This would certainly fit with the case of Elliot Rodger, an economically privileged, sex-obsessed 22-year-old who killed six people in May 2014, citing revenge against women who rejected him as a motive. Both 20-year-old Sandy Hook killer Lanza and 23-year-old Tuscon killer Jared Loughner also shared a misogynistic rage toward their victims.

Of course, there is relatively little mystery surrounding Roof's motives. His fear that black people have come to "rape our women" and are "taking over the country" are both traditional expressions of racism in America, and serve as textbook examples of killings motivated by white privilege and feelings of emasculation.

"There's a feeling of entitlement that white men have that black men don't," Alan Fox, a professor at Northeastern University and co-author of Extreme Killing, told the Washington Post in a 2012 interview. "They often complain that their job was taken by blacks or Mexicans or Jews. They feel that a well-paid job is their birthright. It's a blow to their psyche when they lose that."

Roof was reportedly unemployed at the time of the shooting, having previously worked in landscaping.

Since the tragic killings in South Carolina last Wednesday, there have been a series of polarizing op-eds arguing about whether Roof should be declared a racist, terrorist, or mentally ill—suggesting that these three designations are mutually exclusive. But Roof's alleged belief that gunning down a roomful of innocent people would start a race war is something most people would consider profoundly delusional. Indeed, it is strikingly similar to the plan behind the Tate-Labianca murders organized by Charles Manson—a young, white criminal whose bona fide lunacy is rarely questioned.

"You can easily look at the Manson family as a race-motivated terrorist group," says Professor Simi.

Though Manson's apparent madness did not grant him immunity from prosecution, as there is a difference between "insanity" (which is often a legal term) and being "mentally ill" (a medical one), Simi believes it's probable that Roof had an undiagnosed mental illness. Still, that doesn't mean the 21-year-old is not legally responsible for the crime. It's likely, Simi adds, that Roof's extreme racist ideology simply exacerbated an already ailing brain.

"I'm sure he felt that [anger] to his bones, and I'm sure it bothered him for a long time," Simi says, noting the connection between stress and mental breakdowns. "I think if we could have monitored his physiological data over that time, you could see changes. When you take on these views, it changes how you think and feel. A driver cuts you off and the driver happens to be African American, and that's evidence that they're taking over the country, and the person experiences extreme stress."

The idea that focusing on mental illness skirts the responsibility of being a privileged white male and stigmatizes anyone with a brain disorder fails to acknowledge the universality of that ailment. "We all have mental health issues to some extent," Simi says.

This does not mean that we are all potential killers, or that any killer with a mental illness can be dismissed as merely "insane." Racism, misogyny, and entitlement—and the violence they inspire in certain number of young, white men—can be both a sincere manifestation of their bigotry and an expression of a mental illness.

After all, what's crazier than straight-up racism?

Follow Josiah M. Hesse on Twitter.

This post has been updated to clarify that white men commit mass shootings at a disproportionate rate relative to their composition of the total population.


This Is What It's Like to Be a VIP Party Host in Las Vegas

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Let Loose founder and VIP Host Lance Sherman with Mike Tyson

Las Vegas is America's town of choice when it comes to boozing, philandering, and gambling. Even if we're all aware it's a morally bankrupt and viciously corrupt metropolis filled with mirages of the American Dream, it will continue to be a mecca for hedonists—forever, and always.

This week, Vegas hosted the World Series of Poker, sparking an influx of tourists, gambling, and general splurging. For people with lots of money, but little interest in organizing what to do during their stay, various casinos and companies sell the company of VIP Party Hosts for high-rolling visitors. These people are generously paid to do everything from arranging a client's meals, getting tables at extravagant clubs, and even hiring strippers and other forms of adult entertainment.

Depending on how much a client bets in a given hotel's casino, or how famous the client is, VIP Party Hosts will even pick up the bill for their nights out. Essentially these hosts are a mixture of an assistant, party planner, and member of your entourage.

VICE got in touch with hosts Kevin* and Lance Sherman, the latter operates concierge and hosting company Let Loose Vegas and counts athletes, celebrities, and poker stars among his clients. We talked to these VIP Hosts about the ins and outs of their unique jobs.

Carrot Top and Lance in Vegas. Image courtesy of Lance Sherman

VICE: What do people want when they come to Vegas and how do you fit into that?
Kevin: When people come to this town they're like, "BOOM!" It's a Jekyll and Hyde kind of thing. They think they're the man when they get off that plane. They want rooms, food, spas, limos, shows—all comped. If they're a $50,000 player, they'll get a room or suite and a limo. If they're a million dollar player, they'll get a villa and a private yet. I'll easily pick up the tab for $50,000 night out—but only if they play a decent amount in the casino. Everyone wants an off the wall, crazy night in Vegas. They want the ultimate VIP night, and I'm the ultimate Vegas host. You don't have to know everyone, but you have to know the guy who knows everyone. Is that me? Maybe!

Lance Sherman: People want to have fun and I facilitate that. My service is for everyone from all walks of life—it's my job to make celebrities feel like normal people and show non-celebrities a glimpse of the rock star life. I'm a one-source solution—clients call me and I'm a one-stop shop to the city. People come here to escape the real world. They want to let loose—that's how I chose the name for my company.

What's your background like? How did you become a VIP Host?
Kevin: I used to work in client-facing roles in casinos and hotels. I heard of an opening for a VIP Host and I just went for it. It's a really prestigious position so there was a lot of competition. I don't have any special skills. I'm just very personable. It's more than a full time job. I'm taking client calls on my days off, so you have to have the right temperament for it.

Lance: I started out as a dancer—I graduated from Juillard and I was one of the original cast in Celine Dion's first show in Vegas. I started arranging monthly parties for performers in shows on the strip. It escalated, and a year later I hung up my dancing shoes to become a full time VIP Host. I started as a promoter and from nightlife I expanded to daylife, selling cabanas and daybeds instead of nightclub tables. Once I had over 10,000 contacts in my phone, I knew I was ready to set up my own company. So I used to be an entertainer, and now I entertain in a different way.

For more on Las Vegas, read THUMP's coverage of Electric Daisy Carnival

Is it lucrative to be a VIP Host?
Kevin: Depending on bonuses, I earn between $100k to $250k on a yearly basis.

Lance: My hosting company is looking to make over $1 million dollars this year and I'm going to double that by this time next year. A top VIP host in Vegas can easily earn over $100,000 a year.

Tell me about your most extravagant night out?
Kevin: I took clients for dinner at Nobu once. We were drinking hot sake and eating sashimi and Hamachi—we had the teppanyaki grill too. The bill came to over $15,000 for eight of us.

A table at a high-end nightclub can cost $10-20,000. We had a party at Drais one night, it's a rooftop club on the strip where you have a security guard at your table, so there's no riff raff bothering you. We ordered Dom Perignon, Don Julio, and Patron. At four or five in the morning, we got the bill and we were looking at $200,000.

Lance: It started with a bottle of Louis 13th Cognac, which costs $6,500 a bottle. We were in the Pussycat Doll Lounge at Caesars. My client loved Mike Tyson so I gave Mike a call. We got a limo to Savile Row at the Luxor and another bottle of Luis, then we started on the Grey Goose. It was around $450 a bottle at the time. The total bill for the night, just drinks for me, Mike, my client, and some girls, was $18,000. My client had was paralyzed. He and Mike really hit it off—and by the end of the night, Mike was pushing him round in his wheelchair.

What about the craziest night you experienced as a VIP Host?
Kevin: There's an NFL player who can play $1-2 million dollars a night in the casino, so we give him a villa when he stays with us. One morning, I went in and there were naked girls all over the floor, white powder everywhere. The place was covered in rolled up doobies, empty bottles, McDonalds, Taco Bell, and someone had taken a shit in the bidet.

Lance: One client wanted a pink gorilla costume for a party he was having in his suite with a topless bartender. I couldn't get anyone to do it, so I did it myself, jumping around for 20 minutes in a gorilla suit—nobody knew it was me!

Do you get any unusual requests?
Kevin: This NFL guy I work with likes to play dice in the casino. Most guys want to stand around the table. This guy, we have to bring him a chair and a bag of cheese puffs. He just likes to sit there eating cheese puffs all night.

Lance: Whatever clients want, I'll provide it. Some people request "atmosphere models" or wing-women who work as icebreakers—it's easier for guys to meet women if they have women with them.


Want to party some more? Check out our doc on nightlife in Ibiza:


Is anything off limits? Do you ever say no?
Kevin: When it comes to drugs, I tell a lot of people they're on they're own. Mostly anything illegal I say no to, but there's so much grey area. I work in the grey area all the time—there's always a right way to do the wrong thing. I build friendships with clients, but I'm always aware the shit could hit the fan. Trust is a massive issue and these guys are already lying to their friends and family about their gambling habit. Some people you can open up to more, some people you have to be by the book.

Lance: I'll give them anything they want, but keep it legal! The revenue from entertainment is almost equal now to Vegas's revenue from gambling, so nobody wants to jeopardize that. Trust is important—the more I know someone, the more I can expand the horizons, push the envelope. I have to be careful, though. Image is everything and I might want to be the president of a casino some day.

Do you hook your clients up with women?
Lance: I play matchmaker, I'm a little bit of a cupid. I'll invite people to my clients' table or cabana in the nightclub. Guys tell me what kind of girls they like and I'll bring them over. Sometimes they're really specific—they want blonde girls in blue jeans or "girl-next-door" types. One client wanted "dirty Indian girls." I didn't even know what to make of that. I introduced him to Indian girls and left him to decide if they were dirty or not. Only one in 50 of my clients are women, but I'd be happy for more. Female clients want the same service as men. I regularly get asked to, "Bring me some cute guys to the cabana!"

Do you have repeat clients? Do any of your working relationships turn into genuine friendships?
Kevin: The majority of the time they're always repeat clients—it depends what kind of experience they have on their trip! Over time, I've built up some natural friendships. I show clients the best time possible when they come to Vegas and sometimes we click really well. It's like any relationship.

Lance: I've got a lot of repeat clients and many of them have become close friends—some of them were guests at my wedding last August!

*Kevin's name has been changed to preserve anonymity

Follow Samantha on Twitter.


An E-Cigarette Vendor in New York Tried to Monetize the Charleston Massacre

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Screenshot via Google cache

This past Thursday, Dylann Roof went on a racially motivated, cold-blooded killing spree in Charleston, South Carolina. He shot and killed nine innocent people inside of a church using a .45 caliber pistol, which he received as a 21st birthday gift from his parents.

Roof's horrifying actions have re-opened debates in America around hatred, racism, gun control, the confederate flag, and the treatment of white criminals by police officers.

But apparently, the massacre also provided one New York-based e-cigarette store with a massively distasteful opportunity to sell vape pens online.

Like many of America's most scarring massacres, the perpetrator of the Charleston murders left behind a manifesto. Roof's was published to a website, which lives at the URL: lastrhodesian.com.

The title, Last Rhodesian, is a reference to Rhodesia, which was Zimbabwe's name under a leadership that allowed only British citizens to vote—isolating its native black population. Roof apparently looked to this racially oppressive society as a model for a new America.

Roof, however, did not also own thelastrhodesian.com. It appears that domain got snatched up by an e-cigarette store in New York state called Fluid Vapor. The company's slogan is: "Join the Fluminati."

Catchy.

Screenshot via GoDaddy

According to a GoDaddy WHOIS search, thelastrhodesian.com was registered on June 20, the same day VICE News first reported that Dylan Roof's website, Last Rhodesian, existed. While GoDaddy quickly suspended the copycat domain name, citing it as "spam and abuse," a Google Cache version of the page shows that whoever registered thelastrhodesian.com set it up so that it would automatically redirect the user to the website for Fluid Vapor in Bohemia, New York.

