FreeBSD Day!

Apparently it’s the 25th anniversary of FreeBSD being named. I’ve been a fan since the 4.x era and used it as my primary desktop OS for most of my teens and as a server OS intermittently since then.

I actually migrated this website off Dreamhost to a FreeBSD VM in Linode about a week ago. I was pretty drunk, so not sure. This is what I’ve been doing instead of producing content apparently.

Anyway, sorry for lack of updates. I moved to Boston. I’m busy trying all the new beers and taking selfies with revolutionary statues.

This tech crap will be defaulted over to a more work friendly website soon. More abortion jokes and beer reviews eventually. I think. Yeah.

Get in the fucking car, Sam!

Just about an hour before I started writing this, 11:30am on a Sunday in the city of Rancho Cordova, I was walking east on Folsom Blvd to get fast food. Ahead of me is the Zinfandel train station when a late 90s dark green Toyota Camry abruptly pulls into the bus lane, the driver waving his arm in the air. I figure he’s waving at a vehicle behind him, and then he shouts “Get in the fucking car!”

I grew up in neighborhoods like this, so I tend to walk briskly with my hands in my pockets, minding my own business. Rancho Cordova has a habit of involving you anyway. The late-20s, thin, shirtless gentleman steps out of his car and starts yelling at me, “I said get in the fucking car, Sam!”

I look behind me, there’s no one there other than an elderly woman waiting at the crosswalk. I casually ask, “Do I know you?”
“Oh, you aren’t Sam?”
“Shit, you look a lot like my good buddy Sam.”
“Sorry man. You have a good one.”

I went my own way and he drove to wherever it was that he needed to be.

Okay, let’s break this story down a bit. Depending on your experience and world view, you could have read that as being anything from the setup to a horror movie, to being something completely normal and anything in between.

This is totally routine on Folsom Blvd.

Folsom Blvd & Coloma Rd in Rancho Cordova

Shortly after moving here, I was walking in that same direction, when a heavyset man with no shirt on was dragging a stolen shopping cart from Target behind him. He made eye contact with me and said “If you turn out to be a faggot, I’ll beat your ass!”

Rancho Cordova is a small, underdeveloped city on the east border of Sacramento, but still a part of Sacramento County. It’s the kind of city that’s gentrification-proof, see; not urban enough for hipsters to move there and no developers see a point in putting anything cool there. The cheap rent and lack of pedestrian traffic attract drug culture. The homeless population is more vagrant than that of the inner-city and sometimes prone to violence. Between the vagrants, tweakers, and angry young men being brought up in a culture that promotes their fundamental territorial instincts, being stopped by random sweaty, shirtless white dudes on Folsom Blvd is so normal that you quit noticing it’s happening by around the 4th time.

That may as well have been a methamphetamine handshake.

White trash culture in America is a relatively schizophrenic affair. It’s half toxic masculinity, half drug and alcohol abuse, together creating a dark philosophy that enables violence and sloth.

In this moment I reacted as casually as in any other case of mistaken identity. That’s because, growing up in this culture, that is a perfectly acceptable way for tweakers to greet each other. Your best friend could walk in, punch you in the chest, get you in a headlock, and 20 minutes later you’re drinking Keystone and having borderline rapey conversations about women you’re interested in.

I stayed aware of my surroundings, but you even do that with your friends in that culture. He stood with his chest puffed out in typical territorial primate fashion, speaking with aggression. I was able to see in his eyes that he wasn’t confident enough that I was Sam to push on the subject. If he didn’t know Sam and Sam owed someone money, this might be a more interesting story. If I am to believe Sam is his “good buddy”, I don’t doubt Sam would have jumped in the car, been punched really hard in his left side, and then went on to discuss the drugs he had just scored that morning.

Oh yeah, there was a kid in the fucking car.

The back seat did appear as if it was piled full of junk when seeing it strictly from the back. I would expect nothing less from a 90s Toyota; my Corolla had a different odor every week. It was after the gentleman was getting back into his vehicle that I noticed a carseat in the back with a toddler in it. This fills me with many warm childhood memories.

In conclusion,

I promise to get in the car the next time this happens and write a routine about it if I survive.

Hide all the memes


I would like to suggest expanding the functionality for hiding and unfollowing content in the News Feed to include memes in general. This would be a bit of work, but your current facial recognition software makes it totally doable. For example, I click the options on a post, and in between “Hide all from this terrible page” and “Unfollow this racist I went to high school with”, it would be great to have “Hide every other graphic based on this guy checking out that woman’s ass while his angry girlfriend stares at him like she’s about to go home and break all of his shit.”

Others could be “Hide all graphics that are clearly screen shot from Instagram”, or “Hide all references to what Drake does and does not approve of”, or “Hide all posts that feature ‘Wake Up’ in Arial Black.”

In fact, if you could target this kind of content and de-prioritize it in everyone’s News Feed, this would show great effort on your part given all the crap you’re presently getting from the government and media for allowing inaccurate vitriol to take over the internet.

Seriously, I’m only here to know when my friends bands are playing and what they had for lunch. This would be a great improvement on the quality of life of a lot of people.


