So if anyone is wondering if the beer review/story telling show I used to have called Blake Drinks Beer is coming back, I was diagnosed with Celiac disease 2 weeks ago so lol no.
So far I’m bummed to see that there isn’t a .gin domain extension.
So if anyone is wondering if the beer review/story telling show I used to have called Blake Drinks Beer is coming back, I was diagnosed with Celiac disease 2 weeks ago so lol no.
So far I’m bummed to see that there isn’t a .gin domain extension.
Just opened the following happy little ticket with my dad’s webhost (and my former webhost).
My name’s Blake, I’m writing on behalf of my father W[nope], I’m a Linux systems administrator, just wanted to point out a few of the pitfalls with your WordPress 1 click install.
Since my sister asked for help installing the single most exploitable piece of software on the planet (which runs my own website), I at first lazily said “Let me do it” and tried to login to the install page as fast as possible. Well, as to be expected, bots had already hijacked the damn thing, okay.
I remove the folder, delete the database, create a new folder, and put an .htaccess file in only allowing my IP. Install fails because the folder is not empty.
Well shit. Okay. This time I start over just changing the permissions of the empty folder to 770 so anyone accessing the site will get forbidden. The one click install FIXED THE PERMISSIONS TO BE EXECUTABLE AGAIN.
Finally I had to just run the one click install, do watch ls and frantically rename the folder so I could secure it at my leisure.
Yes, I could have just manually installed WordPress, but I was just helping out and didn’t want to get stuck having to maintain this thing in the future. So the convenience of your automated service is nice.
Really, though, your one-click-install maybe shouldn’t thwart security practices when every bored basement python programmer is scraping wordpress sites.
My apologies for the crassness. Please forward this message to your infosec guy and have a laugh at my expense.
Why is there a Dunkin’ Donuts every 2 blocks in this city? This can’t be all there is, right? I’m sure there’s a regular cafe with decent breakfast around here somewhere.
Jesus Christ, why is this crap popular? That sandwich was terrible, and I won’t be able to taste anything for a week because that lava they call coffee gave me second degree burns from my lips to my stomach.
Okay, I’m really hungover. There’s one across the street. I’ll just get something greasy and go.
Ugh, I’m on call this week, I can’t sleep, work is crazy, shit, I’m running late and… oh yeah, I can order ahead on the mobile app…
Yeah, lahge coffee, black.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I promise to get in the car the next time this happens and write a routine about it if I survive.
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:
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.
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.
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?”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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-“
“OH MY GOD HOW IS THE HOUSING MARKET OUT HERE?!??!?!?!!”
Yay grown up beer time!
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 email@example.com 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.
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
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.
Hey guys, sign my petition to have Slayer release a Christmas album:
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.”