Screenshot via Google

To be clear, Fluid Vapor does not appear to have any connection to white supremacy, white nationalism, or racism of any sort. Although attaching one's brand to the mantle of Dylann Roof is a dreadfully misguided PR strategy.

More likely, though, this is a matter of Fluid Vapor trying to monetize a spike in internet traffic from people reading up on the Charleston murders. It appears as if Fluid, or possibly someone who registered the domain without the company's knowledge, was hoping some of those people were into vaping as well.

This technique is commonly referred to as typosquatting or URL hijacking. Basically the goal is to find an available URL that is close enough to a very popular, established URL (like googel.com, which Google has apparently bought) so that the owner of the typo-domain can skim part of the real site's traffic. Once a user has gone to the typosquatted site by mistake, the hope is that they will be convinced into buying whatever the typosquatter is selling. Or at the very least, maybe they'll click on some banners.

If enough people mess up and click, the typosquatter (and the owner of the banner ad) can make decent coin.

According to a Harvard study from 2010, Google makes about $479 million a year from having their AdSense advertising program running on websites that are nothing more than a page full of ads and a typosquatted domain.

That's right, half a billion dollars off of typos and clicks. And that's only their share of the money. The typosquatters out there are banking off clicks too.

Trying to make money from the flood of people going to say, NeoPets on a daily basis through typosquatting is annoying at worst. The impulse to profit off of people's morbid fascination with the tragedy in Charleston is deeply problematic at best.

It's possible the owner of Fluid Vapor did not register thelastrhodesian.com, and it was a third party who took over the domain and sent traffic to the New York state e-cigarette vendor for unknown reasons. But three phone calls to Fluid Vapor, where a clerk said she passed on an urgent message to the company's owner, along with two emails and a Facebook message from VICE went unreturned.

Follow Patrick McGuire on Twitter.

The CBC Is Telling Its Reporters to Not Confront "FHRITP" Douchebags

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Screenshot via YouTube

CBC brass is asking its reporters to stand down when confronted by men who shout "fuck her right in the pussy," according to an internal memo obtained by VICE. The corporation bills the new guidelines as: "Our handling of the ongoing sexual harassment of CBC reporters in the field."

Above all, the (obviously female) reporters were told to absolutely refrain from calling out "determined attackers," and given a checklist of safety tips on how to deal—or, more accurately, how not to deal—with the rowdy, often drunk, testosterone-fueled gorillas.

"We do not encourage our crews to engage the abuser," the paternalistic memo reads. "We don't want to escalate the situation. Your safety is paramount, and it's hard to predict how individuals might react to words or gestures which could be seen as provocative."

But while the memo reads that it is a matter of "physical safety," the CBC also instructed its staff not to take to social media to document the incidents.

"It has been suggested that social media be used to shame people caught in the act of abusing our staff. This tactic comes with its own perils and is highly contentious. We are recommending AGAINST it at this time," reads the email, which was sent from CBC HQ in Toronto.

Social media has, of course, led to a raft of reporters coming out to tell their own experiences dealing with the expletive-loving bros, and contributed to the general shaming of those idiots.

Of course, CBC has penned more than one trend piece about reporters reacting to the phenomenon. One female reporter, the CBC's Tanya Birkbeck, was one of the loudest voices calling out the practice, which targets female reporters almost exclusively.

"If we've learned anything in recent weeks, following the global #BeenRapedNeverReported campaign, it's that women will put up with a lot without saying anything," Birkbeck wrote on CBC.ca.

Strangely, her advice appears to be unheeded by CBC management, despite the fact that Birkbeck is a member of the national committee that helped flesh out these new guidelines.

"No story is worth getting hurt," the memo reads. "Your personal safety is the number one priority. If you feel in any danger, call your supervisor and leave the area."

The cash-strapped Crown Corporation may not be in a position to hire security guards for its reporters at this point, so they are instead telling their reporters to do the next best thing and stand next to police as "authorities have advised us that having someone in uniform nearby can act as a deterrent."

Other safety tips include alerting the control room "if you sense that a would-be harasser is lurking" and discussing the possibility of adding a staff member to ensure security "if the assignment involves an event known for large, rowdy crowds or heavy alcohol use."

Finally, in a pearl of homespun wisdom, the CBC insisted that "the document represents sensible advice, bearing in mind there's no sure fire way to head off a determined attacker."

Follow Nick Rose and Justin Ling on Twitter.

Hunk Drunk Love: My Night In the Magical World of Male Strip Clubs

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Photo courtesy of Facebook

New York City boasts a wide swath of male strip clubs for all your bachelorette party needs, with names ranging from classy (" Avalon") to terrifying ("Get Punished"). Hunkomania is the top result on yelp, with four stars and many happy customers. Club descriptions focus on celebration and fun just as much as they focus on eroticism. Hunkomania's site declares that "Ladies, this is YOUR night," and they'll be providing "male strippers and hunky waiters that will cater to your every whim." Male strip clubs aren't just clubs—they're destinations, events, no doubt enjoying a resurgence at the veiny triceps of the recent Channing Tatum-helmed Magic Mike franchise.

I like Magic Mike because I like Channing Tatum. He's white masculinity modernized for millennials, for young women and men who have more access to celebrities than ever before. His Twitter is mostly Magic Mike XXL promotion, but it's peppered with "wifey" mentions and Instagrammable quotes. He sells a vulnerable, self-effacing masculinity, marked by shoulders hunched in seats to make himself a little smaller. All muscle, no machismo. In the film, Mike doesn't seem too different from the actor who plays him. The film's popularity encourages strip club audiences to expect the Magic Mike model where the stripper represents both physical beauty and kickass personality. It's objectification in a culture that never fully objectifies men.

The sky was still pale with sunlight when I approached Hunkomania on 38th near Times Square. It's unassuming: just a scrolling ticker with HUNKOMANIA in LEDs and a battered velvet rope. It was just before nine, when the Hunks were scheduled to take the stage. Inside, there was no line, just a doorwoman at a computer guarding a steep, narrow staircase. She stamped my hand, gave me two drink tickets ($10 each, required), and nodded toward the stairwell leading down. "It's so dead tonight," she said grimly. I had unintentionally bought my ticket for the Sunday night show on Father's Day. "Try to have fun, at least."


Fuck this. Hunks to the stage!


The club was large, but sparsely populated. Nothing was well-lit except the stage and the ATM. It was humid. I fanned myself with my drink tickets, each one decorated with a picture of a shirtless hunk. Spotlights guided my eyes to the platform stage raised just eight inches from the floor. The red curtains were closed, and a few attendees milled about near the VIP-only white couches in front of the stage. The bar was directly across the club from the stage, staffed by a single hunk. Service was prompt, since there were no other guests. I traded a drink ticket for a vodka soda and lingered near a glowing hot pink column. One of the club's titular Hunks approached me, raised his tank top, and invited me to stroke his abs, and after my shy refusal seated my friend and I on a white couch in the second row. My appointed waiter sat down and introduced himself. Wearing an unbuttoned shirt and a clergy collar, he told my friend and I his name was Father 69. He asked me all about my plans for the evening and my career. It felt almost like a first date. "Don't get up," he insisted. "If you need anything I'll get it." A bride and her friends sat in the front row couch, giggling. Hunks drifted around the club like somnambulant Michelangelos, pausing to straddle bridal party members. A hunk gripped a woman's wrist and pulled her hands to his chiseled pecs and abs.

Just after nine, our MC AJ opened the show. He wore his leather vest open over his bare chest and a leather cowboy hat. He strummed a guitar. In Magic Mike, Matthew McConaughey wears the same outfit. He plays a song on the guitar, blows a cloud of flames over the roaring crowd of women, smashes the guitar, and strips in artful chiaroscuro.

AJ's McCaughnamimicry was only all right (all right all right). "Can you hear the guitar?" AJ said, strumming. The 30-women-strong audience went wild. We couldn't hear the guitar. "Can you hear that?" he repeated, looking to the wings of the stage. The microphone screeched feedback. "Can you hear it?"

After about 20 seconds, he gave up. "Fuck this," he said, and took off the guitar. "Hunks to the stage, hunks to the stage!" And to the stage they came.

Photo by the author

The male stripper lives in a weird world between objectification and idealization, and his most prominent representation is the Magic Mike franchise. If Channing Tatum's portrayal of Mike is anything to go by, the male stripper is sexy, ripped, and talented, but also charming, kind-hearted, and funny. "You're not just stripping. You are fulfilling every woman's wildest fantasies," McConaughey says in the film to a new male stripper. "You are the husband they never had. You are that dreamboat guy that never came along."

The film sells a performance of masculinity to a female audience—not just the physical spectacle of their waxed/tanned/oiled bodies, but the stories that go with it. When you see Magic Mike, you get the raw thrill of the dance scenes, but also the enriching narratives of romance and failure and persistence. At Hunkomania, there's little backstory, but it's clear that they're counting on you keeping the Magic Mike mythos in mind.

The summoned hunks opened the revue with a sailor-themed dance. Three hunks removed their hats and shirts and tore off their pants with a little dancing. After the dance, the hunks returned to prowl the crowd. Between dances, the DJ played "sexy" music, ranging from Bon Jovi to Enrique Iglesias to The Weeknd.

A muscular hunk approached my couch. "I'm Andrew," he said with a gentle smile. "Having a good time?" I'm not really sure how that turned into a lap dance, but it did. I think I was in a trance. The DJ was playing T.I. Andrew seemed used to women like me, women who aren't used to touching so openly and sexually. I touched his pecs, but only with my fingertips, and only at his behest. He did the wrist-gripping hand-pulling thing. Or he loomed, hands on the back of the sofa on either side of my head, and I sunk back into the couch. The lapdance continued even when the music stopped and AJ took the stage to speak. It was uncomfortable. I guess he wanted me to get my money's worth.

He led me, tipsy and dazed, to the ATM, where I withdrew two $20 bills (with a $3.95 charge) and tried to hand one to him, only to have him raise his eyebrows and tilt his hips forward so I could slide it into the waistband of his underwear. The other twenty I took to the bar to break into small bills for tipping. The bartender informed me they didn't do that here at Hunkomania, and broke my twenty into sixteen Hunk Bucks. When I questioned the dubious-seeming dollar-to-Hunk-Buck exchange rate, the bartender just shrugged. "Four dollars goes to the owner."

But if I could handle a lapdance I could handle anything. When a hunk drifted up with a platter of shots, Grey Goose and something pink, I took it without thinking, and was then informed it was five dollars. This is the magic of Hunkomania—I felt like everything was a gift, until the moment I had to pay for it. Despite how many times this happened, I kept falling for the ruse. I tried to hand the money to the Shot Hunk, and he tilted his hips out so that I could deposit it in his waistband.


Related: Watch our documentary on Japanese erotica aimed at women:


I was emboldened now, by vodka and the feeling of being waited on and surviving a lapdance. The choreographed dances now became audience-participatory events. In the middle of the stage, a dancer and powerlifter with a body like Terry Crews prowled around a flimsy, red-cushioned chair. Confidence roaring through my veins, when he called for a volunteer, I leapt to my feet. Bring it on. When I tried to bring my drink onstage, AJ quickly and firmly chided me.

Hunkomania sells a bizarre sort of audience agency where you make the choice, but they do everything. Hunks gyrate through the crowd, perform lap dances, and pull women onstage. Not only do you watch—you touch, and your money controls where they go. The "hotseat," in both the film and real club, is when a woman sits in a chair onstage and receives a dancer's affections. Typically in gyrating butt form.