So, I’m considering just developing this as a Firefox plugin, but there are a few things wrong with that:

  1. I hate Javascript.
  2. It would have to send information about all images to a service I run in the cloud somewhere to verify the images against a database for facial recognition, text layout and other common templates. Steaming everyone’s social media activity through my private server would be as unethical as…. wait, pretty much any other thing that says “Sign in with Facebook.” Huh.

My Time at UFO X Fest, or; The Morning I Didn’t Drink Enough

San Leandro is a wonderful little city directly south of Oakland, about to be overrun by the great hipster exodus, as the number of barista roommates you need in order to subsidize your art in a 2br apartment has everyone fighting because Steve didn’t label his organic kombucha in the fridge properly. Despite having 3 breweries and a coffee roaster, the city just got its first gastropub, and the food isn’t anywhere near on par with the world famous sports bar that you should go to instead. Basically, San Leandro is one of the few regular-ass-towns in the bay area.

This should bring about no surprise that the historic Bal Theatre, a beautiful landmark left over from the 1940s currently hosting cover bands and touring comedians, is run by a guest speaker on Ancient Aliens. Dan Dillman, the tinfoil-hat-in-chief of the venue, hosts an annual event devoted to conspiracy theories and UFOs because of course he does. A candidate in the 2014 mayoral election, Dan Dillman gained notoriety after an altercation with police in 2010, which apparently resulted in a sentence of 4 months in jail, but I can’t find any follow-up on that and he was running for City Council later in the year.  Really though, you could say the guy truly represents The Dro.

A couple friends of mine advised that I get completely fucked up and go to this with them. I got stuck in traffic so was not able to sufficiently pre-rage. The first chunk of this presentation I was half-way sober for.

Image source: Facebook event page

It opens with Dillman giving a slide show presentation on the subject of time travel, which was this year’s theme. They were essentially presenting that there were time travelers among us, and they had been influencing us throughout history. He starts out by showing clips of classic films where characters were seen holding one hand against the side of their head. This was clearly proof that time travelers from the future were talking on their cell phones. How were they getting signal before cell towers were invented? Fuck if I know.

The rest of this thing was such a meme-fest that you could basically live-Snopes the event. They started showing old pictures of figures who resemble John Travolta and Vladimir Putin, indicating that they had actually traveled through time to different points. If I would believe this about anyone, it would be Putin.

Election meddling resulted in the election of Warren G Harding, I’m sure.

By this point, we’re talking so much shit that the guy in front of us seems rather perturbed. I mention to my friend, “You know, anyone sitting by themselves is really into this and not here ironically.”
“Oh shit. We should simmer down.”
“Nah, let’s sit with him, he looks lonely.”

The next half-assed rabbit hole is about science-fiction films. They were discussing how technologies appeared in such films that came to actually exist in the future. Yes, because people growing up watching Star Trek didn’t set out to invent that shit. Much like aliens built all of our old stuff, time travelers built all of our new stuff. I snarkily mention to my friend, “I’m surprised they haven’t got into the Simpsons yet.” BOOM! Ask and you shall receive mother fucker!

Please consult the following image:

This was presented to the crowd, with the question posed: “How did the Simpsons, in 2008, predict that Barack Obama and John McCain would run for president in 2012?”

If you do not know what is wrong with that comment, please stay far, far away from me.

Next, they showed this adorable image, which you can consult Snopes for right now:

Now, to make things even better, in his narration, Dillman said that the Simpsons “predicted Donald Trump’s 2015 victory.” Look, Dillman isn’t good with numbers, I get it. The following is from his campaign website:

This November you’ve got two choices for Mayor, two incumbent city council members, who are making promises to the future, when they have already had 12 years between them to get something done, or me “Dan Dillman” who has fresh idea’s passion dedication and experience.

So, the Q&A starts. OH, OH YES, THERE’S A Q&A! I already know my question.

I was excited to see you brought up the Simpsons, because they are well-known for predicting the future. One thing that’s bothering me is that, as I recall, Mitt Romney was the Republican nominee in the 2012 election. Could this be the Mandela Effect, and could you tell me how you feel the Mandela Effect pertains to time travel?

I begin to stand up to indicate that I have a question. My friends immediately interject, “Blake, what the fuck are you doing?”
“I have a question.”
“Dude, sit down.”
“What? It’s a good question.”
“You really shouldn’t.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to get us thrown out or something?”

Moments later, another person at the convention asks about the Mandela Effect and the Simpsons. Not on the same error, but goddamnit that was my fucking question!

This is the end of Dillman’s presentation. We move onto Servando Gonzalez, who was so fucking boring that it was like watching a professor from an underfunded community college trudge through shit he doesn’t understand. In trying to explain time travel using quantum mechanics, he on multiple occasions admitted to not really understanding quantum theory.

Half way through this, we realize we’re too sober for this shit. One of San Leandro’s best bars is about a block over. We’re venting about this, trying to get lubricated enough for the rest of it to be fun. We come back in during a film presentation, UFOs and Nukes: The Secret Link Revealed.

It’s the tail end of it, so I’m not sure what event we’re hearing about. Something to do with a UFO appearing as an ICBM compound starts having problems with their missle systems. All of this is paraphrased as I was drunk and don’t have a transcript:
Several air force personnel identified a mysterious cigar shaped object in the sky.
“You mean a missle?”
It had no cockpit…
“So, like, a missle?”
…or propellers.
“So, definitely a missle.”

Next up was Ruben Uriarte, publisher of several books mostly obsessed with an alleged UFO incident in Chihuahua, Mexico, and Deputy Director of Investigations at MUFON (Mutual UFO Network). After talking to us about Chihuahua and his adventures with his co-author Noe Torres for what seemed like a million years, it turned into a MUFON recruitment seminar.  He was showing some infographic of the most reported UFO sightings in California, and I’m excited to report to my Sacramento friends that you were #1! I was trying to find a source on their website, but have given up because I’m a terrible journalist.

After this, Dillman was due to speak again. Looking at the program, there were another 2-3 hours of this shit. We decided to pub crawl Oakland and forget half of what we just learned.

On the way out, I got to shake hands with Dan Dillman, who I still wasn’t sure was a believer or an expert con-artist. I got to look him in the eye, but will not disclose my judgment as he seems like the type of person to sue you for libel. Opinions aren’t valid, people. I was handed some amazing information to take home, including this declaration of independence from our alien overlords.

Despite all of this, please support the Bal Theatre. I would hate to wake up tomorrow and find a Whole Foods in its place.

Babies at Breweries

I have made a new hobby of shaming parents on Yelp for insisting on taking their shitty children out drinking with them. Oddly enough, it was in the middle of this that I got offered Elite ’17. I thought I would leave some of the better excerpts here.

From my review of Fort Rock Brewing:

The last nail in the coffin for me was something that’s a pet peeve at most breweries, but this one actually promotes: bring your shitty child in. Listen, millennial parents, please stop this now. You’re ruining adult time for those of us who are responsible enough to either get a baby sitter or wear a condom. They have a sign on the door that says “[your shitty child] and dogs welcome!” For the love of fuck, stop encouraging these people. The best I can hope for after mommy and daddy get done pounding various things with “imperial” in the name without a designated driver is that I will never have to hear their crying baby at a bar ever again. You’re not a restaurant. You pour beer and there’s a lousy pasta restaurant next door that will cater to people too drunk or too lazy to care. 

Quick tip for American River Brewing:

They have real darts to play with, so if you’re the type of person to take your annoying child out drinking with you, please help provide the complete Darwinian experience for my afternoon pleasure. 

From my review of Sactown Union Brewery:

At one point, father of the year stumbles over for another drink and needs to do something with his crotchfruit so he can navigate his wallet. He sets his useless poop machine on the bar next to me. The bartender doesn’t seem to be doing anything to dissuade this, but I’m assuming it’s a few kinds of illegal. Since I’m hanging out with a baby now, I offer the kid a sip of my beer. Daddy wasn’t very amused, but seemed to insist on hanging out at the bar with his fleshy bag of future organ transplants while he continued day raging. We started having a conversation about abortion and received a number of dirty looks from upset parents who seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they are standing directly at the fucking bar and not at a table in the other room.

From my review of Revision Brewing Company:

They carded us at the door and I asked “Is this place always 21 and over, or just for the event?”
“Oh, sorry, it’s actually a law in Sparks that children can’t be in-“

Yay grown up beer time!


I’m sorry, Facebook…

Facebook and I don’t have the best history. Every couple years or so, I archive and delete my account because I was flagged for trolling. I pretty much get out as soon as problems are starting, then make a shiny new one that doesn’t have a bunch of complaints and flame wars against it.

Well, I’ve been good lately. But a couple of things might have set them off:
1. I had no picture showing my face, just the one Alex Cady drew of me.
2. I’m sometimes logged in from my home connection and my company VPN at the same time, our VPN being all the way down in San Jose.

So, my account was disabled for “suspicious activity” even though I had 2FA on and my email uses a $50 custom domain. They ask me to submit a photo, not an ID like I’ve heard of, but just a photo that shows my face, because their facial recognition software is lonely or some shit. Alright, do I even have anything recent? Then I find this terrible selfie I took after eating a burger smothered in carolina reaper sauce:

Okay, so within 72 hours they’ll email me. Whatever. To keep things meta,  I start bitching about one social media website on another.

But then, I noticed they actually respond to tech support inquiries on their own Twitter account:

Okay, let’s get Facebook’s attention.

Okay, so at this point I’ve had it with this shit. Their online form to submit your ID to get your account re-enabled doesn’t even work. So I found out that is a thing, and I emailed it promptly.

Dearest Facebook technical support representive,

It is with deep sorrow I inform you that your system has forsaken me. I was but a passing thought in the mind of your suspicious activity aggregator, and it cast me aside as if it never even noticed me. I await in the dark, longing for its reply, tearful that I may never hear from it ever again.

I remember its last words to me, poignant, stark,
“You Can’t Log In Right Now
Thanks for sending your photo. We’ll email you within 72 hours if it meets our requirements.
Right now, your account has been disabled as a security precaution.”

Each day, I waited. No word. Is the aggregator okay? It wasn’t killed in the great cyberwar, was it? Please don’t tell me I am awaiting a folded printout of source code with a medal, rather than an email from my beloved. My heart cannot take it.