I sat in the hotseat. He lifted me up like I weighed nothing. He wrapped my legs around his hips, carefully guiding my motions with quiet words, like "hands here, stay still, OK here we go," as Enrique Iglesias' "Hero" blared around us. I hung there in midair, grimacing, supported by a stripper's core strength and dinnerplate hands, hoping my shirt wasn't riding up. I was a prop in the show, a tool for the dancer to show the howling audience the benefits of squatting 500 pounds. The lapdance was so intimate it was uncomfortable, and the dance was so detached it was boring.

Then, three hunks participated in a Wall Street-themed dance to Usher's "There Goes My Baby." The dance included Andrew, whose hunkiness I appreciated with clearer eyes from my white couch. It was very similar to the sailor dance, just with briefcases. Afterwards, AJ took to the stage again, still wearing his leather cowboy hat. "A few years ago, producers of the movie came here to Hunkomania, watched the show that you're seeing now, interviewed the hunks, and based the show in the film on the show you're witnessing now," AJ said, scanning the crowd. The film in question is, of course, Magic Mike. This claim is probably untrue, but we whooped and clapped anyway. "Ladies," he said. "It is my great pleasure to introduce to you the inspiration for the film. We call him Super Stan. Let's hear a big round of applause for the original... Magic... Mike!"

The first note of Ginuwine's "Pony" played—Channing/Mike's signature song in the film—and we went bananas. Hunkomania sells Magic Mike's version of masculinity almost to the point of plagiarism. And it works.

The dance itself was good, pulling floor-grinding cues straight from the film (or was it the other way around?).

On Noisey: Bob Dylan, Male Strippers, and Children's Books: A Conversation with VÅR

I dictated the following voice memo into my phone:

" Diane... I'm at Hunkomania... Apparently Super Stan has been a dancer for Lady Gaga. He's slow grindin' to Pony right now. He is re-enacting Magic Mike—ooh. WOO! He is fuckin' GOOD though, is the thing! I'm, like, mad about how good he is! Oh my god! I'm tryna sleep with—I'm tryna sleep with Super Stan. His name is Super Stan and I am—WHOA! Oh my god. Yo. [starts singing along] Ride it... my pony..."

As I watched Super Stan dance, I abandoned any sense of journalistic integrity. His dance moves were cool. Effortless. He had stripped stripping of any weirdness I had previously associated with it. I was hypnotized.

When Super Stan's performance ended, AJ announced that Stan, so far silent onstage, was available for lapdances. I sat back down on the couch and summoned him over by waving my remaining Hunk Bucks over my head.

"Hi," I said as Stan floated toward me, moving through the drunken bridal party and their lightly groping hands; the audience was blurred and meaningless like other tourists at one's first viewing of David.

I leaned forward, my hands on my knees, tilting my head up to speak. It was not proper lapdance posture. Super Stan peered down at me, and I remember he was tan, but it was dark and I don't really know what his face looked like. I asked him how long he'd worked at Hunkomania.

"Seven or eight years," Stan said, his hands dangling by his sides. I was still clenching my Hunk Bucks.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why do you think?" Stan shrugged. "Want a lapdance?"

"I only have ten dollars," I said.

Stan turned his back and seemed to fade into the ether, though I know it was only back into the arms of a bridal party with a lot more cash than me. In that moment I was suddenly, immensely sad—I'd missed my chance. I'd never meet my Super Stan again.

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Comics: If It Looks Like a Duck

All the Weird Shit I Saw at This Year's Stonehenge Summer Solstice

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK.

In my very first week of university, as an interminably hungover and generally quite misguided archaeology student, I was bundled onto a bus with about 50 other students and ferried off around the area that used to be known as Wessex on a field trip into the past.

My thoughts while trudging around Stonehenge, the ostensible apex of this trip, just about perfectly sums up my antipathy for the whole experience. As an archaeologist, I'd imagined myself digging up mummies in Egypt or searching for Inca gold in the Amazon. Essentially, I had watched Indiana Jones and genuinely believed that was a way of life that existed outside of a Hollywood soundstage. Walking around a track in the rain and being lectured about each of the 16 different ways Stonehenge could be approached (and the relative merits of each) was a dose of reality I was not prepared for.

A fortnight ago I finished my final exam on that course, and had been looking for a way to celebrate that didn't involve drinking shit beer at the same pub I go to literally every week. This past weekend, the summer solstice rolled around. Traditionally, this is a day where lots of people go to Stonehenge to watch the sunrise, get really fucked, sober up a bit, fall asleep, wake up to see a bit of the sunrise, and then go home.

So struck a dilemma: when I was done tottering around that hill three years ago, I can honestly say I thought that was the last time I would be anywhere near a miserable, 5,000-year-old collection of boulders. But, I figured, by going back to the place it all began, maybe I'd have the opportunity to round off those three years in one full cathartic swoop. The celebration of the cycles of nature at the solstice aligns with the cycles of my life, and by opening my results at the Henge I can mark the end of that chapter and the beginning of the next. Or something.

Anyway, here's all the weird shit I saw.

7:30 PM: Me and my friend Weez head to Salisbury from Waterloo. Weez is more prepared than I am: she's bought a tablecloth to use as a blanket.

9:27: Salisbury station is a cute little place. If it weren't for the density of policemen and small-time drug dealers when we arrive, I could imagine living out my final years somewhere near here—fly fishing on the River Avon, communicating as little as possible with other humans and working towards a full-blown brandy dependency.

9:40: Onboard the shuttle bus to Stonehenge I'm surrounded by a wildly disparate group of people—two Chinese tourists with professional telephoto lenses; a psytrance guy sharing glitter with a Home Counties hippy, a couple of sixth-formers talking about how "jokes" it was last year when someone tripped over a couple having sex by the portapotties, and a girl with braids telling her mum over the phone that yes, she'd caught the bus fine, and no, she wasn't going to have to come and pick her up at 3 AM like last time.

9:47: It dawns on us that we've neglected to buy any alcohol. This could be a very long night.

10:00: Getting off the bus, we join hundreds of revelers stumbling across a field towards the monument. It occurs to me that this must be much like the pilgrimages Neolithic communities would have undertaken 5,000 years ago. I wonder which of the 16 unique directions we are approaching the henge from, before remembering I do not give a shit.

10:15: We've reached a collection of "fire horses," whatever that means. Someone's dog has scared one, and it looks like they're about to get a kick to the face from the horse, as well as an attending police officer.

10:30: The pilgrimage comes to an end at what looks like a bit like an astroturf Disneyland. Crane-mounted floodlights gaze down onto rows of porta potties, while high-vis jackets parade the fenced perimeter in pairs. The police officer who checks my bag at the cattle-grid tells me I'm a fucking idiot for bringing my laptop. I mutter an apology in agreement.

11:00: None other than King Arthur Pendragon emerges from the organic wood-baked pizza van. Call me a nerd, but I followed his entire legal battle in 2011 to stop researchers from examining ancient human remains found at Stonehenge, a spiritual site for him and his druid mates. There was something spellbinding about watching a man dressed as the reincarnation of England's most famous mythical king walk into an actual court of law and argue with a man in a powdered wig. I tell him this and he reluctantly shakes my hand.

11:30: Over at the Henge, a toppled sandstone block makes the perfect platform to take a few photos and get our bearings. Stepping down, I inadvertently tread on some women setting up a liquid picnic. I tell them I like their glowsticks and ask to take a photo, but they insist on waiting for their friend to get back. Half a minute later, a woman emerges from the Henge and obligingly blinks into the flash.

11:45: Next to King Arthur and the glowstick girls, we're feeling slightly underdressed. I elect to draw a pattern on Weez's face with a blunt eyeliner, and then fashion a dress out of the tablecloth.

11:47: Two sixth-formers stumble over to marvel at my handiwork. They want to know if they can use the eyeliner to scrawl some stars and love hearts into their Clearasil. We approve and they promise to return with some rub-on Maori tattoos, a spot of cultural appropriation that I imagine a lot of people here—despite their bindis and ginger dreadlocks—might not be all that chill with.

midnight: Some guys has smuggled in eight packs of Stella and is selling them for off £2 [$3] a can. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, we buy him out and settle into our new community.

12:15 AM: A French film crew wades through the crowd towards us and we manage to catch their attention. Despite my best efforts they take a disproportionate liking to Weez and she gets a full 15-minute interview about spirituality and archaeology. This may have less to do with her expertise on European megaliths and more because she has eyeliner on her face and looks a bit like a Swami, but then maybe I'm just jealous.

1:00: Everyone around us is getting stoned, and we're starting to get hungry by proxy, so decide to head over to the food vans. With a variety as broad as the Old World, the only thing not on the menu is literally anything a Neolithic tribesman might have eaten, so I suck it up and get an Angus cheeseburger and chips instead.

READ ON THUMP: Iceland's Secret Solstice Festival Had Us Partying for 72 Hours of Sunlight

1:30: We go to the loo because there's nothing else to do and it feels appropriate for this article for some reason. The line for the toilet stretches half a mile and is overlooked by a solitary floodlight. Again, there is nothing else to do.

2:00: We talk to a guy for about ten minutes about the difference between Druids, witches, and pagans, and how many species of lichen grow on Stonehenge. I ask whether he thinks the laser pens people are shining at the stones might be damaging them, and he is not happy with that suggestion.

I then ask for a family picture. The person I assume to be his son turns out to be his girlfriend, which she tells us while baring her weird baby teeth, adding that the pair had just got engaged. We make our excuses and quickly shuffle off.


Related: Chances are some of the people from London's 420 rally were also at the summer solstice. Watch our film from the weed party below


3:00: It's too dark to take photos without making people scream, and one cyber-goth has already threatened to stab me with her boot buckle if the flash goes off again, so we decide to look for somewhere to sit.

3:07: We nestle into a network of hormonal teenagers and precarious tea lights in a nettle patch just the wrong side of comfortable. Here, we will wait until sunrise and ignore all the finger-blasting the people around us seem to think they're hiding expertly.

3:30: I get up to take a photo of some people fucking in the bushes and come back to find Weez passed out like this. She claims I've been gone for a day a half and that someone has pissed on her leg.

4:15: The sun begins to rise and people start to move again. At 4:20, someone in the crowd—to absolutely no one's surprise—shouts: "4:20!"

4:30: A pink haze falls over the site as a boy in a panda hat does his last NOS balloon of the night and his friends once again become conscious of their jaws.

5:00: This hybrid woman-tent human may as well have been at home for how far away she was from the actual stones, but she seemed to be having a lovely time regardless.

5:15: The sunrise reaches its underwhelming conclusion in a sort of murky grey fog, and with that, the antics of the shortest night of the year are already in the past. People start collecting their belongings and prepare to head off, ready to embrace the tragedy of modernity all over again.

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I Create Fake Medical Crises for a Living

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A bloodied childlike human simulator. Photo by the author

I stood at the head of the stretcher, facing down toward the foot, with a female patient lying before me, an endotracheal tube in one hand and a laryngoscope in the other. She had been in a terrible car accident, and now, she was covered in blood, her pants were soaked with piss, and she was regurgitating blood. If I didn't get this tube in, she would likely drown in it.

The room was noisy—shouting, crying, alarms—and crawling with nurses, all of whom were rushing to save the patient and her children, an infant and a four-year-old, who were in only slightly better condition. I wished one of them was my patient instead of the doomed lady in front of me. It was clear she was going to die, but it was my job to provide a clear airway, not to decide at which point we had provided "adequate care."