Desperate, I tried to contact it using your form, My Personal Account was Disabled form, providing it my ID, desperate for it to send it along. It told me “Your account isn’t disabled.”

What is this? Is my love lying to me? I still see its notice when I attempt to login.

Please, I will provide whatever you need. My ID. My birth certificate. A vile of blood. Just please, let me know that my beloved suspicious activity aggregator is okay.

Blake Hartshorn

So, I decided to tweet at them to make sure they saw it:

And yes! They responded almost immediately!


It doesn’t look like we can help you with the problem you’re having from here. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.

If you’re still looking for help with this, the Help Center is a great place to find answers to frequently asked questions and up-to-date forms you can use to get in touch with us:

The Facebook Team

Well… fuck.

So you apparently can’t troll your way back into Twitter. It’s 2 days past the 72 hour window. Expect a friend request from a new account that will probably get deleted also. Just follow me on Twitter: @BeerDrinksBlake or Snapchat: AtomicCuntPunt instead.

Jill Stein and Julian Assange: A Conversation

This entry is part of a series. It is set between Homoerotic Fanfic About Julian Assange/Edward Snowden and The Sacrifice; A Donald Trump and Jill Stein Love Story, but meant to be read after these two stories.

Jill enters the Ecuadorian embassy in London with a crass smirk on her face. She grinds through the usual bureaucracy, but she’s cleared as Julian is expecting her. She makes her way toward his room, as she sees a man stumbling away, face buried in his hands, crying. She is intrigued, she watches him momentarily, but does not engage him. She enters Julian’s room.

“Good to see you, Jill.” He’s still standing by the window.

“Tell me, you crazy bastard, was that Edward Snowden sobbing out in the hallway?”

Julian sighs in annoyance, “Need you be so nosy?”

“You have to be the biggest hypocrite in the world, asking me that question right now.” She laughs.

Julian chuckles, slightly. He appreciates having someone more rigid around to talk to. It is lonely here. Jill isn’t someone he can exploit. Her narcissism and aggression make her competitive; he sees her as an equal. She is someone he can have a real conversation with. He turns to face her, “You know, Jill, I really wish I could have attended the convention in person. I rather missed talking to you.”

She approaches him, puts her arms around his neck, and presses her forehead against his, “Oh, I’m sure you have many awful stories about spies, aspiring hackers and people whose lives you are actively ruining to entertain me with, darling.”

He’s slightly put off, “Jill… are you coming on to me?”

She giggles and releases him, “No, sweetheart. I know I’m much too old for you. How old were those two girls you fucked in Sweden, again?”

He is becoming frustrated, “Must you bring that up?”

“What? The great Julian Assange that I just praised as a hero, accused of ‘molestation’, you’ve denied it to the courts, are you denying it to me? You know you can talk to me.”

Julian groans and takes a seat at the edge of the bed. He is thoroughly annoyed now.

“Okay, humor me here. What did you give them? I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. Both of those girls tried to court order an STD test before they pushed rape and molestation charges. I’m willing to consider that they’re just coming after you with a grudge. What did you give them?”

“Jill, can you fucking drop it?”

“Oh come on, I’m a doctor. You can talk to me about these things.”

I don’t want to talk about fucking Sweden!” He’s about had enough of this.

Jill giggles again, “Fine, sugar.” She sits next to him on the edge of the bed. “Let’s just get high and catch up.”

“What did you have in mind?” As much as she has perturbed him, he does need a friend.

Jill pulls out a bag of mysterious, unmarked tablets. “Some white guy with dreadlocks at the convention gave me these. They’re pretty fun.”

“What are they?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Julian rolls his eyes, “I’m not taking anything if I don’t know what it is.”

“Julian, once again, I’m a doctor. Would I tell you to take anything if I didn’t think you could handle it?”

He stares into her eyes intently, making his suspicion as obvious as possible.

“Dr. Stein is telling you to take your medicine, Julian.” She pops one tablet herself, offers him one. Julian reluctantly takes the drug after seeing Jill was willing to take it. “That’s good, sweetie. We’ll both be feeling much better in no time.”

Julian lays back, hands behind his head. He’s trying to let go of the tension from earlier. He had just ended things with Edward rather aggressively and is still a bit riled up. He tries to focus on other topics to clear his mind. “So, you’re the party nominee, now?”

“Oh yeah, that was easy. There was this adorable ‘Cherney or bust’ movement among a few clowns. I had 67% of the vote. I don’t know what planet they’re living on. If you’re going to elect a spoiler, elect the most mainstream one, not some pipe bomb surviving hippie.” She giggles again, pauses briefly before moving on, “I’ve been seeing Donald, you know.”

Julian is slightly disgusted, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“You’ve focused all of your efforts on tearing down Hillary Clinton this election, and you have no real business with America. Why are you acting all high and mighty?”

“I am trying to ruin Clinton, but I’m certainly not in bed with Donald Trump, especially literally.”

Jill laughs loudly, lays down next to Julian, staring toward the ceiling. “He isn’t particularly good, but it is pretty amusing. The man is completely oblivious to the intentions of everyone around him. I’m just trying to get high enough in the polls so my party can rake in money next term. Meanwhile, I come to him like I’m doing him a favor by spoiling for Clinton. I offer to ramp up the rhetoric as long as he cuts me a piece of the power if he wins.”