I looked down at her, her head tilted back and ready for me. "I can do this," I said to the nurses watching me, lying as I announced myself as the "respiratory therapist." They knew it was a lie too, but they didn't call my bluff. They recognized I was here to do a job that they either couldn't or wouldn't do, and so they stood back as I used the blade of the laryngoscope to push her tongue down until I could see her vocal cords and slide the tube into place. One of my teammates rushed to the side of the four-year-old's bed. The child had stopped responding, and she was doing everything she could to get him back. I knew how, but that wasn't my role in this—my role was to get a bag attached to the end of this tube so my patient could breathe. I pulled the metal guide wire from inside my tube and attached the bag, squeezing. Her chest rose.

My heart was pounding. How did I get here? I asked myself for the third or fourth time. I was an IT guy, not a medical professional, and these people all knew it. I moved over to help my teammate with the four-year-old. And then...

"Simulation over," announced a voice through a loudspeaker overhead. Everything stopped—the alarms, the three patients crying—and the room let out a collective sigh of relief. "Clean yourselves up and head to the debriefing room."

One by one, the nurses filed out of the room while my teammates and I turned to cleaning and resetting the room to do it all over again. Luckily for me, the next group would have a few ER nurses and at least one doc, so I wouldn't have to act for another hour or so.

A medical group attends to the injuries of a human patient simulator mannequin. Photo via Wikimedia Commons

I work in a fake hospital. We have six ICU rooms, a 20-bed medical bay, and an 18-room outpatient facility. I'm a medical simulation technician, which means I help nursing and medical students learn how to perform medical procedures on our mannequins. Technically, they're "human simulators," which, in addition to serving as lukewarm bodies in the hospital beds, can blink, breathe, pee, cry, and bleed. They have fake pulses, heartbeats, lungs, and bowel sounds. We have 26 of those, including a newborn baby, a five-year-old kid, and a mom who can give birth (click that link at your own risk). On a given day, I'll do anything from aiming our security system–like cameras and editing video to doing stage makeup and mixing up fake bodily fluids. In addition to those jobs, I also program and maintain the mannequins. Oh, and I clean. A lot.

I am not a medical professional. My background is in IT, and most of my skills before working here were learned downloading illegal movies and watching porn on stolen WiFi—and then cleaning up all the shit that tagged along with said movies and porn. That is to say, I had no formal training: just a childhood with the internet and a couple programming classes in high school.

Yet, in the scene described above, I was expected to not only play the part of the respiratory therapist, but to program the vital-sign changes in all three of the patients. It was also part of my job to mix up about two cups of fake shit and splash some fake urine over the patients' pants. Once the simulation ended, I had to stop the recording, pull the video up in the debriefing room, clean up whatever fluids were smeared around by the previous batch of nurses, and set up my equipment to record the next round.

All in all, it's one hell of a job.

Photo by the author

I've seen students climb on top of my patients to preform CPR as though they're in a scene from Grey's Anatomy. I've seen a teacher knee a student directly in the face (the teacher was acting as a combative patient, and the student's job was to get him back in bed and restrained; the student leaned down just as the teacher's knee came up). I've had campus security called on the scenario because we forgot to send out an email to the college warning them that we were going to have an altercation in the lobby involving a clear-plastic airsoft gun that was going to end in a heart-attack scenario. And I've seen students quit the program in the middle of a scenario because they couldn't handle the stress of an combat veteran going through withdrawal from alcohol—played by an actor—heading down a path that ultimately would have ended in the patient committing suicide.

These aren't just scenarios we make up to confuse students. Most of them are actual cases that our faculty members have experienced in their own practices (without any identifying information, of course). These cases are structured in a way that can show the students what they may experience in the field, and teach them how to act if they do—the same way the airline industry has been doing it since 1910, focusing on standardization and repetition.

At the end of the day, what we do in this fake hospital has been proven to improve patient outcomes in the real ones. That's what keeps us coming in when our backs are sore from lifting 80-pound mannequins off the floor, when our scrubs smell like Liquid Ass spray (a real product, which is exactly what it sounds like), and when we're all sick of the pressure coming from above to pull Hollywood-level production value from a high school musical budget.


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Back in the hospital, the nurses were leaving the simulation room and my team and I had jumped into motion, resetting everything for the next group. The room was an utter disaster: One mannequin's shirt had been cut off, revealing a large seatbelt bruise across her chest that had been smeared beyond usability. The newborn's diaper had been removed and thrown away; on the far side of the room, the child's gaping head wound had been bandaged, and the stacks of gauze used to clean the wound had been dropped on the floor and kicked around, leaving bloody streak marks across the floor. All of that had to go—everything had to return to zero to ensure the same experience for the next group.

As usual, I started with cleaning, scrubbing the remains of my mannequin's bruising. Sometimes, I can save it, but not this time. Across the room, one of my teammates was wiping blood off the floor with a wash cloth and a spray bottle of Simple Green. Our other teammate had the easiest job: He already had a new diaper positioned under the fake baby's ass, unfastened, with a small syringe of fake urine next to it for the last-minute addition, and had turned to troubleshooting the kid's connection. For some reason, the mannequin had stopped communicating with its computer, rendering it, for all intents and purposes, dead.

When everything was clean, we turned to makeup and fluids. I sprinkled some baby powder on my mannequin's chest and rubbed it in to give the makeup good footing (unsurprisingly, silicone skin doesn't hold makeup very well) before pulling out my sponges and palette of bruise-colored stage makeups. I painted on reds, blues, and purples, spreading the bruise from her left shoulder to the lower-right of her rib cage.

The group of nurses had finished debriefing, and they walked past the simulation room as they left the center, reminding us to pull the curtains shut to hide the scene from the next group. We try to stay behind the scenes, to keep things feeling as authentic as possible, but the curtain tends to get forgotten when we have a lot to reset.

My coworkers continued to work on the kid. One was stippling on gel-blood to indicate road rash; the other was getting the kid reconnected to the computer, verifying connectivity by making it say one of its 15 pre-recorded responses, like, "There's blood in my poop!" I returned to our control room. The cameras in the ceiling were all aimed at their respective beds, only requiring a little tweaking to get back to their starting positions, and I punched the next group's team name and the date into our video recording software then selected "Restart Scenario" in the control software for my own mannequin, leaving them both one click away from starting.

The next group was already arriving, so I raced back to the simulation room to splash some fresh piss on my mannequin's pants, give her a quick spritz of Liquid Ass (remembering, at almost the last minute, to glove up so the smell wouldn't stick with me all day), and squirt the syringe of pee into the baby's diaper. As I was fastening up the diaper, I heard the facilitator in the hallway start briefing the next group:

"You've been called to the ER for a witnessed rollover accident. There are three patients—the mom and baby were wearing their seatbelts, while the five-year-old was thrown from the vehicle—and all are in critical condition. You arrive just as EMS is leaving, already called out on another call..."

People often ask how we pull it off, how we manage to artificially create the sense of life-or-death chaos that comes from a medical emergency. I think it comes down to the authenticity of the bodily fluids: For fake poo, I mix chocolate pudding, applesauce, canned corn, and peanuts. Then I spray the mix with a couple squirts of Liquid Ass spray, stir it up, and spoon it over any of those fake dog turds you can get at any novelty store. For fake vomit, I mix lemon juice and parmesan cheese together for smell, then I add corn starch for consistency. It smells horrible, but it would probably taste great if you put it on chicken.

Follow Dave Matney on Twitter.


Four Limericks

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Illustrations by Joana Avillez

This article appears in the June Issue of VICE Magazine.

There was a mortician from Havre,
Who successfully washed a cadaver.
When they said, "That's your talent," he answered, "I doubt it,"
That roundabout person from Havre.

There was an old man at DePaul:
Made disturbances down at the mall.
His beret was so tight that it made him turn white,
And they said, "Why'dja buy it so small?"

We saw a few artists from Bensonhurst,
But I'm not sure which one I should mention first.
This one guy we saw was unwilling to draw,
'Cuz he wanted to sharpen his pencil first.

There was an old person from Flint,
Who was partially covered in lint.
When they said, "Why are you like this?" he got so self-righteous
They thought he would never relent.

Why Are Some People Saying Dylann Roof Was Given Special Treatment When He Was Arrested?

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Screencap via USA Today on YouTube

Last Thursday, 21-year-old Dylann Roof was arrested on suspicion that he perpetrated the heinous slaughter of nine people at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, a night earlier. Authorities caught up with him in the small town of Shelby, North Carolina.

Shelby cops drew criticism online almost immediately for the way they treated Roof, but in contrast to many conversations Americans have these days about police conduct, social media denizens don't think police showed too little concern for his wellbeing. Instead, they seem frustrated that the alleged mass murderer was being treated so nicely.

When Roof was led outside the Shelby Police Department on Thursday, he was photographed in a bulletproof vest. He was shown in the vest again later that day when he was being ushered onto a plane for extradition back to South Carolina. DeRay McKesson, a key Black Lives Matter organizer, was among those expressing frustration with the steps being taken to protect the suspect from Jack Ruby–style assassination.

(Others online were quick to point out that the cops occasionally give high-profile suspects bulletproof vests, as they did in the case of Lee Boyd Malvo after the 2002 Beltway sniper attacks.)

But in all the furor over Roof's treatment, no detail was quite as provocative as the news that police in Shelby gave the unemployed former landscaper a meal from Burger King shortly after taking him into custody. The Charlotte Observer mentioned the meal in a piece that ran Friday—Shelby Police Chief Jeff Ledford mentioned to the press that after Roof complained that he hadn't had a meal in a while, the cops got him some BK—but as often happens in an age when the internet is actually impossible to keep up with, the nugget wasn't seized upon by social media activists until days later.

It does sound like a generous meal for a guy who, the previous night, had reportedly waited until the parishioners of Emanuel AME bowed their heads in prayer to pull out his gun and say something along the lines of, "I'll give you something to pray about!" as he opened fire on them.

On Tuesday, possibly in response to the uproar, Shelby police released the footage of Roof's arrest as captured by the dash cams mounted inside their officers' cruisers:

It's clear the 21-year-old is not exactly being treated roughly. The three-and-a-half minute video begins with a handful of cops approaching the car with their guns drawn. The first officer walks up to the driver's side window with caution, but when there's no apparent conflict, the other officers holster their weapons and seem to chill out in a matter of seconds.

Roof exits his car willingly, and cooperates as officers cuff him and give him a quick pat down. Then he's walked over to a police cruiser, and the most forceful moment comes starting around the 2:10 mark, when he's pressed up against a cruiser with authority, and subjected to a more forceful and thorough search.

None of this could be described as "brutal"—which is to say, anything that even remotely resembles police brutality.

I called the Shelby Police Department to ask them about Roof's treatment, and they declined to comment, instead directing me to City Attorney Bob Yelton, who said he didn't know anything about Burger King, and would only tell me that officers "did a fine job" of bringing Roof into custody.

But the question remains: Did Shelby police do anything wrong?

"The important question is whether the deputies acted according to established procedure and policy, or if they made an exception for Mr. Roof," Jeffrey Fagan, an expert on policing and criminal justice at Columbia Law School, said in an email. "If it's an exception, this smells, and smells badly, of racial preference."

Of course, it's not that anyone—or anyone sane, at least—is asking for Roof to be mistreated. In fact, according to Fagan, "As odious as Mr. Roof's murders may be, his humane treatment is laudable." But, the professor added, "It's unlikely, from what we know of the racial disparities in treatment from the moment of arrest through sentencing and incarceration, that any non-white fugitive from a murder charge would be given that treatment in Shelby, North Carolina, or in any other place in the South."