Julian is confused, “Just what kind of ‘power’ do you think you’re going to wrestle from that disaster?”

“Are you kidding me? He’s outright said he doesn’t want to govern. He has no idea what he’s doing. Ninety percent of his presidency will be Mike Pence with his hand up his ass making him talk. I’ll find a way to extort money from him, periodically build other high level connections through him, and I certainly have some old friends in Massachusetts I’d really like to settle some scores with.”

“You always were a vindictive bitch.” Julian pauses for a moment after saying that, then they both explode into laughter.

“At least you haven’t been on the receiving end of it, love.”

Julian begins to feel funny. “Ugh, what ride am I in for with this shit?”

“Oh, we’re about to lose our fucking minds. Buckle up.”

“…….Great.” Julian tries to keep calm, knowing this could fall apart if he doesn’t. His eyes get heavy, things begin to change, Jill just keeps giggling.

Julian is looking down a cobblestone path. Everything around it is too black to see, and he can only see about 50 yards forward. What is this place? He hears crying in the distance. He begins walking forward. A young Swedish woman approaches him, he vaguely recognizes her. Both of her eyes are blackened, she is sobbing. “What did you do to me?!”

“I-I don’t understand….” Why is this woman so familiar?

Her face explodes into static. A deafening wall of noise hits him. Her face reassembles, she cries, “Why did you do this to me?!”

“I don’t know what I did!” He is beginning to breathe heavy. He starts walking backward away from her. She slowly pursues, and he sees another figure emerge from the distance. He feels as if he knows this woman, too.

“What did you do to me?!” The second woman asks. Her lips and nose are bleeding. Her face explodes into static. The deafening sound echoes through this dark corridor.

“I don’t know!” Julian is terrified. Why can’t he remember? What do these women want? He feels a cutting sensation at the top of his stomach, as if someone is sliding a knife into him. He falls to his knees in agony. What can I do?! What do you want from me?!”

The two women begin to float above ground, both of their heads explode into static, the deafening sound continues. Julian gets up and begins running in the opposite direction. As he begins to get away from the deafening sound, he sees Edward, standing naked, his face in his hands, crying.

“Why… why did you have to be so cruel?”

Julian is overwhelmed with a sense of contempt he doesn’t fully understand. He shouts at Edward, “Why did you have to be so weak?!” Julian is having a hard time breathing. The adrenaline rush is taking its toll on him. His exile to his room at the embassy has been degrading his body. He falls down again, grabbing at his stomach, as the cutting sensation moves lower, he begins gagging.

“I thought you loved me…” Edward stands over Julian, his anguish is unbearable.

Trying to end the pain, Julian crawls over the cobblestone road into the darkness and begins falling into black empty space. It feels as if he’s falling for hours. The fall begins to slow as he seems to gracefully descend into what appears to be an ancient prison cell. What is this place? Why is he here? He turns around and sees Guy Fawkes standing before him.

“No… no this isn’t happening. You shouldn’t even be their idol…”

“The fifth of November…”

“No! Get away from me!” Julian has never been so terrified in his life. He falls to his knees as the cutting sensation moves lower.

Guy Fawkes starts to grow taller and taller, the room extends upward to accommodate his stature.

The gunpowder treason…” Blood starts pouring from his eyes and mouth, then it begins gushing from every opening in his clothes. The cell starts to fill with blood. Julian is becoming submerged in it.

“No! This can’t be real!” The cutting sensation moves lower.

Julian’s eyes begin to open. His vision is blurry and he is trying to get a grasp on where he is. He is in incredible pain. He tries to move his hand to hold his stomach, but something is restraining it. He hears moaning. As his vision clears, he looks down and sees Jill, perched over his naked body, her eyes dilated from the drug, her hands soaked in his blood, holding a scalpel. He cries out in terror and is quickly silenced by her hands over his mouth.

“Hush, sweetheart. We aren’t done.”

Julian bites down on Jill’s palm. She moans slightly. The drug enhances the pleasure for her.

She begins to snicker. “Hold on, I’ll help you.” She takes Julian’s boxers and shoves them deep into his mouth. He tries to push them out with his tongue, but he hardly has room to move it. “Just be still. Just be still for me. I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing. I washed my hands.”

Tears begin streaming from Julian’s face. His hands and feet are restrained. She has made an incision into his abdomen roughly 4” long. She has been sliding her fingers in and out of it. He thought they were friends. How could she do this to him?

“You know, it’s hard to understand what it’s like to be a man, to be… inside of another person. It truly is the most intimate feeling. It’s funny how some men can enter into another person with such apathy. I feel as if I’m reaching into your soul.” She slides her hand further in, placing Julian’s entrails in between her fingers, she quivers, he tries to scream, but can’t. “Did you feel it, when you were in those Swedish girls? Did you feel the pain from inside of them, like I feel the pain inside of you? It is an incredible feeling to be inside of someone, to feel their suffering from the inside. Have you longed for that here? This is so incredible, I feel as if I am going to long for it for a long time after I leave.”

Julian’s back arches up, all of his muscles become tense. Jill begins moving her hand in and out of him as if she were making love to his stomach. His heart may not be able to take much more of this. The true soul of a narcissist, he still does not understand empathy; this transgression is new, he relates it to nothing, it is his suffering alone.

Jill comes from the excitement, slowly removes her hand from Julian’s abdomen. She lays down next to him as the orgasm runs its course, then smears her face with his blood. She catches her breath. “Oh my god, that was amazing.”

She sits up slowly, grabs the needle and thread she brought, and begins to suture Julian’s stomach shut. He wants to cry out with each penetration of the needle, but he still cannot get his underwear out of his mouth. She finishes and begins kissing the dressing of the wound. “Isn’t that better?” She slides up, rests her head on his shoulder, and gently cuddles him, making sure to not put any pressure on the regions she tormented. “You’re going to be fine, my friend. I really did miss you. I should visit you more often.”

The Sacrifice; A Donald Trump and Jill Stein Love Story

“Well, President Trump, you dodge phone calls as well as you dodged the draft.”

“Jill? What the fuck are you doing here?! If Melania finds out-”

“She’s out of town and you know it.”

Jill stares at Donald with an intensity that disturbs him. She has given signs of this before. He may be an egomaniac, but she is a true sociopath. It’s one week until his inauguration. He’s packing the personal effects from his office that he doesn’t trust the movers with. Family mementos, photographs, and things that might not necessarily be legal.

He looks at her frustrated, but with the slightest touch of admiration. “How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”

“That lovely little Latin number who answers your door doesn’t seem very interested in her job. I’m guessing you don’t pay her enough. Is she in this country legally?”

“Cut the shit, Jill.”

She smirks. “I want you back, sweetie.”

“Look, we can’t keep this up. I’m not fucking up a third marriage. I doubt Richard would be any happier about this than Melania.”

“Oh give me a break. She loves for your money, and Richard’s a militant atheist. You should see the silly little club meetings he goes to. It’s just a circle jerk about how human nature will prevail over religion. Put black robes on them and it’s the Church of Satan. He’s not particularly concerned about who I fuck.”

He puts his hands up, “I really, really can’t do this anymore.”

She grabs him by his tie and pulls him toward her, “Listen to me you silly little shit, you said if I managed to fuck up swing states for Clinton, you were going to break me off a piece of the power. I am not fucking around Donald! You try to screw me on this, I will make your life a living hell.”

He speaks carefully, “Jill… there’s a secret service detail here… you need to be careful…”

“Not anymore there isn’t.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

She trips him and pushes him to the ground, pulling on his tie. She steps on his back and keeps pulling. He’s desperately gasping for air. “Do you need to breathe, sweetheart? Want mama to let you up for air?” She lets go, he gasps desperately.

He feels a pinch in his right buttock, “What… what is that?”

“Something to help you sleep.”

Donald awakens naked in a dimly lit room. He is on a metal table with his hands and feet in leather restraints, spread out so that his sides and genital region are exposed. It takes him a minute to get his wits about him. What was he doing? He was packing. Did he get drunk and pass out? He struggles with this, he had a dream about Jill… why?

Jill walks in wearing scrubs and vinyl gloves. She’s pushing a small metal cart. On it is a scalpel, 3 sets of forceps of varying sizes, sutures, a needle, and 10 small metal rods, about 7” long, 8mm wide, and sharpened to a point on one side. She turns the halogen light on above the table. She looks at him as casually as if she’s greeting a patient, “Glad to see you’re awake.”

“What? Jill! Goddammit, Jill, where the fuck am I?”

“You’re in a recording studio.”


“Don’t worry. We’re not making an album of your tortured cries. You’d be amazed how many hack musicians backed my campaign. One has his own studio. It’s great. The room is soundproof. You can cry and scream all you want.”

Donald begins frantically pulling at his restraints, shouting out unintelligibly.

“That’s good. Go ahead and wear yourself out. This will go a lot easier if you just relax.”

“You fucking cunt!” He’s already panting with exhaustion.

“Oh, that’s a new one. You haven’t called a woman that word on television yet. Maybe if you play nice, you’ll live long enough to have the opportunity.” She takes one of the small, spiked metal rods into her hand, climbs onto the table and straddles Donald. She gently kisses his chest a few times, then leans forward and grabs him by his hair. “Do you know what my specialty as a physician is, President Trump?”

He stares into her cold eyes, eyes that are aflutter with joy, with arousal, with immense enthusiasm for what is about to take place. “N-No, I don’t… Why?”

“Internal medicine.” She begins gently dragging the sharp point of the rod against the left side of his face. “You see, you kind of have to know a bit about everything. My favorite cases were always diseases that spread from one organ to another. Human anatomy is just…. Well, it’s my favorite thing.”

“Look, Jill, be reasonable here. We can talk. Just… just let me know what you need from me. You name it. It’s yours.”