"Most places would let him enjoy a standard-issue jail bologna sandwich," Fagan said.

It's worth pausing to note that starving a suspect is an established, and legally invalid, tactic for coaxing a false confession out of someone. Confessions have been ruled inadmissible when suspects like Harold Hall, who wrongly spent nearly two decades in prison for murder, were denied food during their interrogations. Moreover, Roof's first official interrogation was conducted by the FBI, and Shelby's small police force might have simply been minding its p's and q's while the feds were around.

Yahoo News talked to the authorities at length shortly after the arrest, and got a more complete picture of the process of taking Roof into custody, one that contradicts the idea that he was taken to Burger King. More accurately, "They bought him a hamburger," Strickland Maddox, a local pastor, told Yahoo News, suggesting that they sent out for it.

Chief Ledford added that Roof remained in cuffs the entire time he ate.

Follow Mike Pearl on Twitter.

Catching Up with the Inimitable Yoko Ono

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Yoko Ono with 'Standing Woman' (1932) by Gaston Lachaise, The Museum of Modern Art Sculpture Garden, New York. c. 1960–61. Photograph by Minoru Niizuma © Minoru Niizuma. All photos courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art

In 1971, Yoko Ono staged a one-woman guerilla show at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, mischievously titled Museum of Modern [F]art. For the performance, the Tokyo-born artist released a jarful of perfume-scented flies into the museum's sculpture garden, then asked museum-goers to follow them as they swarmed through the garden, the galleries, and into the city. At least that's what she said she was going to do in her self-published catalogue and the ads she had taken out in the New York Times and Village Voice. When visitors arrived, the only evidence of her unauthorized performance was a man stationed outside the entrance with a sandwich board explaining the idea. And yet the conceptual act got her in the door, so to speak—Ono and her theoretical flies had accessed the walls of the galleries and the imaginations of the public, all without showing any physical work.

Now, over 40 years later, after the inimitable Ono has distinguished herself as a singer, songwriter, filmmaker, and performance artist, MoMA officially welcomes the 82-year-old artist back to explore her early years with, Yoko Ono: One Woman Show, 1960–1971. Chronicling the decade before she turned up at the museum uninvited, the show explores her conceptual work, objects, music, and film.

One of the more well-known and playful pieces is Film No. 4, featuring voiceovers set to a sequence of naked buttocks, which Ono made in the late 1960s as a member of the Fluxus art movement alongside legends like Marcel Duchamp and John Cage.

'Cut Piece' (1964) by Yoko Ono

The decade chronicled in the show similarly represents a time in which Ono challenged conventional thinking about women. In her most iconic performance, the seminal Cut Piece (1964), Ono examines issues of gender, privilege, and cultural status by asking participants to snip away pieces of her clothing and undergarments as she sits impassively on the floor.

Grapefruit, Ono's 1964 book of 150 brief and humorous instructions, also features prominently in the show. Last Sunday morning at the museum, beginning at 4:30 AM, Ono made good on the Grapefruit instruction that reads, "Break a contemporary museum into pieces with the means you have chosen. Collect the pieces and put it together with glue" by staging Morning Peace 2015. The performance was a re-envisioning of her 1965 piece of the same name. Acting as both the hammer and the glue, musician Blood Orange and DJ Virgil Abloh performed until the early dawn as Ono and nearly 1,000 revelers danced in the garden lobby and on top of the MoMA couches and speakers in the early morning sun.

Yoko Ono at PopRally presents Yoko Ono Morning Peace 2015 on June 21, 2015, at the Museum of Modern Art. Photo by Scott Rudd

I caught up with Ono last week via email to ask her a few questions about the challenges of being a woman artist in a male-dominated art world, her storied career, and the difference between MoMA then and now.

VICE: In 1971, you had your first, albeit unauthorized, show at MoMA, called Museum of Modern (F)art , a kind of conceptual joke. Why was it important at the time for you to stage that kind of show?
Yoko Ono: An elaborate joke? My sense of humor you probably saw in many of my art instructions. When a woman artist makes a work with sense of humor, the world asks exactly like what you are asking now. "Why is it important to stage that kind of show?" Seriously, give us women artists a chance!

Your MoMA show focuses on the decade before your first go at MoMA. What was that period like for you creatively?
I was totally creative and had fun being a woman artist and making art, exhibiting and performing in NYC, Japan, and London. The spoiled-sport male artists were so angry, they decided to bury me by saying they didn't think I was an artist.

Yoko Ono, 'Museum of Modern [F]art' (1971).The Museum of Modern Art Library, New York. © Yoko Ono 2014

You were a conceptual artist long before that type of art was widely appreciated. What was it that led you away from objects and toward the ideas that you explore in your book Grapefruit?
I liked making art that existed only conceptually. But there was another reason: When the works were not conceptual, they all walked out on me.

Yoko Ono, 'Grapefruit' (1964).The Museum of Modern Art, New York. The Gilbert and Lila Silverman Fluxus Collection Gift, 2008. © Yoko Ono 2014

Cut Piece , where you instructed audience members to cut your clothes off your body, raises questions about the status of women and power and more generally it raises questions about the fragility of an unprotected body. Which is a conversation we are currently having about transgender women, do you think much has changed since you first performed the work in Tokyo?
When I performed the Cut Piece, the people were so shocked they did not talk about it. It's a different time now. It will be talked about, but may be more dangerous to perform.

You recently re-staged the work, but with one crucial difference, that you were the one doing the cutting. How did it feel to be on the other side of things?
I was totally scared that I might, by mistake, cut her skin or something. Now I know that the work is not only scary to the one whose clothes are being cut.

'Cut Piece' (1964) performed by Yoko Ono in 'New Works of Yoko Ono,' Carnegie Recital Hall, New York, March 21, 1965. Photograph by Minoru Niizuma

Your peace activism and collaboration with your late husband John Lennon shines through in pieces like Bed-In and the War Is Over! (if you want it). Do you think the messages in those pieces resonate so powerfully in part because of the way you and John were willing to live your love so openly?
More to do with my hubby's popularity and fame, which was unlike my unpopularity and name at the time. But the ideas are what all people want. Sometimes they are too afraid to change their lives to live in peace and harmony instead of violence and conflict.

Yoko Ono and John Lennon, 'WAR IS OVER! if you want it' (1969). The Museum of Modern Art, New York. The Gilbert and Lila Silverman Fluxus Collection Gift, 2008. © Yoko Ono 2014

A 24-hour performance of Morning Piece was just performed around the world, where people gathered at sunrise to celebrate the new day. What is it about mornings that inspire you?
The time when the sun rises. It is symbolic of all the days of renewal. June 21 is also the Summer Solstice all over the world.

Fifty years later, what's the biggest difference between your first solo show at MoMA and now?
It's nice and noisy now.

Yoko Ono: One Woman Show 19601971 is on view at MoMA through September 7, 2015.

Follow Antwaun on Twitter.

Happy 10th Birthday Reddit, It's Been a Glorious Shitshow

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Happy 10th Birthday Reddit, It's Been a Glorious Shitshow

​Anatomy of a Texas Prison Uprising

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Until late February, ten Kevlar tents and a few adjacent buildings housed nearly 3,000 inmates in a south Texas prison called the Willacy County Correctional Center. The Raymondville facility near the Mexico border was known by most inmates as "Ritmo," a nod to the notorious prison in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Almost all of the prisoners were immigrants incarcerated for nonviolent drug-related crimes, border-crossing violations, or some combination of the two. The facility was one of 13 "Criminal Alien Requirement" (CAR) prisons run by for-profit corporations contracted by the federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP), many of which have been plagued by allegations of inhumane conditions and abuse. One of the unlucky inhabitants had told the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), which issued a report on the facility, that these conditions made life there like "walking on minefields" because so many inmates were frustrated or angry.

On February 20, somebody apparently stepped on one of the mines.

That's when the tensions that had been accruing for years exploded—about 2,000 inmates rose up, took over large swaths of the facility, set fire to three of the tents, and sent the guards scurrying, according to inmates and media reports.

For sometime between a few hours and a week—depending on whom you ask—detainees effectively had the run of the place.

Initial statements from the Management and Training Corporation-run (MTC), the private contractor that ran the facility, suggested inmates were outside their control for only two days. Issa Arnita, a spokesperson for the company, told VICE via email in May that officials regained control of the prison "within a few hours."

But when I spoke with FBI Special Agent Michelle Lee, she explained, "If there was no danger, we [the FBI] wouldn't be there."

According to the ACLU report, the conditions in CAR facilities were "shocking," "discriminatory," "inhumane," and "abhorrent."

FBI agents remained at the site until at least early Monday morning, February 23—three days after the initial uprising. By the following weekend, the prison was deemed uninhabitable, and all 2,834 inmates were moved to other facilities.

VICE got in touch with nine inmates who took part in the uprising, eight of whom said they have since been transferred to a newly opened maximum-security prison in Yazoo City, Mississippi, and one of whom is in a separate facility in Tennessee. According to them, the revolt—some outlets called it a "riot"—at the Texas facility was the inevitable result of brutal conditions imposed on the population.

Now the question is whether the feds are ready to change things at other facilities like this one.


In 2014, the ACLU released "Warehoused and Forgotten: Immigrants Trapped in Our Private Prison System," its report on CAR facilities. According to the advocacy group, these places are used to incarcerate exclusively non-citizens, many of whom have no criminal record. In total, almost 25,000 inmates are held there; in Ritmo alone, there had been at least two previous inmate "strikes," or uprisings, only one of which received any media attention, detainees said.

According to the ACLU report, the conditions in CAR facilities were "shocking," "discriminatory," "inhumane," and "abhorrent."

In CAR prisons, inmates told the ACLU, they are exploited for their labor, live in over-crowded quarters, and (at least in MTC-run Ritmo) eat worm-infested food in such small portions that hunger sometimes keeps them awake at night. These allegations were backed up by my own conversations with inmates, one of whom said that the portions were "ridiculously small," that he "would give more food to his baby daughter to eat," and that he had nothing but "a spoonful of rice and beans, some cornbread."

Inmates also appear to have endured abuse by the guards.

In a PBS Frontline report from 2011, a former Ritmo inmate described "many stories of racial, physical, and sexual abuse" committed by correctional officers. A lot of nights, he said, "I heard screaming in the hallways," apparently from inmates being beaten.

Besides physical conditions and direct abuse, one of the primary complaints I heard directly from former Ritmo inmates concerned lack of medical care. At the time of the uprising, they said, there was one doctor for the nearly 3,000 prisoners, with appointments scheduled months in advance. One inmate who suffers chronic back pain from a slipped disc said he was offered nothing but a few Aspirin for weeks of pain management, and that he was charged four dollars—taken from his commissary account—for five pills. In another instance, when the same inmate asked a guard to see a doctor, the guard allegedly responded, "There is no doctor."

Another frequent grievance was that the prison was primarily run by one gang, Los Paisas, which discriminated against inmates who weren't members. Los Paisas members in Ritmo refer to themselves as a "union" instead of a gang, according to inmates, but if you were not a Paisa in Ritmo and you crossed a member, you might end up in the SHU (Specialized Housing Unit, pronounced "shoe")—a.k.a. isolation. Multiple inmates I spoke with told me that Paisas, not the guards, decided who went to the SHU, and for how long. As one inmate told me, "A [Paisa] inmate told a [guard], 'I don't want an inmate in here. And the [guard] sent him to SHU.'"

Writing in the Nation this week, Seth Freed Wessler described the gang as "practically an administrative partner" to prison officials with MTC.

According to the ACLU, CAR facilities have to designate 10 percent of their bed space for SHUs, about twice the amount at traditional federal prisons. Prisoners placed in the SHU were locked into individual (or sometimes two-person) cells and given limited opportunities for recreation or fresh air, inmates told me.

At the beginning of the uprising, none of the inmates in the SHU were able to escape their confinement, prisoners told me. That meant that as parts of Ritmo began to go up in flames, those still in the SHU were in danger of burning alive.


Watch our documentary on Norway's prisons:


According to inmates, the uprising began when detainees in one of the Kevlar tents—the "Fox Tent," as it was called—refused to "rack up," or stand in front of their bunks for a headcount. They say they were primarily protesting lack of medical care, and had also had enough of what they described as racist guards, the stench of sewage, and rampant overcrowding.

After inmates didn't obey the order to rack up, things escalated quickly. There was a standoff, and according to the Nation report, Daniel Leyva, the head of Willacy's Special Investigations Services unit, threw a BB-filled grenade called a hornets' nest into the tent. One of the guards also allegedly shot at least two rubber bullets, one hitting a Paisa in the face just below the eye, and another striking an inmate in the back of the head. (None of the inmates I spoke with witnessed the grenade going off or the shooting first-hand.) There are also reports that guards used teargas during initial attempt to subdue the uprising.

Soon, after the guards fled the facility, one of the tents was burning, and then a second tent started going up in flames, inmates said. That's when they started dismantling bunk beds to make weapons and tools with which they took to destroying the insect-infested tents.

Peter, an inmate I spoke with multiple times, and who said he'd been locked in the SHU for six months, told me about his experience during the uprising.

"I thought I was going to die," he said. Members of Tango Blast—another gang, with far fewer members than Los Paisas—had to beat his door down to let him out. It took 20 of them beating at the door about 20 minutes, he said. Due to the smoke curling into his cell, Peter could barely breathe.

Meanwhile, another man I spoke with, whom I'll call Nicolai, had a friend who was trapped in the SHU. Working in the control room, which inmates had commandeered, he and others tried to open the SHU doors electronically. When they were unsuccessful, Nicolai said he used the phone to call an MTC company number and that he spoke with an employee, telling him that the inmates trapped in the SHU were in danger. He claims the employee hung up on him.

Next, Nicolai called 9-1-1.

I tracked down the 9-1-1 records and found the call, where you can hear Nicolai repeatedly ask the operator for help releasing the inmates still locked in the SHU. The operator patched him through to a Texas Ranger. Explaining the situation to the Ranger, Nicolai told him, "There will be a lot of dead people if they don't come in time. The fire is getting over here already." The Ranger responded, "Well, will you tell everybody to go back into their units?" later adding, "We need to make sure we're secure there before we can go in." Nicolai responded, "Ain't nobody gonna do nothing to you," to which the Ranger replied, "We can't just go in there like that after you guys have rioted like this."

A moment later, the Ranger can be heard explaining the situation to somebody off the line: "There's a fire in the SHU and there's prisoners in there and they're saying that they're probably going to burn alive."

When asked how many prisoners were in danger, Nicolai responded, "I'm guessing like a hundred," he estimated, though other accounts put the number closer to 75. The Ranger then asked if there was a way to reroute the incoming calls. At that point, the call ends.

Before the men in SHU succumbed to smoke and flames, inmates succeeded in opening all the doors. Some of the doors were simply broken down. Others, I'm told, were successfully opened when an inmate figured out how to operate the computer system in the control room.

I asked all of the inmates I spoke with what sparked the uprising, and each cited lack of medical care first, and then the awful conditions like overcrowding, overflowing toilets, and disgusting food.


Back in 2009, a former Ritmo nurse testified at a Capitol Hill briefing about the "extreme temperatures, inadequate nutrition, medical staffing shortages, and long delays for critically needed health care" in the prison. She added, "The level of human suffering was just unbelievable." According to MTC's website, the American Correctional Association, a private accreditation agency, gave Ritmo "a score of 100 percent on mandatory standards and 99.6 percent on non-mandatory standards."

But since that 2009 briefing, the MTC-run facility doesn't seem to have made much improvement. The abominable conditions described in the ACLU report published a year ago, and in the PBS documentary three years before that, strongly resembled the horrid conditions described to me in conversations with former inmates over the past few months.

In an emailed statement to VICE, MTC spokesperson Issa Arnita wrote, "We completely disagree with and dispute the anecdotal allegations in the ACLU report."

As for the uprising itself, MTC has made various assertions to the press about why it took place but has stuck most closely to the idea that inmates planned the revolt in order to be transferred to a different facility so that they wouldn't be deported to dangerous Mexican border towns. I asked all of the inmates I spoke with what sparked the uprising, and each cited lack of medical care first, and then the awful conditions like overcrowding, overflowing toilets, and disgusting food. I asked each of them if the uprising was about changing where they would be deported to. Though they all wanted to leave Ritmo, none of them said this desire had anything to do with the incident.

In response to allegations that inmates revolted about poor medical care, MTC spokesman Arnita told me, "Just prior to the incident, The Joint Commission concluded an audit for reaccreditation in which inmates were surveyed." According to Arnita, the surveys showed that inmates "were satisfied with their medical care." But after talking to the Joint Commission, a private accreditation agency, I found that the survey did not appear to have been conducted "just prior to the incident," as Arnita suggested, but in 2013, over a year before the uprising and before the ACLU report alleged that "basic medical concerns are often ignored or inadequately addressed by staff."

One inmate (whom I also spoke with) told ACLU staff he was diagnosed with Hepatitis C while in Ritmo but was not informed of his own diagnosis and received no "treatment or explanation about how to care for himself."

The Bureau of Prisons, which contracts MTC to run CAR facilities, declined to comment for this story.


Watch the VICE News' documentary on the state of mental health at Chicago's Cook County Jail.


After working to put out the various fires, inmates survived by eating what they could scavenge from the commissary and scrounging up carts of boxed lunches that the authorities—beginning on the second day of the uprising—rolled through the prison gates daily. After two full days without running water, by the third day the water was turned on for 20 minutes every four hours, inmates said. Most of the prison was flooded (from the fire sprinklers) and the yard was filled with excrement. Inmates were "taking dumps wherever they could," according to Nicolai.

A law enforcement officer who spoke to me on condition of anonymity said, "Things could have been really, really bad." She was talking about the possibility that inmates might have breached the facility's perimeter. "It's scary to think how close conditions were for that to happen."

Describing those days as "absolute chaos," Grigori told me he was scared of catching a disease, and that he was prepared to "fight for his life." Most of the inmates slept outside in the yard, where the temperature dropped to the 30s at night. Finally, after more than a week of negotiation with authorities, inmates relinquished their makeshift weapons and kitchen knives, and consented to be transferred to other facilities.

None of the inmates I spoke with had any of their belongings transferred with them. One inmate I spoke with told me $300 was not transferred to his new account. Another claimed to lose all of his legal paperwork, which he had been working on for years. A third inmate I spoke with asked a guard in Yazoo City if his belongings were going to be transferred to him and was told: "[Your stuff] got contaminated. It got burned."

For the first month of their stay in the maximum-security facility in Mississippi, both Grigori and Nicolai, as well as another inmate I spoke with, were locked into SHU. Still, Grigori told me, "Yazoo is better than Willacy."

In their 2014 report, the ACLU described an inmate who "told us that fellow prisoners had threatened to burn the tents, but rationalized, "What's the point? They'd build them back up."

That seems to be exactly what's happening. The company is currently bidding on a new contract with the Bureau of Prisons and is apparently intent on re-opening Ritmo by 2017.

John Washington is a novelist/translator currently living in Arizona. He is the co-translator of The Beast (Verso, 2013), by Salvadoran author Óscar Martinez. Follow him on Twitter.

VICE Vs Video Games: Being a Superhero for Free: We Rated Every Marvel F2P Game

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This article is part of VICE Gaming's Comic Connections week – find more here.

Marvel, and video games—they're trying, bless them. Ignoring for the moment the company's upcoming, hugely promising collaboration with Telltale, Marvel has long taken a scattershot approach to turning their comics into games. And after a string of terrible, terrible titles created by internal studios over at Sega, their focus has more recently turned to mobile. Specifically, the potentially lucrative free-to-play (F2P) market.

But are they any good? I played them to find out. All of them. Which is probably why when I close my eyes all I can see is Iron Man and Captain America trying to convince me to purchase gems or coins or bloody iso-8.

To be fair, as F2P games go, some of Marvel's are pretty good. Actually, some of them are great. The standout is Marvel Puzzle Quest, by quite a long way—it's easily the game I've sunk the most time into. It's important to note that this is developer Demiurge Studios' first and only F2P title to date. Previously they have worked on ports and multiplayer maps for fairly well known franchises born in the gaming world, such as Mass Effect and Borderlands.

This grounding in the world of actual games is perhaps what led to Marvel Puzzle Quest being less of a nickel-and-dime fest than the others. And yet it's the one I've also spent the most real money on.

Marvel Puzzle Quest is a match-three game (see screen, below) in which you carry a trio of heroes and/or villains into battle against other famous Marvel characters. Your roster can be upgraded using the "wonder material from outer space," iso-8, which increases their abilities, allowing you to manipulate the board and do greater damage in battle. So, it's Bejeweled with an RPG twist—but it's also a lot deeper than that, if you allow it to be.

Here's where the Marvel comics connection really comes into its own. Its Universe is big. Huge. However big you think it is, double it. And then it's even bigger than that. Puzzle Quest keeps spitting out characters at you, giving you new heroes and villains to join your roster in a never-ending parade of skin-tight leotards and lashings of Adamantium. Work your way through the story mode and by the time you finish you'll have a full roster of heroes. Some rare, some common. Some powerful, some Hawkeye.

This roster-building mechanic can be found in every one of Marvel's F2P games because, as I say, the company knows its strengths. And its audience.

How you obtain characters in each game is where they differ. Marvel Puzzle Quest has you collecting "covers" (as in, the cover pages of comics). It's a fairly standard gacha system where your fate is in the hands of the Random Number Generator (praise him, praise him), but you can also collect specific covers by being good at the game. Timed events are very regularly added to MPQ, some of which include new characters who you can obtain by being one of the highest on the leaderboard. Events are instance-based, which means you only need to beat out only 950 of your peers to get one of the top prizes, as opposed to all eleventy million players.

Marvel Puzzle Quest throws so much free stuff at you that it's easy to convince yourself to spend a little money every now and then: to support the developers and to thank them for the hours of enjoyment you've received so far. And that's how F2P should work.

Unlike Marvel Future Fight (screen, above), created by Korean developer Netmarble, a company specializing in F2P mobile titles. Its premise is similar to MPQ: build your roster and take them into battle against an invading parallel world in which everyone in the Marvel Universe has turned evil, because... they just have. The thing Future Fight does have going for it is that it can be genuinely fun. It's a Diablo clone, essentially. Though the levels are small and linear (because mobile), it controls surprisingly well and there's enough skill required that you don't feel the game is playing itself. Though there is also an option for that, if you're feeling lazy.

The problem with Future Fight is that you'll likely hit a difficulty wall fairly early on. Stamina isn't an issue so far. So much as sneeze and they'll award you another 50 stamina to keep you going, at least early on—but that grind gets real grindy real quickly. You'll be playing old levels over again in order to break past these impasses.

Character collection is also slow and laborious, as you'll need to find a number of tokens for each character in order for them to join your crew. These new teammates also suffer from being incredibly weak, meaning you'll either be siphoning your precious upgrade materials away from your current team or ignoring the new guy completely. It gets to the point where receiving a new hero can feel more like a punishment than a reward. Either way, you'd better get grinding those gear-up kits.