She steps back onto the floor. She ignores Donald’s bargaining. “See, I understand your anatomy very well. I know exactly where to put these without hitting anything vital. I want you to be alive a little longer, baby.” She starts to insert the rod between two ribs, he begins thrashing around, so she backhands him across his face. “I’m going to hit an artery if you don’t fucking hold still! Get your shit together, little man!” She hits him again and presses down. Blood starts running down his chest. Tears and snot begin streaming from his face. “Okay, that one shouldn’t go any deeper. Let’s see where else you’re sensitive…”

He’s struggling to breathe. She didn’t puncture his lung, but the shock and the adrenaline are taking over. “Jill…… please…. stop this…..”

“Let’s put a couple in your gut. You’ll bleed a little bit, but I can fix you. Although you are a bit fatter than that pig I sewed up on Thanksgiving.” He screams likes the day he was born, including the whimpers in between the pain. She feels more moist with every cry of agony. She begins placing rods into his shoulders, just below his collar bone, being careful to work around the arteries. She pauses briefly and licks the blood dripping from his left shoulder. “Does that feel good?”

He cannot speak. His eyes are revolving all around the room. He thinks to himself, Am I going to die here? Even if she’s not trying to kill me, can I handle this at my age?

She stops to stretch. “You know, I thought the blood of a supposed great ruler would taste different. Nope, it just tastes like blood.” She settles back down. “Isn’t this place great? My friend turned off all his WiFi equipment before I got here. That shit gives me such a headache.”

Her tone has changed. What now? He struggles to get words out of his mouth; they are raspy and uneven, “What… does WiFi… have to do with anything?”

She again ignores him. “So, you have this lipoma in your leg. I noticed it the last few times we had sex. It’s just a clump of fat cells, basically, nothing cancerous. It’s fucking gross though, let’s remove it.” She cuts his leg open with the scalpel, spreads the wound open with the forceps, and begins attempting to remove the lipoma from the surrounding tissue. Donald is sniveling slightly, shaking a bit, but he’s too in shock to really be aware of what is happening anymore. She drops the lipoma on the tray and begins to suture the wound shut. She steps away for a moment, closes her eyes, and breathes deep. She’s almost managed to shock herself.

“N-Now what? …..Jill?”

She exhales. “You know, I never liked that you weren’t circumcised.”

“No! No Jill! Please!”

“Oh quit your whining. Trust me, you’re going to want to hold still for this. I didn’t bring a ring block, so I have to do this the hard way.”

She slips her finger under his foreskin as a guide, and begins carefully cutting along with the scalpel. He starts letting out a high pitched squeal that could break glass. His lungs fill with air and expel into this horrific sound with each cut she makes. When she is done, she sets the severed flap of skin down on his lips.

“See? That wasn’t so bad. If it weren’t bleeding, I’d almost consider putting it in my mouth. I mean, you really don’t know what you’ve been missing, dear. Then again, you’re kind of insufferable when you get everything you want.” She snickers, “Oh that’s right, I already got your blood in my mouth tonight, didn’t I? Yeah, sorry, truth is you just don’t deserve it.” She exhales and wipes the sweat from her brow, “I have to tinkle. Be back in a minute, love.”

She exits the room and walks down the hall to the bathroom. After relieving herself, she realizes she can’t take much more of the excitement, so she begins masturbating. The violence already had her half way there, so it only takes her a few minutes. She exits the stall and stares into her reflection with a deep admiration. “I love you, you know.” She leans forward, staring into her own eyes, “I love you so fucking much.” She kisses the mirror. “Please, don’t ever leave me.”

She opens the door to the studio room. “I’m back, sweetie.” She pauses as she notices the table is empty. Suddenly, she is pinned against the wall with Donald’s hands around her neck.

“Tiny hands! That’s what they keep saying about me! I have tiny hands! Yes! Tiny hands that can slip out of your fucking leather cuffs, you fucking bitch! But they’re big enough, aren’t they!? They’re big enough to wrap around your fucking throat!”

Jill very carefully reaches down and shoves her finger through the wound in Donald’s thigh, pushing through the sutures. Donald lets go and backs up. She gags for a moment, he struggles to maintain his balance. Seeing that he has inadequate footing, she charges him and tackles him to the floor. She feels 5 small jabs against her as she does.

Jill looks down, Donald is coughing up blood. Shit. When she pushed him down, the weight of her body pushed all of those skewers the rest of the way in. Seems the one in his ribs turned an angle and punctured his lung. She straddles him, slowly grinding against his penis. “You poor, poor little man. This could have gone differently. This could have been a warning.” She leans over, caresses his face, and kisses him. With his blood on her lips, she continues speaking. “This is your sacrifice, Donald. The sacrifice they all said you never had nor would ever make. You are the first pin to fall in my wake. I already have a dossier on Michael. Oh, the ways I can manipulate him. If he doesn’t play nice, he’ll wind up the same way as you.”

Donald’s vision is becoming blurry. This demented, bloody faced woman will be the last thing he ever sees.

“Good night, my love. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” She gets up and leaves. Everything fades to black for Donald Trump.

Homoerotic Fanfic About Julian Assange/Edward Snowden

“You know, I’m here with you now, and yet… I miss you. How can I miss you when you’re right here?” Edward’s words fall on Julian’s ears like the noise of traffic coming through the window. He’s looking out at the overcast cityscape. He feels nothing. He begins to button his shirt, which is all that he is wearing.