But like I say, Future Fight can actually be pretty fun to play, so you may find the grind actually quite enjoyable. At least for a while. It's definitely worth checking out.


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Marvel Mighty Heroes, however, is easily the worst of the Marvel F2Ps. It's made by DeNA, another publisher that specializes in mobile F2P titles. In fact, DeNA is a huge deal in the east. They own Mobage, which is a very successful Japanese mobile platform, and they've also recently announced a partnership with Nintendo to bring their franchises to mobile devices.

They know how to make money off mobile, then. But whether they know how to make good games for the platform is another question. One does not necessarily beget the other.

Marvel Mighty Heroes is a bit of a mess. It's got a great chibi art (see the screen below), which really works with the Marvel characters, but the gameplay is astonishingly ill-conceived. It's a timed arena battle that is multiplayer only. You'll be partnered with three other players to kill as many enemies in as short a time as possible. It's similar to Future Fight in its top-down brawler style, but much more basic. It also doesn't help that you're competing with the other players to get the highest score.

Instead of a team of cooperating superheroes, your teammates are a permanent hindrance and annoyance. As such, the game gets frustrating and dull pretty quickly. If you're going to be spending your real-world time and stamina (and maybe even money) on a Marvel F2P game, this should be bottom of your list.

Try Marvel Contest of Champions instead, especially if you're less interested in the action-adventure styles of Future Fight and (arguably) Mighty Heroes. Contest of Champions is a fighting game, with a central conceit that suits the F2P model. You've been tasked by the Collector to take part in the eponymous Contest of Champions, in which you must pit the heroes and villains contained in his vault against other powerful enemies taking part in the contest. It's developed by Kabam, another F2P mobile darling, though the game lacks the punishing difficulty wall of other games of its type.

As far as fighting games go it's pretty basic, with just a light punch, heavy punch, dash, and dodge at your disposal, as well as a couple of upgradable character specific abilities—although that's enough to allow for some player skill to make a difference. Contest of Champions has probably the best sense of progression of the bunch, with multiple routes through each chapter to encourage replayability without making it feel like a total grind. Compared to other Marvel F2Ps, expanding your roster and upgrading your characters can feel pretty rapid. It'll be your dwindling stamina that hinders progress, rather than any artificial difficulty curve.

Marvel: Avengers Alliance (screen above) is the game I've spent the least time with, but it's also one that seems to have a lot of potential. It's the oldest of the Marvel F2P brood, which means tons and tons of stuff to play through, collect, and explore. It also has a comfortably familiar play style; a true RPG at heart, with turn-based, Final Fantasy series-style combat. It feels like a more cerebral and in-depth game than the others. Worth a look if that's something that appeals.

There is one other Marvel free to play game out there. It differs from all of those I've already mentioned because it's not available on mobile devices. It's exclusive to PC and Mac, and it's also fantastic.

Marvel Heroes 2015 had a rocky first year (back when it was simply Marvel Heroes), but re-launched with an updated (and post-dated) moniker in June 2014. It turned its 59 percent Metascore into 81, and became one of the best Marvel games on PC alongside Marvel Puzzle Quest, which also has a PC version.

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Like Marvel Future Fight, Heroes 2015 is a Diablo clone. Unlike Future Fight, it has no mobile limitations on the scope of its environments or gameplay. It's a fully-fledged MMO, with a rich diversity of levels, enemies, and features. It also has an actual decent story, with animated cutscenes and everything, written by Brian Michael Bendis, who is one of the biggest names in modern comics. But let's not get started on him, or this article will never end.

Heroes 2015 is free to play but, like with all good (read: rare) F2P games, you never feel the need to spend anything. Instead, you'll feel the desire to: on costumes, new heroes (which you can switch between at any time) and other boosts and bonuses. After... well, wallowing feels like a strong word, but yeah: After wallowing in the murky pool of mobile F2P, Marvel Heroes 2015 feels like a breath of fresh air. The best part? There's nothing to prevent you from playing for as long as you like, stamina be damned.

Which brings me back to Marvel Puzzle Quest. While all the other mobile F2P games are enforcing a limited play time with that cursed stamina bar, MPQ has a much more subtle way of preventing you from never leaving your house again.

Hulk as seen in 'Marvel Heroes 2015.'

Your characters' HP is persistent in MPQ, which means that if one of your strongest heroes takes a beating in one fight, they won't last long in the next. Health is regenerated over time (superheroes, duh), but you can also instantly restore them to their best using a health pack. You can carry up to five of these at any one time, and they regenerate at a rate of one every 30 minutes. What this means, practically, is that if your main roster is downed you can heal them back in, wait for them to regenerate, or use someone else.

And there's the difference between health packs and stamina. While the latter tells you to go do something else, the former encourages you to experiment with different modes and characters while you wait for your A-team to come back to life. A subtle, but important difference.

The best thing about F2P games is the updates and expansions: regular special events that tie in with the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies; shiny titbits to keep your magpie brain coming back to see what's new, and each game in this list employs this tactic to varying degrees of success. Luckily, none of these games are cynical cash grabs. They all have their own merits beyond the ubiquitous "spend money" button. And, maybe, what I've examined here will encourage you to give one or two a try for yourself. They are "free," after all.

Follow Jem on Twitter.

VICE Shorts: The Wolfpack - 'Mirror Heart'

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The Angulo brothers are the subjects of the award-winning documentary The Wolfpack, which chronicles their isolated childhood locked away from society in an apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. They discovered the outside world through the films they loved and elaborately recreated with handmade props and costumes. VICE worked with the brothers to make an original short film, Mirror Heart, an imaginative tale about a cast of dream-like characters who unify around the necessity to create.


The Cartel Gunsmiths

The Guggenheim's 'Storylines' Creates New Narratives for Famed Visual Art

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Installation view: 'Storylines: Contemporary Art at the Guggenheim,' Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, June 5–September 9, 2015. Photo: David Heald. All photos courtesy of Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York

"...How will the residues of human culture be read," asks the Spanish writer Enrique Vila-Matas, "when everything has died out?" The question is prompted by Vila-Matas on reflection of sculptor Adrián Villar Rojas's Motherland. His essay is one of many commissioned rejoinders by writer to artist included in Storylines, the Guggenheim's new manifold exhibition that seeks to present "an expansive view of how recent artistic practice has become the site of new paradigms for storytelling." Though Vila-Matas's consideration could be repositioned to speculate on the absence of an artist to tell the story of a work, here the story is the highlight.

To weave narration into an art show, the curators have selected works by over 40 visual artists from various disciplines—sculpture, installation, video, photography—then have gone a step further, enlisting 31 big-name writers and poets to engage with these works through unrestricted forms of literature. The result is a wildly varying anthology displaying the human capacity to thread stories in unconventional ways out of seemingly disparate material, to scrub the opaque into something translucent, or to simply conjure something from nothing. Villar Rojas's Motherland, for example, is seemingly nowhere to be found in the main gallery. "An absent work," Vila-Matas notes, "situated in another part of the museum, maybe on the roof, up there where Conan the Barbarian found a way to get home." And this is one of the more mild examples of Storylines's ever-present bewilderment.

"For the show," assistant curator Carmen Hermo explained to me at the museum, "we dug into some of our more recent acquisitions to try and get different perspectives on the idea of 'narrative,' including some conceptual works that might not necessarily tell a story."

There are two shows, really. Along with the work being shown in the main rotunda, the Guggenheim is screening, in its two theaters, films by contemporary video artists, including Matthew Barney, Mark Leckey, John Bock, Ryan Trecartin, and Camille Henrot, which are some of the most coherent works in the entire Storylines exhibition. It was with the films of the latter four artists that I began my tour of the show.

Matthew Barney. 'Cremaster 4' (1994–95)

Mark Leckey's Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore, the iconic video collage of late 20th-century found footage of British club culture, begins with a sunset and a woman's looped words: "you wanna, you wanna, you wanna..." The sky then segues to a man raising his arms and bounding from toe to toe within a room full of ecstatic dancers. For a quarter of an hour, I sat observing the rapture of others—generations differentiated by dance moves and attire—to a soundtrack that builds and builds without ever launching. An animated bird flew from a dancer's hand that suddenly appeared as a tattoo on another dancer, one of the film's several sweetly surreal moments.

Mark Leckey. 'Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore' (1999)

I wandered back up to the rotunda where an enlarged Pinocchio puppet floated face down in the museum's fountain: A Maurizio Cattelan piece that first appeared in the Guggenheim show anyspacewhatever in 2008. Near the wall was a small aqua-colored book. Here were all of the writers responses included in the show: a literary guidebook for the art. The table of contents resembled a cloud where names floated haphazardly on the white space, connected only by various dotted lines. I looked up Cattelan and followed its tether to Annie Proulx. Her story, "Behind Every Kiss There Is a Set of Teeth" reminded me of Borges's gaucho tales. The two main characters are guitarists, one is called "Red Pantaloons," just like those worn by the fabled puppet who wanted to be a real boy. The other, Poverino Carlito, meets a fate more gruesome.

"The writers were allowed to choose what work they wanted to respond to without any sort of guidelines," Hermo told me. "In some cases, the artists suggested writers to reach out to (for example, Villar Rojas/Vila-Matas), and other times, the artists were serendipitously chosen by writers they admired. R. H. Quatyman, for instance, was thrilled that John Ashbury had penned a poem for her work." With the booklet in hand, I decided to read my way up the rotunda.

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In a room just above the ground floor was an enigmatic sculpture of an industrial plant, a dog resting its head near the large chimney pipe beside which were two seemingly flattened chairs. The piece Mark Manders's The Camouflaged Factory. Looking the piece up in my book, I connected Manders's to the writer Francisco Goldman. Here the writer proffered a memoiristic essay about growing up near the factory of the Tillotson Rubber Company and the improbable fate of its owner.

Maurizio Cattelan. 'Daddy, Daddy' (2008)

Past the factory hung portraits shot from Matthew Barney's iconic video work Cremaster Cycle. In one of the portraits, the artist himself wears a hot pink bearskin hat, his bloody mouth stuffed with a silk cloth. Barney appears frighteningly regal, the king of the exhibition."

I continued up, passing on each revolution, the shimmering golden beads of Felix Gonzales-Torres. Forming a curtain in front of the staircase entrances, these beads become my bookmarks, a point of rest to viewing the work.

I headed back down to the theater for the German artist John Bock's film Dandy. First shown in 2006, Dandy is an absurd take the pseudo-scientists of the Enlightenment. Bock plays a particularly mad inventor who, together with his obliging maid performs various experiments on increasingly facetious contraptions and costumes that help bring him to orgasmic states. Interestingly, the work prompted poet Christian Hawkey to write about a Sun Ra interview he had watched.

Charles Bock. 'Dandy' (2006)

Dandy was immediately followed by I-Be Area, Ryan Trecartin's second major work, and arguably the one where his particular style of cockamamie storytelling—fantastically sassy dialogue, brightly colored and face-painted characters, feverishly speedy cuts, and nightmarish segues—had fully bloomed. Though deep in Trecartin-land, I wondered about the cultural differences of absurdist humor, how much of Bock's work appeals to American viewers, and whether Trecartin's work would, or even could, resonate as deeply with German audiences as it does here.