Edward lies naked, clutching the sheet, pulling it over himself as he has never felt more exposed. “Do you love me?”
“No.” He doesn’t turn as he says this. He remains stoic, looking out of his prison. How long has it been? Time seems irrelevant. It only passes when he acts on his instincts as a great destroyer.

Edward sits up, curls up, his hands trembling as he pulls the sheet further up. “How long?”

“That can’t be true…”

Edward thinks of their relationship. The arrangement was so difficult, but it seemed worth it. They understood each other. They stood for the same things. These carefully planned trips from Moscow to London were so dangerous for him, but he was in love. Julian had tried to arrange for him to stay at the embassy with him initially, but Edward had gotten in too deep with the Russians. Surely, Julian could not have put him through this for nothing.

“You stood up for me in the beginning.” He’s desperate now. Can he remind Julian that he truly did care about him?

“Of course I did.” Julian still maintains his gaze anywhere but Edward’s eyes. “You were a force of destruction. You upset everything around you. You were an ally. Provided, your idealism was something I could not empathize with, but the balance of your nation was upset by your mere presence. You were a person I needed to accompany me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” It is time to deliver these final blows. Julian knows this.

“You didn’t start sleeping with me because of what I did in America.”

“No, I simply brought you into my circle for what you did in America. I started sleeping with you after you made Russian allies.”

“What? What do the Russians have to do with anything?” Edward begins trembling all over. What is Julian’s game?
Julian finally turns his head toward Edward, “You are so fucking naive, it sickens me.”

Terror begins to envelop Edward. Is he going to become violent? He can’t… not like last time…

“You prissy little shit. You don’t fucking understand anything. You try to tell the whole world your government is corrupt and against its own people, and you put your faith in fucking Russia?!

Edward begins stammering, “I- I- I had nowhere- I mean, I needed a place to go and-”
“Shut the fuck up.” Julian stares at Edward menacingly. “You really thought Russia just wanted to be your friend? You didn’t think they wanted the contents of your fucking hard drive?! You bragged to journalists that your encryption couldn’t be cracked. You’re not a hacker. You’re a fucking system administrator.”
“I thought my data was safe!” Edward begins sobbing. Why is Julian doing this? He was so affectionate earlier this evening.

“When the UK had to pull spies out of hostile territory because of your mistake, I fucking laughed.” Julian wipes the sweat from his brow, points his gaze back out the window. “You trusted the Russians without questioning their motives. You trusted me without questioning my motives. All you learned about distrust in America somehow evaporated the second you left. How did you open your eyes and turn into such a child so quickly? How was that all undone?”

“When you make love to me, I know it’s real!” Edward shouts, snot dripping from his nose, he hasn’t been this anguished since childhood.

Julian points his gaze back to Edward. “Every time I penetrate you, I take a part of you. I have watched you lose more and more control as the months have gone on. This is the only way I feel anything. I don’t feel love. I don’t love anyone or anything. The only joy I know is suffering. I have dedicated my life’s work to making people suffer. The dumb fuck public think I do it for common knowledge or some sort of fucking altruistic need to save them from tyranny.” He laughs, briefly. He looks back out the window to not see Edward’s breakdown become worse. He hears it. Hearing is better than seeing. “You know, Edward, I have done this to you entirely on purpose. I want to drain the life from you. I want to drain the joy from you. I want to take all that makes you a vibrant, hopeful person, and tear it down. Hope is the great destroyer of all men. You must surrender to the frozen embrace of our world. I dragged this relationship out because I want you to be an empty husk. I want none of this naivety left in you. I want you to succumb to the same joyless existence as myself. Then, I will feel you. Then, I will understand you. Ultimately, then, I will leave you.”

Edward is in shock, briefly. What can he do? What should he do? Julian begins to put his pants back on. Julian remains silent, Edward remains still. This moment drags out for an eternity. The cold air coming through the window feels colder every second.

Julian stands, fully clothed. “You should get dressed and leave.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
“Because I’m in sanctuary in this embassy, you fucking idiot.”

Edward steps off the side of the bed. He stares at his clothes on the floor. Is this really ending? He can’t hold it in. He runs across the room, throws his arms around Julian’s neck. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry, but this is really happening.”
“I know you love me.”
“I don’t.”

Edward’s entire body is trembling, but he holds on. He presses his lips against Julian’s cheek. He does not move. He does not acknowledge. This act of affection is neither accepted nor an offense. It is an idle moment that he is enduring as he waits for this situation to complete. “Why won’t you let me in? I could try to understand you. I could try to know why you’re this way. That’s what you do when you love someone. You show them patience. You show them kindness. This has always been more than sex for me. I want to really know you. I want us to support each other when we finally get out of this. We’ve done great things-”

“No, we haven’t, and no, we’re not going forward together.”

“I thought-”

“We’re garbage taking out other garbage. None of this matters. Did you feel important? Did you feel excited when you blew that imaginary whistle? You did it for yourself. Not the Americans. You did it for yourself. You’re garbage. I’m garbage. It’s time for you to go. I have no affection to offer you.”

Edward releases Julian from his embrace. He walks away, head down. He begins dressing himself. He struggles because of the way his hands are trembling. He makes his way to the door. He opens it. He looks back. “Julian…I love you.”