Watch VICE Art Talk with Vito Acconci:


Compared to the narrative pull of the films, the visual work when I returned to it, at times appeared foreign and static. I was grateful for the anthology in my hands, content to let other people observe for me and report back. On Danh Vo's Lot 20. Two Kennedy Administration Cabinet Room Chairs, novelist Michael Cunningham notes that we are looking at the actual chairs that once occupied the office Robert McNamara, the Secretary of Defense for Kennedy and Johnson. The works were bidded off at Sotheby's, to which Vo was the winning bidder. I was looking at history as art.

Cunningham writes about this paradox:

They were perfectly good chairs, but not in any way extraordinary; they were deemed to be worth $146,500 because of the powerful posteriors that once occupied them, and the events they'd mutely witnessed.

One notable literary installation by an artist was Agnieszka Kurant's Phantom Library, a shelf assembled by the artist containing unwritten literature, books such those mentioned in alterior texts by Richard Brautigan, The Culinary Dostoevsky, and by Roberto Bolaño, Lottery Man . "Though the texts are currently blank inside," notes curator Katherine Brinson in a video, "Agnieska has commissioned a number of working authors to write full-length texts that will fill the books." I pondered whether Kurant had revived the Oulipian genre of potential literature, and if so, how finite the works included might be.

Danh Vo. Lot 20. 'Two Kennedy Administration Cabinet Room Chairs' (2013)

I left for the evening, only to return the next morning for a screening of Matthew Barney's entire Cremaster Cycle. Named after the male muscle that raises and lowers the testes, this pentalogy of feature-length films alludes to the states of pre-fetal sexual differentiation. Barney created the works out of sequential order, with Cremaster 4 (1994) being the first in the cycle of five. There was great anticipation for the artist to complete it—Nancy Spector, deputy curator of the Guggenheim told me that after she saw the film, she invited Barney to show the finished cycle, regardless of when that might be accomplished. The overall project ended up taking eight years.

Agnieszka Kurant. 'The Phantom Library' (2013)

Spector has been pivotal in maintaining Barney's relationship with the Guggenheim. Not only did Barney debut Cremaster 3, the final film in the cycle, at the museum in 2002, he used the famous building to stage a scene. Spector also helped Barney to assemble the work in the Guggenheim publication of the Cremaster Cycle book. Though the Guggenheim owns the Cremaster Cycle, this is the first time they've been screened in their entirety at the museum since Cremaster 3's debut. "It's interesting to show them in production order," says Spector, "as opposed to the conceptual order Matthew originally envisioned. It allows for a different take on the entire narrative."

The story that emerges in this sequence is one that moves biblically (genesis to apocalypse) rather than a perpendicular Dantean descent (from highest to lowest), that comes from viewing Cremasters in their conceptual order. It makes for the most powerful narrative in the exhibition, allowing for Barney's cosmology to build from the ground up. The films increase in production quality and ambitious scope. Imagery is carried over, references to previous films reappear, and roles are protean and multiple. Threaded together, these become one of the farthest-reaching gesamtkuntswerks in contemporary art, only Bolaño's cosmological ouevre, culminating in 2666, struck me as recently analogous.

Matthew Barney. 'Cremaster 3' (2002)

Of the five, it's Cremaster 3 (2002), the final film in the cycle, that brings everything together. A densely visual achievement invoking the Freemasons, the Chrysler Building, and masculine rites of passage, here Barney has fully come into his own as a storyteller, taking all the elements from his previous films, as though they were instruments, and performing a full-on compositional work that is sui generis and richly complex. This is Barney's own rite of passage from initiate to master one that demonstrates Barney's ability to control his own creation and make it dance for him, puppet-like.

I emerged dazed from the eight-hour marathon and climbed back to the museum's populated ground floor. With only a few minutes before the museum closed for the evening, I ventured back to the Cremaster portraits and costume work on display. How familiar they now looked, and vulnerable. I recalled a piece I had seen earlier—at the top of the rotunda, the artist Ellie Ga had assembled a triptych honoring, among other things, Dhwty, the Egyptian god of documentation. Even if many of the pieces were unable to weave a story as gloriously confounding as the Cremaster Cycle, or left it to others to tell it for them, or withheld any story entirely, it seemed appropriate to have a deity of narrative hovering above the show. There was no way to leave here without something to talk about.

Storylines is up through September 9, 2015, at the Guggenheim Museum in New York.

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Migrants Stranded on Kos: Europe or Die

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Migrants Stranded on Kos: Europe or Die

I Spent Two Days Inside an Immersive Performance Art Piece in the Tasmanian Mountains

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This year's Dark Mofo program kicked off in earnest at the launch of the Marina Abramović retrospective Private Archaeology at Tasmania's Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). Hundreds of people queued up for hours in the cold. On offer: four decades of video art, installations, and hands-on experiences, with one room where participants sat at a long table counting grains of rice in silence. This was all-you-ca- eat Abramović—the equivalent of a classic rock band indulging you with just the hits.

"Indulge" may seem an odd word given the starkness of a lot of the work. But if you saw the excellently accented Marina speak the following day in conversation with MONA boss David Walsh, you'd have to admit there was something nurturing about her. She spoke of the need to give time to each of your personas, even the part of you that just wants to eat chocolate and do nothing. She even told a man during her Q&A session to not "give up so easy" when he repeated his question three times because nobody understood it—making the whole theater share his struggle.

Marina, a self-avowed "believer in everything," preaching the importance of living for the moment was a perfect beginning to what brought me to the Tasmanian capital of Hobart, where MONA is located, in the first place: Wild at Heart. A collaboration between Dark Mofo and event production group Unconscious Collective, it was touted as a "road trip, exhibition, banquet and two-night immersive sleepover." Attendees were chosen through a ticket ballot and details were kept to a minimum. All we knew was it would be weird, and given MONA's track record, fucking brilliant.

Choosing a hire car instead of the free bus from Hobart, we were given a map and the first of four mixtape CDs curated by HTRK's Jonnine Standish. The other three we collected at checkpoints spaced about an hour apart all the way up to Cradle Mountain. Through the windows we saw about a billion sheep patchy snow, and, when the mist permitted, bleakly beautiful landscapes. The alps in particular had a brutal and alien feel, all wet rock and burgundy scrub.

Cradle Mountain Lodge

Arriving at Cradle Mountain Lodge after a four-hour drive, we found the place overrun with taxidermy and alpine decor. Its rooms had tents in them and the TVs either played campfire footage or episodes of Lassie. If you picked up the phone, you could speak to a live pet therapist. In the hallways (which were filled with blue fog) people in spooky animal outfits peered at you around corners and disappeared. They'd gone all-out.

Dinner was held inside an indoor wilderness, complete with astroturf and fake campfires. The food was camp in all possible meanings of the word. There were bits of beef jerky hanging from sections of farmyard gate, baked potatoes filled with wallaby stew, and slabs of pig face terrine which was sliced off and slid into your hands. Easier to manage but just as tasty were the skewers of trout and foraged mushrooms grilled on hot stones, as well as the s'mores, which were sprayed with whiskey citronella and grilled with a blowtorch.

Deluxe s'mores

Between the savory and sweet courses, the crowd viewed new work by Melbourne artist Ash Keating. Comprising eight large-scale paintings, Remote Nature Response was a representation of the mountain ranges we'd just driven through. They were great.

A man and his alpaca checking out the art

The next day started with a standard breakfast in the dining hall. Lots of eggs and beans and stewed fruit—like what you'd get at a corporate retreat. It was a good chance to catchup with some other guests. The general feeling was that everyone was excited for whatever was to come next. In the daylight, the grounds of the hotel looked like landscape paintings from the 1800s. It would have been nice to stick around but the itinerary called for an AM checkout followed by a short drive to the second night's accommodation: Pepper's Mountain Lodge.

The log cabins and hunting lodge decor of Peppers allowed it to play more naturally in the Twin Peaks tableau. This would later be the setting for a big feast, curated by UK food artists and jelly-mongers Bompas & Parr, with wild meats hunted by Ross O'Meara. The presser hinted at darkness, decadency, ritual, and blood. In the meantime, the guests were taken by bus for an appetite-building walk around nearby Dove Lake.

A few hours later the first dining group gathered in the hotel lobby. It was fancy dress, although some (including us) got the memo late and had to construct our costumes out of things we brought or could find. Canapés were blood-themed, and that set the tone for everything that followed.

A bell rang and we were ushered into a drawing room. There we were given Negronis with ice cubes flecked with bloodworms. After more canapés—including dates stuffed with blood sausage, potatoes carved into marrow bones, and filled sour cherries—a ritual began. This started with a few incantations and ended with each guest knocking back a shot glass of pigs' blood mixed with beetroot juice that tasted like a nosebleed and felt slimy on the teeth.

Some light chanting

Dinner came next in the banquet hall, complete with long tables and an oversized fireplace. Once diners were seated, servers in ceremonial dress marched in with food. Along with a full baby deer on a spit, there was a literal mountain of spatchcock, platters of roasted marrow bones (real this time), a large bowl overflowing with a thick offal sausage, and a two-headed goose that may or may not have been ornamental. There were also vegetables but they were at the other side of the room.

Spit-roasted venison, offal-filled sausage

Though I remember enjoying everything, it all felt very Game of Thrones-y, where the banquet's high production values overshadowed my memory of what it all tasted like. It was a bit like a movie you have to see twice to fully get how good it is. Unlike a movie, you can't download a custom-hunted medieval feast, so this was a one-off.

The two-headed goose went uneaten

The main course was followed by drinks and music in the tavern presided over by a guy wearing nothing but antlers, a biker jacket, platform ankle boots, and a trailing, goat's-tail merkin. It was an odd sight, but after drinking pigs' blood and everything else we'd seen so far, the crowd was in danger of getting immune to the weirdness. Luckily, the rest of the night kept everyone just off balance enough to ensure this didn't happen.

The sexy goat guy

There were two dessert courses. For the first, we were led up a staircase. On the landing, face painted attendants handed us paper cups of ice cream, directing us into a chapel-like room. In it, candles surrounded a naked woman dripping in caramel while writhing on an altar. Behind her stood another girl (clothed), pouring more caramel. On either side were other clothed women flambéing bananas with blowtorches. Moving down the table like a buffet line, we each took turns collecting banana segments before having caramel sauce scooped off of bare flesh and drizzled into our outstretched cups. Cameras weren't allowed in this room.

Dessert number two was a small dining room with tables covered in jelly body parts. There were faces, breasts, and dicks, all laid out on glass tiles. Guests were instructed to share with each other and to not use their hands. Whether through awkwardness or a general lack of appetite (we'd consumed a lot of food) not much of the jelly got eaten. However, the effect was pretty cool.

More goat action

The remaining hours featured a quick bus trip up to a settler's chalet for mulled wine, some more digestifs in the sitting room, along with two more body-stockinged goat boys who lithely butted heads on top of a solid oak table. Slowly the attendees filtered out to get horizontal and let their stomachs go to work. After two long and weird days, there was a lot to process.

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Watch a Sneak Peek from Our Season Three Finale of 'VICE' on HBO

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We've finally reached the end of our third season of VICE on HBO. This season, VICE investigated climate change, police militarization, dangerous legal highs, and more. For our season finale, we take a close look at America's complex relationship with Russia. The end of the Cold War in 1991 was supposed to usher in a new era of peace and cooperation between the countries, but it didn't last—tensions have been simmering for years. Now, the conflict in Ukraine has pushed the relationship to the brink of a full-blown crisis.

In the episode, VICE founder Shane Smith meets with Kremlin officials and American leaders to figure out what's really driving the new standoff between the powers, and VICE correspondent Simon Ostrovsky reported from the front lines of the blood war in Eastern Ukraine.

Watch VICE Fridays on HBO at 11 PM, 10 PM central, or stream it via HBO Now.

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